Only One I Want (UnHallowed Series Book 2)

by Tmonique Stephens

  Not battling Darklings and knowing about UnHallowed. He wished he could deny the evidence, but the way she moved, the skill of her attack, the precision and fearlessness, she had to be one of them. Well, at least half of them. He snorted at his lame joke. Someone had trained her. Either an UnHallowed or a Demoni Lord, and those Demoni bastards were all in Hell. It had to have been an UnHallowed. Her existence shouldn’t be possible, but Scarla was living proof. Two UnHallowed children. One would think the UnHallowed had learned their lesson from Scarla.

  Who had made this child? And why keep her a secret? However long it took, he would uncover the answer, layer by layer. But if they had kept it a secret, then he would also. She would be his secret.

  Bane adjusted the raging erection tenting his leathers. When was the last time he had a female? So memorable, the date eluded him. It had to have been a few centuries, probably more than a handful.

  He would have her. Take her until she was out of his system, then, if necessary, strip her mind clean, and be on his way. That is, after she gave him the name. He stopped mid-conduit, short of his destination. One thought gripping him tighter than a vise to the balls. What if she belonged to this unnamed UnHallowed? What if she is his, and not mine?

  On a surge of anger, Bane peeled away from the shadows to find himself on a hillside plateau two hundred feet above the city.

  He was alone.

  Lightning struck the center of the plateau, cracking the rock into two pieces. A scent wafted from the new fissure. An aroma all UnHallowed revered; sun, sky, and Heaven seeped from the crevice. An ache took hold inside Bane, an ache for home and what he foolishly cast away.

  A beam of warm celestial light pierced the clouds and bathed the plateau. Bane grasped the hilt of one of his many blades. Michael wasn’t one to invite you to an ambush. The senior archangel, Seraph to the Throne, was too honorable for such treachery. Besides, Bane should have been fried by the heavenly light, yet not even a sunburn heated his skin. The rules of engagement must’ve been suspended. Things must be desperate for the Maker to allow the UnHallowed this reprieve.

  The light narrowed, the intensity increasing until it was a tight blinding circle. Bane didn’t look away. Instead of streaking for the shadows, he basked in the fraction of warmth and braced because the light brought his enemy.

  The archangel stepped from the beam, power radiating from him in visible waves. In a single glance, Bane measured the purity of his white and gold wings to the two-inch height advantage, the empyreal armor coating his body, and the sword of Metatron at his side.

  Michael made a slow pivot, his gold-rimmed eyes assessing the area and Bane. One-on-one, Bane knew he wasn’t a match for the archangel in his midst. As a lower-class warrior angel, he never would be, but if he could reclaim his grace and ascend once more, there was a chance he could become an archangel and resume his place in Heaven.

  “UnHallowed. The war between Heaven and Hell has come to a crossroads.”

  No preamble to warm him up. No, ‘Hi, Bane. Long time no see.’ “You’re losing. It’s evident in the sulfur that stains the air wherever I travel. Since the Fall, the balance has turned. Too much darkness, not enough light, even though the Cruor is closed. Gideon saw to that.” Gideon—with the help of the warrior angel Dina—closing the portal to Hell and leaving at the first opportunity was common knowledge among the UnHallowed. Most approved of his actions, Bane included. He had no desire to return to Hell.

  The war was a battle of attrition. But while Darklings were made with nearly every human death, the soul only had two choices, ascend or descend. Ascension didn’t guarantee the soul would be an angel. Most souls enjoyed the bliss of eternity in Heaven. Few were suitable to be angels, and even less, warrior class angels or higher, archangels. Souls that descended eventually all became Darklings, Spaun, or other demons. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say crossing the threshold to Heaven was a bit more difficult than strolling into Hell.

  Michael grimaced. He paused at the edge of the fissure. “The portal to Hell being closed has had no bearing on the current state of matters. The Darkling scourge continues, flourishes even.” Michael seemed to struggle for words. His armor vanished, leaving the archangel clad in a myst robe. “I’ve come from the battlefield. Even though the Cruor is closed, the Darklings are not defeated.”

  “How is that possible when Darklings are little more that raving beasts?” Bane asked. The archangel had informed him of the problem years ago and hadn’t mentioned it since. Bane had noticed a steady flow of Darklings, which wasn’t unusual for Detroit.

  “The means have not been determined, though the results are manifesting at an alarming rate. We are losing the war.”

  Bane chuckled without an ounce of humor and waved a finger between the two of them. “We? ‘You are no longer one of us.’ Those were your exact words to me days after the Fall.”

  Michael’s gaze speared Bane. “You are not one of me which makes you perfect for this assignment.” His tone matter-of-fact professorial.

  AKA expendable. Bane wasn’t surprised, yet a block of ice settled in his chest where a nugget of respect had lived. “What do you want, Michael? Get to the point.”

  With a swipe of Michael’s hand, the fissure in the plateau widened. He dropped into the opening. Bane followed. He passed through the crack and landed thirty feet below. That unforgettable scent was thick as fog here, overpowering. The ache inside Bane twisted into a stabbing pain, threatening to bring him to his knees. The longing it evoked propelled him forward to trail behind Michael’s halo as the archangel moved down a narrow tunnel, illuminating the way for Bane.

  Though dark, no shadows lingered. Where they traveled, there would be no escape, no shadows for him to escape into. It didn’t matter. Whether here or above ground, Michael didn’t need a particular place to slaughter. Any time, any place, only Father’s word restricted the archangel and Seraph to the Throne.

  The tunnel ended at a small antechamber. Michael waited at the opposite end, at the entrance to a larger chamber. Bane crossed to him, their footsteps muffled by nature’s carpet. Michael continued, except, light was ahead of him instead of within him. He moved to the side, and Bane stepped past Michael and paused, his feet refused to move any further onto the hallowed ground. Lush trees only found in virgin rainforests and flowers—varieties from every corner of the world–filled the cavern Bane faced.

  There was only one way this glowing tropical bounty could exist inside a hillside outside of Detroit.

  “Braile gave the last of his grace to Gideon so that he and Dina could close the Cruor,” Michael said before Bane gathered the strength to ask which archangel had died. “And now, that sacrifice is in danger of being for naught.”

  Pain exploded in Bane’s chest. Not Braile. He was the best of all of them. Not only powerful, but kind. So damn kind. “What do you want of me, Michael?”

  “There is a farm outside of Danville. Be there tomorrow.”

  Cryptic much? Grass crunched beneath Bane’s feet, releasing bursts of that fragrance. He plucked a delicate orchid and crushed it in his hand. The scent exploded. Greedily, he brought the crushed petals to his nose and inhaled. Memories tripped over themselves. Memories he’d buried so long ago, he’d thought them gone forever. He remembered battles and the friends he lost in those battles, the wind rushing over his wings, the sun on his skin and so much more he’d tried to forget.

  He wanted it back, everything that was lost when he fell. This may be his ticket to get it all.

  Michael led the way topside as Bane said, “Why tomorrow? If the situation is so dire why wait?”

  “The farm house. Tomorrow at noon,” was all Michael said.

  Bane had an idea why. Michael would need more than one UnHallowed to guard the Cruor. Meeting at noon made the UnHallowed vulnerable to the sun, especially if Michael invited more than one. This was definitely a group project. “Are you putting me in charge?”

  “In charge of this task, yes,” M
ichael said as they stepped out of the cavern.

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Bane growled.

  Face to the wind, his dark hair whipping about, Michael stared at the city lights twinkling in the distance. “I know you are a minor warrior class angel with grandiose ideas that have no place in this present discussion. No one is in charge.”

  “That wasn’t our deal,” Bane snarled. “I’ve been out here killing Darklings when the rest of the UnHallowed have done nothing because you agreed to put me in charge. Now, you renege when you need something from me? What are you playing at, Michael?” Bane faced him, hands curled at his sides.

  “I do not play. I am a soldier and I follow orders,” his voice low, weighed by the truth of his words.

  Dread clenched Bane’s gut. There was only one being Michael took instructions from. “What orders?”

  “The UnHallowed are on their own. Rudderless, until one proves worthy to lead.”

  Empyreal steel to the throat would’ve been kinder. After all he’d done, going against his own kind to secretly meet with Michael, he still wasn’t worthy.

  “Prove yourself, Bane, and redemption is yours. The promise still stands.” Toneless, the words dropped with the finesse of a hammer striking a nail.

  Crimson glazed Bane’s vision. “Don’t piss in my mouth and tell me its wine. I’ve been down this dirt road already, paid my dues when none of the others did. Leadership is mine!” He thumped his chest.

  “Then claim it. You have the ability. You are UnHallowed.” Michael’s grave tone gave nothing away.

  Bane growled, “I’m more than UnHallowed and you need me, so stop pretending you don’t or I’m out of here.”

  “To go where?”

  One side of Bane’s mouth curled and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “You and I both know you are not the only game in town.” Spaun wouldn’t hesitate to take an UnHallowed into their circle of chaos.

  Michael freed his sword. Made of brimstone and empyreal steel, the sword was his, yet didn’t truly belong to him. He had it as a loaner until Metatron returned to claim it. So the story went. He brought the blade around and pointed it at Bane’s throat. “Where are they?”

  Bane shrugged. “I have no idea. That doesn’t mean I won’t spend the next thousand years searching for them, and not helping you.”

  “It is a poor choice to threaten me with Spaun, UnHallowed.”

  “It was a poor choice to promise me leadership then snatch it away. I know it’s impossible, but put yourself in my skin. How would you feel if someone took something you wanted?”

  The sword dropped from his throat and Michael invaded Bane’s aura by getting way too close. The temperature around them plummeted until frost covered the ground. Light bled from Michael’s gold eyes, his face twisted in rage. “Where is she?”

  Puzzled, Bane drew back. She? “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Who is she?”

  A growl rattled from the archangel. “You lie. Tell me where Gemma is.”

  Bane didn’t like the desperate, hostile edge to Michael’s voice or the way the angel vibrated with rage. The ground rumbled beneath their feet. An unhinged Michael could destroy more than a hillside.

  “I’m not lying. I don’t know any female named Gemma.” Was this something he could use as leverage?

  Lightning illuminated the sky and the wind morphed from a breeze into a gale. Michael’s gold gaze drilled into Bane, then the archangel stepped back, spread his wings, and with one great flap was gone.

  Sunlight touched the horizon and Bane’s skin began to itch. The night had ended. His rage bled from his pores and shook the hillside. Leadership of the UnHallowed belonged to him and no one else. He would settle for nothing less. First, he would discover who this missing woman was, then he would find her and use her until Michael delivered on all he promised.

  4

  Thirty minutes later, Amaya emerged from the sewers on Eighth Street, five miles from where she entered. She’d never pushed herself that hard. Having an UnHallowed on her trail was more than enough incentive. She was a sprinter, blinding bursts of speed was her advantage, not long-distance marathons. Amazing what one could do when they had no choice.

  Doubled over and gasping hard, she leaned against the dumpster. Another minute and she closed the manhole and stripped out of her avenger attire. She retrieved her jeans and sweatshirt from the duffle bag she’d hidden in the dumpster.

  She was hoofing down the sidewalk, the cool air drying the sheen of perspiration on her forehead, her ponytail slapping the back of her neck when the first rays of the sun turned the sky purple and pink. The garbage truck lurched into the alley. Her watch confirmed they were late. Either the donut shop at the beginning of their route was crowded or they got caught on the wrong side of the track by the 6 a.m. freight train. Whatever the reason, it worked in her favor.

  Food and sleep, in that order, was what she needed, especially after the unexpected run-in. Too bad the only money she had jangled. She pulled a granola bar out of the duffle bag and wolfed it down dry. It felt like her throat had been sandpapered, but her stomach didn’t mind. She had to run for the bus and, once aboard, stand as it chugged along, spewing smog.

  Not a single seat was available, so she leaned against a pole. Her muscles trembled as adrenaline bled out of her system. I’m safe. The sun is up. And I’m safe. He can’t follow me here.

  Twenty-two years, that’s how long she’d been preparing for that moment. And what did she do? She tucked tail and ran. All that training and she ran. The backs of her eyes burned. Not from tears! There wasn’t a single tear left in her body to shed. They burned from frustration and fatigue.

  She should have stood her ground and killed the UnHallowed. But…but…she didn’t expect him to be there. Stupid excuse, yet it was the truth. There she was, enjoying the tension in her muscles, the blood zinging through her arteries and veins, the exhilaration of the kill—nothing was better than watching Darklings explode and have their ash dust her skin—and then he was there.

  When he arrived, she had no clue. How long he watched, she had no clue. Why didn’t he strike, she had no damn clue. He was coming after her. Of that, she had no doubt. She wouldn’t be caught flatfooted again. Next time he would die.

  All this time she’d never seen an UnHallowed. Had been warned about them, extensively; warned to stay away. Run if she ever came across one. That was when she was young, and had more brawn than brains, before her training was complete. Before she was a thing to be feared. A Darkling killer.

  Soon to be a killer of the UnHallowed.

  A smile tweaked her lips. She had everything she needed. It wouldn’t be easy, but it wouldn’t be hard either. He may have seen her fight, studied her in their brief encounter. Killing Darklings had been easy since she hit puberty. Ten years later, she was leagues better than her twelve-year-old self. When that slicked back, black-haired demon with the aquamarine-crimson-rimmed eyes crossed her path again, it would be his last.

  She exited the bus. The sky had lightened, though not by much. A heavy overcast of clouds blocked most of the sun. Everything had a gray tinge on the still deserted streets. She looked at the clouds and pretended she could will them away. She wanted the sun, needed it to chase away the evil stubbornly clinging to her. Evil wasn’t supposed to be cloaked in such a seductive package that made her run hot and cold at the same time. Evil wasn’t supposed to be so damn alluring, enough to make her libido try to roll out the welcome mat.

  Her phone beeped. Pilar had sent her a text. Her best and only friend since they met at a Tai Kwon Do class wanted to meet for lunch at Amaya’s favorite Thai restaurant. Her mouth watered. She sent a thumbs up emoji and walked the rest of the way home. Exhausted, she climbed the five flights to her apartment, shoved her key into the lock, and entered. The Archangel Michael stood in the center of her studio apartment.

  The shock knocked her back a step. Her knees bent, her head bowed, prepared to fall in
supplication, but then both stiffened, and she stood, erect and angry. Six years, that’s how long it had been since the last time she’d seen him. Ten years since the last time she saw Braile. Both had abandoned her. So, they could both go to hell.

  “Michael.” She closed the door behind her and tossed her duffle bag into the only chair in the room.

  “Amaya.”

  He was next to the fold-down dining table, holding one of her homemade bombs. A small mason jar filled with gasoline, inside of a larger mason jar filled with holy water and iron shavings. Small holes in each lid through which passed a candle wick. She kept the lighter in her pocket and more at the bottom of her duffel.

  He placed the bomb back on the table. “Ingenious. Humans are so creative.”

  Amaya had been a child the last time she’d seen him, with a child’s perspective about herself and everything in her little world, even with the immense knowledge Braile had bestowed. The adoration and awe she once held withered each year of her mentor’s absence. Now, she assessed the archangel with a cool, practical eye.

  Not surprising he dominated the small space as only a six-foot-six, winged messenger of God could. From his white, tri-level gold threaded wings to his gold irises and hair the color of polished onyx, Michael stunned the senses. If he ever chose to walk amongst the humans, woe to the female population. Their hearts would never survive the encounter.

  She noted all of this in the abstract, as much like a child noting with dismay that their parent was prettier than them.

  She stepped forward. His gaze, those beautiful gold orbs she once admired and looked to for approval were emotionless. A few years hadn’t changed that stare or the hollowness it caused. Braile was different. He smiled at her. His gaze held warmth and praise, love. The love an orphan craved. “Six years and that’s what you came to say?”

  Was it her imagination or did the corners of Michael’s lips curl a fraction? Once, she once wasn’t worthy to look into his gold eyes. Today, she stared boldly.