Crimson Ties

by V L Moon

  With intricate care that belied his size and strength, Arial eased Celix onto the bed, keeping him stationary on his side. Clariel helped to keep his wings in place by adding pillows as supports along Celix’s spine. When enough support allowed Celix to ease back, Clariel lifted a tear stained gaze to Arial.

  “If anyone is to touch him, it will be me. I suggest you get on that phone and call whatever help we need. I may be young, but I know what a depraved mind Queen Onoskelis has, and what she is capable of. I think we both know where Celix is bleeding from and why. So, the sooner you get help the better.” Clariel was small compared to Arial, but the conviction and determination in his voice held so much passion and care for Celix, Arial honored his request and allowed him to tend to Celix while Arial phoned for help. Moving clear of the bed, Arial watched Clariel circle around Celix. The Nephilim never took his eyes from Celix as he carefully peeled away his blood soaked pants.

  Soft sobs and the scent of tears filled the room. Clariel’s pain at seeing the degree of abuse inflicted on Celix tore at Arial’s heart. Turning away, Arial gave Clariel a few moments to compose himself and took a deep breath as his call to Malachi Denali connected. The deep resonating growl of frustration practically reverberated through the phone.

  “You’ve either witnessed a miracle, or you really do have a fucking death wish, Arial.” The anger in Malachi’s tone made his accent thicker as he sank into a tirade of blasphemous Italian dialect. Holding the phone away from his ear, Arial allowed the vampire king to vocalize his upset at being disturbed. Arial fully understood Malachi’s anger. He’d just gotten his angel back, and only a fool would dare to disturb them. If he’d had any other choice, Arial would have taken it, but Celix needed help. Clearing his throat to disguise his own growing pain, Arial interrupted Malachi mid-flow and instantly silenced the King with his news.

  “The timing sucks ass, but Celix is in bad shape. Seems Mommy Dearest let her pets loose on him,” Arial said. He glanced back over his shoulder and shoved a hand through his dreads. “Fuck. How he managed to get to Clariel, I’ll never know, but he did. It’s bad Mal. The bastards cut him a new one literally. His wings are for shit, and he’s bleeding. Badly. I don’t think he can heal from this, not without help. Please Malachi. Don’t ask me why, but we can’t just let him die.” Arial’s voice sounded rough by the time he finished.

  He knew Malachi heard the pleading in his tone. Arial didn’t care. The Nephilim forced into a life of servitude under the tyrannical rule of Arial’s treacherous whore of a mother needed help. If that meant taking the bitch down, that’s exactly what Arial intended to do.

  “I'll get help to you as fast as I can. Depends on who's available and how far away they are. I’m sorry, Arial. I won’t leave Laz. Not yet. Are you going to be able to handle this until a doc gets there?” Malachi’s tone turned mellow and Arial imagined the male to be looking over at Laziel and Destahny as he spoke.

  “Clariel is with me. We’ll do what we can until help arrives. One more thing. Gregori needs to know he has visitors, not human ones. I’d go myself, but….” Pained whimpering from Celix diverted Arial’s attention. On the other end of the phone, he heard Malachi reply that he would inform Gregory and then the line went dead.

  Blood stained the white cotton sheets beneath Celix. The Heavenly scent of his blood filled the air as it seeped from his severely split lips, the open welts lashed across his back and the immoral abuse of his beautiful wings. Beneath the sheets, Celix trembled violently and winced in pain when he moved his legs.

  “Cely, I need to clean you up a little bit, ok? Arial is here. No one is going to hurt you. I’ll be as gentle and as quick as I can. If it hurts too much grip my hand, or Arial’s hand and I’ll stop.”

  Clariel’s shortened use of Celix’s name brought a noticeable, yet, fragile smile to Celix’s lips. At the touch of Clariel’s hand to his wounded flesh, Celix sighed. Resting one hand on the bed, Arial kneeled beside Celix as Clariel lifted the sheet. He watched as the color drained from the young half breed’s face. Clariel closed his eyes and fought back tears. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed and then lowered an anguished gaze along Celix’s back toward his bloody torn anus.

  “You’re never going back there, Cely. I won’t let you. I’m going to talk to Malachi and Gregori. If you can’t stay here with me, we’ll find you somewhere safe. Somewhere together out of Onoskelis’s reach.” Clariel talked, his soft voice constantly whispering against Celix’s cheek. The love Clariel held for Celix shone in the sweet Nephilim’s eyes. How they denied each other love dumbfounded Arial. The beauty of it reminded him of the purity shared between the most celestial of souls; yet, here they were, two Nephilim hiding the profound innocence of each other’s love for the other.

  Arial’s head swam. A heavy sense of foreboding nestled its weight across his shoulders and lingered unceremoniously and made Arial’s skin warm to the touch. He felt dizzy and the room began to spin around him. Arial was losing it. Between bringing Laziel back from the Creator’s grasp, fighting and feeding from Lucifer’s scum, and his worry over Celix, Laziel and the king, Arial was sure he was on the fast track toward a nicely padded cell and a jacket especially designed with a hug me logo emblazoned in big black letters right across the back of it.

  When the light touch of cool fingers drifted over the back of his neck to sweep away the strands of hair lying stiff and embedded within the open wounds along the mounts of his wings, Arial stilled. Unaccustomed to being touched, the gesture failed in its bid to ease him.

  “You need to be looked at, too. I will make sure the doc sees the both of you, but for now, come up here onto the bed where I can reach you. I need to at least clean the blood from your…” Clariel’s words drifted to a halt and his hands began to shake violently against Arial's back. Bowing his head, Arial felt ashamed. Clariel was obviously appalled at having to touch what was left of his wings.

  "It's alright, Clariel. You don't need to do anything. I'm used to patching myself up." His words failed to comfort Clariel. At his back, the scent of the young Nephilim’s fear peaked. Confused by the apparent terror, Arial attempted to rise from the bed where Celix lay. Something in the shadows moved. His eyes went wide with shock and completely fixated upon the far end of the room.

  The air around them became so hot Arial could hardly breathe. His head swam as he lifted his gaze to take in the huge fearsome form born of the very depths of Lucifer's Hell. Coal black eyes rimmed with Hell’s fire stared back at him as Rhys stepped out of the shadows. Menace and ire radiated from the ruddy red flesh of Lucifer's son.

  In all of his demonic glory, Rhys prowled toward them as though stalking the Nephilim like prey. Arial couldn't move. Fear and shame along with raging need stilled him in his place. After centuries of loneliness, loathing and denial, Rhys was there, standing before him. As their eyes met and recognition flared, the room slowly began to swim and then pitched. Arial careened into darkness and as he fell, all he could feel was the raging fires of Hell reaching out to greet him.

  ~*~*~*~

  Chapter Forty-Four

  ~*~*~*~

  Shock rendered Bastian DeRhys immobile. He felt the Pope’s tug on his arm, but stood frozen, staring at the figure crouched beside the bed. His mind rebelled. It couldn’t be. Lucifer swore he was dead. Rhys had searched for him, in Hell, on Earth and had even sent spies into Heaven. Every lead dried up, every story brought back to him was different except the end—Arial Nathanial was dead.

  He was inconsolable when finally forced to accept Arial’s death and lost the slippery grip on his humanity. Powered by Lucifer’s blood, he’d rampaged across Hell and nearly cleaved the human population into. His mother’s succubus heritage thrived in the freedom. He’d fucked any being that dared stumble into his path, willing or not. Many Fallen roamed the human and demon realms because of him. Many more died beneath his attentions and his unrelenting quest to grasp the peace he’d once found in the few stolen
hours in Arial’s celestial embrace.

  It couldn’t be him. Rhys inhaled sharply.

  Flames leaped to life in his eyes and bathed the room in a wash of scarlet. His body went up like an incendiary device. The change came so quickly, he had no chance of stopping it. The human countenance melted away, and the demon stood in its place. Rhys emerged from the darkness, one thought—one name screaming in his mind.

  Arial.

  The male turned as if he’d spoken aloud. Rhys’ eyes confirmed what his nose had already relayed. Arial Nathanial stared at him. Centuries melted away when their gazes collided. Rhys stood in the home he’d built for Arial in the outer rim of Hell. The male stood opposite, in full angelic splendor, wings at full mount and bronzed skin glowing with celestial light. Naked and magnificent. After years of teasing and many failed attempts at seduction, Arial had given in to the tentative bud of love blossoming between them. Rhys had done everything within his power as Satan’s son to ward the house and protect them. It hadn’t been enough to combat Heaven’s fury.

  The room, the Pope, the other males, it all faded into nothing. He stared into those familiar light blue eyes, and a soul deep ache ripped open in his chest. He tried to speak, but couldn’t force anything past the boulder lodged in his throat. Stunned disbelief dawned in Arial’s gaze, quickly followed by horror. Rhys recoiled from the rejection.

  Every bit of air disappeared from Rhys’ lungs when the large angel rose to his feet. He tensed, waiting for the strike promised in the depths of those crystal blue eyes. Instead, Arial’s knees gave out.

  Rhys sprang across the room, landing crouched and growling, with Arial clutched tight against his chest. The young male who’d been standing behind Arial careened into the wall and scuttled back away from him. Recognition forced its way through the haze. Clariel, the young Nephilim he’d treated in Denali’s enclave. He smelled of innocence and fear. The injured Nephilim on the bed struggled to rise, his anxious gaze flicking between Rhys and the violet eyed male. Rhys had no interest in either of them.

  His Arial lived, but he was injured. Frantic eyes raked over Arial, noting every wound, including the mutilated wings. Rhys mourned their loss, remembering how soft the feathers had been against his overheated skin. The broad chest rose and fell, but the piercing eyes remained closed. Rhys leaned closer and inhaled. A violent snarl blasted from his chest. Arial had been attacked by a demon. One who carried his scent.

  Cool hands fell on Rhys’ shoulder. He jerked away, the growl deepening in his throat. No one was taking Arial from him again.

  “I haven’t performed an exorcism in a long time, Dr. De Rhys, but if you cannot control your demon nature in my house, I’ll be forced to take action.” The Pope’s matter of fact voice punched through Rhys’ consciousness. He ducked his head, searching for the spark of humanity flickering in his chest. Softly, he fanned the flames. Terrified his response to Arial would snuff the fragile link, he looked up into Gregori’s stern but kind face. The pontiff smiled.

  “You only have to ask for the love of the Creator to find the peace you seek, Bastian De Rhys,” Gregori spoke quietly and laid a palm against Bastian’s forehead. “He’s been waiting for you for a long time.” The hand on his head moved. Rhys reared back from the intended blessing.

  “I don’t deserve his love or his forgiveness. I’ve killed, maimed and fucked too many of his denizens for that.” Rhys rose to his feet, easily lifting Arial’s immense weight. Gregori backed away, letting his hand fall. Though it was the hardest thing he’d ever done, Rhys laid Arial on the bed on his side facing the injured Nephilim and stepped back. He wanted to clutch the male to him and flee into the night.

  Slowly, he drew in deep lungsful of air, counting the seconds while he struggled to tamp down his demonic side. Arial needed him, needed Bastian, the doctor; not Rhys, the demon. Eyes closed, he shoved the kaleidoscope of memories into a mental box trying desperately to right a world gone balls up. Someone moved. Rhys cracked an eye to glare at Clariel who stood poised to touch Rhys’ shoulder.

  “Don’t,” Rhys snapped unsure of his control.

  “Leave Clary alone.” The deep, husky voice twisted Rhys’ gut. The protectiveness in the tone stabbed into the black hole that used to house his heart. His gaze tracked to the bed. Arial’s hate filled glare shot poisoned darts at him. Rhys gathered his shredded composure and straightened to his full demon sized height. At nearly seven foot, he dwarfed the young Nephilim male at his side.

  “I didn’t come to eat your playthings, Arial. Denali sent me.” His insolent tone stoked the fury in Arial’s eyes.

  “No way. You are not the fucking doctor,” Arial objected.

  “Afraid so, angel. So as much as my touch seems to disgust you, you’ll just have to suck it up. Or, will daddy dearest be interrupting again?” Rhys tossed the insult out with deadly precision. Arial’s face paled.

  “He’s the demon doctor that treated me,” Clariel spoke up softly. Slender fingers wrapped around Rhys wrist and tugged him toward the bed. His eyebrows went up in surprise. Few demons dared initiate contact with him because of his father and his reputation. Humans gave him a wide berth even when he wore his human face. Other preternaturals caught the scent of Hell and damnation and veered away or changed direction to avoid him. Clariel practically hugged his arm against his chest and looked up at him with trusting, dewy eyes. Amazingly, the chaotic storm inside of him calmed. No one had ever done that for him except Arial.

  “Please help them.” The sheer innocence of the young male intrigued Rhys. He could practically taste Clariel’s virginity. His skin heated, causing Clariel to gasp. Something warm and liquid flared in the depths of the Nephilim’s violent gaze.

  “Damn it Rye, leave the kid alone. He’s no match for your lusty appetite. Check on Celix. I’ll heal up without your help,” Arial growled.

  “Still afraid of me?” Rhys taunted, but he pulled loose of Clariel’s hold and circled the bed under Gregori’s and Arial’s watchful eyes. Reluctantly, Rhys gave up his true form. Red skin faded to café au lait and red eyes darkened to warm brown. His frame shrank into itself, making him appear more human. “The doctor is in—happy now?” When they only stared at him, he shrugged. “The two of you can chill. I take my Hippocratic Oath seriously, and the smaller appearance doesn’t terrify the already traumatized, injured or sick.” He rested a hand on his patient’s shoulder.

  “I’m Dr. De Rhys. Bastian for you feathered types,” Bastian introduced himself. “Where does it hurt, angel?”

  “It hurts everywhere.” The answer came on a pained breath. “And, I’m Nephilim, not an angel.”

  “Not much difference as far as I’m concerned,” Arial shrugged. “Okay, Celix, you want to tell me what happened before I take a look?” The room went tomb silent. Rhys looked up. Gregori stared at the floor, Clariel fought tears and Arial scowled. Rhys suppressed a growl when Arial’s hand slid across the bed and clasped Celix’s fingers.

  “His wings are dislocated and possibly broken in places. His back is one big wound,” Arial’s voice in his head hesitated. “He was raped repeatedly by demons.” Rhys sucked in a harsh breath. The attitude drained away with the smart mouth. The hand on Celix’s shoulder relaxed and started a soothing stroke up and down his arm.

  “Celix, would you rather everyone leave? You’re entitled to privacy, I don’t give a fuck what Denali’s orders are.” Rhys questioned. Celix shook his head. His grip on Arial’s hand visibly tightened and so did Rhys’s jaw when he ground his molars together.

  “Do what you have to, I just need Clary,” Celix said and closed his eyes. The smaller male didn’t hesitate. He climbed onto the bed and wedged himself between Arial and Celix. Almost simultaneously, the two larger angels wrapped an arm around Clariel’s slim waist. The three of them fit together like puzzle pieces. Suddenly, Arial’s complete disappearance made sense. He’d moved on, found someone who met with his father’s approval. Probably better for both of them. Or the three
on the bed anyway. Rhys simply felt shattered.

  Pushing aside the personal, Rhys lifted the corner of the sheet and his private anguish fled. Lacerations left by whips and claws crisscrossed Celix’s back, ass cheeks and upper thighs. They oozed blood, staining the sheets beneath him. He leaned over to see the same marks across the male’s chest and abdomen. Bruises marred the Nephilim’s throat. “Celix, I’m going to start an infusion of vampire blood, and then I need to check you down below. Are you ok with that?” The male swallowed and nodded. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Arial and Clariel spoke to the male in quiet voices, soothing him.

  Rhys ported to his office and snagged two pints of stored vamp blood. As a precaution, he also added two more of the human variety. He refused to think about Arial because opening up that can of worms would definitely put him on his ass and out of commission. He focused on Celix and the injuries he’d noted after a quick study.

  However, when he returned to Celix’s bedroom, his gaze zeroed in on Arial instead of his patient. Not a hallucination. The tension in his shoulders loosened a bit. Arial might not want to see him, but Rhys sure as hell wanted answers from the male. Again, Rhys shoved his personal shit down deep and moved to the bed.

  “Gregori, do you mind holding the sheet up?” The Pope was at his side immediately. The human male paid no mind to the blood as it smeared the front of his robes. He grasped the sheet and averted his eyes while whispered prayers fell from his lips. After inserting the needle and starting the IV, Rhys leaned in to check the damage caused to the Nephilim’s rectum, penis and testicles. Dark purple blood leaked from Celix’s ripped and abused anus. More dusky bruising circled the base of the male’s penis and sac. Rhys guessed the injury stemmed from a cock ring worn too tight for too long.