by Liz Meldon
Still, perhaps the angels would rather a less interesting demon occupy his position, a creature who didn’t deal in chaos and blood. Some ordinary sap, some boring fuck, who would be more inclined to bend to angelic will. Who knew. Malachi intended to assert his position by any means necessary—so long as his efforts didn’t get him flambéed.
He smoothed a hand down the front of his suit, pleased that he looked the part of demon overlord. Not a hair out of place, every inch of him—from the family rings to the ruby cufflinks to the kiss of chaos twinkling in his eyes—had been tailored with a specific image in mind. All rulers had a part to play in this great game, and sometimes looking like you belonged was half the battle.
Should Malachi survive today, and by Lucifer’s will he would, he planned to finally advance to the next round of said game and name his lieutenants. No more roving demon mobs for Farrow’s Hollow. No more gangs saddled with thugs and rogues. He much preferred a crime family model, with high-ranking demons from powerful clans pulling the strings in his stead.
For months in Hell they had all been vying for his favor, as soon as Malachi announced legal possession of Farrow’s Hollow. The city was ripe for demon activity, its humans subconsciously accustomed to the darkness, to the sin, to the danger; he needed to ensure the demons he left in charge would do a better job than their predecessors, and so he limited his pool of applicants to superior stock. Only the absolute best for the city his brother had chosen to call home.
For now, however, his sole focus was not getting obliterated the second he walked through the door today at Styx, the same demon-run luxury hotel wherein Malachi had coaxed the former mob bosses of this city to sign their lives away mere months ago. That was key.
After all, he had made some exceptional headway here last night, and the thought of never again pounding into a squealing Ella Thomas from behind, his hand buried in her hair, feeling ever the god of lust and blood and screaming orgasms, certainly dampened his spirits.
A high, clear little bell sounded from his new telephone. A quick glance at the touchscreen device—so fascinating—told him that the car he had scheduled last night was on the way. With only about six minutes to spare, he snatched up the device and tucked it into the small inner pocket of his tailored jacket. It would be the only physical item he’d bring to this meeting; the summons hadn’t specified anything else, and the likelihood of harming an angel topside with a weapon, even one forged in the flames of Hell, was slim. The only worthwhile defense against an angel, beyond waves and waves of demon cannon fodder, was magic.
Or an angel’s blade. As far as he knew, retired old Prince Verrier carried one around with him everywhere he went, disguised as his onyx walking stick. The absolute bloody fortune Malachi would spend to get his hands on one of those…
Well, never mind. Besides the fact that weapons were downright useless against this particular foe, Malachi went without because he wanted to look like he was ready to play ball with these bastards.
When really he wanted to put a dagger between each of their eyes for what they did to Severus. Yes, Aeneas had done the torturing, but the rest of them had allowed it.
No matter. This was step one of a multilayer endeavor that would see him on top. Revenge tasted best when you let it simmer.
Flashing a smirk at his reflection, Malachi swept out of the bathroom, catching the light on the way. He slowed his step and lightened his tread when he crossed from tile to hardwood, pausing at the end of Ella’s bed. There she lay, dead to the world. Unmoving. Unbreathing. Nestled beneath her linens—and smiling.
Contrary to popular belief, vampires did need sleep, especially those who were formerly human. The bloodsuckers who carried on, day after day, night after night, no rest for the wicked and all that, usually went mad before the end of their first century. Ella needed her sleep; ordinarily, six hours a day would do, but after all the delicious fun they’d gotten up to before sunrise, perhaps eight, maybe even ten, would suit her best today.
Heat flared in his chest, and not the usual flame of a bored inner chaos demon. Soundlessly, he crossed to the head of the bed, adjusting the blanket so that it covered her bare shoulder. Then, for the first time in his very long life, he ducked down and planted a chaste kiss on a sleeping woman’s cheek. Something soft and subtle, nothing to rouse her from whatever dreams might produce such a satisfied smile across her pale lips.
Soft, sweet, endearing—they weren’t exactly adjectives he would have ever associated with himself. Sure, Malachi could put on a show if the outcome benefited him, but what benefit had he here? No one could see him. Ella wouldn’t know that he had stopped by to kiss her, to brush her hair aside, to tuck her in rather than kick her out. Malachi always kicked them out. Never stayed the night. Never invited them to. One and done. Always.
Last night, the sheer, unadulterated debauchery that they had brought out of each other…
Ella Thomas had broken the pattern Malachi had spent the last several hundred years engaged in. Just like that, with no persuading on her part, she had flipped his usual routine on its head—and then some.
And that made him feel, what, sentimental? Was that why he was all sweet kisses and pounding hearts and desperate longings to crawl back into bed beside her?
Malachi Saevitia didn’t do cute.
But here he was—soft as silk—and his inner demon said nothing. No claws ripped up his throat, no twisting of his intestines. No pain. No agony. No protest to this utterly bizarre behavior.
Perhaps that was because for the last many hours, he and this little vampire had delved into some of the most violent, bloody, exhilarating sex of his life. They’d broken the legs of her bed, along with half the tiles in her shower. So much blood—tasted, given, received. He ought to feel drained, sucked dry, yet as he slipped out of her bedroom and gently closed the door behind him, Malachi walked with a fucking spring in his step.
No guilt. No remorse. Not even a hint of shame for the way he had just babied a sleeping vampire. Just—buoyancy.
Paired with a touch of apprehension and curiosity, but neither were specifically related to Ella.
Chin lifted, shoulders back, head almost in the game, Malachi drifted down the set of thin, steep stairs between the third and second floor. He slowed as he crossed to the next stairwell, noting Alaric’s bedroom door was still shut—and the pullout couch remained untouched from his and Ella’s tryst last night. Bedding rumpled. A few droplets of dried blood on the leather. A chunk taken out of the armrest courtesy of two sharp little fangs. The chaos demon paused, taking the scene in with an all too smug grin.
Malachi had always thought that when he bedded Ella—not if, although the possibility had been murkier since he’d returned from Hell this time around—he would have to seriously hold back. As a fragile, breakable human, there was no way she could have handled everything he had to throw at her, every dark desire swirling around the chaotic, calculating maelstrom of his mind. It wasn’t like he hadn’t fucked a human before, but not one he had any sort of affection for—not one he feared breaking.
As a vampire, she would withstand him, possibly even match him. Almost, anyway. He had seen it weeks ago when he had accidentally caught her in his thrall: touched by chaos, Ella Thomas was a carnal creature, a precious little thing of unbridled lust and desire. She took what she wanted. She lacked boundaries. She succumbed to the animalistic undertones hidden deep within every human. Although Malachi certainly didn’t approve of what had been done to her, for the sake of hours of unencumbered fucking, it certainly worked in their favor.
What he appreciated most was the lack of tears. Her pesky humanity hadn’t fully resurfaced just yet, as it did for most vampires of human origin. Yes, the little vampire was capable of feeling and emotion, yet self-doubt and fear hadn’t once reared their ugly heads in the last ten hours. Just… fucking. Glorious, immensely satisfying fucking.
With a dash of sentiment on his part toward the end. He pressed his lips into a th
in line, unsure now in the cold light of day how he felt about that.
Never mind. He had no intention of ignoring her while he figured it out. Should he survive this summit uncharred, Malachi would be right back here in a few hours’ time, climbing into bed beside her.
The scents of bacon, eggs, and slightly burnt toast greeted him as he descended the final staircase to the first floor. Curtains drawn back, pale sunlight bathed the space. Outside, mounds of white lined the street, made taller by the truck that came trundling by, pushing more into the piles.
“Off to your super-secret meeting?”
Moira’s tone hadn’t softened much toward him since he had started regularly feeding her best friend, but some of the frost had melted over the last few days when Ella was finally able to interact with the rest of the house. The hybrid stood in the kitchen this morning, a pan of sizzling, snapping bacon behind her on the stove, greasy spatula in hand as she surveyed him in baggy, utterly unflattering attire.
His darling brother sat between them at the main dining table, perusing what looked like a news site on his laptop. He glanced Malachi’s way, his eyes dark and satiated once more. Good. If only the stubborn, lovesick fool would see a client weekly again, Malachi—and Moira—wouldn’t have to worry.
“Yes,” Malachi said with a sniff, fiddling with his cuffs. “Should only last an hour or so.”
He couldn’t imagine the angels of Seraphim Securities would tolerate a demon’s company for much longer. Moira gave him a scrutinizing sweep, some of her previous hardness returned.
Not hardness. Protectiveness. He had the tact to recognize the difference.
“How’s Ella?” she asked coolly. Malachi stilled, then slipped his hands in his pockets. There were two ways to play this: respectfully and not.
“How should I know?”
Severus exhaled a long, annoyed sigh, returning his gaze to his laptop’s screen. Malachi shot him a narrowed look, then squared off with Moira, expression as innocent as he dared muster. She smacked the spatula down on the counter, glaring.
“Well, you spent the night in her bed, so—”
“That was her choice.” Ordinarily, the chaos demon suffered no criticism for who he chose to bed. After all, sexual prowess was a point of pride in Hell for both male and female demons. If incubi needn’t rely so heavily on humans to sustain their existence, they would have been much, much further up the demonic hierarchy.
But that was a contention for another day.
In general, Malachi had never felt the need to explain who he fucked or why, but Moira was his little sister now, so desperately enamored with Severus, so obviously good for him, and he knew she was just being protective of Ella. He owed her an ounce of decency, even if his inner demon bristled at the unspoken accusation.
Moira remained unmoved by the statement, staring him down from the kitchen like he had broken every rule in her book—and then some. A quick prompting glance from Severus, one that begged him to do the right thing, had him rolling his eyes.
“Ella is fine—better than. She’s sleeping soundly,” Malachi insisted, then, unable to help himself, he grinned. “Soundly… and thoroughly satisfied.”
“No!” Moira hoisted her greasy spatula like a broadsword and charged around the granite peninsula, headed straight for him. “No gross sex innuendos!”
“Mind the suit,” he growled, imagining what all that bacon grease would do to the finely crafted material. But she didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow. Moira pulled no punches with him—not ever—and Malachi had enough sense to just get out of her way. Still, he did so with a smirk and a chuckle, which only seemed to incense her more, and he shot her a wink before darting out the front door and all but falling into the awaiting black town car.
The driver flinched at his sudden appearance, but said nothing to the fact that Malachi had materialized out of nowhere at the mouth of a dingy alleyway.
Likely because the low-level demon was on Verrier’s payroll, working for the former prince’s new upscale car service. According to Alaric, they had completely disrupted the human taxi monopoly held over downtown Farrow’s Hollow. Good. Malachi intended to create more such businesses over the next few years: respectable demonic business, like the Inferno and Rose’s Corner, that would entice humans to spend, spend, spend.
Perhaps more than money, at that.
A short, silent drive through the snowy streets delivered him to the primly maintained steps of the hotel Styx, where a doorman in a red uniform greeted him by name. Given the establishment was also demon-owned and operated, Malachi had hoped his reputation would finally warrant a little fucking respect around this city. After all, he did own it.
Gifted with a gold key card, he was then escorted to the elevators across the sprawling lobby and instructed to go to the top floor; the same conference room he and Alaric had scheduled to schmooze the old demon mob bosses would play host to today’s summit. Perfect. Familiar territory.
After swiping the key card through a little machine reader on the inside of the elevator, Malachi was whisked up, alone, on a smooth ride to the top floor of the hotel. As the doors peeled back to reveal a long, dark corridor, he could still recall the panoramic sights of the conference room, its slightly curved floor to ceiling windows offering a spectacular view of all of Farrow’s Hollow.
His city.
Squaring his shoulders, he marched down the hall with purpose, refusing to let the winged fucks waiting to see so much as a hint of unease. While Malachi still hadn’t the faintest idea what they wanted with him, his carefully cultivated mask suggested he didn’t care—that he was only here to humor them.
The door opened unhindered, not a guard in sight, and Malachi staggered to a halt at the collection of beings inside. There were angels, yes, all clad in near-identical suits; half the garrison appeared present, including Cassiel, new head of the warrior angels manning the local Seraphim Securities office. The angel studied him from the far side of the conference room, a sprawling mahogany table between them, surrounded by his entourage. Hawkish features pinched, Cassiel made no move to greet him, and instead turned his back on the chaos demon a moment later, murmuring something to his companions.
Angels, however, were not the only creatures present. On this side of the enormous conference table, the same table upon which Moira had both brutalized a demon and lost her memories, stood Verrier.
And fucking Cordelia.
Clad in one of her custom crimson dresses, the garment muted by a layer of black lace, her waist cinched with a sinfully tight corset and her bustle unnecessarily large, his cousin tipped her head to one side when their black eyes met, her smile a little too knowing.
“Hello, cousin.”
Malachi so loathed to be surprised—but he despised it far more when others knew they had bested him. So, he schooled his features, all the while wondering what this summit was really about.
Because it certainly wasn’t about him. That much was painfully clear.
Classical music tinkled from the quartet of overhead speakers, cutting through what would have been a rather tense silence. Smile strained, he strolled over to join the pair. Cordelia met him halfway, standing up on her toes to kiss his cheek.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he grumbled. The witch patted his chest with a gloved hand, the intricate black lace covering the gruesome scars she had left exposed that morning.
“You seemed to enjoy all the delicious secrecy,” she purred back. “All those questions you left unanswered back at the house—it caused quite the stir with the others. I didn’t want to quash your fun.”
Her fluttering lashes sealed the deal: she had bested him and she knew it. But then again, Cordelia Atropa had been besting him since they were children, despite his best efforts.
It was one of the reasons he loved her so dearly.
“Hmm. How kind of you.” Begrudgingly, Malachi offered his elbow for her to link her arm around, and he escorted her back to Verrier with several pressin
g questions brewing deep inside.
His inner demon, meanwhile, seemed fixated on a single thought: Could angels still fly after you plucked all their feathers?
Maybe—maybe, maybe, maybe—they should test that theory.
Malachi glared down at his chest; the bugger really was a distraction at the least opportune times, but he couldn’t fault him for the invasive thoughts. They were, after all, thoughts Malachi shared.
But he was in control.
No chaos—for now.
Unhooking Cordelia’s arm from his, he greeted Verrier with a sweeping bow. “My lord.”
Verrier stood at roughly Malachi’s height, swathed in black Armani, his bright white hair drawn back in a low ponytail. As a fallen angel, Lucifer’s chosen, and a former prince of Hell, he outranked all topside demons, Malachi included. For all his bravado, it was a fact the chaos demon would never forget.
Ice-blue eyes swept over him briefly, cold and calculating, those high cheekbones especially severe in this light. Then, with a tap of his walking stick, the trio of silver skulls on the handle a little too lifelike, Verrier’s lips spread into a thin smile.
“Malachi Saevitia. Your bid for Farrow’s Hollow was a surprise.”
“I saw it as a necessary move,” he remarked, back to his full height yet deferring to the former prince with a slight dip of his head. “My brother has made his home here, and so I intend to run it far better, far more efficiently, than the last regime. Perhaps I too shall call it home someday.”
Verrier’s bright white brows twitched up, and he gave Malachi an appraising once-over that he felt in his marrow. “Time will tell, I’m sure.”
“Yes, my lord.”
With a dismissive tap of his walking stick, Verrier left their huddle, drifting over to the open bar and fixing himself a drink. Malachi watched the creature for a moment, then rounded on his cousin with a smirk.
