Rise of the Fallen (13 page)

Micah still wasn't entirely happy with Trace for breaking
his word, but if the guy really was sincere about liking him and hadn't
intended on going back to Tristan to report on his nocturnal prowling and Sam,
then the guy deserved a second chance, something Micah didn't dole out easily.
For Trace, he would make an exception and give him the opportunity to redeem
himself. If he fucked him over this time, though, that was it. Trace would be
cut off for good.

After setting the suitcase inside the door, Micah flipped on
the lights and stood aside to let his guests come in and look around.

"Nice view," Trace looked out the wall of windows
at the panoramic view. "How'd you pull this off, anyway? Keeping this
place a secret from Tristan?"

Micah shut the door and strolled into the kitchen for a
bottle of water. "Tris and I have an understanding." His eyes
followed Sam as she surveyed his apartment. "Do you like it?" he
asked her. He set the bottle of water down and joined her by the bookshelf.

Sam straightened as if strengthening her resolve.
"Look, you promised me answers—"

"And you'll get them, but I need to talk to Trace
first. Trace?" With a nod of his head, Micah beckoned Trace to join him
down the hall. "Just give us a minute," he said to Sam. "Help
yourself to whatever you want. There's a bar over there, and the kitchen is
stocked. Make yourself at home, and I'll be right back."

* * *

Micah and Trace disappeared down the hall, and Sam heard a
door close. She was alone and let out a heavy sigh. This guy lived large. The
furniture was the finest quality, and the liquor in the bar was the good stuff,
not cheap shit you'd find at some dive. Speaking of which, a drink sounded good
at the moment. It might take some of the fray off her edges.

She grabbed a glass that looked like it cost more than her
wardrobe – which was ridiculous, right? – and poured a double of Jack Daniels.
That would get her good and loose. She hesitated, thinking about the men down
the hall. On second thought, maybe she should only have a single. No sense
letting her guard down around two virtual strangers. Pouring the extra booze
down the sink somehow felt criminal, but pouring it back in the bottle would
have been tacky and she would have only made a mess.

Did he have some Coke on-hand to give her Jack some volume?
She opened the mini-fridge under the bar and what do you know, the guy thought
of everything. Snagging a can of Coke, she popped the top and splashed about
half the can in her glass before fishing a few ice cubes from the small
freezer.

Drink in hand, Sam returned to the bookshelf and ran her
gaze down the spines of what had to be over two hundred books that looked like
they had been collected over the course of three or four lifetimes. And what
was with the Excalibur-worthy medieval sword mounted on the wall? She reached
up and touched it with the tip of her finger. It was the real deal, not some
fake used for show.

And damn! Whoo-eey. Was that a real Monet hanging on the
opposite wall? No way. Couldn't be. No one could afford art like that. She
glanced over her shoulder down the hall. Well, maybe Micah could.

She returned to looking around and stepped up to his music
collection. If she thought his book collection was large, he had a collection
of CDs on the opposite shelf that dwarfed it. With a tight smile, she sipped
her drink and realized the CDs were alphabetized by artist. Aerosmith, Beatles,
Flo Rida, Frampton, Jay-Z, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Rihanna, and U2, among
others. But what didn't make sense was the large volume of classical music he
had, and not just Beethoven and Bach, but Liszt, Wagner, Haydn, Chopin,
Schubert, and a bunch Sam had never heard of. What a mish-mash of eclectic
taste.

Micah was becoming even more intriguing. He came off like a
hard-as-nails SOB. She had expected beer in the fridge, empty pizza boxes and
take-out littering the counter, a La-Z-Boy, and a foosball table, not this
immaculate museum of civilized luxury and artistic culture. The fact that he
didn't look older than his late twenties only doubled her curiosity about him.

Just what did this guy do that afforded him this kind of
lifestyle?

* * *

"Okay, so what's going on? How is it that human knows
and remembers you?" Trace said.

Micah shook his head. "She's not 'that human.' Her name
is Sam. Sam Garrett."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You know what I mean. You had
significant contact with her from what I heard, and her memory is still intact.
Just what went down?"

They had a rule at AKM that when a member of the team had
what they called significant human contact, including injury, feeding, saving
one from a dreck, and the like, it was the team member's duty and requirement
to strip those memories from the human's mind. It was the only way they could
continue performing the work they did.

"I was hurt. She saved me. I didn't strip her." As
in, strip her memories.

Trace's head angled as he scrutinized Micah. "You
didn't strip her?"

"No."

The two looked at each other for several seconds and then
Trace's eyebrows shot up and he barked out a laugh. "Shit, you like her,
don't you? You like her."

"Fuck you," Micah said, turning away and taking
off his coat before tossing it on the bed.

"That's why you're doing so much better. Shit, man, we
all thought we'd lost you when Jackson left, but now I get it – the miraculous
recovery and return to the land of the living. It's her."

"Drop it." Micah removed his knives and started to
unfasten his shoulder holster then pointed at Trace. "And don't mention
Jackson's name again." He may have moved on with Sam's sudden and
preternatural appearance, but that didn't mean he liked being reminded of the
pain he had suffered for the two weeks after Jackson had moved out. All he had
to do was look in the mirror to be reminded just how far he had fallen. He
still had over twenty pounds to go before he was back to his old size.

Trace's voice quieted. "Yeah, got that, okay. Sorry,
brother."

Micah's head snapped around. "You're not my brother.
Just because you're here and you think we're some kind of chums doesn't mean
you're my brother."

Trace swayed backward as if Micah had shoved him.
"Fine, whatever. What do you want me to tell Tristan?"

"What do you want to tell him?"

"Don't play that shit with me, Micah. Just tell me what
you want me to say."

The two squared off again and finally Micah said, "Just
tell him you followed me, nothing happened, and then I went home. You can even
tell him you followed me here. Not like I can keep this place a secret from you
fuckers, anymore, anyway."

"I won't tell him about Sam, but you've got to take
care of her one way or the other, broth— Micah, because she's not something you
can keep secret for long, you know what I mean?"

"Sam's none of your concern."

"You're not thinking about mating with her, are
you?"

Micah met Trace's gaze without a flinch, giving nothing
away.

"Oh hell, you are." Trace shook his head and
actually smiled as he rolled his eyes and looked away. "You're a real
piece of work, you know that Micah? At least tell me you don't think she's your
next mate."

There was a difference between mating and taking a mate. A
big one. To a vampire, mating simply meant having sex, while taking a mate was
like getting married, only deeper. Taking a mate could be described as two
souls coming together and claiming each other for eternity. The act was
uncontrollable and the connection much deeper than anything the human mind
could fathom.

Again, Micah didn't flinch, and he watched Trace's face grow
somber, the smile fading, his eyes sharpening. "You'd better get going,
Trace," he said, his voice even.

"Fuck. Me. You do."

Micah could almost hear Trace's thoughts. It had been less
than three weeks since he had lost Jackson, and Jack had been his mate. At
least on Micah's end. All the physiological changes had taken place to bind
Micah to Jackson so that when he had left, those powerful bindings protested
and sent Micah into a tailspin of despair. That's how it was for vampires. So
many bound males died from losing a mate. It was a male vampire's greatest
fear.

"Micah, she's human."

He nodded at Trace. "Yeah, I got that already."

"She'll die someday."

Micah's hand shot out and fisted around Trace's throat.
"Don't ever say that again. You got me?"

Trace nodded, frowning, and Micah released him.

"It's your funeral, man," Trace said, rubbing his
neck and walking toward the door. "But I won't tell Tristan or the others.
You've got my word."

"Well, your word is for shit right now, Trace,"
Micah said, following him, "so you've got some ground to earn back as far
as I'm concerned."

"Asshole."

"Fucker."

Trace grinned and led him down the hall.

"I'll let you know if something happens," Trace
said, going to the front door. "Take care of her," he nodded toward
Sam. "Nice meeting you," he said to her.

"Same here. Thanks for earlier, and…well, thanks."
Sam's eyes darted between him and Trace.

Micah walked Trace to the door. "Do me a favor and go
back to the Black Garter for her things, too, will ya?"

Trace nodded. "Sure."

"See you, Trace." Micah locked the door after
Trace left then turned back toward Sam. He could sense the wear-and-tear on her
emotions. It had been a long night for her, and her confusion tore at him like
a beggar seeking alms.

"Answers," he said, doing all he could not to
caress her cheek as he stepped in front of her. "What do you want to
know?"

He moved like a black panther stalking her in the shadows,
his eyes never wavering from hers when he approached. Sam took a nervous drink,
the ice rattling against her glass.

"Who are you?" she asked. That was the first
question.

"Micah."

"I know that much already," she said then glanced
around the room to indicate the amount of money that surrounded them.
"What do you do to afford all this stuff?"

His eyebrow quirked as the corner of his mouth turned up.
"Isn't it rude to discuss someone's income when you've only just met
them?"

His words may have suggested impropriety on her part, but
his tone indicated that he really didn't mind the question.

"Isn't it rude to take a woman from her home without
giving her an explanation?"

"Touché."

"So? What is it you do?" Her thoughts took her
down every possible path: Drugs, trafficking, terrorism, espionage, every manner
of crime.

He diverted toward the bar and poured himself a scotch.
"Are you hungry? I can make you something."

"Later. Now spill or I'm out of here."

He capped the bottle, turned, and lifted his drink to his
lips, barely sipping as he scrutinized her. Her skin sizzled under his gaze.
What was it about Micah that stirred her libido like it was hot soup and he was
a spoon? Damn, his intense eyes made her think naughty thoughts and wonder what
it would be like to kiss those shapely lips of his.

His eyes smoldered even more acutely and he smirked as if he
could read her mind and liked the ideas floating in her thoughts.

"Well?" she said.

He considered her for a moment. "You weren't far off in
the car when you said I looked military. What I do is," he bobbed his head
as if choosing his words, "sort of military. Most of it is covert, so I
can't discuss it."

"So what, you go around killing people and blowing
things up?"

"Not all the time." His mouth curved into a
humored grin.

"Oh, so just sometimes?" She fought not to smile
back. Something about Micah disarmed her usual standoffishness.

"Yes, sometimes." He stayed by the bar, watching
her.

"Okay, so how did that other guy, Trace, do that to Ted
and Jose? How did he make them stop in midair like that?"

Micah cleared his throat. "Traceon has some, um,
special powers."

"Duh. Obviously."

"What can I say? The guy is gifted." Micah lifted
his glass and sipped, keeping his eyes on her.

It was obvious he was done with that subject. "Okay, so
who were those men and why did they want to kidnap me?"

The smile disappeared from Micah's face and he took a gulp
of scotch. "They were two of the men involved in the incident the other
night."

"No they weren't. They didn't even look like those guys
from the other night." The men who had attacked Micah had long, black
hair. Those guys from tonight had short, cropped haircuts, and their hair had
been brown, not black.

"Trust me on this, Sam, just because they didn't look
the same doesn't mean it wasn't them."

"Oh, so they just changed their appearance. Just like
that?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"And would you mind telling me how they did that?"
Surely he was joking, but he didn't sound like he was. It made the hairs on the
back of her neck prickle.

Micah took another drink, eyeing her, looking as if he was
in a discussion with himself as his eyes darkened and he blew air between his
teeth. Finally, he said, "What I'm about to tell you would piss off my
commander so badly that I'd likely get desk duty for the rest of my life, you
understand? And you probably won't believe me, anyway. You ready for
this?"

Sam crossed her arms over her chest like she'd had a chill.
"Sure." What could Micah possibly have to tell her about those men
that put such a grave expression on his face? More than just her neck hair
prickled as she waited.

After breathing a heavy sigh, Micah downed the rest of his
scotch and poured another, speaking with his back toward her. "There are
creatures living in this city, Sam. They're unsavory, evil, and use humans for
personal gain and playthings. They're shifters. We call them drecks, and they
thrive on causing pain and killing. It's our job to police them. We make sure
they don't get out of hand." He turned back around and looked at her.