Rise of the Fallen (9 page)

"You think?" Sev tossed his towel to the side,
taking a step forward like he was ready to throw down.

"No. I know." Micah knew not many could take him
down. Even with his massive weight loss, he was bigger, stronger, and more
ruthless than most. Severin was a big-ass boy, though, with shoulders wide as a
Mack truck – wider than Micah's, even though Micah had him in the height
department. Still, Sev was young. But Micah had superior strength.

With a last, lingering glower in Arion's direction, he
turned and walked out, leaving them behind so he could escape to the showers,
where he hoped to get some privacy. He stripped down and gave himself a hot, refreshing
suds and scrub then stood in the raining water for several blissful, quiet
minutes. After drying off, he flipped his long, black hair back and walked
unabashedly naked to his locker. He squirted a glop of straightener in his
hand, rubbed his palms together, then combed them briskly through his hair
repeatedly before letting it fall freely over the sides of his face. The damp
ends just brushed his shoulders.

He took out the black military digs that always seemed to
find their way back to his locker clean, thanks to Josie and her helpers, and
pulled on the canvas pants and wool sweater that now looked and felt two sizes
too big.

Ari was right. He had lost a fuckload of weight over the
past couple weeks. But thanks to the heavy duty eating of the past two nights,
along with taking Sam's blood the night she saved him, Micah had already gained
back six pounds. Nightly feedings for the next several days would also help.

After yanking on his leather combat boots, he shrugged into
his leather bomber jacket.

"Where do you think you're going?" Tristan entered
the locker room as Micah was checking the cartridge of his gun.

He holstered the piece under his arm and slid three extra
clips in his pocket. "Out."

"Like hell you are."

"Stop me," Micah said with nonchalant
carelessness. He slipped a set of brass knuckles in another pocket, then sat
down and tucked his boot knife – the same one he had used to mutilate his arms
– inside the ankle of his right boot.

"You son-of-a-bitch," Tristan said. "You've
been gone over two weeks. You look like the walking dead, and it's obvious
you've been suffering some major shit. Yeah, I saw your goddamn arms, you
asshole. And now you act like nothing's wrong?"

Micah stood, his hair falling over his eyes. "I'll deal
with it."

"Like fuck you will. And I thought I told you to get a
haircut."

"That was an order?" Micah walked past him toward
the exit. "I thought it was just a suggestion."

"Micah, I don't want you going out." Tristan's
voice held a warning that Micah knew he couldn't back up.

"If you can stop me, I won't," Micah said, not
slowing down or turning back.

Tristan followed him out, giving in with a frustrated sigh.
"I want you checking in every hour, asshole."

With a wave over his shoulder, Micah dismissed the command.
"I'll be back before dawn."

* * *

Tristan shook his head as he watched Micah leave the
compound. He hated for his men to patrol alone, but Micah rarely allowed
Tristan to enforce protocol with him. The insubordination was tolerated with
Micah, though, because he was the most lethal of all the members of Tristan's
team, probably because Micah was the one who showed the least amount of
give-a-shit about his own life.

"Trace, get your gear," Tristan said to the
dark-skinned enforcer as he came down the hall.

Trace was the other quiet one in the bunch, but unlike
Micah, Trace took orders, even if his lack of discussion made you feel like at
any moment he was going to blow you off.

"What's up?" Trace said. He had what Tristan
called a DJ voice. Deep and resonant, Trace had a way of enunciating that
charmed both men and women alike. Tristan imagined that Trace never had trouble
finding willing partners to feed from, or for anything else, but he kept his
private life just that, private. No one knew what he did or with whom.

"Follow him." Tristan nodded toward the door Micah
had just walked through on his way out.

Trace shrugged on his coat, already armed up. "Sure
thing. I was just on my way out, anyway. What am I looking for?"

This was what Tris liked about Trace. The guy never talked
back. "Just follow him. I want to make sure he doesn't go hara-kiri
again."

With a nod, Trace pulled a black skullcap over his shaved
head and went after Micah. Tristan trusted Trace to keep his distance and not
get caught spying. Micah was good and still might realize he was being
followed, but that was a risk Tristan was willing to take to ensure his best
enforcer didn't do something stupid, like get himself killed.

* * *

With long strides, Micah ate up the sidewalk, deep in
thought. Not only had it been too many days since he had seen the woman who
consumed his thoughts, but now he had to worry about John Apostle. Micah had
promised the dreck he hadn't been out to trick him and that he wanted him to
wipe his ass off the face of the Earth, but then Wonder Woman had arrived on
the scene and changed his fate.

Surely, Apostle would be out for his blood now. Drecks
didn't like any kind of reneging and took a broken promise personally, even if
it had been out of Micah's control.

Moreover, Apostle could have marked Sam, and that shit
didn't fly. Micah would break all kinds of promises and peace treaties to keep
Sam Garrett protected. Fuck Apostle and his bunch of rodents. If they made a
move on Sam, he'd fuck up their world so righteously the galaxy would shift
from the gravitational pull of his wrath.

Even now, Micah's fists clenched at the thought of Apostle
or his cronies hurting her. He already thought of Sam as his, and it was
well-known in their world that if you touched anyone claimed by a vampire, you
touched the vampire, too. So, best touch lightly, and even then it was best not
to touch at all or risk retribution.

As he turned a corner, the golden arches of McDonald's were
a not-so-subtle subliminal message for his stomach, glowing like a gateway to
gastronomical bliss while proverbial angels sang. His stomach was encouraged to
rumble its approval:
Feed me.
Micah had been on eating autopilot since
he had met Sam, his appetite roaring back to life like a pride of lions that
hadn't eaten in a month and found themselves in the midst of a herd of zebras.
Smorgasbord!

Walking through the parking lot and stepping up to the
entrance, he hesitated before opening the door for a young, pregnant woman
trying to corral her two young, pajama-clad children.

The woman's gaze lifted when she realized someone was
holding the door for her. With a nervous start, she eyed him fearfully.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me get out of your way." Her eyes took in his
black attire and what must have been a scary-ass mug to make her look at him
like he was Dracula.

Frowning, Micah ran his tongue over his teeth, ensuring his
fangs weren't bared. He normally had this effect on people, both men and women
alike, but it was better to make sure he hadn't vamped out without realizing
it. He had been off-kilter the last few days, after all.

Averting his gaze, he stepped back and tried to say in his
most congenial voice, "No hurry, ma'am. Take your time. Can I lend a
hand?"

"No." The word snapped out. She probably thought
he had asked if he could help her so he could get her alone and have his way
with her or some shit. Sometimes, being the scary-looking, bad-ass vampire with
an attitude problem had major drawbacks. This was one of them. Why it suddenly
mattered, though, was a mystery.

"Have a good evening, ma'am," he said. She ushered
her kids past him and out the door to the minivan in a nearby space.

She ignored him and he sighed with disappointment as he
entered and approached the counter. As the barely-twenty-something girl behind
the counter shrank back, Micah mentally rolled his eyes. Shit. Couldn't he just
enter a McDonald's and order some goddamn food without everyone he came in
contact with thinking he was going to rape, beat, or rob them?

"W-Welcome to McDonald's. C-Can I help you?"

Forcing himself to smile because he knew that humans
responded well to smiles, he stepped up and eyed the menu. "Yes, I'd like
a Double Quarter Pounder with cheese meal, supersized, with a Coke, an order of
McNuggets…" his eyes continued scanning the board. "How about a
grilled chicken sandwich, too? Oh, and two apple pies."

The girl responded well to his smile, smiling back and
looking him over with new interest. "This all for you?" she said,
flirting.

It never ceased to amaze Micah how quickly a smile could transform
someone's fear into attraction.

"Yep." He grinned as he fished out his black
leather wallet. He lowered his voice and leaned in like they were best friends.
"Do you think it's too much? Think I'll get fat if I keep eating like
that?"

She giggled and shook her head. "I don't think you have
anything to worry about there." A blush rouged her cheeks. Shyly avoiding
eye contact with him, she gave his total then turned to gather his food.

When she returned with a loaded tray, he paid and thanked
her, then stepped into the empty dining area and found a table by the window
where he could watch the goings-on outside. Taking off his bomber jacket, he
sat down and dug in to his meal, his dark eyes scanning the streets. Tristan
had to have sent someone to follow him. He knew his commander too well, but
hell if he could get a bead on who it was.

Which meant it had to be Traceon. That bastard was like a
stealth bomber, flying undetected in the wide open spaces, finding ways to
blend in to the milieu and shadows so that even Micah struggled to find him. It
was those damn mutant powers of his. Fucking mixed-breed day walker.

Micah hated being followed.

He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Trace's number as he
shoveled French fries into his mouth.

"Fucker," Trace's voice said after one ring. Then
Micah saw him step out of the shadows across the street.

Micah chuckled and swallowed. "I knew it was you,
asshole."

"How?" Trace crossed the street and headed toward
the entrance.

"I may not talk much, but I know my teammates."
Taking a bite of grilled chicken sandwich, Micah washed it down with Coke.

Yes, Micah knew his teammates, because he usually kept his
mouth shut and his eyes and ears open. He also had a habit of dipping into the
minds of those around him. Not so much a habit, really. He just couldn't stop
himself. Micah always just found himself wandering through the thoughts of
others. Except for Trace. Trace's mind was guarded better than Guantanamo Bay.
No one was getting inside his head.

"Tris wants to make sure you don't get hurt."

"Go back and tell Dad I'm fine, I will continue to be
fine, and I don't need a babysitter. You catching my drift?"

"You're not the boss, Micah," Traceon said,
disconnecting and sitting down across from him.

Micah didn't even look up, just kept eating like Trace
wasn't even there as he hung up his phone and set it on the table. "Just
go back and stop following me. You'll just piss me off if you don't."

"What's new?"

Glancing up, Micah arched an eyebrow. "You saying I'm
moody?" He knew the stories. He wasn't given a long leash for being the
most agreeable member of Tristan's team, after all.

Trace clucked his tongue and looked out the window. Very
little fazed the dark-skinned day walker. "I'm not even going to dignify
that with an answer."

Micah actually liked Traceon, at least as much as he liked
anyone. Trace was a cool cat. He was quiet and kept mostly to himself, which
worked out fine with Micah's need for privacy. However, despite never causing
waves, Micah sensed that Trace could wreak major havoc and unleash hell on
earth if he wanted to. Why he kept his nose so clean and flew so close to the
arrow was a mystery.

But those were Trace's secrets to keep, and just as Micah
didn't like anyone prying into his business, he wouldn't pry into Trace's.

"Go on," Micah said. "Run along back to Daddy
and let me have my privacy. I'm not going to hurt anyone."

Trace's eyes narrowed on him. The guy looked like he knew
more than he let on, but, as if he understood Micah the way Micah understood
him, he nodded and stood up. "Just call me when you're ready to go back.
That way I can show up after you do so it'll look like I did my job."

So, Trace would dance with Micah as long as Micah scratched
his back in return. Clever fellow. It was the first time Micah had known
Traceon to be insubordinate. It made him wonder just how many times Trace had
bucked orders that he didn't know about. Or was this the first?

After thinking it over for a second, Micah nodded. "I
can do that."

Grabbing a fry, Traceon cleared his throat, keeping his eyes
straight ahead. "Don't get yourself killed or it'll be my ass, you got
that? I'm trusting you."

"I got it." Micah nodded.

Whatever Trace's reasons for helping him, Micah was grateful
that he was willing to cooperate and leave Micah alone. It meant he owed him
one, but so what? He didn't mind owing Trace if it meant he could be alone.

"Hey, Trace. Here." Micah turned and tossed him
one of the apple pies.

Trace caught it and looked like he might actually smile then
didn't. "Thanks." Trace turned and walked toward the exit.

As the other male walked out of the fast-food joint, Micah
watched him march off and slip back into the shadows. Now he was truly alone.
Now he could do what he wanted to do. Time to go see Sam.

After killing the rest of his food and downing the Coke,
Micah pocketed his phone, tossed out his trash, and gave the young, blushing
girl behind the counter a wave as he left.