The World Before: MM Romance

by Primrose, Ella

  The World Before

  MM Romance

  Ella Primrose

  Contents

  The World Before

  A Vampire’s Love Story : Free Book

  1. Brath

  2. Brath

  3. Mathieu

  4. Brath

  5. Mathieu

  6. Brath

  7. Mathieu

  8. Brath

  9. Mathieu

  10. Brath

  11. Mathieu

  12. Brath

  13. Brath

  14. Mathieu

  15. Mathieu

  16. Brath

  17. Mathieu

  18. Mathieu

  19. Brath

  20. Mathieu

  A Vampire’s Love Story : Free Book

  About the Author

  The World Before

  Ella Primrose

  For all the centuries of his life Brath has hated God’s favorite creation: humans. Tired of wandering the earth after being cast down from heaven, he has begun to formulate a plan for vengeance. Little does he know, there is a soul about to wander into his life who will forever change his plans.

  Mathieu meets the mysterious man who runs the corner coffee shop; intriguing, and a great storyteller, Brath appears angry at the world. Unbeknownst to Mathieu, Brath has an immortal secret that will put him in harm’s way, when Brath—the Angel of Death—puts his plan into motion.

  For the fallen ones.

  1

  Brath

  Brath doesn’t like coffee. He thinks it tastes utterly vile, awful and disgusting in every bad meaning of the word. It’s bitter and leaves an unpleasant scent on people’s breath, and if God had wanted an easy way to punish Lucifer for rebelling against Him, He should’ve just made him drink it.

  It might have been more convenient than throwing him into the abyss and locking him up. Perhaps their Father should’ve made Brath drink it after disobeying Him, and he would’ve thought twice before going against His will again. Because now Brath is stuck here, and apparently, people do actually like coffee.

  They worship it.

  Brath doesn’t care about people, he doesn’t care what they like or dislike, and he honestly doesn’t give a bloody damn how they drink their stupid coffee. And he can’t make coffee anyway—because he’s overqualified.

  See, Brath hasn’t always been face to face with humanity in such a friendly and domestic setting, surrounded by mugs and pots and mismatched chairs; by steaming machines and foaming milk and nostalgic photography adorning pastel painted walls. He hasn’t always had to listen to their uninspiring, dull voices monotonously rambling down orders.

  Brath used to hear their screams, sweet and melodic and ever changing. He used to wield a fiery sword against them, burn them alive and soak up pain and despair seeping from their eyes. He used to punish the wicked, make them suffer for straying off the righteous path until he had strayed from the path. Brath refuses to say, ‘righteous’, in his case because it wasn’t. It wasn’t. He was born out of his Father’s anger, forged by desperation and hate and scorn. His sole purpose had been vengeance, and he’d fulfilled it splendidly until—

  Well, Brath doesn’t know what happened then. He just knows that everything had been taken from him and he’d lost all his meaning, and all he’d felt had been hate, which is only logical because that’s what he was and still is made of. In retrospect, Brath can almost laugh about it because it’s just so damn ironic that he got punished for being what he is. He can almost laugh, but it still makes him angry.

  Whether he’d gone a little overboard in his anger back then isn’t something Brath ever thinks about.

  So yes, considering who Brath was and still is—he knows he’s overqualified.

  Brath looks at the cup in his hand for a moment. Then he drops it. It breaks on the floor, bursts into pieces, sharp and glistening edges and liquid sloshing like dried blood, and Brath waits in vain to feel anything but cold and indifferent.

  * * *

  Brath could leave easily. He’s spent years in almost every place imaginable, and he’s taken on different forms, different names; there’s a lot of time to be wasted in a couple of centuries. On a whim, following some calls, his instinct maybe, he’d gone to the Catalan coast.

  Perhaps Perry lured him there accidentally, and perhaps he’d meant for Brath to come closer to his vicinity; maybe the trickster had become the tricked, Brath thinks, although he does doubt that. Not that he thinks Perry is stupid. Just naïve—as most cherubs are.

  Anyway. Barcelona is as good a place as any. And Brath finds as many reasons to leave as to stay which reflects the fact that he isn’t bothered. It is likely that this place has piqued his curiosity for now, and it is entertaining enough, so he shrugs off any need to keep moving, any itch that urges him to set foot onto another continent.

  Brath just isn’t overly fond of this coffee shop Keith and Gareth have picked out as a cover. They don’t even need a cover. There is no need for money, food or sleep, but Brath has stopped trying to understand those two, and he’s ceased trying to prevent them from following him, from hanging onto his coattails. He guesses they most likely stick with him because Brath could save their skin and Brath knows he could dispose of them easily enough if they turn out to be a burden.

  “You know,” Keith tells him from his position behind the espresso machine, looking quizzically at an array of blinking buttons. “You can’t just sit here and do nothing. At least, you know, help out. People will think you’re weird.”

  “Coffee is weird,” Brath says. “Coffee sucks.” Because it really does. Brath is no expert, but whatever it is Keith is doing can’t be good. It’s a miracle that there are still customers pouring in.

  A hand lands cold and heavy on his shoulder. “Hey, no hate man.”

  Brath turns on his stool and raises his eyebrows at Gareth. The final part of their literal trio infernale is wearing an apron and is covered in flour from head to toe. His attempts at baking are leaving Brath even more unsettled than Keith’s experiments with the espresso machine. It would be easier for all of them to just wake up that poor old sod in the storage chamber and possess him, make him do the work.

  “Don’t touch me with that,” Brath says and points at Gareth’s chocolate fingers that have now left a dark stain on Brath’s shirt. And damn, it was his favorite.

  But Gareth just shrugs and has the audacity to pat his cheek with the same filthy fingers and retreats into the kitchen with a smile. Brath frowns at his reflection blinking back at him from the shiny chrome machines and irritably wipes the sticky chocolate off his skin. The steam blowing up in Keith’s face might as well be coming out of his ears. It’s not his bloody fault that he gets annoyed easily. He was constructed to have a short fuse or no fuse at all.

  Brath scowls, grabs one of the tea towels behind the counter and throws a glance around the small room. Two people are standing in a queue, patiently waiting for Keith to get their order right because Keith is smiling at them like there’s no tomorrow and they’re charmed by him like fools.

  There are three more people present; an elderly lady nursing a cup of herbal tea that smells so strong Brath feels his heightened senses squirm, and a young couple sharing a hot chocolate and a monstrous piece of Gareth’s hundredth take on the traditional chocolate brownie. Brath shakes his head at them because it is painfully obvious that her boyfriend has been cheating for approximately three weeks and at the same time she’s already set her sights on some guy she met a few days ago.

  Humans are just pathetic. Brath can’t understand how his Father even bothers with them.

  * * *

  They always speak of light. Light at the moment of crea
tion, in the presence of their Father, surrounded by the other angels, in the minute of conception and the second of death.

  In the moment of his birth, Brath had only felt darkness.

  2

  Brath

  More often than not, Brath leaves Keith and Gareth to fend for their selves and exits the coffee shop. Then he walks through the streets, listens to people’s conversations to drown out his thoughts. Sometimes he sits down and watches them, observes as their miserable lives unfold. Sometimes he toys with the idea of ending them all just because he can.

  “You look like you’re ready to slice a few throats,” a voice mutters into his ears.

  Brath doesn’t need to turn to know it is Perry, once again dropping by from up there and Brath wishes he hadn’t shown him how to travel between the different worlds. He’s made a habit of dropping in on Brath at random moments, and it’s a painful reminder that he doesn’t have that freedom anymore.

  “Don’t you have work to do?” he asks, pointedly ignoring Perry’s jab. “You really are an awful cherub.”

  Perry shrugs. “Kind of a mess up there, still. Thanks to us. I’m trying to get away from Elon glaring daggers at me. Although you’re not exactly cheerful company either.”

  “I’m bored,” Brath says. “I know Aleksander is watching me, so I can’t do anything. Is it too much to ask if I just want to break someone’s neck from time to time?”

  “Probably,” Perry retorts. “Maybe you should try anger management classes. I hear they do wonders for your mental balance.”

  Brath very much doubts that would work.

  * * *

  Souls are a peculiar thing. They have different colors, contain a different level of brightness, but most of all, they have a very distinct smell. Brath had a lot of free time to categorize them.

  The archangels are deep, profound, a hint of spice, so it’s just on the right side of sharp. The cherubs are sweet and light, like candy floss with a drop of honey while the seraphim smell of bitter freshness, clean and imposing. The Lost Ones in the abyss always carry a trace of smoke and ash with them, and Brath guesses that it is probably attached to him too nowadays. After all, his soul is tarnished and broken and burnt.

  Human souls are as dull as their exterior. They’re bland and boring like a still puddle of water. Though some—it is rare—for reasons unknown, have a sweet smell…like cinnamon.

  Keith nudges him with his elbow, pulling him out of his trance, and holds a steaming cup up to his nose. The smell makes Brath want to hurl.

  “I think I’m getting better,” Keith says proudly with a wide smile and Brath thinks absentmindedly that he almost misses Keith’s fangs; they had added a whole new edge to his toothy grin. “Try it.”

  Brath shakes his head adamantly. “Never. Get that out of my face.”

  Keith pulls away with a sickeningly hurt expression, but Brath doesn’t have the energy to be annoyed with him anymore. It’s exhausting to be confronted with the same old trot every day. Before Keith can say anything, there’s a loud clank from the kitchen and Gareth pokes his head around the doorframe.

  “You should have some chocolate,” he comments. “They say it makes people happy. You could do with some happy right now.”

  “You know what would make me happy?” Brath asks, but Gareth shakes his head instantly.

  “Don’t tell me. I’m sure it involves a lot of blood.”

  Then he disappears back into the kitchen. Brath is about to call after him that he’s a real sorry excuse of a demon when Keith pokes him and nods his head towards the entrance.

  “Look,” he says with a sly grin. “Here comes your new favorite.”

  And there he is. Wearing a black coat and scarf, a few feeble snowflakes caught in his dark hair, he shuts the door and walks straight up to the counter. Brath doesn’t need to listen to know he’s ordering a simple black coffee (if he actually prefers it that way or if he’s figured out that’s the only order Keith ever gets right at first try) with enough room for a drop of milk. Then he will take his cup over to the counter, add skimmed milk, never full fat, sometimes soy, and for some reason, Brath has yet to understand, two spoons of brown sugar.

  Brath’s eyes stay glued to his narrow back the entire time he fights with the lid of his paper cup and their gazes meet when he leaves again. He nods his head briefly, and there’s a flicker of unknown recognition in his dark orbs before he exits and disappears around the corner.

  When Brath finally tears himself away from staring at the shop front, he finds Keith looking at him.

  “What?”

  “You should talk to him.”

  “Aleksander wouldn’t be happy if I did. He was pissed off enough last time I got involved with Human affairs.”

  “Since when did that ever stop you?”

  And Brath assumes Keith’s right about that.

  * * *

  It’s an unusually cold and hideous day out when, instead of leaving with his order, he finds an armchair in the furthest corner of the room, peels out of his coat and opens a laptop on the table in front of him. He starts typing away like a madman and gets two refills in forty minutes before Brath decides he doesn’t care what Aleksander makes of this. He can’t sink any lower anyway.

  So he walks up to the table and sits down, holds out his hand because apparently, that’s what people do for whatever reason when they greet each other. Eyebrows rise high on the mortal’s—Brath has to admit—strikingly handsome face.

  “I’m Brath,” he says and watches with more fascination than he’d be ready to confess to how nimble his fingers hesitantly reach in what turns out to be an awkward handshake.

  He gives him a skeptical look, doesn’t reply, but scrunches up his forehead.

  “You’re Morgan, right? Mathieu Morgan,” Brath continues before that can infinitely freak out Mathieu, he adds, “We write your name on our cups, a lot.”

  Surprised, Mathieu smiles at that. “Of course. I hadn’t—“ He shakes his head, “Nevermind. Do you own this place?”

  Brath guesses it would seem so to outsiders, so he says, “kind of,” and shrugs.

  Mathieu leans forward slightly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think your barista needs some training,” and he vaguely nods in Keith’s direction. “If I weren’t addicted to coffee, I doubt I’d drink this.” He points at his half-empty cup with a lopsided smile. “Had he ever made coffee before you employed him?”

  Brath mirrors Mathieu’s movement, places his elbows on the table in front of him and their gazes lock. “Do you want me to tell you the truth, or do you want me to tell you a story?” He asks with a lowered voice. “And the story might be true, but it’s up to you to decide.”

  Mathieu’s eyes flicker between Brath’s and his lips. “I guess I’ll have to go for the story.”

  “If I told you I was Lucifer’s brother, would you believe me?” He tilts his head slightly, observes every little reaction through narrowed eyes. “What would you say if I told you that God threw me into the depths of Hell and I raised myself and dragged Keith out of there with me?”

  Mathieu hesitates only for a moment. “Well, I’d say that it would at least explain the horrendous coffee.”

  Brath blinks. Then he has to laugh, he can only imagine Keith’s face at that (because of course, he’s eavesdropping, Brath would be disappointed if he wasn’t) and slides back on his armchair, drawing his left leg in and brushing a stray strand of hair out of his eye. He is well aware of Mathieu watching his every movement. Brath has done this for centuries. Suppressing another laugh, he smirks. Humans are just so predictable.

  “Then I guess I’d reply that a demon probably doesn’t know shit about coffee.”

  The corners of Mathieu’s mouth keep twitching in amusement. If only he knew, Brath thinks.

  “And I’d ask: is it a good idea for a demon to make coffee then?”

  “Then you’d have to believe me if I told you he is even worse at being a demon than at mak
ing coffee,” Brath quips.

  “I doubt that’s possible,” Mathieu says with a full-grown grin that draws lines around his dark eyes. Brath wonders how they’d feel beneath his fingertips, long fascinated with the phenomenon of touch, of nerve endings and sensation and that almost electric spark that elicits upon contact.

  “Oh, Mathieu,” he drawls and enjoys how the name rolls off his tongue. “You have no idea.”

  Brath takes a deep breath. And he realizes that Mathieu’s soul smells so intoxicating he can almost taste it, it has that sweet scent of cinnamon...

  3

  Mathieu

  Mathieu drinks far too much coffee these days. He’s always had a rather strong affinity towards caffeine-containing beverages ever since he’d discovered their blissful effects as a teenager. But now his consummation of said beverages borders on unhealthy. Surprisingly though, it’s not his fault. He’s on track with work, his latest book being in the final stages of the editing process and so far, he’s still keeping to his New Year’s resolutions; quit smoking, start exercising, and no alcohol for one month to cleanse his system and let his liver recover.

  But he just can’t sleep.

  The thing is, it’s all Jakob’s fault. He is perfect in so many ways, and a million good traits exist in him without having a single bad bone in his body. Of course, Jakob has a temper, but only because he is so passionate because he cares so much. Now, you are probably suspecting that Mathieu’s had many sleepless nights on account of being in love with his best friend. And if this were a world where Mathieu wouldn’t consider himself damaged goods, where he wouldn’t think of Jakob as being perfect and thus too great for him—that might as well be the case.