Crimson Reign (8 page)

“Tell me what you know.”

“This morning, I received an email, my personal account of which few have knowledge or access. It spews tales of corruption and deceit in the vampire court, and hinted at trouble during your last Elder meeting. It’s unsigned and to my limited experience untraceable.”

Malachi stood stoic giving no indication of the fury flashing like wildfire through his veins. In deference to the holy man at his side, he harnessed the snarl and the curse that coiled in his throat. “Darklon.” The immoral bastard was upping the stakes, stepping outside the vampire realm. In the grand scheme of things, it was taboo to reveal anything vampiric to the humans. To do so invited instant death. Malachi’s gut twisted with hatred for the male that dogged his steps causing havoc and mayhem while maintaining a pristine image. There would be no proof, no way to tie the email to the Elder, but it stank of his touch. Only he would be deranged enough or smug enough to contact the humans and expect to profit. A more ominous thought struck. If he’d come to some agreement with the humans, Nephilim would not be far behind. As if he sensed the inner turmoil, Gregori laid a hand on Malachi’s arm then quickly withdrew casting a glance back over his shoulder at the angel.

“You have nothing to fear from Laziel. If he thought you were a threat, he’d never have left my side.” Absently, Malachi reassured the male and rested a hand on the Pope’s shoulder. He tossed his own gaze toward the angel, and smothered a smile that threatened when the cheeky bastard winked at him.

“Arial’s almost here, I sense him close. Tell His Excellency to be wary of Gabriel, the motherfucker reeks of the Nephilim.” Laziel’s voice floated into his mind as he turned back to the Pope.

“I appreciate you letting me know, Gregori. While, I was aware of a faction that despises my authority, it surprises me they are prepared to involve the church in their treasonous behavior. They are rather contemptuous of the human race, and we both know of the aggressive animosity between my race and the Nephilim. Is it possible to review the email on your computer?”

The white garbed man considered the request then met Lachi’s gaze. “It will have to be in my private chambers, my bedroom. It is the only place I am ever alone.”

“I’ll meet you there at your lunch time. Unlike the others of my race, the daylight does not hinder me.” Gregori nodded and both males turned back to the two that waited one impatiently and one giving all appearances of boredom. Lachi knew better. The angel never relaxed his vigilance. “Laziel says Gabriel is compromised. Be careful, my friend.” The Pontiff inhaled swiftly when Malachi’s voice sounded in his head. “I will be sending one in soon, one you can trust despite what you may hear. You'll know him.” The man's chin tilted upward in acknowledgment. Raising his voice, Malachi spoke clearly.

“I do appreciate your concern for my mortal soul, Your Grace. But, as I was raised by an angel and still face the wrath of hell’s domain, I’m not sure you can save me.” As they approached, Laz straightened, adjusted himself in his half fastened jeans and slapped Gabriel hard on the back.

“Enjoyed hangin’ out with you Gabby. You take care of our boy here; I’ll be seeing you soon.” Laziel’s eyes flicked to the Pope and then back to the secretary. “I’d hate for Lachi here to have to pay you a midnight monster visit. The vampire King is damned scary with his fangs dripping saliva and his eyes glowing an unholy red.”

Malachi inclined his head to Gregori. “Have a splendid evening, Your Grace. As always, it was a joy conversing with you. Laziel.” Lachi cocked a brow.

In the hallway outside the Pope’s ante chamber, Ms. Stroner waited, impeccable in her business suit. Hands folded demurely before her, she waited patiently as they approached. Malachi conceded that Darklon and his cronies had indeed picked a lovely female as their prospect for the new Queen. The striking combination of dark chocolate eyes and honey blond hair coupled with an hourglass figure set many hearts to pounding when they entered his office. But, what Darklon hadn’t banked on was the female’s absolute loyalty to her King.

Almost two months prior, Lachi had been alone in his office, a rarity as Laziel seldom left his side. Looking back, the meeting had been orchestrated perfectly. She’d appeared in the doorway within minutes of Laz’s departure provocatively dressed, heavily made up and cleverly enthralled. By rote, she stated that she was his new secretary appointed by the Council to help him with the neglected paperwork. She’d strolled toward him, her body language offering more than clerical assistance. It was her eyes, flat and lifeless that caught Malachi’s attention.

In a matter of seconds, he’d punched through the enchantment leaving her blinking in surprise. Ms. Stroner had grabbed her head and moaned, but when Malachi moved to steady her, she’d gasped and dropped to one knee ripping the skin tight material of her dress. The smell of her fear had enraged him. He’d knelt in front of her and lifted her chin to find sparkling tears rolling silently down her face. She remembered the ad in the paper, the interview before the Elders, but the week prior had been a blur. She’d pledged her allegiance then offered her throat fully expecting her death. He’d invaded her mind searching for any indication of dishonesty or treachery, but found only purity and a fierce loyalty.

By the time the angel reappeared, Malachi had settled her at a desk just outside his office and had her revealing wardrobe replaced with proper office attire. Uncharacteristically, Malachi trusted her, much to Laziel’s dismay. Since then, she’d returned on two occasions under the thrall of the same vampire. Malachi recognized the mind imprint, but couldn’t determine the source. The continued attempts to control her infuriated the female, strengthening her determination to protect her sovereign. Grudgingly, the angel accepted her as part of the staff, but Malachi felt his animosity whenever the female entered the room.

“Don’t know why you had to move her into your private quarters.” Even now, the angel grumbled.

“Safety angel, hers and mine. Besides, you know I’d be more tempted by one of your guards than the female, yet you never get territorial when they come around.” Malachi delighted in teasing the celestial.

“That’s because they know I’ll rip their dicks off,” Laz snapped as he sidestepped the female and headed off down the hall in the direction of his private chapel.

“Your Majesty, while you were in the meeting, the alarm for Laziel’s chapel sounded. I tried the camera but there was only static.”

“Yes, Ms. Stroner. Laziel was notified and has gone now to check the area. Please cancel any appointments scheduled for this afternoon. Something pressing demands my attention.”

“But Sire, Mendeeto is already here in the foyer.”

Malachi growled in frustration. “He'll have to wait. Apologize for my delay. I'm not sure how long I'll be.”

Confusion clouded the female's face for a second then disappeared. She squared her shoulders and smiled.

“I will take care of him, my liege. Take all the time you require.” Malachi watched her disappear through the double doors leading to the foyer before turning in the direction the celestial had taken. Besides Laziel, only one other knew of the back entrance to the chapel. The Fallen One.

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CHAPTER FOUR

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Muscles rippled and flexed in the darkness as the mountainous form lying within the shadows flinched and coiled slowly into itself. Arial Nathanial, begotten son and now fallen celestial, writhed under the invisible assault from unseen hands. Lost to the throws of his ravaging dream, Arial screamed into the emptiness of the crypt's darkest depths when once again the torturous affliction of his curse paid homage to its owner.

Swathed in the strips of his ragged torn wings, Arial moaned, locked within the never ending terror and agonizing pain as invisible hands inflicted their own brand of torturous pleasure. Agony seared through his once pure and Godly form until all that remained were the shredded remnants of angelic flesh now pooling with the foul toxic odor of demon spawned blood. Absently, and blinded by the pain, Arial reached out to search with futile yearning for the once comforting arms of his father’s loving embrace.

When the frenzied sound of manic laughter blistered the air, the acrid stench of its foul and rancid breath permeated the crypt with his mother’s toxic curse.

“Forever to be fallen and roam the bowels of a living Hell on Earth, I curse you Arial Nathanial. Ever more shall you feed on the flesh of your betrayal; you will find no redemption for the act of your sins. Never shall you grace the arch of our Creator’s ethereal light. You will scavenge the Earth consumed by the hunger for your carnal lusts. He, the one you succumbed to, shall be cast to the demons and only he will ever offer you the death you truly deserve. Even then, you will be cast from your father’s embrace. To him you are damnation, the warrior cast from the Creator’s grace, who walks in the shadows hiding from the guilt of your shame and disgrace.”

As the vehemence in his mother’s voice waned, the degree of pain intensified. Arial knew what came next, had lived it every second of his fallen cursed life since that fateful day. Without delay, horrific pain tore through his wings to leave behind the ragged leathered mess. He opened his eyes to the world that awaited him and slammed his fists into the ground. He would not yield to the condemning persona of his mother’s discriminative scorn. True to his fallen nature, Arial cursed the abomination that bore him and spat out the remnants of his earlier demonic splurge, coating the ground with its oozing black mass. With internal loathing, Arial turned on two heavily booted heels and kicked through the heavy concrete slab shielding the covertly hidden entry. Once through the opening, Arial used the abundant strength of his will to close off the passage way that lead deep beneath the catacombs of Vatican Rome.

Many a year, the Fallen had taken this very same path hoping to redeem himself and expose some semblance of his determination and grace. For Arial had once been a warrior and the noble traits that came with his training stayed true within him. For centuries after his wings were stripped and his body cast out of the heavens, he'd wandered the Earth watching the rise and fall of monarchs and the birth of new and somewhat strange world orders with their unusual beliefs. He'd fought wars amongst men on battlefields soaked in blood. He’d stood at the right hand of emperors and Kings as their protector and watched with an absent heart as they murdered their own kind. The merciless brutality of the human race saddened him. Even being cast out, the Fallen still bore the burden of his angelic heart. But, after what seemed an eternity, he held little or no hope for the future of their race. Until Laziel.

The night the mighty Seraphim chose to walk the Earth, the heavens opened the expanse of its gates as angel song filled the sky. With his decent, the crystal clear tears flowed unabashed from the ethereal eyes of the Creator. His celestial offspring and warrior elite left the right hand side of the Lord of Creation to walk among mortals, or so it was said. It wasn’t until many years later that Arial learned the true reasoning behind Laziel’s descent to earth.

Although well aware of the other’s presence, Arial avoided the majestic Seraphim. Memories of the celestial’s past exploits combined with knowledge of the immense power held within terrified Arial. The Seraphim’s supremacy was extreme; due care and caution were paid to the likes of the Seraphim angel. Rumor became rife with intrigue. Stories unfurled through the bowels of Hell and the preternatural community on Earth. Laziel brought with him a new vampire, one of savagery and cunning grace, who was destined to rise to power. Rumor became fact when the usurper tore out the throat of the previous King to take a throne he apparently saw as rightfully his.

None of it should have peaked Arial's radar. To him, vampires were a blood thirsty race, and not just because they craved the high-quality substance that beat in the veins of the humans they fed upon. His distaste spawned from their thirst for power and wealth and their need to dominate that ran through the race like a river of greed. Compelled to rule, they infiltrated high ranking positions all over the world. Arrogant beyond measure, they thought themselves above and beyond all other races or the law. Hell, if truth be known, they were the law. For Arial, his only interest in the race came into fruition the night he'd been called before the then acting Pope.

Upon receiving orders from his Holiness, Arial took to the streets. Starved and in need of sustenance, he'd trailed the foul stench of his meal for nearly three miles before the scourge of a demon realized it was being hunted. By that time, Arial was ravenous with hunger and leapt at the demon before it descended into Hell through one of the many portholes that adjoined each realm. It’s delicious scream of fear and pain sweetened the ripe bounty of Arial's loathsome curse, but never rid the Fallen of his disgust on having to feed.

Coated in the foul stench of sulfur, Arial exited the alley where his evening meal lay in a crumpled heap of fine white ash. Ridding himself of the black oily residue lining his mouth, Arial came to a stop at the sound of a fight. Homing in on the grunts of anger and the hard smack of flesh, he'd not taken two more steps when the line of Arial's spine chilled from the overwhelming sensation of excitement and fear.

On turning left from the alley mouth, Arial took the next turn east where the looming darkness of shadows danced in the throes of what appeared to be quite a battle. Surrounded by Nephilim, a male of considerable size and form stepped from the veil of night’s embrace. Baring fangs that glistened with the blood of its kill, and seething with scorn, the mountainous male tore through flesh and crunched through bone as he ravaged the feral harbingers of death to his race.

His eyes glowed crimson red as he spat out the repugnant taste of the Nephilim’s flesh. Every twist and lunge, every stab and thrust was directed with all the skill and grace born from the training of an archaic race. Yet, an angel he was not. Confused by the familiar memory of the warring male’s age old dance of hand to hand combat, Arial watched, lost to his own surroundings and beguiled by the one man war the vampire raged. The command and mastery of his movements flowed like the edge of a sword; graceful yet deadly precise. The male bore a semblance in skill to one Arial knew. The only one of its kind, neither woman nor man but celestial of the highest rank and most noble of command.