by Liz Meldon
“I’m not scared of them.” Moira looked at her sharply when Ella threaded an arm around hers. “I’m not.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Malachi muttered.
“I’m angry,” her best friend snapped. “I’m pissed the hell off, and I’m ready to do whatever is necessary to get him back. I’m not looking for a fight with angels, per se. I’m sure we can, I don’t know, find a loophole. Get in. Get Severus. Get out. Quick and easy. No one gets hurt…”
She sounded less sure of herself the longer she talked, and Ella shot her a sympathetic smile when their eyes met. Maybe the others didn’t realize it, but she knew Moira wasn’t looking for trouble. She wasn’t interested in some revenge-murder sequence where they all busted into the angel-security HQ, guns blazing, with the goal to take down every motherfucker in there. That wasn’t Moira. It never had been, and it never would be.
Still, losing Severus had devastated her. Ella had witnessed it firsthand. After they got her out of the hospital, she’d been a wreck. Tears. Rage. Guilt. Self-blame. It was like Lara Aurelia dying all over again, only this time Moira didn’t fold in on herself—she wanted to take a stand.
She wanted to do something.
Ella couldn’t blame her for that. However, she couldn’t blame Alaric and Malachi for reading her wrong, for shooting her down, either. She still didn’t know enough about this world to make a call either way, but she was on her bestie’s side here: they needed to do something.
“If you acquire the building plans, I can find an exact location within the structure,” Cordelia interjected as she floated back to the counter, sidling right up to Alaric. She practically purred like a cat in a sunbeam as she nuzzled under his chin, and the hybrid sat stock-still on his barstool, gaze slightly panicked, until he finally, barely, relaxed against her.
“Severus and I tried to get the building plans months ago,” Moira said with a heavy sigh. “The city doesn’t have them. They’re inside the building itself, and we got caught before Severus could drug the receptionist into telling us. I don’t think we’re going to get them.”
“Seems unlikely that they would leave something so valuable in the hands of human officials,” Malachi mused, fiddling with the curled corner of the map.
“And the building is secured by new wards, stronger wards than the ones that were there before,” the witch piped up, her voice back to its jazz-singer raspiness. She played with Alaric’s shirt buttons, her gaze unfocused as she stared down at Farrow’s Hollow. “You cannot see them unless you possess the sight—”
“Magic,” Malachi clarified when Ella’s brow furrowed. She forced herself not to look at him—because she didn’t want to make this about her and him. Again. He had a knack for roping her in for a verbal sparring every chance he could, and Moira needed her focused.
“I could possibly disarm the wards, but in the meantime, they will keep all of us out,” Cordelia continued, and a chill raced down Ella’s spine when the witch’s stare snapped to her. “Well, all save you, human.”
“Oh. Well. Lucky me.” She swallowed hard, shifting about uncomfortably as all eyes landed on her. Adrenaline surged at the thought of going in there—of doing something useful. Adrenaline and fear. Not exactly a great combination.
“No, we’ll find another way in,” Moira said swiftly with a shake of her head. The conversation dimmed at the sound of multiple drivers laying on their car horns outside. Well after 11 PM, the evening rush hour had long since finished, and she spotted two assholes race by the front windows, way over the speed limit. Moira cleared her throat, then unthreaded her arm from Ella’s. “Anyway. Focus, guys. Severus has been in there for three days. He found me in three days. He can’t… I can’t let him…”
She looked up helplessly, eyes dancing from person to person. Ella’s instinct was to comfort her, to tell her everything was going to be okay—but she couldn’t get the words out. How would she even know if they were true? All this was way above her pay grade.
“Come on, we can do this.” Moira clapped her hands together, seeming momentarily energized as she darted around to the end of the counter, her hands pressed flat to the slightly crinkled map. “Let’s just put our heads together. No idea is a bad idea. I’m sure we can hash this out. I’m sure if we just…”
“If we just, what?” Malachi asked. The demon stood, his barstool’s legs whooshing across the dark hardwood. “We just break into the most fortified building in town, a building run by angels? Yes, sounds perfect. Where do I sign up?”
“Malachi.” Alaric shot him a look, his breath catching a little when Cordelia’s hand slipped into the top of his shirt. Ella’s eyes widened, unable to look away from the strange pair, before she shook her head and turned to Moira.
“Moira, hun, maybe—”
“I need ideas, guys,” Moira said, speaking over her, eyes watering. “We need to talk strategy. We need to do something.”
“Like what?” Malachi demanded. “You want ideas? Offer some.”
“I’m trying!”
“Vague nonsense that has no hope of succeeding isn’t trying—”
“I can’t…” Moira held up her hands in surrender, tears slicing down her cheeks when she blinked. A chill skittered across Ella’s skin, and she glanced down at her arms, frowning when she found them riddled with goosebumps.
Oh. Right. The room got colder when Moira cried—somehow.
She took a deep breath, on the verge of pulling her best friend into a hug, but Moira was already gone, wiping at her face as she took the stairs two at a time. This wasn’t her. Moira didn’t back away from a fight. She didn’t turn tail and run midway through it. Severus, however, seemed pretty good at that. Of the two fights Ella had witnessed, he had stormed off dramatically for both. Maybe he had started to rub off on her. Exhaling softly, Ella leaned against the counter, scratching at her extra-voluminous mound of hair—fucking humidity.
Fucking everything.
Supernatural world, the hierarchy within it, Severus’s illegal capture—all of it.
Fuck all of it for what it was doing to her best friend, for what it had done to her for the last two years. This hadn’t started with Severus. This had started with Moira, with her dad bestowing an angelic side upon her and then bailing without so much as a whiff of advice about how to manage the aftermath.
“I could go in, you know,” she blurted. With a gulp, she faced the group again and shrugged. “I could. Just to look around, maybe? Tell them some demon is hassling me”—she looked pointedly at a scowling Malachi—“and see if they give me a tour. It’s something, at least.”
“No,” the chaos demon growled, shaking his head. “That isn’t an option.”
“Well, it kind of seems like the only one we have—”
“Not an option.” He strode away from the breakfast counter, pausing at the side of the staircase to peer up through the railing’s metal bars. “No chance that I’d let you go in there alone.”
Ella’s cheeks warmed, the burn sharpening when she found both Alaric and Cordelia studying her—as if waiting for her reaction. For her freak-out. Malachi had this incredibly frustrating ability to pluck at her temper, to toy with her emotions, without uttering more than a few choice words.
Why—she had no idea. Maybe it was because he was gorgeous and an asshole. Gorgeous people had a tendency to think they could get away with being assholes just because they were gorgeous, like no one would dare call them on their shit.
Well. This gorgeous asshole hadn’t met the likes of Ella Thomas before—that much was clear.
“Right.” She did her best to keep her voice steady, forcing away the glare that threatened to surface when he glanced back at her. “I guess it’s a good thing you don’t decide what I can and cannot do, huh? I don’t remember crowning you king of my life.”
Ella crossed her arms as Malachi exhaled, the sound rife with annoyance, and pressed his palms into his eyes.
“You women are going to be the death of
me.”
“Good.”
Cordelia snorted, openly looking between the pair now like she was watching a world-class tennis match.
“Look, I will figure it out,” Malachi snarled, then pointed upstairs, “and I will sort that out too.”
“Don’t refer to her as that—”
“Just…stay here.” With a blink, Malachi’s demon eyes vanished, and his bright, icy blues landed squarely on Alaric. “And don’t let this one anywhere near Seraphim Securities while I’m gone.”
Ella’s jaw dropped, her heart beating just a little bit harder as the chaos demon glowered at her for a moment, then stormed up the stairs.
“Honestly, all these humans and half-humans so bloody eager to throw themselves at death like it’s nothing. This is a fucking nightmare,” she heard him grumble between heavy footfalls. Ella tracked his steps across the second floor, sighing when he carried on stomping up to the third. She then looked at Alaric and Cordelia, who were back to pretending like they hadn’t been gawking.
“I don’t have a death wish,” she said firmly, balling her hands into fists when she realized they were trembling. “I just want to help.”
“I know,” Alaric told her, his smile gentle. “Really. I get it.”
“Mal’s worried about his brother,” Cordelia insisted, straightening up and pulling away from Alaric—but only so she could start playing with his hair, trying to figure out a better way to part it, apparently. “Haven’t you heard? My dear cousin wants to reconnect with Severus, but this puts a little kink in his plan to make up for the last, oh, centuries of youthful torment.” The witch glanced at Ella. “I can assure you, his temper has nothing to do with you, though you do rile him up.”
The witch’s shrill little giggle had her blushing again. Annoyed, embarrassed, rattled, Ella made a beeline for the liquor cabinet. “I need a drink.”
“Double for me, please,” Alaric called, his cheeks pinker than hers—and his arm wrapped around Cordelia’s waist.
Honestly, when had Earth women gotten so damn mouthy?
The last time he had been topside, much of the western world had still segregated their after-dinner gatherings by gender. Malachi hadn’t experienced this level of sass ever during any of his trips to Earth; Ella and Moira could give demon women a run for their money, and that was saying something.
As frustrated as they made him, as annoyed as he was that he couldn’t just silence either of them with a look, Malachi had quickly come to the conclusion that he preferred it this way. Gone were the days of cowering, mewling, weak-willed women—and good riddance. This particular social dynamic made his interactions far more interesting.
Actually, Severus had made it all rather interesting for him, going and getting himself kidnapped by angels. Honestly. Everyone had been so concerned about Moira’s comings and goings that they hadn’t once stopped to consider if the rest of the gang was in peril too. While Malachi didn’t agree with the way Moira had gone about it, separating from Severus, putting herself in another safe house of some sort, hadn’t been a terrible idea—in theory. The angels had proven her concerns valid no more than a half hour after she voiced them.
Winged bastards. If the women here weren’t riling up his temper, it was the damn angels.
He took the stairs three at a time, his long legs scaling the two sets with ease. Much to his surprise, the door to Moira and Ella’s room was still open, not an angel hybrid in sight. At the sound of footsteps padding across the hardwood upstairs, he glanced up and exhaled sharply.
Trust Severus to find a dramatic woman.
No. That wasn’t fair. She wasn’t dramatic. A bit petulant. Short-tempered, maybe, but most were when it came to the safety of their paramours. Malachi had accompanied his brother topside with the purest of intentions, no matter what the little shit thought of him. He had wanted to mend their relationship. He had wanted to help keep Moira safe from the angels.
Malachi had just assumed Severus would be the one taking point on everything. He had hoped to just go along for the ride, all the while discovering the brother he had always had—but hadn’t always appreciated. This wasn’t what he’d wanted, even if he did welcome the touch of bedlam.
He just hadn’t done this before—sacrificing his own time, temper, and patience for the good of the group. He was the eldest demon present. It was only natural that, in Severus’s absence, he be the one to take charge and find a solution.
So, if these damn women could just wait three fucking seconds, maybe he could actually do it.
It didn’t help matters that his inner demon was keening to get out and do some damage. Severus must have felt the inner lust demon strongly here, surrounded by scantily clad, sharp-tongued, curly-haired beauties. Ella Thomas. How his brother managed to get any work done with those thighs on display was beyond him. Mercifully, Malachi wasn’t ruled by lust.
He was ruled by chaos.
Carnage. Destruction. Spilled blood and wretched screams. Whenever he had visited Earth in the past, he’d had a hand in at least one episode of mass hysteria—a fight, a battle, a skirmish, whatever, involving at least a hundred humans. Nowadays, he had heard stories of concert halls and stadiums filled with thousands of humans—and the chaos demon inside got hard at the mere thought of what he could do.
Ugh. Malachi had wanted a taste of that, too. Cause a little calamity. Flip off some angels. Bed a mouthy woman. And reconnect with Sev—which would seriously piss the rest of their family right off, but Malachi had stopped giving a fuck about what they thought the moment they’d butchered his beloved mother.
His wants were small. Calamity. Revenge. Sex. Brotherhood.
Yet here he was, climbing to the tip-top of Alaric Crowley’s secret little hidey-hole to comfort a distressed hybrid. Malachi was meant for more than this. He was meant to be the puppet master, pulling the strings of savagery and destruction. He was meant to be knee-deep in blood, spurring men to battle and women to shrieking frenzied—
But he had given his word, to his brother no less. He had promised to be of use. With his own chaotic mother dead, the woman he loved most in both worlds, and his father, whom with time Malachi had realized was nothing more than a simpering, painfully ordinary bore, he needed to strengthen the familial bonds.
Demon social dynamics, for all their complexities, relied first and foremost on the strength of the clan. The Saevitia clan had sat amongst the top-tier families for over a thousand years—yet their foundations had started to crumble after his parents finally turned on each other.
With his uncle, a demon just as pathetic as his deceased father, running things now, Malachi saw the opportunity for growth again—and he would do it with the brother he had never truly had. The brother who had grown into the demon he was always meant to be these last few centuries. Confident. Capable. Cool and collected in a crisis.
Now, if only he could keep his brother’s woman from doing something stupid—like getting herself captured as well.
Without breaking stride, he threw open his brother’s bedroom door. Moira let out a surprised squeak, cradling the thick blankets of Severus’s bed to her as she sat cross-legged at its head. Still gripping the doorknob, he stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowing when hers did, and then slowly closed the door behind him. They glowered at one another for a moment longer before Malachi let out a long, overly dramatic sigh.
“Moira,” he said, arms crossed over his chest, head tipped to one side, “do you really think that I do not wish to find my brother? Do you think I want him to suffer at the hands of angels a second longer than he already has? Really?”
She shrugged and wiped at her nose. “I don’t know you well enough to say.”
“Well, I don’t.” It had only just occurred to him that this was the first time he had been inside his brother’s bedroom since he’d arrived. Thus far, he had claimed the rather large sofa on Alaric’s floor for his own, and no one had offered otherwise. Slowly, he strolled in, gaze wandering the d
ark stonework on the walls, the sprawling bed. Not a scrap of décor anywhere, but that didn’t surprise him; Malachi used to break anything Severus treasured when they were children.
His stomach turned at the thought, and he scowled. Guilt. A chaos demon didn’t do guilt. Yet here it was, plaguing him, as it had for his century of solitude in Hell. It was a wonder he hadn’t gone insane—or offed himself. “Of course I want to bring my brother back. To suggest otherwise is just… Well, Moira, it’s cruel.”
She shot him a skeptical look. Fine. Perhaps it wasn’t cruel, but he had hoped to slough off some of his guilt onto someone else.
“Okay, fine. I’m sorry,” she muttered, fiddling with the blanket, her eyes red and cheeks glinting in the dim light emanating from all four corners of the drab room. “I’m just frustrated. And angry. And upset and stressed out and scared… I’m scared for him.”
“Yes, well,” Malachi sighed deeply again, the inner demon scratching up his esophagus with boredom, “try to keep a level head about it. Dramatic walkouts aren’t doing us any good.”
“I don’t know why I did that.” She brushed a finger under her eyes, then shook her head and sniffled. “Maybe I didn’t want you to see me cry.”
He lifted a golden eyebrow. “It’s a little late for that, I’m afraid.”
Malachi had already seen Moira bawling on more than one occasion in Hell, her angelic half chilling the air around her to the point that he’d actually shivered.
“I’m trying to do less of that,” she admitted, shyly meeting his gaze for a moment before busying herself with the blankets again. “Crying. It doesn’t accomplish anything. It doesn’t even make me feel better anymore. I’m not normally…so emotional.”
He hummed in acknowledge, but not agreement. After all, Malachi didn’t know Moira—beyond the fact that she was loyal. She had stood by him as Diriel’s pack of rabid hellhounds tried to tear him apart, all because he was Severus’s brother. She had risked her own life to save his. Perhaps that was another reason he’d stayed now, why he had offered to help before: he owed Moira Aurelia his life.
