Chapter IX

As Morgan awoke, the first thing he felt was a soft warmth on his cheek that grew with intensity. He hissed through his teeth and opened his eyes to brilliant morning sunlight filtering in through blinds to his right. Someone had carried him to an empty residential suite furnished with only the bare basics adjacent to the entertainment complex – he could smell the smoke and ash nearby. A light ache stung at the crook of his elbow where blood from a bag was being fed directly through an IV into his veins.

A sniffle and a voice mussed in sleep startled him to the left. The corporal was slumped in a chair, her exhausted head steadied by an arm in restless slumber. She tightly clutched a blanket to her chest. Morgan went still, momentarily enchanted by the sun dancing on green skin and through the fronds of her chestnut hair, where the light illuminated hidden golds and yellows. Even in sleep, with dark circles beneath the eyes and hair tousled, Morgan could understand the stories of fairies and the Fair Folk the old romantics used to sing about. It would have been a simple thing to fall in love with one of them if they all looked like Balmaris.

Shalia’s skin caught the sunlight differently to a human being: the green soaked in the light rather than turn it away, suffusing her veins with a healthy glow. The thin capillaries on her cheeks were visible, and when Morgan’s eyes travelled lower, the vein in her throat danced with each beat of the heart. He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

‘Corporal?’ he whispered gently through parched lips. The blood bag only lessened the famished thirst – diminished the power it held over him – but it wasn’t enough. He needed something living. And he needed it now. With a grunt, he sat up. He didn’t have the strength to stand or shout, so he shook Shalia’s shoulder, carefully. ‘Balmaris?’

‘Mmph…?’ came the corporal’s muffled reply. She rubbed her eyes and licked her lips slowly, still in the throes of someone coming out of sleep. Recognition flashed in her eyes – the amber positively glowing in the morning sun. ‘Morgan?’

Before Morgan could process the feeling of hearing his name in her mouth, Shalia clasped his hands in hers. Heat spread up his neck and cheeks in a flood before he could smother the reaction.

‘I wasn’t entirely sure you’d wake up,’ she said, impervious to the reaction their shared contact created. ‘Rhiley said you’d be fine but you just kept on sleeping and sleeping –’

‘Corporal.’ His eyes lingered on their interwoven fingers. With an ache, he pulled his hands free. ‘Where is Rhiley now?’

Shalia paused, hurt, for a split second before she became all business. ‘He’s – feeding.’

‘Feeding.’

‘Not like that. The others volunteered.’

‘They what?’

The corner of Shalia’s lips twitched. ‘He did save your father – and maybe everyone else. I guess they felt they owed him. If he hadn’t been around by the time we got there…’

‘There’d be nothing left. And Killian?’

‘Fine. I treated him myself. Nothing life threatening.’ As she talked, the vein in her neck quivered.

Morgan swallowed past the sudden swell of saliva in his mouth. ‘That’s a relief, you have no idea. Thank you. I mean it.’

Her rare smile was dazzling. ‘You’re welcome.’

He couldn’t meet her eyes when he continued, ‘And don’t take this the wrong way, but could you get Rhiley? I need to speak to him about something. In private.’

She frowned but nodded and left, the blanket draped around her shoulders.

Morgan could smell Rhiley before he came. He carried the scent of a dozen different people on his skin. Morgan clenched his fists as Rhiley entered, frozen by the force of his own hunger.

Shalia followed close behind. Rhiley paused as his two-toned eyes found him; Morgan couldn’t be sure if the expression he wore meant disdain or relief. Rhiley turned around and said to the corporal, ‘He’ll be out in a minute. I promise.’

He didn’t wait for a reply, closing and locking the door. Morgan closed his eyes and followed the beat of Shalia’s heart as she went back up the corridor.

‘You look like shit,’ said Rhiley.

He forced his eyes open. Although Rhiley was ruffled, hair and clothes a mess, his cheeks were warm and rosy from the donated blood, the dark circles around his eyes gone. ‘I think I look great considering I regrew all my skin How long have I been out?’

Rhiley eased himself into Shalia’s unoccupied seat. ‘About twelve hours, I think. Shalia’s been changing the bags every four hours. I told her I’d do it, but no dice. I reckon she’s into you.’ This was said with complete nonchalance, as though he were commenting on the weather.

But of course, why would he say it any other way?

It was Morgan taking it seriously.

When he didn’t reply, Rhiley’s eyes grew wide and he leaned in close. ‘What? No way. You got a thing for her too?’

‘It isn’t like that,’ Morgan lied, clenching his aching jaw. ‘I don’t like anyone.’

‘Sure.’ Rhiley pursed his lips and rolled up his sleeves. Despite the donated blood, Morgan felt the hunger echoing in Rhiley’s thoughts. They were linked, the pair of them, through the sharing of blood and experience over the span of years. When the wolf hungered in one, its howl called to the other. And although Rhiley could not read his mind – his power was too weak – he could receive Morgan’s feelings to a certain extent.

Morgan wanted the throat – wanted to tear into thick skin and muscle and vein – but Rhiley presented his wrist instead. It would have to do. Anything to get rid of this cavernous ache in his belly. He gripped Rhiley’s arm, leaned in, fangs dripping saliva, and ran his tongue along the skin. His bite was merciless.

The blood on his tongue was warm, fresh and varied, not yet completely part of Rhiley’s system so that it carried the individual flavours of his donors. Morgan drank deep, swallowed by the ecstasy that was satiating this great, all-consuming need that beat at his core. A flutter of emotions, excerpts from Rhiley’s donors, flittered across his tongue: fear, rage, joy, relief and even love. He ran his tongue along the punctures left by his canines, using his saliva, which contained an anticoagulant, to coax the blood to flow. He was making a mess but didn’t care. There was only the blood in throat and the blood he had yet to consume.

The flow of blood weakened. Without thinking Morgan moved up Rhiley’s arm, near the base of his forearm, and bit into the large vein there. The sensation of teeth piercing flesh pulled a sigh of pleasure out of his throat. He wanted to feel it again, and before he could stop himself, he sunk his teeth once again into untouched flesh.

It wasn’t enough. The pressure of blood wasn’t enough – he wanted it to gush, to fountain. He was at Rhiley’s throat before a hand too weak to shove him away found his chest.

‘Mor…gan…’ Rhiley’s voice was a soft rasp. It hardly sounded like his own. ‘That’s…enough…’

But it was not enough.

Morgan’s jaw ached for more despite the contentedness in his belly. His fangs were poised above Rhiley’s throat. He wrestled with the hungry thing keeping him prisoner.

Was Rhiley’s life worth it?

For temporary satisfaction?

His own ward? Someone he’d cared for, nurtured, like a brother or even a son?

No, of course not.

Of course not.

Morgan recoiled; his back hit the bed’s headboard. Rhiley slouched in his seat, too weak to stay upright. He rested his arm on his knee, where a series of bite marks was oozing blood. Morgan couldn’t even recall having bitten him that many times. A graze wept red at Rhiley’s throat where Morgan’s fangs had brushed the skin.

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The warmth in Morgan’s belly was tainted by the guilt that was consuming him from the inside out. He leapt to his feet – now energised – and wrenched the needle from his forearm. Brushing past Rhiley, Morgan sprinted for the hallway. Shalia’s scent was still on his nose – cinnamon spice, autumn leaves and clementine, and as always, the intoxicating aroma of her blood – so he followed the smell out into the main foyer. He spied her leaning on the sink in the small kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee with a yawn. Dawn members worked around her, slowly tidying up after the carnage and death in a kind of stunned daze.

‘Corporal…!’

When she met his gaze, the coffee mug left her hands and shattered when it hit the ground. Shalia didn’t even notice. Her fingers went to her lips in silent horror. ‘What happened?’

Morgan looked down. His hands, jeans and shirt were soddened with blood, and no doubt it was smeared around his lips and chin, too. ‘There’s no time! I’ll tell you later. I – fuck, I need your help.’

The corporal pursed her lips but hurried to follow as Morgan led her back down the hall into the residential suites. The rooms were numbered and all looked the same, but he only needed to follow the scent of blood to find his way back to his assigned room.

Rhiley was leaning back in his chair now, nose to the ceiling, eyes closed between laboured breaths. It wasn’t hunger Morgan felt across their link or in Rhiley’s thoughts, but weakness – and a faint aroma of death.

‘Empress…’ breathed a frozen Shalia. She took only another moment to gather herself before taking a seat on the bed and getting to work, brushing careful fingers along Rhiley’s forearm and neck. The glare she gave Morgan when she found his teeth marks could have melted ice. Golden light filled the room as her hands worked over the wounds. The glow jumped underneath Rhiley’s skin – Morgan could see the capillaries and bone, like a live x-ray. At some point Rhiley fell unconscious, his laboured breaths becoming something easier.

‘Get him into bed,’ Shalia commanded.

Morgan moved without a word and lifted Rhiley carefully out of the seat, setting him on the bed where he had lain only minutes before.

The pair gazed down at Rhiley’s prone form for a heartbeat too long. Shalia growled, ‘He’s family and you did that to him.’

The shame that ached in his chest was almost too much to bear. He couldn’t form words past the lump in his throat.

‘Have you done this before?’ continued the corporal when he failed to reply.

Morgan swallowed. Pursed his brow. Wet his lips. ‘Not to him. Never to him. There’s…I don’t have an excuse.’

‘Why?’

He struggled for words. How could he explain that there was another creature that existed inside himself? A monster that shook the bars of its cage every second he was alive, begging to be free and to shed blood? And that, sometimes, he let it free for just a little bit of peace – and for the power it gave him?

She wouldn’t understand.

And he was too ashamed to explain it. How contrived of him, he thought, if he said it was in nature to cause harm.

‘I don’t know,’ Morgan eventually supplied. ‘I’m weak. I’m a weak person. I couldn’t stop myself. I should have – I don’t know.’

The pair watched Rhiley for a moment longer before the corporal went to the door, her disdain palpable. As she turned the handle she said, ‘He needs more blood. I’ll – I’ll let you know if we can continue the investigation in the next few days. For now, let’s call it off. Be seeing you, lieutenant.’

As she closed the door Morgan called out to stop her –

But she was gone.

----------------------------------------

‘You haven’t changed.’

‘You have.’

Killian tapped the side of his head with gnarled fingers. ‘I don’t mean on the outside, boy.’

Morgan worked his jaw.

Killian Murphy, head of the Red Dawn gang, looked every bit intimidating as a gang boss should be despite being engulfed by a horde of pillows, the bandages, and the IV line in his arm. They were in his penthouse suite; no one as prestigious as Killian would be caught dead in a hospital, besides as a corpse. Morgan had taken the leather-backed desk chair from Killian’s office and placed it beside the king-sized bed, since there was none in the old man’s bedroom and there was no way he would sit on the end of the bed for what, he guessed, would be a long conversation.

They looked nothing alike. Morgan had his mother’s black hair, her dark eyes – even her surname. Killian was pale and mean, rough around the edges, his once blond hair grey though his green eyes still sparked with a malicious kind of cleverness, creased with age as they were. The only thing he shared with his father was a tall, broad build – and an abrasive disposition.

‘The bureau, it suits you though,’ Killian continued. He reached into the desk beside his bed, fished out a cigarette and lit it with an expensive silver lighter. ‘Not everyone rolls over for you over there, I imagine.’

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ Dad, Morgan almost added.

An exhalation of smoke. ‘Imagine the shock,’ said Killian, ‘of your eldest son breaking into your home. That alone? Bad enough. But then the feeling of betrayal? That shock to your very soul? When he starts assaulting your men, burning your building to the ground? Isn’t something I feel very often, that. It stings like nothing else.’

Flatly, ‘I don’t have to tell you it wasn’t me.’

Another drag. ‘No, you don’t. You gonna have kids, Morg?’

This took him off guard. ‘I – no. I don’t – no, I don’t think so.’

He didn’t think he could, even if he wanted to.

Killian grunted. ‘Shoulda’ figured. You aren’t the type.’

‘Too childish?’

‘Too selfish,’ said Killian. ‘But that too.’

Morgan still couldn’t see the point of all this. Did the old man get some kind of enjoyment out of throwing him around like a kitten would with a ball of yarn? ‘Whatever. You know it wasn’t me. I wouldn’t go this far.’

Killian offered Morgan a cigarette. Morgan took it gratefully, just to have something between his teeth. When their fingers touched for a brief moment, Killian’s skin was ice-cold. A shiver ran down his spine; didn’t older humans have cold skin due to poor circulation?

‘I never said I thought it was you, boy. I just want to know about the thing that looks like you. Dot my i’s, cross my t’s. I don’t like to leave these things to chance.’

‘I know,’ said Morgan. Killian hadn’t left Morgan to chance, either, tossing him out the first chance he got. He considered what to say, how much to reveal. Although Killian was a powerful and influential man, he was still just a civilian. Just a person on the outside.

Just a human.

‘It’s a demon,’ he began. ‘A demon that can look like me. I think... I think it wants to get back at me, or something.’

‘For what?’

Morgan shrugged and inhaled. ‘I dunno’. Could be anything. Anything in the past, I mean. You know how – you know.’

What I was like, he thought.

‘I won’t,’ said Killian, ‘tell you I told you so. That won’t help anyone. So, revenge. You got someone coming after you for revenge.’

‘You think so?’

Killian nodded and crushed the stub of his cigarrete down in the ashtray at his bedside. ‘Someone’s gone to great lengths to set you up, wearing your face and all. They aren’t just trying to kill you – they’re trying to ruin you. Got a good look at the fucker. Sure, he had your face, but that hate. That was something else.’

Morgan recalled that bitterness. Recalled the feel and smell of it, evil and full of fury – and hurt, a hatred born from pain. He looked at his father, frail and injured in his nest of pillows.

‘You’re going home,’ he said.

Killian gave him one of his infamous no-nonsense blank looks – a look that brokered no negotiation or complaint. ‘You giving me orders now, boy? Think I’m just gonna leave Dawn to fend for itself? Cut off the head and what do get?’

Morgan rolled his eyes. ‘No one’s head’s getting cut off, old man. You’re going home so that doesn’t happen. If anything, a head that’s temporarily missing is better than one that’s been removed permanently by force – this is dumb. I’m not arguing about this shit. You’re going home, even if I have to carry you there.’

‘What, think you’re Erin now? Think you can come back and order me around like you own the place, boy? You had your chance. You let your brother take the slack.’

He knew he shouldn’t get angry.

Knew his father was just like this, liked to get a rise out of people. He was, to an extent, the same way.

And yet.

And yet Killian always managed to piss him off like nothing else did.

Morgan picked up the office chair. Threw it across the room with an animal growl, where it splintered to pieces against the wall.

‘You’re paying for that,’ said Killian from the bed, looking as comfortable and nonperturbed as you please. Like a self-satisfied cat. Morgan’s Sleight came to life, lighting the room with a gold and orange hue.

Killian fished a bottle of whiskey and a glass from his bedside draw of wonders. Pulled the stopper. Poured. Took a sip. ‘Christ, you look just like her.’

The anger evaporated like a puff of smoke, gone as quick as it came. Morgan could tolerate a great many things said about himself and the fact that he was no longer human, but being compared to that woman –

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. Flatly, ‘Did you want something else, or may I leave?’

‘I change my mind.’

‘Huh?’

‘You have changed. On the inside, I mean. You’ve gone soft. Are you dating that cute detective?’

It was such a stunning question he momentarily forgot to be angry. ‘I – what? No. Christ, no. Shalia? She’s a corporal – not that it matters. But – no. She wouldn’t. Not with someone like me.’

Killian nodded. Took another sip. ‘Sure, whatever you say. Give her my thanks, by the way. She probably saved my life.’

Morgan recalled the way they parted. The disappointment on her face. A disdain he caused.

…if we can continue the investigation…

If.

Was she –

Intending to transfer?

‘I don’t know,’ said Morgan, ‘if we’ll be working together anymore.’

‘Nevermind.’

‘Huh?’

‘I change my mind again, you’re still an idiot.’

‘What? Why?’

‘You go to that woman, you bring her something nice, and you get down on your knees like a grown man and apologise. God knows what shit you did to piss her off, but I know it was your fault. Call it “fatherly advice.” Damn, your luck with relationships has always been bad, huh? You don’t get that from me.’

Oh, so you’re suddenly my father again, thought Morgan, the words pressing against his lips. ‘That’s because you’re too stubborn and old fashioned.’

Killian laughed, a throaty thing that sounded startingly like his own. ‘Mark my words, boy. Ten years, twenty – hell, maybe a hundred, who knows. We’ll see who becomes old fashioned then.’

A flicker of sorrow came to life in Morgan’s chest for a moment, a threat of a much greater despair. He ignored it. ‘Sure, I guess we will.’ He got his feet and stretched his arms over his head, still a little sore from the battle with the imposter. ‘Thanks for the advice, old man. You better be going home after this.’ When you’re able to.

‘Whatever you say,’ said Killian. ‘I don’t think my furniture can take much more.’

‘Good.’ He turned to leave. ‘Then if that’s it, I got places to be.’

‘Morgan?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Don’t forget about the chair.’

He clicked his tongue. ‘Fine, whatever.’

‘Son?’

‘What!’

And Killian put his empty glass on the bedside table, folded his arms on his lap and said, quite clearly:

‘Thank you.’