Rise of the Fallen (2 page)

With his arms stretched vertically between his bent knees,
he gripped the corner of the banister and closed his eyes, his toes curled over
the railing. His senses engaged and stretched out, and he felt everything dark
and nasty that seeped in the streets below. He inhaled, savoring its acrid
odor.

When he opened his eyes again, his pupils smoldered with
malevolence, and he swept his gaze from side-to-side as if searching for
something. He felt eyes on him but couldn't find the source. Or maybe it was
just his imagination. Nothing was making sense. He teetered on the banister as
he glanced down the side of the building as if a legion of giant spiders was
crawling up the side, coming for him. Nothing. No one. He was alone. So why did
he feel another's gaze?

* * *

From the shadows below, the guardian kept his pale eyes
fixed on the eighteenth floor balcony, watching the naked vampire sway in the
cold wind. Micah had to be freezing up there, or maybe he didn't even notice.
It was clear even from here that Micah wasn't fully present in his own body. He
hadn't been since Jackson had left a week ago, and it only seemed to be getting
worse. This wouldn't do. The guardian refused to lose Micah. He had come too
far and searched too long for him.

Fuck!
The toothpick in the guardian's mouth snapped
as he clenched his jaw and watched Micah lean forward precariously. Fast as a
rifle shot, he reached his hand into the air and blasted Micah with a gentle
push of energy that mimicked a strong breeze. The guardian's mind eased as
Micah seemed to come back into himself long enough to climb off the railing and
put his naked feet back on safe ground.

The guardian breathed a deep sigh of relief, deciding to
stick around for the rest of the night to make sure Micah didn't pull anymore
near-nose-dives or worse. Pulling up his collar and securing his skullcap, he
stepped back into the darkened entrance of a nearby business, fully shrouded in
shadows, his special powers engaged. With closed eyes, he stretched out his
senses to keep tabs on the damaged vampire up on the eighteenth floor. He
cringed at the pain he felt coming from Micah, but at least it wasn't death.
Not yet, anyway. And hopefully never.

The next night, Samantha Garrett shoved her feet in her
tennis shoes and whipped the laces into double-knots before bounding to the
kitchen. That was one good thing about a studio apartment, it didn't take long
to get from A to B. Two or three good size steps and she could be anywhere. So,
see, her studio really was an asset. Yeah, and if she kept telling herself that
she might stop hating the tightly cramped place.

Her eyes darted to the clock. It was almost eight o'clock.
Shit. She wished she could get a different job – one where she could actually
sleep at night and not grind a pole – but dancing at the Black Garter paid well
and she was able to negotiate being paid in cash, and that was crucial so she
didn't leave a trail Steve, her ex, could follow.

She threw together a mid-shift snack and tossed it in her
bag then grabbed a grapefruit from the bamboo bowl on the counter. The citrusy
smell that burst into the air as she cut it in half reminded her of her
childhood. Mom had always had grapefruits in the house. She even ordered them
from the fruit club so that a large box arrived once a month to fill the
kitchen with their tangy aroma for days.

Damn. There went the tears.

It was her mom's birthday today. And she couldn't even call
her.

She missed her mom and dad, but didn't visit or even call
for fear Steve would find out or track her down. Her ex had enough money and
connections that he probably had her parents' phones tapped and their house
monitored, even though it had been a year since she had left him. But she knew
Steve, and he wouldn't rest until he found her. It had been hard enough just getting
away to begin with. Until she could buy a new identity and some protection, she
was stuck here.

Hence, the dancing job that kept her up nights. She had
thought her dancing days were behind her. When she had been eighteen and at the
tail end of her rebellious years, she had spent eight months dancing at the
local titty bar, as her dad had called it with a certain amount of disdain. The
money had been good, though, and she had enjoyed it at first, but the way the
men had looked at her began to creep her out.

Then 9/11 happened and she felt compelled to serve her
country since she wasn't really cut out for anything else, and the dancing had
proven to be less glamorous than she thought. So she quit the titty bar and
joined the Army to be a medic. She figured the Army could give her a fresh
start, and since her new goal was to be a nurse, becoming an Army medic was a
win-win.

Six months later, she met Steve, a handsome surgical
resident. With dark hair and a body built by the gods, she thought she had found
the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Steve immediately asked her to marry
him, and what girl wouldn't want to marry a handsome surgeon? So they ran off
to Vegas and shocked everyone by getting married before she left for the Middle
East.

She laughed now, because now she knew what a mistake
marrying Steve had been. Turned out her pot of gold was only
fool's
gold,
and she was the fool who fell for the lie. Her marriage to Steve ended up being
a nightmare.

As soon as her eight-year commitment to Uncle Sam was over
and she could make a clean break from Steve, she packed a duffel, grabbed a wad
of cash, and ran away after Steve had left for a twenty-four-hour shift at the
hospital.

By the time he found out she was gone, she had a good head
start, and he hadn't caught up to her, yet. Mostly because she was careful and
didn't leave a trail. Hence, the reason getting paid in cash was so important.

She had never looked back, even though she was always
looking over her shoulder. Freedom without being free was what she called it.
But at least she wasn't being beaten, anymore.

Thank God she had never had children, or else she would have
been stuck with Steve for God only knew how long. She rubbed her hand over the
place on her abdomen where she still had a reminder of his abuse. Thankfully,
it was small and didn't detract from her striptease act. If anything, the tiny
blemish gave her character and made her appear more human and not like some
fake Barbie. There were enough of those at the club.

Fake was something she wasn't. This bod was one hundred
percent all-natural and homegrown tomboy, with one catch. She could work a
stripper pole like few women could. It was one reason why she headlined and had
her own dressing room at the Black Garter and made more money than the other
girls.

She didn't have to love her job, though. She just had to do
it well and endure it, for a few more years, anyway.

Once she had shoveled in the last of her grapefruit and
swiped away her tears, she tipped the bowl to her mouth and guzzled the juice
then rinsed the bowl. After shutting off the kitchen light, she quickly checked
her reflection in the bathroom mirror and teased her boy-short blond hair with
her fingertips.
Piecy.
That's what the girl who cut her hair called it.
Piecy. Pieces of hair stuck up and out in soft, fashionable peaks.

Time to go. With a quick check to make sure her Beretta was
in her bag, she grabbed her duffel and ran out the door.

* * *

"Hey, Pax?" Adam disconnected the call to Micah
Black, one of Tristan's enforcers.

"What's up, Probie?" Paxton, the senior dispatcher
on duty, spun around and shoved himself across the width of the narrow room,
his chair gliding over and ramming the counter next to Adam.

"Micah Black. He's not answering his phone. Should I
contact Tristan?" This was Adam's first sustained non-response since he
had come on board at AKM two weeks ago. Micah hadn't answered his phone in
several days and, according to the schedule, he hadn't checked in, either.

"Nah, ignore it."

"What? Ignore it?" Adam turned back to the call
log on his computer screen. "But he hasn't answered in…" He counted
up the check boxes, "Seven days. And according to the schedule, he's
missed every shift in the past week. Shouldn't his commander be notified?"

"The past week?" Pax laughed. "No wonder it's
been so quiet around here."

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't met Micah, yet, have you, Probie."

The other two in the room chuckled and Adam frowned. Was he
missing the joke? "No. Why?"

Pax wheeled himself over to his side of the room and leaned
back in his chair. "Look, Micah does his own thing. You stay out of his
way and he'll stay out of yours. Capiche?"

"What's that got to do with protocol?" According
to his training, a non-responsive agent was supposed to be reported to the
agent's commanding officer, but Adam had to go through his supervisor since he
was so new, and his supervisor was Paxton.

Paxton and the other two laughed.

"Protocol? Guys, when does Micah ever follow
protocol?" Paxton looked at the other two dispatchers. Adam glanced around
at them as they both shook their heads and chuckled.

"Here's how it is, Probie," Paxton said,
"There is no protocol with Micah. He's what we call the Lone Ranger,
because he does what he wants, when he wants. He barely even follows Tristan's orders
half the time."

"But according to the log, he never misses a shift but
has been MIA for a week. Isn't that odd?"

"Fuck no. It's a blessing. Enjoy it, Probie. When he
gets back you'll be wishing he'd stayed away." Paxton turned back to his
monitor and dismissed the conversation. "Hey, guys, are the Blackhawks
playing tonight?"

One of the others piped up. "I'm not sure. I'll
check."

Adam frowned at his call log while the others shot the shit
about hockey. He didn't feel right about this, but what could he do? If Paxton
refused to report Micah's absence, then there wasn't a lot he could do but keep
calling.

He opened up a new line and dialed then adjusted his
earpiece as he waited to see if Micah would pick up. At least he could leave
another message if he didn't. He didn't know Micah, but he hoped the guy was
okay.

* * *

As Micah wandered around his apartment wearing only a pair
of black briefs, his thumb worked rhythmically over his sternum, massaging the
ache that wouldn't go away, his face contorted in a mix of pain and despair.
Only one thing could squelch the nauseating pain. More pain. It was like
fighting fire with fire. Sometimes, to stop a bigger fire, several smaller ones
had to be set. That's what Micah needed: Pain to end pain.

It was another night and he needed to find something to ease
his distress. He needed to find a fight. No, wait. He had already tried that
last night and it hadn't been enough. Getting his ass kicked wasn't cutting it,
anymore. Shit. Now what?

 His cell rang and vibrated against the kitchen counter for
what had to be the third time in thirty minutes. Micah glanced at the caller
I.D. as he walked past. AKM Dispatch. AKM. All the King's Men. He chuffed
softly. He didn't feel very king-worthy right now. As with the previous calls,
he didn't answer and let it go to voicemail. Let them leave a message. Maybe he
would get back to them, maybe he wouldn't.

In numb silence, Micah ambled to his bedroom and pulled on
black nylon sweats and a black and grey camo muscle shirt. The shirt used to
hug his body like a second skin, but now it hung like it was two sizes too
large. After a week of not eating or feeding, he'd lost enough weight that his
sweats slid down and hung low on his waist. But he still refused to eat. Food
wasn't what he needed.

Pain. Suffering. Agony.

Those were the things his body craved now.

Before turning off the light in the closet, he caught his
reflection in the mirror. What stared back was a skull with skin. Empty shadows
filled his sunken face. He looked like hell, but at least he looked how he
felt. If anyone didn't like it, they could go fuck themselves.

As he turned away, his gaze swept the collection of knives
on his weapons shelf: Next to his two Sig Sauers and extra clips was a
twelve-inch Bowie knife, a nine-and-a-half-inch Ka-Bar Big Brother knife, a
black Tanto knife – what could he say, he had a thing for knives – and several
more various blades. He was about to shut off the light when his gaze landed on
his razor sharp, double-edged boot knife. He froze. Four inches of cold steel
stared back at him like a seductive temptress.

"Hello friend." He picked up the small but lethal
knife and a tic twitched the corner of his mouth like he was an addict waiting
for his dealer to hurry-up-and-give-him-the-stuff-already.

He slowly turned the knife in his hands, mesmerized as he
shut off the light in the closet and drifted back into his room. He didn't even
realize he was standing in front of his dresser until he looked up and caught
his reflection in the mirror. The stranger that glared back at him sneered.

You're a loser. A waste. A burden. A burden who caused
Jackson to leave. It's all your fault. You're worthless.

Self-destructive thoughts pummeled him like Mike Tyson in
his prime. Each thought was a body blow, hurting him more, bruising his heart,
knocking the air out of him.

Micah's breathing deepened and turned ragged. His eyes
flitted in a panic. He was suddenly claustrophobic and felt like he was in a
six-by-six box. His hands shook. Crazed panic shuddered his lungs. He needed to
get out of the box. He couldn't be locked up like this.

Suddenly, his eyes caught that magical, elegant blade once
more, and his body calmed. His mind went silent. His breathing returned to
normal and he felt a surge of peace.

Aaahhhh, sweet pain waited for him in his hand. He didn't
have to go in search of a fight, did he? The pain he needed was right here. It
always had been.