by V L Moon
Copi knew without doubt it was a male, and probably the biggest motherfucker he had ever seen. He could even see the muscles in his arms rippling as the menacing stranger moved toward them. The perp had grasped the female buried in Copi’s loins and hauled her up to face him in one easy sweep of his hand. Frozen, half in fear and half in awe, Copi remembered fighting the heavy sleep sensation that had seemed to sweep over him. His eyes had felt lead weighted as he started to slip down the wall.
His face, stupid. You didn’t look at his face. Mentally, Copi admonished himself. He’d pushed every ounce of energy he had into the fight to stay awake.
The gurgling scream of the waitress would stay with Copi forever. His eyes snapped open as the remembered blood curdling cries for help echoed in his memory banks. He’d watched transfixed, in absolute horror, as the bastard bared its fangs, and then sank them into the blonde’s throat. It drank...oh shit, it drank! Copi saw the blood as it ran down her throat to stain the fabric of her low cut top. Her screams of terror had abated, to be replaced by the soft moans of pleasure as he pulled from her vein.
Copi’s instinct to get the fuck out of there had battled with the cop in him. The cop had won. Surging forward in a stupid show of heroics, he’d lunged for the female and pulled her limp body free of the male’s grip. He’d dragged her to the alley floor beside him before taking a second lunge at the male as he retreated into the shadows. A roar of vengeance ripped from Copi’s throat as he ran toward him. The mountainous form turned and glared at Copi, but adrenaline had replaced his fear. As Copi looked up to meet the stranger’s snarling face, all he met with was a dark empty alleyway and a fine mist that enveloped him as he stood in total shock at the male’s sudden disappearing act.
A slam of fists hard against his desk made Copi wince. He didn’t feel the sting of angry tears as they slipped down his cheeks. All he felt was shame as he remembered the peculiar looks from friends he’d known all of his cop life, the laughs behind his back, or worse, the sad sympathetic looks. Like some blithering whack job, Copi had tried to report what he’d seen, but the female couldn’t remember a thing other than the fact she’d apparently had the best sex of her life.
Copi was left in his corner to fight alone. His shame was his own. With no proof as to what the hell had gone down, his superiors had hauled his ass off the streets he’d loved so much and stuck him at a desk where he suffered the recurring nightmare of the night he seemed to have lost his fucking mind.
Unable to face the rest of the day, Copi rubbed his hand over the two day old stubble on his face and groaned loudly as he rose from his desk. He’d had enough of office drudgery. There was a handsome tanned male waiting for him at home, one that didn’t disappear into the night, or get him stared at or called names. No, this male was called J.D, and Copi was going to make sure J.D did the job he was paid to do and get him totally off his face drunk. Thumbing his jacket over his shoulder, Copi opened the door to leave and came face to face with a ghost from his past, retired Chief, and very old friend, Jack Connelly.
Stepping aside as Jack entered his office, Copi inspected every aspect of the retired cop’s worn but familiar face. The years of long hours coupled with a bad nicotine habit and enough whiskey to sink a schooner should have taken their toll, but Jack still looked as fresh faced as a daisy and just as damned arrogant as he ever was. When Jack strode passed him, Copi admired the confidence exhibited in the older man’s stride. He looked every inch the powerhouse he’d always been.
With shoulders wide enough to fill the door frame, Jack was broad, rigid in stature and held his head high with that same dignified ‘don't fuck with me attitude’ that had earned the old coot a shitload of respect from every cop in the precinct. Such was Jack Connelly’s persona that Copi stifled a laugh when the cheeky son of a bitch had the balls to walk to the front of Copi’s desk, take his chair, and then as good as order him to take a seat, which of course Copi took without any hesitation.
If Copi had ever been lucky enough to be gifted with hindsight that moment would have been when he turned on his heels and chose to run. Too bad, hindsight never worked. Instead, he waited, stomach churning with eager expectation as Jack sat forward, his arms folded onto the small wooden desk to support himself. He might have been retired, but that hadn’t stopped the old fucker from keeping himself in shape, regardless of his forty a day habit and his predilection for fine malt. His old friend looked good. For his age.
Copi knew Jack well. The retired Chief wasn’t one for beating around the bush. His old friend looked tight around the eyes, worried almost. With the heat in his poke hole of an office suffocating him right along with the tension in the air, Copi waited impatiently for Jack to spill the beans on why he was there.
In the musty heat of the file filled office Copi leaned in, mimicking Jack’s stance with his own by placing his elbows on either side of his heavily muscled thighs. He focused intently on Jack. When he spoke, his thick gravelly voice mixed with the broad Irish accent Jack always carried when deadly serious. It meant Copi had to pay attention to what the Chief was saying, most of which didn’t sound good.
“We’re transferring you to Alaska.”
Copi sat back stunned, but Jack continued, “Copi, my lad, let this be a fresh start for ya, aye. It’s been a God awful year for ya, boyo. See this as a chance to spread ya wings. Who knows, fuck, ya might even get a feel for things up there and like it.”
“Alaska? Shit!” Copi couldn’t believe his God damned ears. Had this come from the top brass? Was this their way of clearing up the problem that he’d become to his department? Or, was the offer his old friend was making genuine, one brought to him just at the right time for him to use as an out after years of devoted service to a force that now sold him out?
Leaning back in his chair, Copi studied Jack’s face in open disbelief. There was no way Jack would bust his balls like this, or those of any other cop’s, especially when he knew they were spiraling into one hell of a shit storm. So with clearer focus, Copi listened intently to everything Jack seemed to be offering him.
“A close friend of mine, Special Agent and Alaskan State Trooper, Ted Lambert, is heading up a multi...department case involving the state troopers, the Anchorage PD and a small team of Alaskan wildlife troopers. They’re based in Anchorage. He’s having some real crazy goings on up there, and they’re starting to become uncontainable issues. He needs someone up there with a few good years under their belt to provide fresh eyes and assist in the investigations. It’s a permanent position. Ya understand what I’m saying Copi, me boy?”
Copi thought he was either in shock or just hadn’t heard Jack right. He felt like someone had just knocked him out with a sucker punch at the end of the first freaking round. The words permanent transfer and complete relocation hung in the air as he sat mouth gaping like a complete dumb ass. Only Jack’s deep barrel...chested laugh broke the silence between them.
He’d known Jack for years. The wily old coot must have known his life was for shit at the moment, and that Copi was more than qualified to help out up north. New start, new beginnings ran through his head. Shit, he wanted to be rid of the last month of his life so much, and this was it. This was just the call he needed. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaned back in and grasped his buddy's massive hand in his own, grinning like a prize fool as he gave Jack his answer.
“I'm in.”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
CHAPTER ELEVEN
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
VATICAN CITY, ROME
Alone in his office, Malachi surveyed the broken desktop monitor resting on the floor at his feet. Ms. Stroner had sent one of the guards to the storeroom for a replacement, but until then, the laptop on his desk whirred smoothly. The images precipitating the destruction of the desktop flashed through his mind. So far, he'd been unable to force himself to re...open his email. His stomach churned. Mendeeto dead, his son dead, an enclave decimated. And, as a result, Darklon's son placed on his Elder Council.
A snarl vibrated in his chest. Arial would be in soon to report initial findings, but Malachi knew what to expect. Nephilim sent to destroy an entire faction, their orders and their guidance coming from a vampire sworn to protect the race. A fucking vampire who petitioned and argued that Malachi must procreate. Why would he bring new life into such a maelstrom of violence? Impatiently, he stabbed at the keys, bringing the computer to life. Hatred failed to adequately describe how much he despised the male, welcoming his son into his inner circle just might stretch the bounds of Malachi's self...control. Yet, Laziel intimated Roman Di Sangue was not who he appeared to be.
His intercom buzzed. “Sire, you have visitors.” The disgust in her voice hinted at who waited outside. He reached out with his mind and met the stone wall that protected Darklon's inner secrets. Next to him, another lurked. Malachi gathered the impression of youth, but little else. Roman? If so, the strength of his mind was astounding in a vampire so young. Something familiar brushed at his subconscious, but he couldn’t quite grasp it.
He depressed the link on his phone. “Do they have an appointment, Ms. Stroner?”
“No, Sire.”
“Please ask them to have a seat. I'll work them in as I can.” Darklon's fury at being dismissed leeched through the door. Such a simple pleasure, irritating the Elder, but Malachi received so few in this Godforsaken destiny allotted him. Taking a seat, he debated how to handle the two males outside his office. When his email appeared on the screen, inspiration came with it. A few clicks and the dual images of Mendeeto and his son appeared side by side.
“Please send in the younger Di Sangue. Alone.”
Darklon interjected before his secretary could respond. “No, I don't trust him alone with my son. We both go.”
Malachi growled loudly, the force of his temper blasting an icy wave through the walls and into Ms. Stroner's office. Before he could voice his irritation, a deep baritone filled his ear. “Father. He is our King. It is his right to request a private audience. I will come to no harm or the other Elders will seek justice on my behalf.”
“Wouldn't do them any good to get their panties in a twist young’un,” Laziel purred. At the sound of his voice, a sharp stab of arousal arrowed straight to Malachi's cock hardening it instantly. “No one lays a hand on Lachi unless they get through me first, and Sweet Cheeks, I'm the wrath of the Creator come to Earth.”
The wide mahogany door swung open and the angel strolled in, jeans slung low on his hips, the straps of the thong of the day neon orange. “Well, are you coming or not, young’un?”
In the process of rising, he turned the laptop so the images would not be visible from the opposite side of his massive desk. He didn't offer a hand to the newest Elder; instead, a slight inclination of his head indicated the chair opposite. Silver eyes glowed with mischief as Laziel sauntered around the desk and dropped into a chair behind Malachi's own.
To his credit, Roman executed a formal bow worthy of any Elder before slipping elegantly into the chair indicated.
“What business have you this morning, Di Sangue?” Tone harsh and eyes harsher, Malachi leaned back in his chair.
“My father thought we should discuss the Crescente di Ordinare Cerimonia.”
A grunt of disgust sounded behind Malachi. His sentiments exactly.
“And what are your thoughts, Roman? Are you so eager to overtake Mendeeto's seat that you cannot afford his widow the time to properly grieve?” Roman paled and anguish slashed through the air. Malachi blinked in surprise. It was there again…a flash, familiarity, but then it was gone just as quickly. He rose to grasp the laptop.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “Lachi, no, he doesn't…”
Malachi shrugged it off and flicked his wrist. An agonized groan ripped from the younger vampire when his eyes fell on the two pictures displayed on the laptop now facing him.
“This is why you have his seat!” Fury laced Malachi's tone, his black eyes drilling into the male seated across from him. “Look at him, Roman. Look at his son. Do you think Carmelishia is ready for your ceremony?” The double doors to his office burst open fueled by Darklon's anger. The Elder's outraged bellow ended in a gurgle.
“I don't think you were invited in yet, Loni Boy.” Laz pinned the vampire to the wall, his forearm a steel bar across the older vampire's throat. Darklon's feet kicked uselessly as he struggled to get free. Lachi never took his eyes from Roman's stricken gaze.
“What happened? I just left there. He was my mentor…and friend…he cannot be dead.” Pain edged the words, but did nothing to soften the vampire King's heart. The young wanted to be an Elder; he needed to see the world was evil, starting with his viperous father.
“Of course he is dead. Did you think he stepped aside so you could take his place? Please tell me you are not that stupid, but then based on genetics maybe you are. As for what happened, that will be one of your first duties as the new South American Elder. You will find out. After. First, you must go and attend our dead.” Malachi's blood thirsty gaze flicked to Darklon. “You will go with an escort I approve, one that will report back to me. Once I've received the report on how you handle the situation, I will determine if there will be a ceremony. I can already tell you, I will not approve your father.”
Darklon's heels drummed against the wall, sparks of temper peppered the air. Daggers of hatred shot from his eyes, but trapped as he was by the angel, he hung helpless. Laziel smirked and cocked a brow.
“Let him down, but keep him over there.”
Casually, Laziel straightened and dropped the Elder on his feet, but before the vampire could move, strong fingers clamped around his neck holding him in place. “Down boy, don't make me force you to sit.”
Roman shot to his feet and found his voice. “There's no need for him to manhandle my father.” He moved to shove between Laziel and the Elder. Malachi's voice stopped him.
“You're new here so I'll give you one warning. The angel is the right hand of the Creator. If you value your existence, heed my words. He can rip you limb from limb with a thought, fry your brain with a breath and if he so chose, castrate you with the brush of a finger. But it isn't him, you should worry about.” Lachi moved from behind the desk and took an aggressive pose between Roman and the celestial. “Why you ask? Because Laziel has something I don't. He has a heart. Lay one hand on what is mine, and you will find that the rumors about me are not rumors but are in fact, truth.”
He felt Laziel's surprise at the claiming before Darklon, but only the two of them knew the true intent behind his words, the other two could only guess.
Roman visibly swallowed, but stood his ground. “I believe our business has concluded. If Laziel will release my father, we will leave you to your daily duties.”
Malachi glanced back over his shoulder. With a shrug and a grimace, Laziel tossed Darklon through the open doors. “Didn't feel like taking the trash out anyway, it's actually Batman's turn.”
Malachi watched the young vampire assist Darklon to his feet and drag him toward Council chambers. Completely closed off, Malachi received no trace of any emotion from the male. Darklon, however, radiated malevolence. The doors closed and Laziel leaned against them, his face a mask.
“You were harsh on him, Lachi.” Malachi transferred his gaze to meet silver orbs.
“Life's harsh. I believe my mentor taught me that when I was maybe four or five.” Laziel shoved away from the wood and closed the distance between them. “You were different, Lachi. You are different. I would not change one thing about your education. It got you here, where you are destined to be.”
“Yet for the young one, you spoke of free will, choices. Am I so abhorrent to your Creator that I am to be a slave to his master plan?” Malachi snapped his mouth shut. He'd revealed too much. He tried to spin away, but Laziel caught his shoulders and turned him back so they stood face to face.
“The Creator loves you as you are. You do not see yourself as he does, nor as I do. You were wron
g just now, telling Roman you do not have a heart.” Laziel raised a hand and rested it against Malachi's left pec. “It's there, though you try to bury it beneath a thick layer of ice. It's why Mendeeto’s death affects you so, and it's why you fight the Nephilim so hard every night. If you would only give it a chance…”
Malachi snatched away and strode to his place behind the desk. “We've discussed this too many times for my liking. I was bred for war, not the delicacies of love.” He dropped in the chair and twisted the laptop back around, hitting the escape key to erase the gut wrenching pictures. “Send for Arial. He is the only one I will trust to go with Roman.” He yelped at the sharp rap of knuckles against his head.
“Last time I checked, I wasn't ya secretary. She's got long legs and a serious case of the hots for the King. You want Arial; you call him, or have her do it.” Popping a Jolly Rancher in his mouth, Laz draped himself over his chair, his perfect body on full display.
Carefully, Malachi replaced the phone in its cradle. “I think it can wait a bit. I seem to have another matter that needs my attention at the moment.” A purr of approval erupted from the angel. “Thank fuck, I thought you'd never pick up my signals.”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Dense muscle rippled along thick thighs as heavy footfalls thundered down the passageway in Malachi’s private domain. The secret cavity echoed with Arial’s presence as the Fallen strode toward Laziel’s chapel where he’d hold audience with the vampire King. The eerie silence of the crypt’s walkway only succeeded in adding to the sense of ominous foreboding that fueled the Fallen’s contemptuous mood. The shadow of Arial’s towering form crept along the dry earth walls as he virtually glided through the dusty dank air. His mood cast an even darker cloud of shadow around him; it hung like the weight of an iron cloak across the Fallen’s broad shoulders. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as a tide of anger flooded the Fallen’s sinful black heart.
