All the King's Men: The Beginning (7 page)

But as with everything else in his life, bondage and S&M began to lose its appeal in the mid-90s after he caused tremendous mental and physical trauma to a relatively new sub during fire play. Through all their communication up front about what was and wasn't acceptable, the sub had never told him fire play was a hard limit or that his sister had died in a house fire when they were kids. Even though Micah could dip inside people's minds at will without even trying—another piece of evidence to how much of a freak he was—he hadn't seen the memory of the sub's sister in his thoughts until the moment he lit his cheesecloth-tipped wand. The sub freaked and thrashed, and suddenly Micah's mind was filled with the sub's terror. By then, it was too late. The sub's arms had been bound, but not his legs, and he ended up knocking the jar of alcohol over, getting some on him, and into an open flame. The sub's leg lit up like a torch. Micah could still hear his terrified, tortured screams.

Fortunately, Micah always kept emergency supplies nearby, and he doused the fire within seconds, but not before the alcohol vapor burned off and the sub's skin was burned badly enough to blister.

After that, Micah lost his love of BDSM. Well, more like he lost trust in himself to perform without hurting anyone, despite twenty solid years as a much sought after Master-turned-Lord. He had remained out of the lifestyle ever since.

Then Micah met Jackson right after Easter eight months ago, and not only did his retired Dom side raise its head in interest, but the memories of Katarina resurfaced, along with all the old feelings of both.

Micah hadn't been looking for a mate when he found Jackson, not that that's how mating worked between members of their race. Vampires didn't just pick and choose who they wanted to mate with. Mother Nature did that for them. She decided when a mating link fired up and when it didn't, and one fired inside Micah for Jackson that night, even though Jack didn't experience the same response.

Micah still didn't understand why this had happened. Half-mating rarely occurred. In fact, Micah had only heard of it happening in rare cases involving mixed-bloods, not full-bloods, but he and Jackson were both one hundred percent vampire. Again, it just proved how different Micah was from everyone else. That he was an aberration. A weirdo anomaly.

A monster.

At first, Jackson had been ecstatic that Micah had bonded to him. He had heard about Micah in the circles he ran in…how Micah was revered by vampires and feared by drecks, and how he used to be a leather Lord who took his subs to unbelievable heights. For Jack, being seen with Micah was a major notch in his belt and a huge turn-on, but as the year now wound to a close, it was clear that Jack had merely used Micah for bragging rights.

Micah closed his eyes, sorrow ranging through him. Was he forever destined to be refuse? Nothing more than a token of misery? Had Katarina been the best part of him, and now he was nothing—less than nothing—without her? He could see the end coming with Jackson. He saw the thoughts that echoed from Jackson's mind. Now that the thrill was gone, and his itch had been scratched, Jackson was ready to move on to the next great conquest. He was a manipulator. Nothing more than a user. Lying through his mouth while his thoughts revealed the truth. Always in search of greener grass instead of cultivating what stood right in front of him.

Not even the realization that Jackson was a major asshole not worthy to be shit on would stop the
suffering
from taking hold when the time came for Jackson to leave. He had awakened Micah's urge to mate, and in doing so had opened up a door to Micah's past with Katarina. It was clear that when Jackson left—and he
would
leave, of that much Micah was certain—not only would Micah fall into
suffering
from the loss, but he would re-live the
suffering
he had experienced after Kat died.

Great. A fucking one-two punch. How would he survive this time? Would he even want to?

A chill ran down Micah's spine, more from the fear of what was to come than the cold, and he blinked his eyes open and surveyed the cityscape.

"Life goes on," he whispered sadly. "But not for me." This wasn't self-pity, but a weary ache of longing for the pain and suffering to end. For so long, he felt that all he had done was claw his way from one inner battle to the next only to get up night after night simply to exist. Yes, he was alive, but was he really living? Was he really keeping his promise to Katarina?

He sighed, so damn tired…ready to leave this life and enter the next. All around him, humanity stirred to a new day as the first hint of light crept up against the eastern horizon. Humans rose to get ready for work while vampires settled within the safety of their darkened confines to sleep away the sunlight. And drecks. Micah could smell their stench. They rotted the life from whatever and whomever they touched.

Right now, though, drecks were the least of his worries. Let them spread their repugnant stench in every alley and crevice of Chicago. He was checked out.

As if beckoned by Micah's taunts, movement caught his eye, and he rose to his feet as a Chicago police cruiser pulled to the curb in the distance. With his keen vision and sense of smell, Micah watched as a dreck disguised as a Chicago police officer stepped out of his patrol car.

John Apostle. That bastard.

The most nefarious drecks, Apostle included, posed as human law enforcement. The position gave them power they didn't inherently have and allowed them into places they otherwise wouldn't be able to go. Not to mention, posing as police officers put weapons in their hands, tapped them into the heartbeat and up-to-the-minute information of the city, which included activities vampires would rather keep secret, and put them within reach of criminals they could use for their connections, as well as for their own personal gain.

John Apostle had been on AKM's radar for years, but he proved a worthy adversary. They knew Apostle was up to no good and had ties to Royce, but they could never pin anything on him. The guy was cunning and covered his tracks better than Sasquatch.

Micah returned to his haunches as if Apostle would think to look to the top of The Sentinel and see him. What was Apostle doing in this part of town at this hour? This wasn't his normal beat. Micah would know. He had memorized the schedule of every dreck who worked on the police force, and he kept good tabs on them. Well, most of the time he did. Lately, with his Jackson troubles, he was slipping on his duties.

Two more drecks stepped from the shadows as Apostle approached. Even from here, he could tell they were drecks, even though they looked human.

Instinct and training took over, and Micah was about to mist himself closer to see if he could finally get something on that asshole when his skin prickled. He turned and found that the sun was beginning to crest the horizon.

Shit! Had almost an hour passed already?

Turning back toward Apostle, he frowned. He didn't have time to investigate and kick Apostle's ass into next season, which was unfortunate. He could use the exertion, but the sun demanded his return to his apartment. With one final glance at the drecks on the street, he projected himself inside.

Alone.

* * *

Apostle glanced left and right along the sidewalk. It was early morning. Too early for humans to be out in filthy droves, but late enough for the workaholics to already be in their offices. This meant that the streets weren't completely void of life, but at least the vampires were down for the day.

Normally, he wouldn't venture this far north in the city, but he had a debt to collect. He brought his gaze back around to two of his dealers, Ovid and Regis.

"Apostle?" Ovid said cautiously.

"Ovid. Regis." He nodded to each in turn. "Let's go inside." Going indoors would get him out of the irritating, ass-frigid cold, but would also keep the rest of what was about to go down out of the public eye.

Ovid and Regis exchanged glances but turned and led him back inside the club they owned, which provided a nice front for cobalt distribution.

"What's up? What brings you around?" Regis said, but he spoke with the caution of someone who already knew why Apostle was there.

Apostle stepped around the bar and poured himself a beer, making himself at home. After all, Ovid and Regis only owned this bar by Apostle's good graces. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted, and if they had a problem with that…well, they
wouldn't
have a problem with that. Enough said. "How's business?" he said without answering Regis's question.

Restlessness worried Regis's body language, but Ovid tried to force a disarming smile.

Waste of time. Smiles didn't do much for Apostle. Cobalt sales, income to stuff in Premier Royce's coffers, and the weakening of the vampire race. That was what yanked Apostle's chain and gave him a mental hard-on. But a pansy-assed smile. Was Ovid serious?

"Business is good," Ovid said. "Better than ever."

Apostle took a drink of his beer as he came back around the counter and leaned against the bar. "Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah, yeah," Ovid said, flustered.

He calmly set down his mug. "Well now, that's interesting."

Ovid frowned, and Regis gulped uncomfortably. "Oh? Why?"

Apostle sighed. "You really think I'm stupid, don't you?"

Every once in a while, one of his teams of dealers got greedy, skimmed off the top, dipped their fingers too deeply into the profits that were supposed to go to Royce, and Apostle had to pay them a little visit and remind them who was in charge. Sure, a little skimming was natural. Cobalt dealers were greedy beings by nature, so he expected some five fingering. He even padded the percentages to compensate for it. As it was, Ovid and Regis had been diving in a little
too
deeply. For months, the amount of cobalt they pushed into the hands of vampires didn't mesh with the dollars and cents being turned in, and every week saw a little bit more of a discrepancy, to the tune that O and R were in the hole about one hundred thousand dollars. It was time for a come-to-Jesus meeting.

"No, Apostle. Absolutely not," Ovid said.

Apostle pulled out his nightstick and slammed it into Ovid's gut before snaring his throat in his fist and shoving him against the wall. "You two owe me one hundred big ones. Did you really think I wouldn't notice? Did you really think I would just let that go?" He shifted to blue, and his eyes flashed red with a burst of anger. His long, blue-black hair hung well past his shoulders, and his fingers grew about an inch longer, his face hollowing out and growing gaunt.

Ovid struggled to speak against the hold Apostle had on his neck.

Regis sputtered from behind him, trying to find his voice, before spitting out, "We were going to pay it back. I swear."

God, Regis sounded like a sniveling human. No heart. No guts. Apostle released Ovid and spun, leveling Regis with a backhand that sent him sailing into a cocktail table ten feet away. "You most definitely
are
going to pay it back!" Anger flowed like lava through his veins. "Do you think I enjoy babysitting you fools? I could replace the two of you in an hour if I wanted to. Do you realize that?"

Regis gathered his bearings and stood, head down. He wouldn't even meet Apostle's eyes. Behind him, Ovid hacked and sputtered for air, and Apostle spun to face him. "You have one week to come up with the money. One week!"

Jesus! He felt like he was dealing with humans again. Before cobalt, the drecks' cash cows had been cocaine and heroin. Talk about fucking boring work. And a waste of energy. Cocaine and heroin were human recreational drugs. The shit did nothing to vampires. But since his brothers, Bishop and Deacon, had formulated cobalt, made from dreck blood and dreck venom, they had a new weapon against their enemy. Not that it was much of a weapon, but anything that weakened the vampire race was a good thing. And cobalt did that, if only on a small scale. Vampires had begun to overdose on the stuff, and overdosing was good, because overdoses killed. If the drecks couldn't kill the vamps outright without violating the truce, then at least they could wipe them out chemically and claim it was their own fault, which kept the drecks' hands relatively clean.

But while the drugs continued to flow, the money had to do likewise. Bishop's operation didn't fund itself. So every now and again, Apostle had to play the heavy and send a message to his dealers not to get too greedy.

He only hoped Ovid and Regis took the hint. If they didn't, and he showed up next week and they didn't have the cash…? Well, put it this way, the race would be less two drecks. He
would
get his hundred Gs, even if it meant taking their lives and selling their assets for it.

Chapter 5

December 15

A week after learning Josie was pregnant, Tristan still felt like he was in a dream, even though the doctor had confirmed yesterday that, yes, she was with child. What more evidence could he want? Josie was going to have his baby. They were going to be parents.

He was still grinning when his phone beeped a moment later.

"Yes?" he said.

"Your interview is here," the AKM receptionist said. "Severin Bannon."

Severin's file sat on Tristan's desk. The male looked impressive on paper. He was a former member of Vampire Dreck Affairs out of Atlanta and had an impressive resume of human combat experience that would have filled a human soldier's uniform with enough ribbons to make a small table.

"Go ahead and bring him back." He had already mini-interviewed Severin on the phone, so the face-to-face was simply a formality, but a necessary one before adding him to the team.

A minute later, a knock came on his door, and he glanced up as the receptionist waved the broad-shouldered, long-haired male into his office.

"Severin? Pleasure to finally meet you." Tristan stood and extended his hand over his desk.

Sev locked him into a firm handshake. "Likewise, sir."

"Please, call me Tristan. We keep things pretty informal around here."