Crimson Ties

by V L Moon

  His breath hot with yearning desire, he spoke against Vischeral’s lips. “Don't. Please don't take this away. Not again.” His breath shuttered out of his chest. “I don’t know how the fuck you do it, but I know you make me forget. It hurts not to remember.”

  Vischeral's eyes widened in shock. A low rumble rose from his chest as he spun Copi and backed him roughly up against the hard ceramic tiles of the bathroom wall. He held him in place with one strong hand. “What the fuck? How can you possibly know?” Vischeral's anger mixed with confusion.

  For Copi, it was the only explanation. Ghost dreams, the familiar feel of Vischeral’s body against him, the addictive taste. Copi knew it was Vischeral; that somehow his partner wiped his memories, stole the moments that should have filled Copi's heart. No! Copi wouldn't go there; couldn't go there because to do so was weak And, Vischeral, of all men, didn't do weak.

  His nostrils flared. Only moments before, he’d felt like he belonged. Vischeral drew him in like the proverbial moth to the flame. His partner was different. Check. He got that. Pushing against Vischeral's hold, he found he couldn't move. Vischeral's dominant voice vibrated with tension.

  “Smart ass, cop. You think you know it all. You don’t know shit. Keep the memories, but don't ask me any questions. You won’t get any answers. At least not any you'd like. Capisce!”

  Copi's throat dried and closed. What Godforsaken game was Vischeral playing? He had no clue. Best case scenario, he'd keep his mouth shut and get on with his job. With the sinking feeling that none of what happened between them was real, Copi shouldered his way free of Vischeral’s loose hold and slipped from the room.

  Confusion danced inside his mind. He needed to breathe, and he needed a drink. Grabbing the Jack from the bar, Copi didn't look back. He threw open the huge glass doors leading to the deck on the back of the house, stepped outside and let the darkness consume him. He wanted to hide; hide the pain of feeling betrayed, of never fitting in and being the puppet that danced along when Vischeral played the fucked up game and pulled at his heart strings.

  ~*~*~*~

  Vischeral watched Copi storm away from him and barely restrained the urge to follow. It wasn’t wise to leave his memory intact, but the hurt rolling off of his partner punched Vischeral in the gut harder than any fist. The knowledge that he caused Copi's pain twisted agonizingly in his chest and tore at his gut. He wanted to soothe his male. Vischeral's breath stilled in his lungs.

  His male? Shifting his gaze back to the mirror, he met his own eyes and grimaced. “You are so fucking screwed,” he snarled at his reflection.

  When Copi stepped out onto the deck, Vischeral swung out of the bathroom and eased down the hall to keep an eye on his partner. Even at home, he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure Copi was safe unless he was locked in the underground bedroom. Vischeral leaned against the wall, scanned the darkened woods beyond the reach of the porch light, and weighed his options.

  When the bright light of day chased away the monster wolves roaming the streets, Copi’s world would right its self and he’d have questions. But, Vischeral wouldn’t be around to answer them. As a turned vampire, the Sole Dormire knocked him on his ass faster and longer than his born brethren. Not that he planned to answer any questions. He’d spoken truth when he told Copi not to expect answers. His sleeping issue presented another complication.

  Although he contemplated sleeping in one of the regular bedrooms, he didn’t relish being vulnerable to the sun so recently after his last frying session. Added to the list of fuck yous, blood lust clawed at his throat with each awakening. Copi would be in danger and the threat would be Vischeral.

  With a feral internal roar, his body reminded him that he’d lost a tremendous amount of blood during and after the fight with the wolf. Despite his earlier feeding frenzy, he needed to hunt again soon to replenish what he’d lost. At the moment, the bagged variety would satisfy the hunger gnawing at his ribs.

  While Copi was distracted, he took the opportunity to flash downstairs and snag a pair of pants and a chilled bag of blood. Reappearing in the kitchen, he emptied the bag's contents into an ebony wineglass to hide the texture and color of the liquid. After downing a few swallows to quell the beast, he moved down the hall and slid the glass doors apart. The brisk night air ruffled his hair and carried Copi's scent to him.

  “Copi?” The male whirled, his amber eyes hard. Anger and hurt warred in their depths.

  “What the fuck do you want, Vischeral? To poke the bear and see if it will growl and bite? Go torture someone else.” Copi spun back around effectively dismissing Vischeral. The rejection stung, and the anger he expected didn’t materialize. Instead, the steady beat of his heart faltered. Through the bond, Copi’s pain and confusion became his. After centuries of burying his own emotions, Copi’s overwhelmed him. His needs no longer mattered, only Copi mattered.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to explain…,” he started.

  “Try me. Show a little trust, Vischeral,” Copi said; his voice husky and low. Vischeral stared at the back of his head. The words hovered on his lips, but in the end, he couldn’t risk Darklon finding him. He was tired of moving, tired of running and he was safe here. Always astute, Copi didn’t miss the hesitation. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just leave me alone, Vischeral.”

  With a bare shoulder shrug the human male didn’t see, Vischeral swiveled on his heel and made his way back into the house. After a detour to the kitchen to wash out the goblet, he projected himself to the wooded expanse directly across from where his partner stood leaning against the rail.

  “I wish I could tell you.” The words floated away on the wind torn from Vischeral's aching heart.

  ~*~*~*~

  Hurt and desperation tore at Copi. Vischeral's responses to him felt so real; he should’ve known it was all some sort of sick mind fuck. But why? What the fuck did the hardcore son of a bitch hope to achieve by screwing with his mind? And more, how the hell did he do it? Was the bastard some sort of psychic vampire feeding off of the pathetic emotions of others to get his jollies? Copi's free hand gripped the balustrade separating the decked area from the yard. His eyes burned with the bitter sting of angry tears. He fought to keep them from rolling down his cheeks. What the fuck? Why was he crying like a damned girl? He was a cop, a fucking detective from New York. He’d seen and dealt with more shit than a few bruised emotions and emerged unscathed.

  You stupid fucking fool. What the hell did you think would happen, he'd say he was serious and play happy gay guys? Fucking idiot! Look at him compared to you. Copi grimaced and swallowed a large mouthful of Jack. The alcohol burned all the way down his throat and warmed him from the inside as he stood in the freezing Alaskan night in nothing but his pants.

  Absently, he lifted his fingers and trailed them over the surface of his kiss swollen lips. Vischeral's mouth had felt so good against his own. He licked gently around the line of his lips, savoring what small amount of Vischeral's flavor remained behind. Too clearly, he recalled the amazing feel of his partner’s hard, sculpted body pressed tight against him.

  The urge to charge back inside and demand answers warred with the desire to take Vischeral firmly by the hand and lead the fucker to bed. His partner’s demand to ‘open’ in the bathroom still had his heart racing in his chest. Was Vischeral as domineering in everything he did? The mere thought sent a ripple of need sailing through Copi's blood stream. He longed to feel the heat of Vischeral's mouth smoothing over his hard…

  “Stop, Copi! Fuck!” His jaw clenched. He ground his molars hard until the vision cleared. He tossed back the last swallow of Jack, and gripped the glass tight. Anger over his own inhibitions and Vischeral's tormenting betrayal mixed with the bitter sweet flame of desire. A scorching heat had been steadily growing since the first time Copi laid eyes on his son of a bitch partner.

  A bone deep ache centered in his chest. All of his life, he’d deliberately avoided anything resembling a relationship due to the fact, ye
ah—he was fucking gay. And now, he was attracted to his very sexy and very antisocial partner. What a fucked up world.

  The glass in Copi's hand shattered under the strain of his tightening grip. Splinters of glass glistened on the floor around Copi’s bare feet. The silvery hue of the waxing moon reflected up at him from the shards. In contrast, the deep gash in his hand oozed crimson red, copper scented blood. It welled sluggishly in the cold and slowly began to trail down Copi's arm. He watched, mesmerized as it dripped off his elbow onto the deck railing and floor. A snapping twig in the shadows of the trees drew his gaze to his surroundings. But, nothing moved.

  “Shit,” he muttered to himself. “Fucking wolf has me jumpy as hell.” With a last glance, he turned on his heels to stalk back into Vischeral’s home for another go at the First Aid kit.

  ~*~*~*~

  Through hooded eyes, Vischeral watched Copi pace across the deck. The detective’s anger rolled off of him in waves. They crossed the distance between them to dance like needles along Vischeral's skin. If dawn wasn't hovering on the horizon…

  “You wouldn’t go anywhere,” Vischeral taunted himself; leaving Copi alone was not an option. The serial killer knew who Copi was, and likely where to find him. Newcomers were few in Alaska. The climate didn't welcome strangers.

  Breaking his gaze from his partner, Vischeral turned his attention to the nearly full moon. He needed to figure out what to tell Copi. The male had already concluded that the wolf was responsible for the killings. Would he believe it was a werewolf? No matter if he believed or not, it was the truth. And, the wolf would be getting stronger thanks to the power of the moon.

  Aware of his own flagging strength, Vischeral cursed darkly. He needed to feed again. Soon. The fight with the wolf and the blood loss afterward mitigated the benefit of the night’s abundant feast. As if reading his mind, a mesmerizing scent reached inside Vischeral and grabbed him by the balls. It wafted temptingly on the night air; a lure to Vischeral's predatory nature. Obsidian eyes flipped to the deck where Copi cradled his bleeding hand.

  In the blink of an eye, Vischeral changed. Before he could stop himself, he stood on the balcony, fangs bared and eyes wild with bloodlust. Barely clinging to his control, he remembered to cloak himself from Copi. Hovering inches away from his partner, he inhaled the intoxicating scent of Copi's blood. When Copi turned to head inside, Vischeral raised a hand toward him, but clenched his fist instead of touching the male. Copi disappeared from sight. Vischeral turned and gripped the rail, fighting the raging need to go after Copi.

  The wood cracked and gave way beneath his palms. Vischeral took shallow panting breaths, but Copi's scent, his arousal, his blood, his anger; all of it filled his nose. The craving nearly undid him and brought him to his knees. Eye level with the broken balustrade his gaze locked on the moisture glimmering in the moonlight. He pried his hand loose from the wood and ran a shaking finger through the thick fluid.

  Copi's blood.

  He fought himself, he fought the beast, but the call was too strong. Slowly, he leaned forward. Despising his weakness, he extended his tongue to lick his finger clean of his partner's blood. Before he could turn and tongue wash the deck floor, he flung himself to his safe room and locked himself inside. Grabbing a bag of blood from the mini fridge, he bit into it savagely before willing the lights out.

  In a matter of seconds, the crimson nourishment vanished down his throat. Finished with the bag, he flung it across the room and fell onto his bed. Just before the Sole Dormire claimed him, he set the seals around each door and window into his home, including the door from his safe room to the first floor. He prayed Copi stayed inside where he was safe. But, as consciousness faded, he had to wonder—was Copi any safer with him?

  ~*~*~*~

  Chapter Eleven

  ~*~*~*~

  Italy

  Saul Dyalov slammed through the door headed to the makeshift infirmary and stifled a growl. His large fists curled and uncurled as he fought to control his Slavic temper. What the fuck was Denali thinking? And, that was the boil on the boar’s back. He wasn’t. With Loz abducted and Laziel MIA, the King operated solely on ferocious anger and aggression. So why then bring home an enemy? How had the male circumvented the savage desire to kill that glowed in Denali’s eyes? It made no damned sense.

  The bastard Nephilim should be locked away in the dungeon, not lounging comfortably in a spare chamber in the enclave. Which brought his thoughts full circle. What the hell was Malachi doing bringing an enemy into their midst at such a time of upheaval? Without angelic intervention, it fell to him to advise the King in these types of situations. In his fury, Denali refused to listen. What the fuck was he supposed to tell Laziel when the foreboding male returned?

  Remembering the chilling ferocity in Malachi’s gaze, another shudder rocked through Saul. He’d made the right choice to leave the office. No fucking way he was getting in Denali’s face without the angel to save his ass. Did that make him a pansy ass? Hell no! It meant he was smarter than the average vampire. No one fucked with Denali in a rage and lived to tell the tale. None, except Laziel. He’d talk to Denali again after he’d had a chance to settle. In the meantime, he could pray for a miracle and the angel’s return. It just might spare him banging his head against the brick wall of the King’s stubbornness.

  Saul stalked the halls. Plans to limit the Nephilim’s access in the enclave whirled through his mind. He’d ordered the Nephilim housed in the room the farthest from Malachi’s sanctuary as he could possibly be without being outside the enclave. Saul knew the room like the back of his hand, but he damned well wanted to eyeball it to ensure the bastard couldn’t escape to wreak havoc inside the King’s home. Another growl rippled free of his throat.

  He’d served the King and the angel for five hundred years. Vividly, he recalled the day Laziel found him near death in Mother Russia. His family’s farm had been attacked by the Nephilim. He’d fought like a wild man alongside his father and brothers, but they were no match for the battle savvy half-breeds.

  His gut clenched painfully at the memory of his beautiful and heavily pregnant wife, Morana, slain in front of him. The rampaging bastards had then cruelly cut the babe from her stomach while he was helpless to stop them. The newborn’s cry of outrage rang in his ears every night in his nightmares His son, Mikael, who’d only seen three summers, had been slaughtered without mercy as he ran screaming to his mother’s side. His parents, his brothers, the entire family lay dying or dead when Laziel and Malachi arrived.

  The angel and vampire king waded through the chaos until a majority of the Nephilim joined his family in the tight grip of death. Mad with grief, Saul attacked, desperate to inflict his pain on someone, anyone who bore wings. Laziel had caught Saul’s fist in his large palm, and yanked him off of his feet. Saul had slammed against the solid wall of muscle and been engulfed in strong arms and the softest feathers imaginable. Around them, Malachi wreaked vengeance on the remaining Nephilim.

  At the all clear, he’d collapsed completely, tears streaming down his face. Laziel’s fingers had brushed his temples, and he’d known no more. When he’d risen the next night from the Sole Dormire, the two had built the pyres and prepared his dead. He’d pledged his loyalty as the fires of his loved ones ravaged the skies.

  In all of the years he’d served them, he never learned why they’d shown up that night. Laziel refused to speak of it and if Denali knew the angel’s reasoning, getting it out of him would have been like prying a virgin from the arms of Lucifer. What he did know was being drafted into the Guard gave him a reason to face each new night. For that, Laziel and Denali forever held his loyalty. His resolve firmed. He’d protect Denali whether the King wanted his protection or not. He shoved through the last door into the room he sought.

  The scent of brimstone and ash yanked him from his thoughts. Aquamarine eyes flicked around the sumptuous bedchamber, sitting area combo. The fireplace lay unlit and cold. Another fragrance more earthy and…evil c
logged his nose the closer he drew to the bed. His hand automatically rose to rest on his holstered gun.

  “The king’s orders were clear. No visitors allowed,” he barked at Lance who stood sentry at the foot of the bed.

  “None have entered except the doctor, sir,” Lance answered without moving from his spot, or taking his eyes from the door.

  “Then what the hell is the odor in here?” Saul glanced at the male on the bed and wrinkled his nose. “Is that you?”

  After a stifled chuckle, the Nephilim slowly twisted his head around to meet Saul’s gaze. Pain radiated in the clear golden eyes. “I assure you, it is not me. It is the odor of your demon doctor.” Low and melodious, the half-breed’s voice soothed some of the chaos marching through Saul’s brain. Unnerved, he took a step back from the bed.

  “Demon doctor? What the fuck are you talking about?” He barked. His gaze swung between the vampire guard and the Fallen spawn.

  “I, too, was confused, and then I thought it rather funny. The vampires called a demon to save an angel. I’m sure the Creator is laughing fit to wake the multitudes. My name is Clariel by the way,” the male said. “I appreciate all that your king is doing for me.” The male extended a trembling, slim hand which Saul studiously ignored.

  “You are no angel; you’re a half-breed and a threat.” Saul swallowed the rest and pinned Lance with a glare. “Arial hasn’t been here yet?” His terse question boomed into the room. Clariel’s hand fell back onto the duvet.

  “No sir, just the doctor. He says the wounds will heal, but it will take time. There were other injuries, older ones, that weakened the male,” Lance spoke up. “He offered Clar…the Nephilim a pint of vampire blood to hasten the process, but the patient refused.”

  “So much for doctor patient privilege,” Clariel muttered.