by Liz Meldon
Attacking her on the street, with an audience of vulnerable, ignorant humans nearby. Crooning filth in her ear. Admitting to ruining the life she had worked so hard to build. Sending his vampire hoard to kidnap her. Just as he’d suspected: Serafino Lutum was a fucking coward—and Ella meant more to him than he let on. To fight this hard for a single vampire, one of many it appeared, was damning evidence that she mattered to Serafino, to his very purpose here in Farrow’s Hollow.
Malachi should have just killed him at the Styx.
But he had been bound in blood not to butcher the other summit attendees while on the premises. And, deep down, the chaos demon had wanted to know the bastard. It was always infinitely more satisfying to know thine enemy, to wriggle inside their head—to anticipate how they would feel as they tasted a stunningly ruthless defeat at Malachi’s hands.
Beyond that, he had wanted to ensure that should he cleave that arrogant head from Serafino’s shoulders, another vampire far worse wouldn’t spring up to take his place—to torment Ella further. Malachi had needed to understand the vastness of his organization, the breadth of his reach, not only for the sake of his new city, but for Ella’s too. Cordelia had agreed with him at the time. While the majority of demons operated by brute force alone, knowledge was power. That short month in Hell had given him the upper hand. It allowed him to play this game ten steps ahead of his opponent, and that was where Malachi preferred to operate.
However, hearing the stories now of Serafino’s cowardice, his aggression—the fact that he wouldn’t stop screaming inside Ella’s head, devolving into an infantile tantrum when she refused him… Malachi should have killed him and dealt with the fallout later.
Or, at the very least, warned Ella about him. He just hadn’t thought the gnat would be so bold. Malachi hadn’t considered him a proper enemy because of his low birth, his social status, his weakness.
That was his first mistake in regards to Serafino Lutum—and it would most certainly be his last. He owed it to Ella not to underestimate the villain who could ruin her.
“Well, I suppose that confirms what we’ve learned,” the chaos demon muttered, his grip steadily tightening around his drink until the damn thing splintered in his palm. All eyes darted to him as he set it down, blood and shattered glass dusting the table.
Ella disappeared from her seat in a flash, then reappeared just as fast with two new wineglasses. Without a word, she refilled a glass for him, then steered his bleeding hand over her own glass. She perched on the edge of her chair, watching as blood drip, drip, dripped; Malachi made a tight fist, then released it to encourage flow. Beside the little vampire, Moira watched on, horrified.
“Serafino Lutum is an absolute stain,” Malachi carried on as though nothing had happened. He even sampled a bit of his wine with a sigh, finding it rather oaky. Ella fidgeted beside him, a quarter of her wineglass full. He made another fist, then stretched his hand wide, reopening the healing wound. “He’s a rabble-rouser, even by Hell’s standards, fighting for vampire rights outside of the legal channels.”
“A terrorist,” Cordelia added, “with a far more extensive network than we’d anticipated. His colony in Farrow’s Hollow is but the tip of the, what is it—mountain?”
“Iceberg,” Alaric offered with an affectionate smile. His cousin fluttered her dark lashes at her paramour.
“Yes, thank you, darling—iceberg.”
“He operates under an alias,” Malachi said with a roll of his eyes. “The Dark King. Honestly… Ridiculous. It took us weeks of interrogation in the slums to finally make our way to him. He uses figureheads to do his bidding, and when the enforcers take that demon away, he finds a new one. They rile up vampires, encourage them to break laws in Hell and on Earth. Bombings. Assassinations. From what we understand now, nothing directly links back to him—always keeps his hands clean.”
“A puppet master,” Cordelia agreed. His jaw clenched briefly. Malachi intended to be the only puppet master at work in this city.
“His current whereabouts to his followers in the pit is unknown,” he said. After many, many bloody interrogations, it still baffled Malachi that he and Cordelia knew more about their victims’ rebellious leader than they did. “There is an active warrant under his name. Dead or alive—Asmodeus and his boys want Serafino’s head.”
A head Malachi was all too happy to serve up on a golden platter. Not only did he intend to curry favor from Lucifer’s lieutenants, but the sooner he rid Farrow’s Hollow of scum like Serafino Lutum, the better.
“He’s dangerous and violent. Unpredictable. Brazen,” he admitted after another sip of his wine, hating to give the bastard compliments. By now, the wound on his palm had fully closed over, but he had managed to fill just over half a wineglass for Ella. She sat back in her chair, nursing it slowly as she observed the discussion. Perhaps it was still too raw for her to comment on Serafino. Good. The thought of that filth’s name on her tongue had Malachi seeing the world through a red haze.
“He’s utterly mad,” Cordelia added. Smirks erupted around the table: his beloved cousin was currently looping her individual strands of spaghetti into pretty little bows, which she arranged around her plate, fingers covered in sauce.
“He isn’t someone I will permit to live in Farrow’s Hollow,” Malachi said firmly. He picked up his cheesy bread, holding it but not taking a bite as he looked to Alaric. “I intend to discuss ousting him and his colony from the city with your father—tomorrow, preferably. Perhaps you could arrange that?”
“Doubt you’ll get any resistance from him,” the hybrid insisted, delicately cutting through one of his balls of meat. “He’s furious that Serafino made such a spectacle in front of his Inferno patrons.”
Ella bit her lower lip, eyes cast down when Malachi glanced her way. Honestly, he didn’t give a fuck that the wretch had put on a show for the humans; it was that he dared touch Ella. Frightened her. Attempted to intimidate her into submission.
When Malachi next saw him, he would crush that fucking vampire’s skull into itty-bitty shards. His inner demon roared at the thought, a surge of energy flooding his system, preparing his body for battle.
“Ella fought his influence, you know. She defied her master. It was brilliant,” Alaric said after a moment of tinkling silverware. Moira wrapped an arm around the vampire’s shoulders, giving her a quick squeeze and a smile.
“It’s because she’s amazing.”
“Actually,” Cordelia said, hoisting up one of her noodle bows to interject, eyes alight with the same gleam they always had when she could share her findings, “I’ve done a great deal of research on vampires this last month—consulted some of the ancient texts in Pandemonium. The library there really is the most magnificent in all the realms. Did you know that they use a faceted classification system and a—”
Malachi cleared his throat; his cousin could talk about that damn library for hours. In fact, she already had—with him as her captive audience while they traveled around Hell in one of the Saevitia family carriages. “Cordie.”
“Right, right, no matter.” She straightened, lace creeping up her delicate throat like ivy, eyes flicking to black in her excitement. “On the subject of Ella’s refusal to do her master’s bidding—it isn’t unheard of, but it certainly is rare. And I think it’s because she’s been feeding from another demon. Ordinarily, a master would feed their vampire offspring directly, at least for the first few crucial months of development. It cements the bond between them, much as a mother bonds with her newborn via breastmilk. Yet because Ella has fed strictly from Mal, the bond was never created. It remains tenuous simply because Serafino turned her, but it will fade if she continues to drink from other demons. In fact, I hypothesize that it will disappear entirely, along with his ability to slip into her mind.”
“Okay, so, if she fed from Serafino, that would mean he could control her like all the other vampires,” Moira said as she refilled her glass to the near brim, pinning him with a hard look. �
�What does that mean about Malachi? Can he control her because she feeds from him?”
Ella spoke up before he could dismiss such a ridiculous accusation. “Malachi doesn’t control me.”
“The control stems from a master-offspring connection,” Cordelia clarified, one of her noodles snapping when she looped it through. Frowning, she dropped it into the pile on her plate. “The control of which we speak can only be exerted over human-turned vampires by hell-born vampires. Malachi is a chaos demon. He can influence her…” She cleared her throat, directing her gaze to Ella. “You. He can influence you just as he can influence all demons. It’s simple biology. He cannot dictate your thoughts or movements as a hell-born vampire can with his offspring. From all I’ve read, it simply isn’t possible.”
Moira exhaled sharply, nodding as relief trickled across her features. His brother patted the top of her hand, wearing the sort of smile shared between lovers, the kind hinting at private conversations behind closed doors.
“Well.” Moira’s gaze darted between Ella and Malachi, much of its stony intensity gone. “That’s good to know.”
Malachi fought the urge to roll his eyes. Dramatically. Because. For fuck’s sake, woman—
“Yeah, it is,” Ella murmured, downing the rest of her drink and setting the glass on the tabletop. She slowly dragged her finger around the rim, studying Malachi from beneath her lashes, her expression annoyingly unreadable.
Until their eyes met.
In hers, he saw fire. His snapped to black at the thought of mounting her right here, right now, somewhere between the enormous bowl of noodles and the cheesy bread.
She blinked and turned away, offering a comforting smile to Moira instead. Fine. Malachi had come to terms with the fact that should he ever claim Ella for his own, he would have to share her with the white-haired hybrid for the rest of her life—however long that might be. And from the look on Severus’s face, it was clear his brother had concluded much the same. Bit annoying, really, but certainly not a deal breaker.
“Hmm. Yes. Rather thrilling,” he said, leaning over his plate of untouched food with a grin. “We should continue the feedings until the master-offspring bond is completely broken.”
The notion that his blood was giving Ella the strength to withstand that fuck’s pull positively delighted him.
“I think that would be best,” Cordelia said as she licked her fingers clean. “Naturally, Ella has her choice of demon donors—even more so once Nocturna opens in the spring.”
Traitor. Malachi shot his cousin a glare, and the witch met his silent fury with an impish little giggle, then popped a pair of her spaghetti bows into her mouth.
“Might not be a bad idea,” Ella said lightly as she wiped the inside of her wineglass with her finger, collecting what little blood remained in a single sweep. “Never hurts to sample all the flavors.”
“I can assure you, dearest, none will leave you as thoroughly satisfied as mine,” Malachi growled, then finally chomped down on his cheesy bread. Severus sighed noisily from the other end of the table, but not even his brother’s dramatics could distract him from the way Ella shivered.
After an awkward beat of silence, it was Severus who steered the table’s conversation elsewhere—back to the mundane, to which Malachi only half listened as he shoveled delicious noodles into his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Ella watch him, until the topic of Moira’s heavenly trial reared its ugly head. For that, Malachi listened; most demons would slaughter legions for a glimpse into the comings and goings of the Silver City. While angels were privy to Hell’s secrets, Heaven had been watertight against outsiders since the dawn of existence.
Unfortunately, no new information surfaced regarding the trial. Cordelia had her say based on what she’d gleaned from ancient scriptures and crumbling scrolls, but the discussion mostly centered on Moira’s feelings, which Malachi could appreciate, sure, but they weren’t particularly interesting. Fear. Anxiety. Restlessness. Nothing novel, really.
When the meal came to a close, Ella assisted Alaric and Severus with the cleanup: one rinsed plates and glasses at the sink, another loaded them into the dishwasher, and the third scrubbed down the splotches of tomato sauce from the stove. Malachi loitered nearby, nursing his wine and passing dirty dishes to whoever manned the sink, until Moira asked him to bring the leftover produce back to the pantry. Wineglass abandoned, he gathered half-cut green peppers and onions, cloves of garlic, the container of raw pasta. Why make two trips when one would do?
He crossed to the far back corner of the first floor, just under the staircase, and through the pantry doorway, which was barely wide enough to accommodate his shoulders.
“Where shall I…?” He trailed off upon finding the long, narrow, cool space empty. The shelves on either side overflowed with product—and the dozen locks on the door at the far end were undone. Seconds later, the main door slammed shut, and suddenly a very insistent angel hybrid was shoving him toward the exit. He dumped his armful of nonsense onto a shelf along the way, scowling. “All right, all right—no need to push, you ridiculous creature.”
But push she did, right out the back door and into the night. Snow gathered in the alleyway behind the magically concealed house, cresting his shoes and seeping into his socks. His scowl deepened as he marched toward the narrow strip of road that connected the backs of all the surrounding apartment buildings, for at least that had been cleared. He stomped about once he was free of the drifts, fat flakes gathering on his shoulders, in his hair, the bitter chill of a northern winter sinking into his bones.
“Moira—”
“No, you listen to me.” She materialized in front of him, already shivering in her thin little shirt and slouchy, faded jeans. Her slippers were utterly soiled, and the wind cut pink tracks across her porcelain cheeks, but the hybrid looked positively on fire as she stabbed him squarely in the chest, that bony finger like a knife. “I know I’ve been busting your balls a lot lately.”
He snorted. Busting one’s balls? What a ridiculous turn of phrase. Another sharp jab to the chest had him disguising his laughter as a cough. Malachi folded his arms for good measure, a shield of muscle and cashmere.
“And, look, I haven’t forgotten what you did for Severus and me—not at all,” she told him, her words falling like the crisp click of heels over marble. “But Ella is my best friend. She’s the best person I know.”
Her eyes watered with undeniable passion, which, again, Malachi could appreciate—but did it really need to get any fucking colder out here?
“And I don’t want to see her hurt,” Moira continued forcefully, refusing to blink lest her tears fall. “I don’t know what you do with women usually, but what I gather from all of Severus’s stories, you aren’t really a relationship guy, so—”
“If all I wanted to do was fuck her,” Malachi purred, the added emphasis illuminating how little Moira seemed to think of him, “then I would have, ages ago, and it would be done.”
Did he get no credit for trying to do the right thing? Malachi had bucked all his natural instincts and refused Miss Ella Thomas several times before he finally succumbed to the storm brewing between them. Surely that had to count for something.
But from the tremble in Moira’s pale lips to the hard glint in her ethereal gaze, he suspected she needed more. She needed to hear it from him.
She needed to know her beloved sister had nothing to fear from him.
For Malachi had no intention of hurting her.
And he would kill any fucker who did.
“Moira, you must understand,” Malachi said, tone softening as he slipped his hands into his pockets, “that’s not all I desire from her, and I can assure you that I don’t make such a decision lightly. Take my word or not, but I would have moved on to far easier prey if all I craved was carnal release.”
Moira wrinkled her nose. “Carnal release? Ugh, gross.” Another stab to the chest. “And don’t call her prey.”
“It’s a
figure of speech.” Although Malachi had enjoyed the hunt. “If anything, Ella has become the predator.”
A predator with a voracious sexual appetite the most compatible with his own that he had ever experienced. The look in that woman’s eyes as they came together, bloody and vicious—the sheer fucking revelry…
Well, his mother would have loved Ella.
Moira exhaled sharply, her breath clouding as she glanced down the vacant alley, snowflakes catching on her eyelashes.
“I would never hurt her,” Malachi insisted, risking a step closer. “Not intentionally, anyway. I know I can be… trying sometimes—”
“Do you… Are you in love with her?”
The question rendered him speechless. In love—him? While he couldn’t define the possessive flare in his chest when he thought of Ella feeding only from him, or the intense burning rage that ripped through him and his inner demon alike at the thought of someone else touching her… Malachi wouldn’t call it love.
Not yet.
But maybe one day.
“I don’t think so,” he admitted. No point in lacing the omission with purple prose—she would see straight through that. “Do I have to be?”
“No, I’m just…” Moira tucked her hair behind her ears, hands trembling, teeth starting to chatter against the chill. “She’s all the family I have left—”
“Nonsense. You have Severus. And you have me.” Malachi cocked his head to the side, grinning. “And by extension, Cordelia, I suppose… If you want her.”
“Why do you do that?” She shivered, much of her earlier fire diminished. “Why do you call me your sister?”
“Because I think you’ve earned the title,” he said without hesitation. Memories of that first battle in Hell danced across his mind, a skirmish where she had taken on a pack of hellhounds for him. It was right then and there that Malachi had decided Moira Aurelia was destined to become a Saevitia. “You’ve proven yourself more than once for this family. You’ve bled for us, for him, and I have no doubt you would do it again without question. I would be honored to have you as my sister.”
