by Liz Meldon
“You’ll regret this, half-breed,” Grace hissed. Another step from Moira had her and Flynn scrambling across the courtyard just like all the rest of them, a shadowy band of rats fleeing into the night.
They waited for the blanket of silence to descend once more, thick and heavy and muted by the snow. Slowly, the gusts of swirling, angry winds settled, as did the ornaments on the prickly green branches of the evergreen. When Moira’s hands extinguished, Ella straightened out of her defensive posture, eyes still aching from the light. Her fangs retreated slowly into her gumline, the pain similar to what she’d endured during her three miserable years of braces in middle school.
“He’s been a busy little beaver, my master,” she muttered as Moira approached her. “Seems like he’s made a lot of, uh, kids.”
“Yeah.” Her bestie’s brows furrowed, and she glanced back to the little park’s entryway. Not a soul in sight, but who knew what was lurking out of sight. “A lot of them.”
“Probably too many.”
“Definitely too many.”
The last thing Farrow’s Hollow needed was an infestation of vampires—especially vampires who blindly served that fucking psychopath. Ella wrapped her arms around herself, a shiver coursing down her spine. This was Serafino’s second attempt to sweep her into the fold. The first had been bold. This was just a mess. The third could be devastating.
Was he this intense about all his wayward children coming home to roost, or was she just that unlucky?
Ella didn’t want to know the answer.
“We should get back to the house,” Moira said, sheathing her deadly hands inside her mittens, then grasping one of Ella’s firmly. “I think this is officially above our pay grade…”
Halfway home, Serafino started screaming inside her head again. Vicious, horrible things, threats and promises pounding at her skull as she sobbed in Moira’s arms—all the while wishing a certain chaos demon would just rip this guy’s throat out already.
Chapter Thirteen
The car awaiting their return from the hell-gate was exceptional. Luxury at its finest, with perfectly monitored temperature settings, a bottle of sweet and bubbly chilled and waiting. Cordelia had taken care of everything, not wanting to bother the household with an unnecessary trip to the north end of Farrow’s Hollow on such a bitterly cold December night.
Seated in the back, his cousin humming some old children’s nursery rhyme under her breath beside him as the bright lights of the city raced ever closer, Malachi found he didn’t give a damn about the luxury. In fact, upon stepping out of the hell-gate, he would have much preferred to see his brother waiting in the snowy clearing, the bright high beams of Severus’s new SUV slicing through the chill.
Strange. He had only been in Hell a little over a month—a mere week and a half on Earth—yet somehow he had grown nostalgic in his absence. Perhaps after spending a full year apart from his brother and then experiencing but a taste of his company again simply hadn’t been enough.
And, of course, there was Ella.
All of this had been for her—for her safety, for her survival, for her. He had marched forth from the unfrozen bog confident that he now knew Serafino Lutum, from birth to the demonic vampire’s impending death, and would do what was necessary, with great pleasure, to protect his little vampire.
The car slowed to a gentle stop across the street from Alaric’s invisible home. Even though the driver worked for Verrier, no one save the residents of the four-story building—and Verrier himself—could actually see the place. Still, all the former prince’s cronies had an eye and an ear out for this neighborhood. The Inferno and Rose’s Corner situated at one end, their master’s son dwelling at the other. To them, this two-lane strip of pavement was the most important in the city.
After adding the evening’s fare to her personal account, Cordelia wrapped her furs around herself, shielding her face from the cold, and climbed out of the car. While Malachi saw to their bags, she teetered across the street, road salt crunching under her delicate heels, snow collecting on her pelts. His cousin all but skipped to the front door, falling through it to a chorus of greetings inside. A soft yellow light filled the first-floor windows, and something equally warm and cozy pulsed in his chest as he crossed the street.
His inner demon balked at the idea. Warm and cozy?
It wasn’t just nostalgia that plagued him, apparently. Something about this house, about the occupants inside, made Malachi Saevitia soft. When he had acquired the deed to Farrow’s Hollow, Malachi had been utterly ruthless. Cruel. Savage. He pitted demons against one another and bullied his way through the rungs of Pandemonium’s bureaucracy. He cut down his enemies without shame or remorse.
Even this last month, Malachi had been brutal in his quest for information about Serafino Lutum. Tearing slums apart, his cackling cousin at his side, Malachi hadn’t stopped until he knew all there was to know about the vampiric fuck. He had charged headlong into the black, crushing those who dared stand in his way. More than once he had ripped a low-born’s heart from their chest—just because he could, because he was well within his right to as a high-ranking chaos demon.
And now he was struck by the cozy simplicity of soft yellow light slanting onto a snowy sidewalk?
Pathetic.
He adjusted his grip on the bags, kicking through the dusting of snow in front of a seemingly empty alley, and then shouldered his way through the front door as it slowly drifted shut. The warm yellow that bathed the snowy sidewalk spilled over his face as he crossed the threshold, followed swiftly by the scent of meat and spices, garlic and melted cheese and freshly baked bread.
Nudging the door shut with his foot, Malachi made quick work of the scene before him: Moira and Severus in the kitchen, his brother wearing a white apron smeared with red—not blood though, more likely the sauce bubbling in a pan on the stove. The dining table set for three, a bottle of wine already uncorked, a trio of glasses half-drunk. Alaric and Cordelia stood nearby, all hands and smiles and soft murmurs.
“Brother,” Severus greeted from the kitchen’s peninsula, his eyes dark and his flesh vibrant—someone had touched a human recently. “Good to see you.”
“You as well, brother,” Malachi said as he set the luggage off to the side of the front door, then dusted the wet from his shoulders. His wool peacoat felt too thick now, the entire floor smothered with the oven’s heat. Moira sidled up to her lover, slurping a bit of sauce off the end of a wooden cooking spoon. She lifted her eyebrows when Malachi dipped his head in her direction. “Sister.”
The hybrid greeted him with a long, slow, disapproving huff. For Lucifer’s sake, what had he done now?
“Malachi, you’ve been gone for-fucking-ever,” she told him, arms crossed, white brows furrowed. The spoon nudged Severus’s arm, smearing the light grey knit with a bit of red. Just as Moira drew another breath, more chastisement at the ready, there was a crash somewhere above, followed by the firm, rapid thumps of feet trundling down the stairs. Malachi grinned, hands in his pockets as he faced the staircase in front of the door, listening, waiting, his heart beating just a touch harder as Ella rounded the corner, using the bannister for anchorage, and all but threw herself down the remaining set.
“Well then,” he purred, cock twitching with interest at the sight of her skintight jeans and figure-hugging teal cardigan. All those gorgeous curls weren’t the only tantalizing distractions bouncing along with every step. But her eyes threatened to steal his breath away: bloodshot, and just below them sat gaunt cheeks. Fuck. “Hello, little vampire—”
Ella launched off the bottom step, straight into him like a fucking catapult, leaving Malachi no choice but to catch her. In an instant, her legs snapped around his waist, her fingers bit into his shoulders—and her fangs sunk hard and furious into the meat of his neck.
Malachi stumbled back against the front door, inhaling sharply at the brief sting of pain. She growled against him as one hand crept up his neck and into his hair, t
ugging hard as if to wrench his head to the side. Grimacing, he obliged, opening himself up for a deeper feeding, all the while cupping her perfect ass with both hands under the guise of hoisting her up for better access.
Across the room, Moira looked horrified, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Severus eventually tugged her back to the stove, whispering in her ear, and she stood there rigidly without a word. Alaric and Cordelia seemed far more interested in each other than the bloody display, for which he was grateful; no need for anyone else to notice that he had gone from half-mast to hard as a rock within seconds.
“Really, Ella,” Malachi murmured when she snarled against his skin. “Let me at least get my coat off. It’s only good manners.”
One hand still cradling that glorious ass of hers, he unbuttoned his coat with the other. The wool slid down both arms to the floor, and he abandoned it there as he crossed over to sit on the stairs. As soon as her knees touched the wood, Ella readjusted her angle, straddling him and his raging erection. The wiggle of her hips as she fed had to be accidental—or, perhaps, a cruel punishment for his lengthy absence.
And all things considered, it had been a lengthy absence. A week and four days—too long for her to go between feedings at this stage in her young life. Malachi trailed a finger up and down her back, settling in for the long haul; he owed her as much blood as she needed.
Given the ferocity of her bite, however, he assumed she hadn’t sampled anyone else in his absence. Possessiveness flared in his chest, his inner demon chuckling darkly at the thought. Good. Should she ever feed from anyone else, Malachi might just shred the bastard to pieces on principle.
The room drifted in and out of focus when Ella finally pulled away, taking those sharp little fangs with her, and he reclined back on one elbow, waiting for the light-headedness to pass. To their left, the rest of the house’s occupants had found ways to busy themselves with the clink of dishware and boiling of water, the snapping of raw pasta. Clearing his throat, Malachi fished a silk pocket square from the depths of his black suit jacket. Ella’s gaze tracked his hand as he wiped the blood from her lips, catching the dainty dribble that streaked down her chin. She looked better now, the whites of her eyes clear, her honey-brown irises bright and curious.
Malachi popped the cream-colored silk to the wound on his neck, appraising the delectable vampire still straddling him with a smirk. “I take it you’re pleased to see me?”
Her jaw tightened noticeably. Her eyes narrowed.
And before he could rectify whatever egregious error he had just committed, Ella slapped him—hard—clear across the face. He blinked through the shock of the searing sting.
“You said one week,” she hissed, voice wobbling with barely restrained emotion. Ella brought her hand up again, but this time he snatched her wrist before those talons made contact, before she scored his heated flesh for all to see. He caught her other hand too, just for good measure, the bloody handkerchief crumpled in his grasp.
“I’m sorry,” Malachi told her, gaze black as he held the petite hellion at bay. His smirk had fallen to the wayside, along with the sensual teasing he usually reserved for Ella alone. He allowed her a moment to settle, lowering her hands to his chest when she sagged somewhat, then softly added, “Truly, I apologize. My task took far more time than expected.”
She studied him a moment longer, lower lip trembling, and then glanced toward the kitchen as her eyes filled with bloody tears.
“Ella?”
“It’s fine,” she muttered, wiping at her cheeks when she faced him again, this time with a slightly manic smile. “I’m fine.”
Clearly her humanity had come home. He could only imagine the internal confusion: feeling such things, such potent emotions, all the while struggling to get a grip on her new, far stronger, far stranger physical body. Disconnected from her old world, yet the worst of it, the most perplexing of it, thrust back upon her mere weeks later. So much to come to terms with. So much to endure.
He twined a curl around his finger, searching the part of himself that had been so taken with the light through the window for some words of comfort, something to stem the flow of those bloody tears permanently. Ella leaned into his touch, but only to gently guide his hand from her hair.
“You just… You finally shut him up,” she remarked, her laugh thick but pure. Real. Still, the mention of a him had his hackles up, and he curved an arm around her hips with a frown.
“Him?”
“Him… In my head,” she stammered, eyes flicking up to her forehead. “He—”
“Ah. Yes.” Realization hammered Malachi from all sides, and he ground his teeth together at the thought of his own stupidity. Of course Serafino Lutum had found a way inside Ella’s head. He had probably done it just to be cruel, to pitch a squalling fit, spiteful and bitter after Malachi knocked out all his fucking teeth. Hell-born vampires had the ability to do so with all their sired children, but many only honored their favorites with such attentions.
How long had he been tormenting her? Long enough, if her previously bloodshot eyes suggested anything. Tears. Anguish. Exhaustion.
What a fucking idiot he had been. He hadn’t taken Serafino seriously—not as a worthy opponent in battle—but Malachi also hadn’t considered that the bastard wouldn’t retaliate against him directly. His arrogance, his absence, had put Ella right in the line of fire.
“I should have realized,” he said tightly, shaking his head when Ella sighed, her smile soft and pliant now.
“It’s fine. I’ve talked it out with everyone else already.” She shifted about on his lap as a timer dinged from the kitchen, cutting through the hushed conversations of the others. Ella tucked her hair back with a shrug. “I mean, I didn’t say anything when I first heard him. I thought I was going crazy, honestly. Voices in my head…”
“Oh, my little vampire,” Malachi hummed, cupping her face. His rage lingered, broiling, scalding in his core, yet he still managed to flash a charmingly goading smile. “You’ve always been at least a little crazy.”
Scowling, Ella pinched the undersides of his biceps, the sharp nip of talons making him twitch, but before she could land a firmer hit, he twined his one hand into her hair, tipping her head back, and used the other to guide her hips over his aching cock.
“I like crazy,” Malachi murmured, their lips a mere breath apart. “Keeps life interesting, no?”
Desire sparked in those brilliant honey-brown eyes, dark and delicious, the kind that tempted him to whisk her away for a few hours before they did anything else tonight. His black gaze tore across her face, her cheeks faintly pink from the feeding, some of that vampiric paleness kept at bay—with makeup too. Bronze shimmered up her cheekbones, her natural scent mingling with a floral perfume, perhaps jasmine and lily. The soft heat of her core made his inner demon desperate to play, vivid memories of bloody, violent fucking coming to mind as he tipped his head up for a kiss that would make her squeal with unbridled—
“Dinner’s ready,” Moira announced, slamming a heavy ceramic bowl of something in the middle of the dining table. Ella flinched, blinking hurriedly as she untangled herself from Malachi’s grasp. He let her go with the knowledge that they could pick this up later—that they would pick this up later.
After tucking his erection out of the way, his inner demon furious at the interruption, acid scorching up his throat, Malachi stood and trailed after Ella. She sat across from Alaric at the table, Moira to her right. Severus added a plate of cheesy, garlic-scented crispy bread to the mix, his apron tossed haphazardly on the counter, and then settled at the head of the table. Clearing his throat, Malachi stole the other head, thinking it only fitting, and stiffened when his legs collided with—someone. Ella? Alaric? The hybrid gave no indication that they were nudging feet, loading up his plate, his attention squarely on Cordelia at his side. Ella, meanwhile, sat there without a plate, without cutlery, without a wineglass.
But she wore a shy little smile, and suddenly
the foot he’d nudged trailed up his calf. Up and down again before resting beside his. Chest tight—and warm and full and utterly pathetic—Malachi helped himself to the noodle dish. Spaghetti, if he remembered correctly, which included enormous balls of meat and paired quite nicely with the expensive red wine Alaric uncorked. From the smell of things, this garlicky cheese bread might just become his new favorite topside delicacy.
“Well, brother,” Severus started, the table silent save for Alaric and Cordelia’s very hushed murmuring. “Cousin. Are we permitted to know your business in Hell, or is it the summit all over again?”
“All that secrecy for a building project,” Moira added as she swirled her noodles around her fork, glancing between Malachi and Cordelia with a smirk. Perhaps she had finally warmed to him, but from the horrified way she had watched him with Ella at the door, Malachi had a feeling he was in for a patronizing lecture sometime soon.
“We traveled to Hell to investigate Serafino Lutum,” Malachi stated. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted how Ella’s flustered gaze snapped to him, which couldn’t be good. “Cordie and I met him at the summit—head of a vampire colony in Farrow’s Hollow, which I was unaware even existed. I wanted to look into him before I squashed him like the gnat he is.”
“Yeah, he’s a real charmer,” Alaric grumbled as he swirled his wine and took a quick sip. “Ella and I had the misfortune of meeting him a few nights ago.”
“And we met the rest of his children this morning,” Moira added. Together, they told their tales: of Serafino confronting Ella on the street and torturing her with the brutal details of the night she turned, in front of dozens of humans awaiting entrance to the Inferno, followed two days later by a run-in with a gang of vampires sent to collect her. Malachi watched Ella throughout the entire explanation, the way her expression fell and tightened, her eyes briefly swimming with bloody tears before she blinked them back. Her foot retreated as well, and she fiddled with her talons—painted green and red, he realized, and patterned with white snowflakes—as if to avoid eye contact.
