Sophie snorted. “Honest?”
She propped one hand on her hip. “Yes. Even though I’m a demon, I am honest. I have to be. It is in the pact. I can’t trick or fool you.”
Good to know if that was indeed the truth. “Get to the point.”
“I will if you stop interrupting me. As I was saying, this is a business proposition, an even exchange of goods. You give me what I want, I give you what you’ve lost.”
“A baby? Unless you got a pair of balls germinating some swimmers and a cock delivery system under your clothes, you can’t help me get a baby. Fact is, I don’t want you to give me a baby. I can find a willing donor in the lobby.”
Celine shrugged one elegant shoulder and nodded. “All true…except, can they give you the baby you lost? The baby Ozzy beat out of you? The little girl you grieve for?”
Sophie’s brain stalled, then went through a hard reboot. Her muscles locked onto her skeleton in one giant spasm. The glass shattered in her hand, shards dug into her palm. No tears wasted for the pain because every inch of her hurt, she focused on the Crossroad demon in front of her.
“Caitlin is waiting for you, Sophie. She’s waiting for her mother.”
Between blinks, the demon now stood in front of Sophie. She stumbled back, hit the railing and had to lean on it for support. “And you can bring her back?” she croaked from a desert-dry throat.
Celine nodded once. “A pact with a Crossroad demon is sacred. A pact with a Crossroad demon is unbreakable. Once my oath is given, I must deliver.”
Her brain scrambled from too many thoughts pinging her cranium. All of the lost possibilities came roaring back, yet one thought pushed to the forefront. “What do you want in return?”
“The Cruor,” she said with no hesitation. “I want the portal to Hell. Give me that and Caitlin is yours.”
Chapter Thirty
The tri-cord whip gave a subtle hum as it sailed through the air and lashed deep into Sammiél’s chest, abs, and hip. His clamped teeth kept the groan from escaping. Too bad he couldn’t hide the shudder that left him trembling. This was his sacrifice, one he bore alone without the awareness of his fellow UnHallowed.
Another hum, another blinding flash of pain. This time the empyreal whip that once belonged to him, penetrated to the bone and fractured six ribs. Michael waited a beat, then yanked it free, sending flesh and bone flying across the pristine Salt Flats of Utah. It landed yards away, a wet, gooey, blackish mass laced with gold stardust.
Braile’s grace.
Michael paused the flaying, his gaze on his handiwork splayed across the sands. A tic on his jaw marred the stoic mask he’d perfected. Something was off with the archangel. Good, I hope whatever it is ruins his fucking century. A petty thought but it was all Sammiél had.
Break time over, the whip sang a full opera as it tore into him. Agony twisted through his body. The only thing that made it somewhat bearable was that he wasn’t suffering alone. Gift or curse, the tri-cord whip joined the wielder and the receiver together in a symbiotic relationship. Every blow Michael landed on Sammiél, he felt it on his own flesh.
By his unbowed stance, he didn’t feel it enough, Sammiél thought as his pride withered and his knees buckled. He gave his weight to the salt vines wrapped around his arms. Better than leaning on the salt pillars. Nothing was worth the additional agony.
Another lash, this one more powerful than the last. Fuck! It took everything he had not to arch away from the whip. His empyreal whip! His empyreal sword had never left his side. It refused the call to return to Heaven, proof he remained the Archangel of Death. The whip was the same. He had to hand it to Michael.
This session had been the worst. He blamed it on Braile’s grace but couldn’t generate any anger to curse the dead chancellor. Instead, he waited for the sharpest edge of the pain to recede. It didn’t. The lashes continued until the world blurred in a haze of pain.
He had a vague notion of hours passing and of silence…except for the steady drip, drip, drip of something wet hitting the sand. It was him, he realized. Michael had no reason to bleed.
Sammiél forced his eyes to open. Chin planted in his chest, he had a view of the black sand at his feet mixed with Braile’s wasted grace. That wasn’t what he wanted to see. With effort, he lifted his head and met Michael’s golden gaze.
“Are you recovered enough to stand on your own, or do you need more time?”
Michael’s flat tone didn’t fool Sammiél. The archangel enjoyed these sessions regardless of the pain he suffered. Sammiél tried to straighten, to get his feet under him, but none of his muscles cooperated. He’d never been so weak. “Give me a week.”
The whip in one hand, Michael extended his other. Power washed over the landscape in a gentle wave emerging from Michael’s palm. Before Sammiél could ask, droplets of grace separated from his disgrace splattered on the Salt Flats. Drawn to each other, they clumped together, forming a glowing sphere in the space between him and Michael. It smelled of Heaven and Braile, and all the things Sammiél missed from the world he’d abandoned to save the UnHallowed.
Slowly, he straightened. He wanted to bear witness to Michael sending Braile’s grace back to where it belonged. No regrets, Sammiél mumbled, “Thank you.”
Except… The sphere slammed into Sammiél’s chest. It wrapped him in an embrace stronger than a vise, yet with no pain. The grace poured into his wounds, seeped into his pores, and knit him all back together as only grace could, in seconds. The vines released him, and the pillars collapsed to the salt bed, but he stood tall. His strength had returned in a rush. More strength than he had before.
His wings appeared and arched over his shoulders. He didn’t transform. His alter ego—the flaming black skull—remained hidden under layers of flesh and muscle. “What’s changed? Why do I feel this way?”
Michael tipped his head to the black staining the sand. “You have lost a few pints of sewage and none of Braile’s gift. The ratio has shifted.” With a flick of his wrist, the whip retracted into the hilt and disappeared into the folds of his robe.
Sammiél folded his arms and eyed Michael with contempt. “I’d say thank you, but I don’t buy your generosity. Why?” Why make me stronger.
“The Council of Archangels has a proposition for you.”
“Excuse me?” Sammiél tossed back his head and laughed. Oh, the irony. He beats me, heals me, gives me added strength, and then offers me a job.
“The services of the UnHallowed are needed.”
If it were anyone else, he’d swear they were joking. There wasn’t a humorous bone in Michael’s angelic body. Whatever the offer, Michael was serious. The offer wasn’t bullshit.
Sammiél had to tread carefully. All the UnHallowed included the ones in the shadows, the ones that wanted nothing to do with humanity, some of which hadn’t ventured out of the shadows since the Fall. They didn’t mix well with others. However, this monthly ritual wasn’t only for the ten UnHallowed he rode with. He fell and took the oath to protect each and every one of the ungrateful bastards. “All of them?”
“No.” Michael’s no argument tone wasn’t an issue. “Only the ones with Braile’s grace.”
That was a small relief and Sammiél wholeheartedly agreed. Those in the shadows, that hornet’s nest was better left undisturbed. “What do you want?”
“We wish to hire the services of the UnHallowed.”
He should walk away. After the whipping, there was no reason to stay. But Michael had said we, which meant The Council of Archangels—those pretentious assholes—backed Michael’s plan. Or rather, their plan. The request was too grandiose to be Michael’s alone. “Hire the UnHallowed for what?”
“We need an army.”
“You have an army.” The Celestial Army Sammiél was once a part of.
“They are locked in atonement for the deaths on Kilimanjaro. They could be out of commission for the next century.”
Sammiél rocked back on his heels. “And you expect
the UnHallowed to take their place?”
Michael gave a single nod. “That is our desire.”
“Man, you gotta get better desires.” That wasn’t him talking, it was Scarla, and he fucking approved.
One black eyebrow raised a fraction. “Are you refusing?” Smooth as silk on skin, Michael demanded.
A fuck you smile slid across Sammiél’s face, perfected by studying an irritating teenager with an affinity for giving the middle finger to anyone in authority. “Yeah.”
The eyebrow returned to its ho-hum state. Stoic mask in place, only his lips moved. “For all of them?”
Sammiél knew where this was headed. “You brought this to me. Dropped it in my lap. You wanted me to agree for all of them because I bleed for all of them. So, I can refuse, for all of them.”
Michael blinked, completely unnecessary. The move gave him time to steady his emotions. “Are you not interested in knowing what we’re offering for your service?”
What he meant was servitude. Something no UnHallowed would agree to.
Sammiél gave his answer with a hard flap of his wings and took to the skies. He needed to find a shadow to merge with.
Michael caught up to Sammiél in a thick cloud bank within seconds. “We are not done,” he growled, all civility gone.
“Shall I tell you no in another language?” Sammiél didn’t want to fight Michael, but his sword was only a thought away.
Michael swung around to block Sammiél’s path, his white and gold, tri-level wings beating in sync. “We have another agreement on the table and I’ve seen no results.”
Ah, now we get around to it. “You speak of the Angel Gemma.”
Michael nodded, his face in a tight scowl. Sammiél had a flash of sympathy for the archangel. Staid and stoic Michael had fallen in love. Did he even realize it, or did he see his obsessive actions as part of his duty? Sammiél hoped it was the latter, even if the repercussions could be disastrous for Michael, it’d be hell for everyone. “I sent a Reaper. It could take some time.”
“It’s been a month.”
It was almost cute seeing him flustered. “I know how to tell time. Do you? Time on here”—he waved at the sky and the ground a mile below them—“is fundamentally different than time in Hell. You’d remember this if your dick wasn’t in a twist over this lost angel.”
Michael closed the distance between them until a scant breath separated the two. “Time is relative, except when you are a slave or tortured, which she certainly is. I expected quicker results.” His grip tightened on the whip back in his hand.
Sammiél changed his mind. Michael flustered wasn’t cute at all. It was dangerous. The pact between him and Father had been completed on the Salt Flats—for this month. If Michael raised the whip, Sammiél’s whip, to strike him again, the fucking pact would go up in flames, because one of them would be no more than ashes.
“You want quicker results, then do it yourself. Break Father’s law, go into Hell and retrieve her yourself.” It was written on Michael’s face that’s exactly what he wanted to do but wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Archangel Michael, the right hand of God, and he couldn’t scratch his balls without permission, permission he didn’t have.
“If that’s all, ‘til next time.” Sammiél fell into the clouds with Michael’s voice chasing him.
“Find her, Sammiél. You gave me your word. Now find her!”
Chapter Thirty-One
Leaving the farm had been easier than expected with all the UnHallowed playing nursemaid. The job had ended when more pressing matters reared its head—the war with the demons. The only ones left were Gideon and Bane, who stayed to be with Dina and Amaya, guarding the women and the homestead. Even Chay had left the nest and patrolled, hunting for a fight. Nothing else to do with Sophie ignoring his repeated phone calls.
Scarla was done waiting for her best friend to call and she was done healing. Most of her bruises had faded and a dull ache replaced the pain. Time would take care of her physical ailments. The rest of her issues…well…they’d better suck it up ‘cause she was through being a victim.
One phone call was all it took to find Dimi’s location. In the week and change since her glorious defeat, he’d scaled back his underground operation. Word on the street was he signed a deal with the International Mixed Martial Art Federation to take his stable of fighters into the light and out of the dark. No more backroom fights. Dimi was going legit…sort of.
Parking was scarce, surprising since Dimi staged this fight on an airport hangar at the back of an unused runway. He’d drawn quite a crowd for tonight’s event. Possibly his last. Well, she hoped to make it memorable. Was the least she could do in honor of their long relationship.
The roar of the crowd, coupled with the smell of jet fuel made for an odd combination. In the distance, a passenger plane climbed into the night sky, the pale metal reflecting the moonlight. She wondered where it was going, some place tropical? Europe maybe? Or the Far East? Japan. The island nation was on her bucket list. Then it was gone, its blinking wings and tail merged with the night.
Stop stalling. She parked her crotch rocket as close to the hanger as possible, not for a quick getaway she told herself. She took off her helmet and fluffed her hair. A quick glance in her side mirror confirmed the new cut and color—sunset brown—had been the right choice. The pixie cut left her neck and left side of her head bare, the rest was feathered and layered on the right.
New look, new you, right?
She climbed off her bike and weaved through the parking lot, glad she hadn’t worn heels to get stuck in the soft field. Tonight, she’d gone for the low-key approach. Black jeans, white blouse, black jacket, Audrey Hepburn shades covering half her face. The least attention she drew, the better. The plan: get in, talk to Dimi, make an agreement, and get out.
Her phone buzzed. She retrieved it from an inner pocket. Damn it, it was Chay calling. She pressed ignore and followed up with a text.
Needed some fresh air.
No worries. Be home soon.
She didn’t need the backup. This was a friendly conversation between associates. The entrance had a line. Either she’d wait like a regular schmo under the radar, or they’d announce her presence, letting Dimi and his crew know she was here before she got the lay of the land.
She caught the eye of a few guys who nudged each other and whispered. The new do hadn’t fooled anyone.
Fuck it. There was nothing regular about her.
She took her shades off and strutted to the head of the line. The bouncer took one look at her and tapped the guy next to him. “Nice to have you back, Divinity. I gotta pat you down since you’re not fighting.”
“No sweat. Do your job.” She held out her arms and stood there while they swept a handheld metal detector down her back, between her legs, and over her front. Though nothing touched her body, she still felt violated, especially because the bouncers knew her. Guess this was what a fall from grace felt like.
“Divinity’s here. You wanna see her?” The one not giving her the once over asked into his mouthpiece. “Yes, sir. Mr. Risnikov will spare you some time after the fights. You’re free to enter and enjoy the show.” He stepped aside and unhooked the velvet rope for her to pass.
She noted the large crowd and wondered who was on the card tonight as she circled the edge of the crowd. This many people only came out for a title match. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but like a stone thrown into a pond, she caused a ripple. They already knew she was here.
So, what was she afraid of?
Good question. She hated the indecision eating at her. The fear she’d never become acquainted with because she was UnHallowed, now, it controlled her life. Suddenly, every thought centered around her mortality. Before Siberia, she thought in terms of centuries, not decades. She had all the time in the world to achieve every single one of her undefined goals. This morning she stared into the bathroom mirror checking for wrinkles.
She headed for the bar an
d asked for Ciroc, no ice. By the time her drink arrived, and she had her first sip, she had company. Browny was next to her. Named for his skin color and his sweet tooth. They were the same height, five eleven, and though not best friends, they were more than cordial. Even shared a kiss and some heavy petting in the early days, though had never taken it further. “Hey,” she said and waited for his reaction.
“I knew it was you.” He held up a finger to the bartender and pointed at her drink.
“What gave me away?” she asked.
“Nobody has your swagger and ‘tude.” He saluted her with a toast. “How you been?” With a shrewd eye, he sized her up.
“Recovered.” She knew he referred to her ass whipping. No use trying to pretend otherwise.
“I was there that night.” He rubbed his forehead. “Don’t remember much after you were down. Did you hear what happened to Androgina?”
“Um, no.” Why would she keep tabs on the woman that beat her into next week?
“Murdered. Both hands cut off and cauterized.” He wiggled his fingers at her. “Neck snapped. Staff found him in the back of the twenty-four-hour gym.”
Her sixth sense tuned to all things UnHallowed spiked. “Did he get them mangled in a machine?”
“Nope. Clean cut. Heard there wasn’t any blood either, probably because whoever killed him had moved the body,” he whispered in her ear as if there was a conspiracy. “Freaky. Shit.”
Not even close. She’d have to have a talk with the UnHallowed.
“You here to see Dimitri?”
She nodded.
“He was really mad when you lost.” The worry on his face suggested Dimi was still mad.
“I can imagine.” She tossed back the rest of her drink. “I’m here to clear the air.”
Browny nodded and dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Good.” He leaned close to say something else, but the crowd went wild. “Last fight.”
Only One I'll Have (UnHallowed Series Book 4) Page 21