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Moon
- Joined
- Nov 25, 2021
Malach's penthouse loomed over Downtown LA, its concrete walls and dark glass glaring at a city that bled under his thumb. The broken signs of Skid Row flickered, light catching a blood smear on a rusted fence where vampires and shifters carved each other in the dark. The room reeked of copper and ash, its steel door bolted, runes scratched in the frame pulsing like an open vein. Los Angeles was a beast he'd gutted, its gangs were twisted to his will, but tonight the beast snarled, ready to bite. A scream from an alley choked off, and rain clouds pressed the sky flat. Malach's empire was forged in blood, but the streets were hungry, and something in the air felt like it wanted his throat.
He slumped at a huge desk, wiping blood from his knuckles. A chipped bead in his palm had cut like a knife into an old shame. A scrawny vampire kid stammered about a crew in East LA. Their knives were marked with Vesper's gang sigil, blood still wet. Malach's glare promised he'd tear them apart. His voice was a low, menacing growl. Power was his hunger, not the blood drying on his hands from a traitor he'd ripped apart an hour ago. But the bead dragged up a lover he'd gutted, left bleeding on consecrated ground. The shame burned raw. This was a wound he couldn't bury. One that didn't heal as he slept. He crushed it down, but it clung, heavy as blood.
Vesper Kerrigan stood near the window, her wrists bound in silver manacles that burned red marks into her skin. She was powerful and strong, and having her chained was one less thorn in his side. She was sharp, and her fox-like eyes cut through him. She was the prisoner, but the intensity in her eyes made him feel like the hunted. Prior to the fight, Malach had only known Vesper by her deadly reputation. One of the fiercest in her gang, she was a formidable fighter. Her gang looked out for other lycanthropes, and that was bad enough. But they also hunted vampires. The battle had been a bloodthirsty carnage, and in the end Malach and his allies claimed victory. Those that weren't destroyed or sold were forced to flee the city for their lives. If not for her talents and ferocity, she would likely be dead like her lycanthropic kin. Instead, Malach gave orders that she was to be spared. She was truly dangerous and would make a potent ally in his war against the world. The vampire bound her to him in a profane ceremony that only the most dreadful vampires would even consider.
The vampire stepped closer to his captive prey, broken glass from a goblet or wine bottle crunching under his boots. His voice was rough. The long, bloody war took its toll on him. "Your crew thought they could bleed for this city and win." He spoke confidently to drown the way her presence clawed at him. It was as if her being here could tear open his past with a glance. He'd bound her and spilled her gang's blood. But her fire fed a hunger that he fucking hated. It was a need to break her, keep her and own her defiance. Whispers of her pack haunted LA's gutters. Their knives always out and their blood fresh. The storm outside snarled, and Malach felt the city's pulse, ready to rip his empire apart.
A sudden thud at the heavy door hit like a snapped bone, and a box slid across the floor. On the box was a cross, scratched in wet blood, still dripping. Malach failed to hold in the gasp that forced its way out. The bead clutched in his hand fell to the ground. His past, the gutted lover left bleeding on holy ground, rose in his throat like bile. The kid froze, but Malach shoved him out of the room. His calm hid a lie over rage that screamed to tear something apart. The blood cross wasn't just any mark. It was his sin, come calling. Was it Vesper's crew, carving their way back? Or her, the one he killed, back to bleed him dry. Meanwhile, the city's streets pulsed, red and raw.
LA's shadows swelled with bloodlust. Who was it that slipped that blood-marked box past the runes? Vesper's crew, knives slick with fresh blood? A rival sniffing out the scent of weakness? Or the ghost of his lover dragging his sins into the light. Rain pounded the penthouse glass while the streets below thirsted for blood. Malach turned to Vesper. Her eyes burned bright. "You feel it," he said with a voice that hinted at something darker. "This city's ready to fucking tear itself apart." The weight that settled in his chest pressed harder. "That cross means someone or something is coming for my throat. You can stay in chains and wait, or you can move. Fight with me, and keep this city together." He stepped back, giving her space. "I've bled for this city. You've burned for it. Don't pretend you don't care what happens next." The storm outside was already snarling, and something was coming for his throne.
He slumped at a huge desk, wiping blood from his knuckles. A chipped bead in his palm had cut like a knife into an old shame. A scrawny vampire kid stammered about a crew in East LA. Their knives were marked with Vesper's gang sigil, blood still wet. Malach's glare promised he'd tear them apart. His voice was a low, menacing growl. Power was his hunger, not the blood drying on his hands from a traitor he'd ripped apart an hour ago. But the bead dragged up a lover he'd gutted, left bleeding on consecrated ground. The shame burned raw. This was a wound he couldn't bury. One that didn't heal as he slept. He crushed it down, but it clung, heavy as blood.
Vesper Kerrigan stood near the window, her wrists bound in silver manacles that burned red marks into her skin. She was powerful and strong, and having her chained was one less thorn in his side. She was sharp, and her fox-like eyes cut through him. She was the prisoner, but the intensity in her eyes made him feel like the hunted. Prior to the fight, Malach had only known Vesper by her deadly reputation. One of the fiercest in her gang, she was a formidable fighter. Her gang looked out for other lycanthropes, and that was bad enough. But they also hunted vampires. The battle had been a bloodthirsty carnage, and in the end Malach and his allies claimed victory. Those that weren't destroyed or sold were forced to flee the city for their lives. If not for her talents and ferocity, she would likely be dead like her lycanthropic kin. Instead, Malach gave orders that she was to be spared. She was truly dangerous and would make a potent ally in his war against the world. The vampire bound her to him in a profane ceremony that only the most dreadful vampires would even consider.
The vampire stepped closer to his captive prey, broken glass from a goblet or wine bottle crunching under his boots. His voice was rough. The long, bloody war took its toll on him. "Your crew thought they could bleed for this city and win." He spoke confidently to drown the way her presence clawed at him. It was as if her being here could tear open his past with a glance. He'd bound her and spilled her gang's blood. But her fire fed a hunger that he fucking hated. It was a need to break her, keep her and own her defiance. Whispers of her pack haunted LA's gutters. Their knives always out and their blood fresh. The storm outside snarled, and Malach felt the city's pulse, ready to rip his empire apart.
A sudden thud at the heavy door hit like a snapped bone, and a box slid across the floor. On the box was a cross, scratched in wet blood, still dripping. Malach failed to hold in the gasp that forced its way out. The bead clutched in his hand fell to the ground. His past, the gutted lover left bleeding on holy ground, rose in his throat like bile. The kid froze, but Malach shoved him out of the room. His calm hid a lie over rage that screamed to tear something apart. The blood cross wasn't just any mark. It was his sin, come calling. Was it Vesper's crew, carving their way back? Or her, the one he killed, back to bleed him dry. Meanwhile, the city's streets pulsed, red and raw.
LA's shadows swelled with bloodlust. Who was it that slipped that blood-marked box past the runes? Vesper's crew, knives slick with fresh blood? A rival sniffing out the scent of weakness? Or the ghost of his lover dragging his sins into the light. Rain pounded the penthouse glass while the streets below thirsted for blood. Malach turned to Vesper. Her eyes burned bright. "You feel it," he said with a voice that hinted at something darker. "This city's ready to fucking tear itself apart." The weight that settled in his chest pressed harder. "That cross means someone or something is coming for my throat. You can stay in chains and wait, or you can move. Fight with me, and keep this city together." He stepped back, giving her space. "I've bled for this city. You've burned for it. Don't pretend you don't care what happens next." The storm outside was already snarling, and something was coming for his throne.