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Malachi told himself one more day—one more day to wallow around his house like a ghost haunting the halls, then he’d go out and feed. He didn’t realise how much magic he was burning just to keep himself from starving andwasting awayin his isolation, until he’d literally passed out one night and had woken up in hell.
At first, he thought he was having a vivid nightmare. He was back in his concrete cell, lying on the elevated slab that had once been his bed. Runes and sigils marked the walls and the floors, alive with the magic of thePriest. The strange chill of the room settled onto him—intohim, digging into his bones like a virus. This was real.
No, no, no—
He’d escaped. He’d thought he was free.
Fuck. He should’ve gone to feed earlier. The human clubs were always overwhelming in their intensity, emotions swirling thick like clouds around the dancefloor, but it was still better than nothing.
Malachi had just wanted to drown in his self-pity for a little longer, and look where that had gotten him.
Hunger, painful and familiar, clawed at his stomach, his veins turning cold with abject terror.
Like his fear had summoned him, he heard the clink of thePriest’s many necklaces as the archdemon walked down the stone corridor to his prison. Every inch of him tensed automatically, the sound like a trigger. His wings drew tightly into his back, his tail curling around his hips, his eyes shaking where they had automatically trained down on grey concrete.
Get out of here!His mind urged. Magic still burned in his core—he could still feel the aether around him. It would take some effort, but he could leave—
His body refused to move.
The stone door slid quietly open at thePriest’s command, and Malachi’s system automatically shut down in defence.
ThePriestapproached, his bare feet quiet on the concrete, necklaces clinking. Malachi realised faintly he was shaking. His claws dug harshly into his palms, slicing into his flesh, his blood dripping down his fists onto the floor.
“Well,” thePriestsaid, his voice sending Malachi’s insides shrivelling like an earthworm sprinkled with salt. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you here again.”
ThePrieststood at a towering ten feet, his great, curved black horns excluded.
“Where have you been all this time, hm?” thePriestcontinued, like they were having a lovely chat. “In the mortal realm, I assume? I have to say, of all the nicquiris that have escaped my control, you were the most shocking.”
Malachi refused to respond. He grasped desperately at the aether, gathering all the magic he had to get him out of here safely.
It felt like looking for a needle in a haystack. Like grasping at cobwebs for an anchor. The strain made his temples throb; the sigils on the walls must’ve still been active, fighting to prevent Malachi’s escape.
“You must’ve thought I had sentries after you.”
Malachi couldn’t help but look up in shock. ThePriest’s expressionmorphedinto one of delight at landing the blow,his lips twisted withfaux pity.
“Please,” he said, beginning to laugh. “How typical to think yourself so important.” He towered over Malachi, leaning down slightly like he wanted his next words to sink in. “For every nicquiri I manage to lose, the Sovereign makes ten more. In the grand scheme of things, you are nothing.”
Malachi finally had a grasp on the aether. He bit back a shout as he was sent practically hurtling through time and space, until he was back in his bed in hiscastle.
The room flickered around him as he stared, going from polished wooden floors to dusty, old concrete.
Malachi clenched his eyes shut, breathing in deep. He felt ashamed, but he headed to the west wing to his main bedroom.
He hadn’t been here since Joy. Her scenthadsince faded, but when he climbed into the mattress and pressed his face to the sheets, he felt like he could still smell her on the pillows, even though they’d since beenmagically cleaned.
Malachi knew he had to make another contract, preferably one that lasted as long as Desmond’s had. Ideally, he needed another soul. He needed both at the same time.
But for now, he just let himself breathe. He didn’t know what was worse, that his sect had apparently not given a shit when he’d disappeared, or that he’d apparentlywantedthem to.
Malachi had forced himself to go to the club after that. He couldn’t risk losing control again. He could never go back there, ever again. He’d barely settled to feed on the humans’swirling emotions when she’d appeared like a fucking mirage within the crowd.
Joy.
She was wearing a sexy little black leather skirt, with a colourful Ankara blouse with long puffy sleeves that exposed her midriff. Next to her was someone he didn’t recognise, a tall, thin light-skinned woman with a shoulder-length afro left to flow down to her shoulders. She was dressed in tight white jeans, and a differently-patterned Ankara top, though hers was a tube that went around her chest—her stomach, shoulders, and arms left exposed.
Malachi watched, like a fucking creep, as they headed to the bar. They moved with the easy camaraderie of a long friendship, hands landing on hips, fingers on arms, as they subconsciously guided themselves to the bar to prevent bumping into anyone.
