Only One I'll Have (UnHallowed Series Book 4)

by Tmonique Stephens

  Gadreel sprung to his feet. “After I’m done.” They collided, the shockwave knocked the rest of the UnHallowed back. Gadreel had the experience, the height, and the weight advantage. He pinned Chay to the matted floor easily. Chay didn’t stand a chance.

  Neither did Gadreel.

  All that leather—every inch of him covered from the neck down—protected the world from Gadreel because he was a danger to every living thing on the planet. One touch from a man-made weapon and he’d become a weapon, and an indestructible slave. His control forfeited to the person who turned him. His will eased.

  Always so careful when out in public, leather bodysuit and head mask to protect himself. Always more in the shadows than in the world. Except when he was with his brethren. Except when he was the UnHallowed. They knew the rules.

  And he trusted them. Trusted Chay not to reach up and slap one hand to Gadreel’s forehead, the other to the back of his head, and siphon the life right out of him.

  Without an ounce of remorse, Chay leeched Gadreel’s power out of him. Gadreel realized what Chay was doing, and tried to pry his hands away, but it was too late. Once the process had begun, only the receiver could halt it, and Chay had no desire to stop.

  Gadreel swayed like a drunk forced to walk a straight line, but he didn’t go down, he was too strong to crumble. Chay kept siphoning while the rest looked on in horror? Acceptance? He didn’t care. Nothing would deflect from his duty. The duty he signed up for the day he found an abandoned infant in a Kentucky field. Thoughts filtered through the power siphoning into Chay, an unintended consequence. Chay was about to release him when Scarla’s image filled his head. Images of her at the bar, in the training center, in Siberia, and in the cage. None of his, which wasn’t an issue, until a shit storm of emotions came along with the images. Desire, need, craving, and lust. All centered on Scarla.

  What. The. Fuck.

  He hauled back and landed a fist to Gadreel’s jaw and heard the satisfying crunch. Gadreel fell sideways and hit the floor with enough force to it. Chay flipped him onto his back. His fist blurred as he pummeled Gadreel’s face. Hands grabbed him, attempting to drag him away. He shook them off, but Gadreel had recovered enough to land two jabs, one to Chay’s cheek, the other his temple. Chay didn’t think he’d ever been hit harder. He shook off the blows and flexed his power, shaking off the hands restraining him. Bodies landed behind him, but his attention remained on his hands circling the throat of the sonofabitch beneath him. He leaned in, got close to Gadreel’s ear. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Gadreel yanked him close. What the fuck did it matter. Either way, he hissed low to keep this between them and not the rest of the UnHallowed. Not yet. “You can’t have her. I won’t permit it.” Then he proceeded to siphon every bit of power out of the bastard.

  “Chay, stop!” someone shouted.

  He couldn’t. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. And he didn’t want to. Not. At. All.

  Shadows swallowed them, called by whom, he didn’t know. One second they were in the gym, the next they were in the Ink, in the stygian darkness comprising the shadows. A roiling landscape that was both home and an alien planet devoid of life except for the UnHallowed willingly imprisoned here.

  Gadreel stood one hundred yards away. In the shadows, distance was irrelevant.

  “I meant what I said, Gadreel. You’re like a brother to her.”

  Voice soft, but fierce, and clearly heard. “You and the rest are her brothers, her father. Not I. I left when—”

  “She was four. I remember,” Chay bellowed. One day Gadreel was there. The next he was gone from everyone’s life with no explanation, back to the shadows.

  “Hadn’t seen her until a few months ago. I am not her sibling, nor her father. Never was.”

  “And you think that’s enough. Your little statement makes it okay? I said I will not allow it.” His voice was raw, scathing.

  The shadows peeled away, revealing the gym again with all the players in the same position. The UnHallowed struggling to their feet from where Chay had tossed them. Kush was the exception. He stretched out Clint’s arms and forced him to grip the end of the weight bench. One swipe and his head would roll free of his body, denying Chay his due. “Don’t,” Chay commanded a little too late. The blade came down with a solid thud.

  A scream tore through the gym as two hands plopped onto the padded floor. The edge of the blade cauterized as it sliced cleanly through. Kush kicked the hands into the shadows and bent close to Clint’s ear. “Try hitting a female now.”

  Kush spun and faced Chay.

  “Why did you do that?” Chay asked, surprised by Kush’s restraint.

  “He has atoned.” Was all Kush said as an explanation as if that were enough. It wasn’t.

  “He hasn’t atoned to me,” Chay snarled. Before he could utter another word, the snapping of multiple bones breaking in quick succession halted him.

  Gadreel held the human. His hands clamped around the human’s head, the neck twisted at an unnatural angle. He dropped the human like the trash that it was. Without a single glance, he hefted the body onto his shoulders and stepped back into the shadows waiting for him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Not a single word was uttered as the display froze on the image of Gadreel snapping the human’s neck. The inexcusable, undeniable pleasure on his face was an affront to everything the Celestial Order defended.

  Michael bit back a curse and kept his features as blank as the chamber walls of the Council of Archangels. No table to sit at, he and the four others sat on stone benches in a loose formation, in silence.

  “What more evidence do we need? The UnHallowed must die,” spoke Tsadkiél, the Archangel of Justice. Her empyreal armor formed to cover her from the neck down. Two swords, one clasped in each hand as her gray and white wings flared, prepared to fly her into battle.

  “This decision cannot be made in haste,” Nathanal spoke.

  “Haste?” Odrael, Archangel of the First Heaven, chose to stay in his celestial form of a being made of pure light. “Thousands of millennia have passed. Nothing has been done in haste, including this final judgment.”

  Tsadkiél began to pace, her feathers quivering in agitation or excitement, which one Michael wasn’t sure. “They have had their chance, Michael, and they have done nothing with it.”

  “Except sulk and bemoan their lot in life as if their misery was forced upon them, and not richly deserved,” Nathanal, Archangel of the Elements, summed with cool logic. Dressed in calming blue tones, the color reflected his mood.

  “You would have Braile’s sacrifice be in vain?” Michael spoke for the first time, each word measured.

  Nathanal’s color shifted from the calming blues to a charcoal. “When he came to us spouting about the redemption of the UnHallowed, we told him of the absurdity, yet he pressed on. He pursued his folly against our wishes. First, sacrificing himself for an infant—”

  “Who remains a disappointment,” Tsadkiél interrupted, her arrogance concealed under a thin veil.

  “I agree.” Nathanal nodded at Tsadkiél and continued. “And instead of his grace returning to the Heavenly Host after his ill-conceived suicide, he bestowed all of it to that human who went on to divide it amongst the UnHallowed, as if it was some spoils of war.” He stared at Michael with unblinking intensity in a silent demand for a rebuttal.

  Braile’s sham defeat in a battle against Gideon, a common angel, wasn’t ill-conceived. It was downright idiotic. Michael kept his opinion to himself.

  Odrael cleared his throat. “I’m certain you recall the council stayed our judgment of the UnHallowed at Braile’s request, and at yours after his demise. After this latest affront, we must act in accordance with our laws.”

  Anger seared Michael. There was nothing worse than having to defend the UnHallowed, but defend them he must. Braile’s gift must not be wasted, and there was Gemma. Killing the UnHallowed would leave her in Hell, and leave him with one recourse, something he
could not contemplate. “You expect the UnHallowed to follow our laws when they are no longer one of us? When we’ve banned them from our presence and even denied their existence?” He managed to keep the irony out of his voice.

  The brightness of Odrael’s light dimmed. “Michael, less than two weeks after receiving Braile's grace, they have killed a human.”

  “That was not the first human an UnHallowed has killed in two thousand millennia,” Michael dryly pointed out.

  Tsadkiél hefted one of her empyreal blades onto her shoulder and paused in front of Michael. “It is the first time since they absorbed the grace of an archangel. They have dishonored his sacrifice.”

  Michael did not disagree, nevertheless, more than the life of a single human was at stake. And more than a single UnHallowed, though Michael doubted culling one from the herd would be easy or even possible. For all their bickering, when threatened, the UnHallowed united. “We are discussing one among the many, are we not?”

  “It is my belief they are all equally guilty. Seven UnHallowed went to that establishment with the intent to kill. They should all suffer the consequences and forfeit their lives.” Tsadkiél’s pace began anew.

  Michael studied her with a carefully neutral gaze. Tall and powerfully built, the Archangel of Justice wielded her blade with righteous fury. Her kills were clean, effortless, so he’d been told. He’d never seen her in battle, much less wield her sword against one of their kind. “Are you certain you can take their lives from them?”

  Pride is a sin even the strongest have succumbed to. Tsadkiél was no different as her spine stiffened and her golden gaze zeroed on Michael. “They are UnHallowed and will easily succumb to justice at the edge of my blade,” she said with ultimate confidence.

  Michael smiled at her bold declaration. He had no doubt many would forfeit their head to her. His thoughts went to Bane, Gideon, Ioath, Chayyliél, Daghony, and Rimmon. Tahariél, Kushiél, Gadreel, and possibly Zedekiél had an even chance of defeating her. But there was one…

  “Sammiél, where do you see the Archangel of Death in your conquest of the UnHallowed.” Her lips parted to answer, but Michael wasn’t done. “May I point out, I did not include former with his title.” Her mouth slowly closed. He figured she’d forgotten that small, vital detail. “Though he is UnHallowed, Sammiél did not fall with his brethren. His sacrifice”—he paused for effect—“the monthly whippings with his own tri-cord weapon, ensures their salvation. He is still the Archangel of Death.” He let his statement sink in for a moment, then added, “Do you continue to believe all the UnHallowed will fall beneath your blade, and, do you believe he will standby and allow you to slay the UnHallowed he continues to bleed for?”

  Tsadkiél’s pace slowed with each sentence Michael uttered until she ceased moving and leaned on her blades in a casual stance, which belied the worried frown knitting her brows together.

  “Your point is valid, Michael.” Nathanal’s voice broke the strained quiet. “However, I side with Tsadkiél. Their sin cannot be ignored.”

  “They are demons, Nathanal. You expect demons to follow the tenets of our Father. Impossible, even with the grace of Braile, they remain UnHallowed and cannot be judged by standards that do not apply.” Odrael’s light intensified and Michael felt that intensity focus on him.

  “With the full might of the Celestial Army, none of the UnHallowed will be left alive to flout Father’s tenets,” Nathanal said.

  Michael forgot himself and snorted. “What army? Do you speak of the army that continues to lament their actions on the slopes of Kilimanjaro? The army in deep mourning for their accidental slaughter of innocent humans and their dead brethren who’d laid down their blades and accepted death at the hands of Spaun as punishment?” Nathanal’s color changed to a deep orange, a mixture of embarrassment and budding fury.

  Michael sighed. He’d spent too much time with Amaya. Even after all the years since he trained her, her temperament had rubbed off and stuck. “Forgive my ire, Nathanal. I mean no insult.”

  Nathanal inclined his head in acceptance of the apology, though his color didn’t change. So be it.

  “If not killed for their transgression, then what must we do to curb their bloodthirstiness?” Tsadkiél resumed her seat, her armor and blades had vanished.

  “They need a purpose,” Odrael stated. The intensity of his aura wavering.

  “They had a purpose when they fought the Demon Army in Siberia.” With Amaya, Michael didn’t add. “They became a unit that saved the Cruor and now guards it. Killing the UnHallowed would leave the portal to Hell unguarded.” He didn’t need to remind them that angels couldn’t touch it with their bare hands, much less guard it without consequences that would compromise the entire army. That was the way of evil. The pure wouldn’t stay that way forever in its presence.

  “You are leading us somewhere, Michael. I would like to get there within this millennium,” Tsadkiél bit out.

  “Brethren.” For the first time, the soft, lilting voice of Iaiél sounded, silencing everyone. She sat to Michael’s right on a cushioned bench, her white wings a shroud around her body so that only her delicate features showed. She was tiny, childlike in statue and form, though she was one of the oldest archangels. She was also the Harbinger. Her word carried as much weight as Michael’s, which was why they were sparse and careful. She never told exactly what vision Father chose to reveal. She spoke in hints and innuendo, vague references to give the illusion of free will. Michael wished he could ignore her. He’d done so once when she warned of a coming rift, which placed them at this current impasse thousands of millennia later.

  Iaiél cleared her throat as if rusty from lack of use. “All of your points have merit; however, we are at an unacceptable disadvantage, one that cannot be sustained with the growing threat from the Spaun, the Darklings, and a Demoni Lord whose loyalty is questionable. The UnHallowed are unruly, undisciplined, and a force to be reckoned with. However, they are what our Celestial Army was before they were gutted. They are strong and what we need.”

  Michael sat quietly, keeping his pleasure to himself, while Nathanal turned crimson with quiet rage, Tsadkiél’s lips peeled back in a feral snarl, and Odrael’s light vanished, revealing his angelic form dressed in white and silver robes.

  Iaiél’s golden gaze drifted to Michael as Tsadkiél hissed, “They are murderous, whoremongers who are unclean and cannot be allowed into Heaven.”

  Michael arched an eyebrow and glared at Tsadkiél. “I did not suggest we have a welcoming ceremony and give them a personal tour. That would indeed be disastrous. What I suggest is we give them the direction they sorely need and carefully guide them back to the fold—at an arms-length.” They had to see the logic, even if he had to pry their eyelids open and draw a picture.

  “Mercenaries. You want them to be mercenaries.” Incredulity laced Tsadkiél voice.

  Iaiél nodded once, in agreement Michael hoped. “Since we have no army until their atonement has ended, we have no other choice.”

  Nathanal growled. “Mercenaries go to the highest bidder.”

  “Then, that is what we will be,” Iaiél whispered, her gaze flat, but the hint of a smile lifted the corners of her lips.

  Hope, such a human emotion. The vote had to be unanimous, there was no way around it. Michael met each council member’s gaze, and hoped. “Are we in agreement?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sophie stared into the mirrored barroom wall at the stranger staring back at her. No, not quite a stranger since the eyes were the same blue they’d always been. Also, the angular face with the thin eyebrows and pointed weak chin. The mole an inch above the corner of her mouth, that hadn’t changed either. It was her, just a new model.

  She touched her bare neck, amazed at the cool air kissing her nape. Five inches, that’s how much the hairdresser whacked off after she dyed it back to her natural jet-black color. Now, she had a long asymmetric bob favoring the right side. Add the fuck me red lips, smoky bedroo
m eyes with mascara that made her lashes a mile long, and she was fucking hot. So said all the attention the men in the bar threw her way.

  Ellen had the right idea. The spa, mani-pedi, and new hairdo had lifted both their spirits. The full body, deep tissue massage had been a gift from heaven, especially after she had every part of her waxed. The day had been perfect, exactly what she needed. For the first time in forever, she and her mother had spent hours together without a single argument. It was nice until Ellen brought up Caleb.

  Sophie shied away from the memory of that conversation and her new glammed up appearance to take a sip of her drink. Her thoughts skipped to Chay, which didn’t help lowering her anxiety level or her guilt.

  How could she not feel guilty when she sat in that jail cell praying he’d rescue her, knowing exactly what the rescue would require? To save her, he did the same thing she’d castigated him for, erasing the memories of every person who’d witnessed her whipping Bobby’s ass. That number included hospital staff and law enforcement. And she was grateful, grateful, he’d done it. Talk about pot and kettle being black.

  “Evening.”

  Pretty boy had been watching her since she planted her ass on the stool over an hour ago. He smiled. She didn’t. She’d offered no encouragement, yet here he was in her face. Good thing he was cute with his dirty blond hair and green eyes. She tipped her head and gave a nod.

  He signaled the bartender with two fingers and pointed to his beer and her glass. “You got a name?”

  She liked his boldness. No beating around the bush with a bullshit pickup line. So she answered. “Sophie.”

  “Ronnie. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands and he leaned in, creating an artificial intimate moment. He had strong hands, calloused. Coupled with broad shoulders and a tight body, he was her type of guy, rugged. The type of guy that would’ve had her panties wet before he’d said a single word before she’d met Chay. The comparison came easily to mind. Chay was taller, broader, his hair longer, his beard a tad scruffier. Add his darker, deadly, yet completely laid back Don’t fuck with me or mine attitude. And those pewter, red-rimmed eyes of his…