Rise of the Fallen (3 page)

‎With anticipation, he yanked off his shirt and tossed
it to the floor. The knife was like a pen light in the hands of a hypnotist:
You're
getting sleepy. Very sleepy. Do as I say.

Somehow he ended up in the bathroom without a clear memory
of how he got there, his arm poised over the raised Spun Glass bowl of the
sink. With the underside staring back at him like a sacrifice, his grin
widened. The knife – his arm – the knife. His gaze darted back and forth
between the two, and a perverse, lusty thrill came over him. He actually pulled
a semi in his sweats, he was so excited.

It was as if Micah was only an observer, and the tip of the
knife was about to pierce someone else's arm, and he couldn't wait to see them
bleed. But when the blade cut into flesh, it was his arm that bled.

Sweet Pain.

His eyes rolled back as he savored the sting, and a content
sigh eased out of his throat. As a dom who no longer practiced, he had caused
plenty of people pain for pleasure, but never once had he given that pleasure
to himself.
Mmm.
So this was what his submissives had felt. He could see
the allure.

Pleasantly dazed, he opened his eyes and watched his blood
travel down his arm and drip into the clear glass sink then slide down to the
drain, where it pooled around the seam of the metal ring. Then he licked the
wound, sealing it with his venom, and cut himself again. And again. And still
again. Each time, Micah felt himself tumble further into the abyss of
destruction, watching his blood flow like he was rubber-necking a bad traffic
accident he couldn't rip his gaze from.

Finally, he looked up at the mirror over the vanity.

Who was that looking back at him? The person in the
reflection was a stranger. The enemy. The one who had destroyed everything and
chased Jackson away.

Frowning, he growled at himself. "You're a fuck up. A
fucking loser."

The knife dug angrily into his flesh again and the face in
the mirror winced. Micah smiled in triumph. That asshole looking back at him
deserved it. But wait, the fucker was smiling. He was smiling at Micah, mocking
him.

"What are you smiling at?"

You, asshole.
The stranger laughed at him as if he
was in on a joke Micah could only guess at.
You're a loser. A no-good,
washed up loser. Nobody wants you. Katarina died because of you. Jackson left
you. You ruined their lives. You were never any good for them. Save everyone
the trouble and just die.

Micah grimaced. Who the hell was this asshole who knew him
so well? "I hate you. I fucking hate you! SHUT UP!"

The knife clanked into the sink, and Micah smashed his fist
into the mirror. Shards of glass exploded outward and rained down to the tiled
floor and into the sink as Micah snarled violently, feeling momentarily
victorious for shutting up that asshole.

Suddenly, Micah shook his head. What had just happened? He
blinked hard, trying to focus. The broken glass, the blood, the knife, the
stranger in the mirror.

Stranger?
God, what was he doing? What was he
thinking? He was losing his mind. Going crazy. Fighting against himself. Enough
sanity remained for him to realize he had just tried to kick his own ass.

And what was with his arm? He raised it and backed away from
the sink until his back met the wall, and he sank to the floor. He had cut
himself, and blood coated his forearm and his hand. What was he doing?

Then he noticed that the ache in his chest was gone. He
huffed out a manic chuckle as he rubbed his palm over his sternum. The pain was
gone. Whatever he had done had worked, but now his mind was scrambled like eggs
in a hot skillet. None of that mattered, though. He had found the cure to his
pain, at least for now. So what if the cost was his sanity?

Hell and shadows invaded his mind as he stared at his
bleeding arm. This was his life now. He'd better get used to it. And if he
couldn't? There was always death.

One week later…

Adam disconnected the phone and glanced at Paxton. Another
week had passed and Micah still wasn't answering his phone and hadn't checked
in. It had been two weeks and Micah was still MIA, and Paxton still wasn't
concerned.

Pursing his lips nervously, Adam brought up Tristan's
schedule. Micah's commander had taken a medical leave the past two weeks, but
it looked like he was finally back.

As far as Adam was concerned, this matter should have been
brought to Tristan's attention over a week ago, whether it meant interrupting
him on his leave or not, but Paxton had sat on his ass and done nothing. Micah
could be lying in a pile of sun-baked dust out there, or he could be dead in
his home, and the longer they delayed, the harder it would be to figure out
what had happened to him.

Adam looked at Paxton again then made a decision. If this
cost him his job, so be it. He printed Micah's schedule and a copy of the
report showing all the no-reports and non-responses then quietly rolled them up
in his hand.

"I'm going for coffee," he said.

No one even looked at him, so he got up and slipped out.

* * *

Tristan leaned back in his chair. Shit sure had piled up in
the last two weeks while he had been gone. He needed to get through all this
paperwork so he could meet with his team again. They usually met nightly before
patrol, but after being gone so long, he was out of touch with what was going
down.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Tristan looked up to see Adam from Dispatch standing just
inside his door.

"Yes, what is it, Adam? By the way, how are you getting
on in Dispatch?" Tristan liked Adam. He was a smart kid, and from what
Tristan could tell, he had the chops to be an enforcer someday. Adam was one to
watch. And he was a
day walker
, too. About one-fourth of vampires were
day walkers nowadays with all the mating that had gone on between humans and
vampires through the centuries. The growing ranks at AKM reflected the ratio,
too.

"Um, I like it. I'm learning a lot." Adam fidgeted
and looked over his shoulder.

Tristan sensed the kid was nervous about something, and that
made him curious. "Why don't you come in and have a seat?" He
gestured to a chair.

Adam offered a tight, respectful smile, his straight blond
hair hanging down over his luminous eyes. After closing the door behind him, he
took a seat.

"What's on your mind?" Tristan said

"Micah Black."

Tristan's blood went cold. This couldn't be good.
"What's he done now?"

"Nothing, sir. That's just it. It's been two weeks
since he last checked in."

Two weeks!?
"What?"

Adam held out the report he had brought with him. Tristan
flipped through the pages and scanned the call log and schedule sheets, noting
all the no-shows and no answers by Micah's name.

"Why wasn't I told earlier?" Tristan raked his
fingers through his short, sandy blond hair, unable to comprehend what he was
seeing and hearing.

"My supervisor told me to ignore it, that Micah does
his own thing." Adam fidgeted. "But after two weeks of non-response,
I had to do something. Paxton wasn't doing anything about it, so here I am. If
it gets me fired, it gets me fired, but I thought you needed to know."

Tristan's anger rose. Someone might lose their job, but it
wasn't going to be Adam. "Don't you worry about your job, Adam. In fact,
you might just get a promotion if I have anything to say about it."

"Sir?"

"Nothing. Good work. You did the right thing by making
me aware of the situation."

"Thank you, sir."

"Call me Tristan, Adam. I can't stomach the
formality."

"Yes, sir—Tristan, I mean."

"Okay, head on back. I'll take care of it from
here."

Adam nodded and smiled grimly then got up and left.

Tristan grabbed his phone and dialed Dispatch.

"Yes?" Paxton.

"My office. Now."

Dead air answered and Tristan imagined Paxton's face had
just drained of all color.

"U-uh, yes. Yes, sir. I'll be right there."

Tristan slammed down his receiver and sprang from his chair.
Fuck! What had happened to Micah?

Twenty minutes later, and after chewing Paxton a new asshole
and sending him back to Dispatch freshly skinned, Tristan sent orders to the
members of his team to do some checking then pulled them together for a
pow-wow. They were just as at fault for not keeping him informed about Micah's
absence as Paxton and the other dispatch supervisors were. Someone should have
made an effort to reach him while he had been taking care of Josie.

Tristan tapped the butt-end of his pen against his desk.
Tap-tap-tap-ratta-tat.
It tittered like a tiny machine gun.

His last phone conversation with Micah had been right after
Jackson had split and right before he had gone on medical leave to take care of
Josie. Micah had at least had the courtesy to call and tell him he was going to
take a few days off:

"I need some time off."

"Yeah? What for?"

"Jackson split."

"Shit, man, you okay?"

"Fine."

"I'm sending someone to pick you up. You need to be
in observation."

"No."

"Micah—"

"I said no. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Fuck off."

Micah had hung up on him and that was the last he'd talked
to the guy, and then Josie had gotten morning sickness so bad that he had
forgotten all about Micah. Now, no one knew where Micah was. Great! The team's
loose cannon was fucking MIA, and if Tristan had thought Micah had been hard to
control before, he could only imagine how messed up he was now, or what damage
he was doing to the shaky truce between the vampires and
drecks.
Micah
was the type who could single-handedly end the truce. His cannon really
was
that loose.

Looking across his desk, his gaze darted from one pair of
eyes to the next as he took in the other members of his team of enforcers.

 Malek sat directly across from Tristan, the light reflecting
blue off his long, jet-black hair.

"Anything?" Tristan asked him.

Malek shook his head. "Not yet."

Iobates chimed in, "Still won't answer his phone,
either. And his dorm hasn't been touched."

"Thanks for checking, Io." Tristan's aggravation
grew. So, Micah wasn't home, hadn't used his dorm at the compound, wouldn't
answer his phone, and hadn't checked in for two weeks.

"Trace, did it even look like Micah had been at his
house?"

Traceon leaned against the far wall. He had come from the
training center to attend the meeting, and rivulets of perspiration still
trailed from the top of his shaved head down his neck, making his dark skin
glisten. He stood with his arms crossed, a matchstick between his lips. With a
shake of his head, he plucked the matchstick from his mouth. "The milk in
his fridge was halfway to cheese and the mailbox was full. What do you
think?"

Trace was almost as indifferent and emotionally detached as
Micah, but at least he followed orders and didn't ask for special favors.

Case in point, after bonding to Jackson, Micah had talked
Tristan into letting him have a second, private residence. No one at AKM knew
where the two of them lived together, but at least Micah had spent half his
nights at his known address for the past year. Now it looked like he had
abandoned his house altogether and fallen off the face of the planet.

Tristan should have known better than to let Micah have a
private residence, but like everyone else, he gave Micah more latitude than the
others. It was how shit had to be done with Micah. He did what he wanted,
anyway, so why fight it? And sure, Micah was the private recluse of the bunch,
but this disappearing act wasn't like him.

Tristan's frown deepened. "So, no one has heard from
Micah, and no one has bothered to check on him. Except for you, Severin."
Tristan addressed the long-haired new guy. "You haven't been here long
enough to be in on this ass-chew, but the rest of you," Tristan's gaze
flung back around the room, "should have known better."

Only Malek had enough conscience to look down as if ashamed.
The rest just stared back. But then, Micah wasn't the most well-liked S.O.B. He
didn't play nice with others and had a reputation for being not only the
resident loose cannon and recluse, but also the resident dick. He ruffled more
feathers than a wolf in a henhouse, always rubbing people the wrong way. Even
Tristan struggled to hold his tongue around Micah. Most likely, just as with
the dispatchers, the team had enjoyed the peace and quiet while Micah had been gone.

But it pissed Tristan off that no one had bothered looking
the brother up. After this much time, someone should have pulled a Sherlock
Holmes to track the fucker down to make sure he was safe.

"Fuck!" He threw the pen across the room and it
ricocheted off the wall. Trace caught it with a snap of his hand, and the two
exchanged glances.

"Sorry," Tristan said.

"Don't worry about it." Trace tossed the pen back.

Tristan blamed himself for losing track of Micah. He had
been wrapped up in his own concerns about Josie and the baby, and before he'd
known what was going on, two weeks had passed and he was behind the eight-ball.

"I want everyone pulling doubles until we find him.
We're on lockdown and no one goes home until we do." A couple of groans
broke through – Io and Arion, of course. Tristan glared at them. "You need
to crash, use your dorm. You got a booty-call, cancel it. You've all sat back
and done nothing while one of ours is suffering and missing. So, playtime is
fucking over until he's home, you got me?"

Trace chewed on his matchstick and shifted uneasily.
Everyone else nodded, even if Io's and Arion's nods were reluctant.