Vischeral…it’s hard to explain, he’s different.” Even as Laziel’s face darkened with resentment, soft feathers brushed against Malachi’s face as black satin wings sprouted from the angel’s back cloaking them. Cocooned by his protection, Malachi loosened his iron control and allowed the memories to unfold. Leeching the wound was the only way to ease it.
Two young men in their prime, one a vampire, the other human, but inherently alike. Impossibly young and still naïve about the world, Malachi lived and trained with Laziel in the small village of Praeneste nestled in the Italian mountains. Protected by the powerful Seraphim that harbored him, Malachi escaped the persecution of both the humans and Darklon; the vampire Elder who governed the region with an iron fist.
Malachi spent his days and nights with the angel in constant training. He prepared for a destiny he wasn’t sure he wanted, but which Laziel swore belonged to him. Hand to hand combat, weapons, marksmanship all interspersed with academia to ensure he was ready for the throne that loomed in his future. He fell into bed exhausted at the end of every night, his body screaming from the day’s exertions. His mind overflowed with the knowledge gleaned from the extensive library. Laziel was always there to massage away the cramps, answer questions and give him the liquid nourishment he needed to face the next day.
Those early morning hours, Malachi remembered fondly. His lips on the angel’s neck, his fangs deep in the vein and the angel’s arms holding him close. Yet, it was those very moments of peace that made him yearn for more. The scholars wrote of love, friendship, a world Malachi only dreamed about.
He’d started to buck the routine, demanded more freedom. Given his volatile temper, they’d fought, verbally and physically. The celestial tried without success to make Malachi understand the importance of what they worked toward. Rebellious and angry, Malachi refused to listen. He was invincible, destined to be King so Laziel had told him over and over again. It became a challenge to outwit his guardian and escape into the village. On one such excursion, he met Vischeral.
Sprawled at a corner table of the local tavern, Malachi had watched and listened to the human customers. As it was early afternoon, the vampires were lost to the Sole Dormire, or the sun sleep. Empowered by the angel’s blood, Malachi did not suffer the ill effects of the sun’s kiss. An untouched pint sat on the table before him. He knew from past experience that he didn’t care for the ale the humans served, but it provided a reason for him to be in the pub. Several of the patrons cast wary eyes over him, but none save the barmaid approached. On prior visits, he’d tried to strike up conversations, but the locals recognized the predator in him and shied away. The irony of the situation was laughable. He’d escaped Laziel’s tight fist only to be shunned. By humans.
On that particular visit, he’d risen to leave when the door swung open and a newcomer appeared. Tall, with shaggy black hair and midnight eyes, the male squinted in the gloom after the bright sunshine.
“Vischeral, over here.” A patron to Malachi’s right called out drawing the man’s attention. When that onyx gaze collided with his, Malachi had felt an instant connection. The man must have felt it too. Instead of joining the others, Vischeral crossed to Malachi’s table and sat down, hand stuck out in greeting. Malachi didn’t regret accepting that handshake, nor the intricate friendship that developed afterward. After he took his seat, they shared several pints; the first of many.
Educated and possessing a dark humor similar to Malachi’s own, Vischeral intrigued him. They had talked until just before midnight on a wide range of topics including their mutual desire to attend the Università degli Studi di Padova to study law. When they’d parted and he’d returned to the villa, Laziel was
Two young men in their prime, one a vampire, the other human, but inherently alike. Impossibly young and still naïve about the world, Malachi lived and trained with Laziel in the small village of Praeneste nestled in the Italian mountains. Protected by the powerful Seraphim that harbored him, Malachi escaped the persecution of both the humans and Darklon; the vampire Elder who governed the region with an iron fist.
Malachi spent his days and nights with the angel in constant training. He prepared for a destiny he wasn’t sure he wanted, but which Laziel swore belonged to him. Hand to hand combat, weapons, marksmanship all interspersed with academia to ensure he was ready for the throne that loomed in his future. He fell into bed exhausted at the end of every night, his body screaming from the day’s exertions. His mind overflowed with the knowledge gleaned from the extensive library. Laziel was always there to massage away the cramps, answer questions and give him the liquid nourishment he needed to face the next day.
Those early morning hours, Malachi remembered fondly. His lips on the angel’s neck, his fangs deep in the vein and the angel’s arms holding him close. Yet, it was those very moments of peace that made him yearn for more. The scholars wrote of love, friendship, a world Malachi only dreamed about.
He’d started to buck the routine, demanded more freedom. Given his volatile temper, they’d fought, verbally and physically. The celestial tried without success to make Malachi understand the importance of what they worked toward. Rebellious and angry, Malachi refused to listen. He was invincible, destined to be King so Laziel had told him over and over again. It became a challenge to outwit his guardian and escape into the village. On one such excursion, he met Vischeral.
Sprawled at a corner table of the local tavern, Malachi had watched and listened to the human customers. As it was early afternoon, the vampires were lost to the Sole Dormire, or the sun sleep. Empowered by the angel’s blood, Malachi did not suffer the ill effects of the sun’s kiss. An untouched pint sat on the table before him. He knew from past experience that he didn’t care for the ale the humans served, but it provided a reason for him to be in the pub. Several of the patrons cast wary eyes over him, but none save the barmaid approached. On prior visits, he’d tried to strike up conversations, but the locals recognized the predator in him and shied away. The irony of the situation was laughable. He’d escaped Laziel’s tight fist only to be shunned. By humans.
On that particular visit, he’d risen to leave when the door swung open and a newcomer appeared. Tall, with shaggy black hair and midnight eyes, the male squinted in the gloom after the bright sunshine.
“Vischeral, over here.” A patron to Malachi’s right called out drawing the man’s attention. When that onyx gaze collided with his, Malachi had felt an instant connection. The man must have felt it too. Instead of joining the others, Vischeral crossed to Malachi’s table and sat down, hand stuck out in greeting. Malachi didn’t regret accepting that handshake, nor the intricate friendship that developed afterward. After he took his seat, they shared several pints; the first of many.
Educated and possessing a dark humor similar to Malachi’s own, Vischeral intrigued him. They had talked until just before midnight on a wide range of topics including their mutual desire to attend the Università degli Studi di Padova to study law. When they’d parted and he’d returned to the villa, Laziel was
Similar Books
