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

by Tmonique Stephens

  “That’s not possible,” Chay snarled. He stared at Bane, Kush, and Gideon. At the foot of the bed, Gadreel paced with the ferocity of a trapped animal.

  “It wasn’t possible until it was,” Bane spoke from the opposite side of the room. He came forward and sat at the end of the bed. “She’s not healing.”

  “I noticed.” Voice low, Chay wallowed in helpless fury.

  Dina and Amaya hustled into the room. One carried bandages and the other carried a basin filled with soapy water and washcloths. “She should be in a hospital.” Amaya placed the bowl on the nightstand.

  Scarla groaned. Her head rolled from side to side. Immediately, Chay knelt by her side and took her hand. “Where does it hurt?”

  A grimace tightened her face and she wheezed, “Everywhere.”

  “I’m taking you to a hospital.” He rose, ready to scoop her up. The shadows were already reaching for him.

  Amaya dropped her hand on his shoulder. “I agree with the hospital, but you can’t go through the shadows. Not with her.”

  “She’s half UnHallowed. It won’t cause her any more pain than she’s already in.” Careful of the sheet, he wrapped it around her.

  “Stop, Chayyliél, and listen to what we’re trying to explain,” Dina said. “The reason she’s not healing quickly—as quickly as she normally would—the reason she lost the fight… She’s not UnHallowed anymore.”

  The room went silent except for Scarla’s raspy breathing, and all eyes shifted to Amaya.

  “Um. I think when Braile healed everyone, he really healed everyone. You guys regained some of your angelic powers and Scarla lost whatever abilities she gained by being half UnHallowed. He stripped her of them. So now, she’s human, although, I don’t believe all of what made her UnHallowed is gone, otherwise she’d be dead.”

  Before Chay could demand how Amaya knew this, she continued. “Her breathing has improved in the past hour. Like me, Braile didn’t take everything. Some of her is still UnHallowed.” Amaya dipped her washcloth into the basin water and wrung the excess out. “Everyone with a dick please leave so we can get her cleaned up and bandaged.”

  Chay and the rest of the UnHallowed filed out of the room, Gadreel lingered, the last one to leave. Chay waited until the bedroom door closed then turned on his brothers. “You all stood there and watched her be beaten.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Gideon said. “Everything happened fast. It was hard to process.”

  “Yet slow,” Kush spoke, his voice full of guilt. “I froze, couldn’t believe my eyes. Thought it was a ruse to extend the fight, amp up the crowd.”

  Bane motioned for everyone to follow him downstairs, away from Scarla’s bedroom door. “I did too. Scarla losing was never a thought,” he said, reaching the newly designed library.

  Chay gave the unfurnished, bare space a cursory glance, noting it was perfect if fists started swinging. He needed to hit something, make something bleed, profusely. The night had been long enough after dealing with Sophie. Now, his attention landed on Kush, Gadreel, Gideon, and Bane. And on himself.

  “I failed Scarla more than any of you because I wasn’t there to protect her. I relied on our UnHallowed bond to warn me if she ever needed me, not realizing it was gone.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “I’ve been so preoccupied with…everything. I didn’t realize the space she filled inside me was gone. She’s not connected to me anymore.” Now he had two hollow cavities echoing inside him.

  “She’s not connected to the UnHallowed anymore,” Gadreel finally spoke in a barren of any emotion. “I felt the emptiness a few days ago. Thought it was a realigning of the new grace filtering through my system.”

  Chay nodded in agreement, along with the rest of the UnHallowed. “Though a hollowness inside me remains. Can’t you all feel it?”

  Chay closed his eyes and shifted his sight inward to search through the ether of what humans would’ve considered a soul. It wasn’t as dark as it used to be. Instead of inky bands, mercurial strands interwoven with gold and silver sailed through the disgrace. Some strands wide, others no thicker than a hair, though that wasn’t what he searched for.

  He searched for the nexus, the weblike filaments invisibly attaching each member of the UnHallowed to the other. He found it, but it was half its diameter, and mercurial and gold, not inky. And something else. Something startling.

  His eyes snapped open. “I’m not connected anymore.”

  “Not true. We’re connected to each other and to Daghony, Rimmon, Tahariél, Sammiél, Ioath, and Zedekiél,” Bane said.

  “But no one else.” Chay stood in the center of the room, fighting the quiet panic roaring through his system. “We’re cut off from the rest of the UnHallowed?”

  Gadreel nodded solemnly. “To them, those who remained in the shadows—”

  “Those who weren’t in Siberia—” Kush cut Gadreel off.

  “We’re not connected anymore.”

  ~~~~~

  A strange ache flared in Sammiél’s temple. His steps faltered over the lush grass and he tried to latch onto the source, but it was gone as quickly as it arrived. Daeden didn’t hide his speculation. He stared, blatantly, with only a microscopic amount of concern.

  They continued to the center of the meadow strewn with daffodils and dandelions. Shadows moved beneath the lone tree, visible to the human eye via the crescent moon. Sammiél didn’t have human eyes and needed no light to see the Reapers. Six of them. Grim, Liqis, Blitz, Finis, Wyste, and Slyne. Sammiél had seen none of them since the Fall and didn’t miss the interaction. Yet, here he was, about to lay down the law.

  “Are you my chaperone?”

  Daeden grunted. “I want no misunderstanding on where I stand.”

  “I feel so safe.” Not that he was concerned. Even without Braile’s upgrade, he could have defeated the Reapers, maybe not all at once, he admitted. Not without his whip.

  Approaching, Sammiél studied the six in their black, smoky shrouds. Some kept to the traditional full cloak with the bleached white skull. Two out of the six had modified into a type of ninja costume with plenty of embellishments. One eschewed the bleach white skull in favor of no face at all beneath the hood.

  Concerned about a dress code when treachery tainted the wind? He smiled at his own absurdity.

  An uneasy ripple went through the six and the one at his side. He’d linked to all of them the moment the six appeared. Every reaction, he registered. When searching for a traitor, every tactic and advantage had to be employed. Unfortunately, with the link, they could feel his reaction as much as he felt theirs. It was an intimate invasion he abhorred, as were so many things in his existence. But one did what one must.

  They came forward, weapons of their trade strapped to their backs, not in their hands. The six moved as a unit. Maybe this would be easier than he thought. If they all worked together, then they were all traitors, not just one.

  Tension arced between him and the six. Not a single word had been spoken, and weapons were about to be drawn.

  “Your suspicions aren’t helping. Innocent before proven guilty,” Daeden murmured for Sammiél’s ears alone.

  Sammiél smirked. “This is not a human court, and I am judge, jury, and executioner.”

  “Not without your whip.” The Reaper to the right, the one without a face, spoke.

  With a flex of his power, Sammiél stripped their shrouds from their bodies. No one would be anonymous today. Daeden gave each a name. Sammiél didn’t give a shit what they called themselves. This wasn’t a team building exercise.

  Or maybe it was.

  He studied the three that he knew—Blitz, Finis, and Grim. He saw them a few centuries after the Fall when humans had spread to all corners. When wars slaughtered thousands and Reapers multiplied. They came to him where he lived, in the shadows, for guidance. He sent them away, not caring about their duty and honor since his was lost.

  Still lost.

  “I am resuming leadership of the Reapers.
” There, he’d said it. Didn’t make him want the responsibility any more than he wanted his nuts in a vice. Thank you, Scarla, for the imagery.

  Clapping, that’s what he got from Finis. Grim shook his head. Liqis and Slyne looked at each other, then returned their attention to Sammiél. Wyste kept his gaze locked on Sammiél. Blitz folded his arms across his chest, a slight curl to the corner of his mouth.

  “Any objections?”

  Silence. Music to his ears. Then, Grim said, “That’s what you came to tell us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why us?” Finis waved a finger at the five beside him.

  “You six are the oldest and, according to Daeden, the ones he delegated the day to day running of things.”

  “We don’t need a leader,” Liqis said.

  “Even when we had good ole Daeden here in the hot seat, we didn’t need or want him, Liqis,” Slyne cut in.

  “We don’t need or want you,” Liqis added.

  Heat rose beneath Sammiél’s skin, yet he kept his transformation at bay. “Are you challenging me?” He directed at Liqis.

  “I am. You bailed and abandoned your duty. You don’t get to come back.” The transformation was quick

  Sammiél didn’t change. He kept his human form and called for his sword. Not the sword he wielded since his fall. Oh, the weapon appeared to be the same—he liked the mini skulls circling the hilt—the only difference, it was now empyreal. It couldn’t kill them, but it certainly wouldn’t tickle.

  He let the reaper strike first, blocking the swift arc of the scythe at the last second when he could’ve let it pass harmlessly through him. The sharp clang of metal meeting metal shook the ground.

  Liqis leapt away while Sammiél stood his ground. He ditched the scythe. Wise. In a true battle against a swordsman, it was useless, too unwieldy, especially against the Archangel of Death. Liqis replaced the scythe with a sword. Not one made from empyreal steel since only angels could touch the divine metal.

  The sword wielded by the Reaper was forged by a master smith, a fellow Reaper blessed with the skill to forge steel and brimstone into a formidable weapon. Scythe or sword, weapons that could kill anything, living or dead. Human or demon.

  The creator of the steel and brimstone weapon waited at a safe distance—Daeden.

  Still, Sammiél didn’t budge. He dodged three rapid fire attempts to behead him, then brought his blade with the skulls circling the hilt into play. The clank of steel shook the ground and reverberated across the silent hillside. The blow knocked Liqis back a foot. He took to the sky. Reapers didn’t have wings, didn’t need any. Their shrouds carried them aloft. Sammiél’s wings fanned out and he soared into the night. Liqis blended in, became one with the darkness. Sammiél was the darkness, inside and out. Nothing made from the night could escape him.

  He hadn’t come to this meeting for a game of cat and mouse. He came to assert his dominance over the Reaper Corp. As leader, he would make the mouse come to him. He didn’t have to wait long. The attack came from above. Liqis appeared with his blade inches away, then he was gone in a puff of charcoal mist. Sammiél tracked him, was slightly impressed when he vanished in another explosion of mist, and accurately predicted Liqis’s next appearance on the right. He’d ditched the blade in favor of his scythe, probably to make a point, the fool.

  Sammiél brought his sword up at the exact moment to cleave the shaft in two. He followed through, snatched Liqis by the throat, and took him to the ground, landing with the force of a meteor strike.

  “Do you yield?” Sammiél waited patiently while the dust settled around them. In his peripheral, the others waited equally as patient.

  Flames flickered in Liqis’s pitted eyes. The Reaper had balls and a smidgen of Sammiél’s respect. The stubbornness reminded Sammiél of Kushiél, his boldness remind him of Zedekiél.

  Sammiél snorted. “We are immortal. We have all the time in the world.”

  “The sun will rise.”

  “Not afraid of a tan,” said Sammiél. Tired of waiting, he stepped away from the body.

  Liqis leapt to his feet, human again, and limping.

  “Anyone else?” He knew the answer would be no. The fight wasn’t in them.

  “So, what now? We have weekly meetings? Sign-in sheets, or do we call in hourly?” Finis asked.

  “I understand that you six divided the world, each taking a continent, and controlling the Reapers there. Continue.” Sammiél walked away. That was enough for one night, especially when the sixth of the month was days away. The time for his monthly whipping had come again.

  Daeden caught up after a few steps. “That’s it. No interrogation? No rules?”

  “Nope.” Sammiél kept moving.

  “You waltz in, kick some ass, and leave.” Daeden huffed.

  Sam stopped. The only reason he glanced over his shoulder was because he knew the six were gone, yet the link he’d established remained strong. There wasn’t anywhere they could hide from him. And vice versa. “I got what I wanted. Saw what I needed to see. The next time, I will meet them one on one, without my chaperone.”

  “I’m dismissed?” Anger radiated from Daeden.

  Again, he’d have to thank his UnHallowed brothers for teaching him patience. “No, you are not dismissed. I want you to go back to your cabin—”

  “If that’s not being dismissed—”

  “And wait for the first Reaper to arrive. You will report to me who that person is.”

  Daeden’s brow arched. “So, now I’m to be an informant,” he growled.

  “Yes.” Sammiél felt a tug on his senses, a probing from Chay, followed by Kushiél, Tahariél, Bane, Gideon, and Gadreel.

  Ah hell! What the fuck now. He pulled the night to him and was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sophie plopped her ass down on the edge of the bed and sighed. She was done talking, drinking, eating, thinking. Sleep, complete and total oblivion, that’s what she wanted, and nothing else. She bounced on the bed and figured she’d be able to get that tonight.

  Ellen had provided her a robe, pajamas and toiletries for the night. It was nice, her mother providing for her needs. Such a simple act had Sophie welling up. Most would’ve taken it for granted, expected the common hospitality from anyone invited to spend the night. The fact that her mother showed such thoughtfulness after never being considerate of her needs, well, Sophie wasn’t sure how to adjust to the new and improved Ellen. Was she real? The change lasting? Or was she a pod person? Only time would tell.

  Sophie stripped and stretched her tired muscles, wincing at the sharp pain between her shoulder blades and the tight band of pressure behind her temples. A hot shower and some Tylenol would take care of both. The robe was cool against her skin and gave her something else to think about until her throbbing head teased at a full-blown migraine.

  And she forgot to pack her Tylenol. Ellen had to have some. She belted the robe and scooped up her dirty clothes. She dropped them in the laundry room next to the kitchen, then went to her mother’s room, which was across the hall from hers. Rapping on the door produced no answer. She knocked again and turned the knob. “Ellen?”

  The orderly bedroom was done in beige and brown, no splashes of color anywhere, and everything from the carpet, to the spread, to the curtains matched. The sameness was so blah. Hey, who was she to judge, she was no interior designer, that’s for sure. The tidiness of the room and house wasn’t what she grew up with. Cleaning was never a priority with Ellen. My, how times have changed.

  The sound of water hitting tiles filtered through the closed bathroom door. She’d have to wait for the Tylenol. She strolled over to the dressing table and picked up her high school graduation picture with her arm thrown casually around Caleb.

  God, he was so young. So innocent. So happy.

  Her knees gave out, that happened a lot today, and she sat on the cushioned bench at the end of the bed. Head hanging, elbows braced on her knees, she’d wait and ask for the painkillers
when Ellen finished with her shower. She wouldn’t think about Caleb. Wouldn’t. Tomorrow there’d be plenty of time to deal with her guilt.

  God, she wished Chay was here. She could admit that while sitting here alone as her head slowly exploded. He always had a calming effect on her, one she couldn’t blame on him removing her memories. She noticed it the first time they’d met when Scarla had introduced him after a high school dance. Safe and calm. All her teen anxieties had melted away. The second time she remembered meeting him was after she’d started working at Lusted before he’d wiped her memories, before everything. Safe and calm weren’t the emotions coursing through her that night. Not at all.

  “Hey-hey, baby, sweetie, sugar, whatever your name is, get me another one,” someone yelled behind her.

  Sweat and beer clung to Sophie’s skin. Newly dyed burgundy hair clung to her damp forehead and neck. The high bun she’d started the shift with had become a sloppy mess she didn’t care to fix. Exhaustion did that to a person. She’d successfully ignored the last four customers. This one would get the message.

  “Hey, girlie, I’m talking to yah.”

  Ignore. Ignore. Ignore and continue stocking became her mantra.

  “Psst, bring that sexy ass over here and you won’t have to get me a drink.”

  If one more person yelled at her for another beer, another bowl of pretzels, another anything, called her sweetie, baby, honey, sugar, or anything other than the name on her tag, she’d explode, AKA, burst into tears and slink away.

  God, she needed the job. One day away from being homeless, eighteen hours after she’d eaten her last snack-sized bag of peanuts, she had nothing left to fall back on after she’d burned through her scholarship on keeping herself alive instead of gaining a degree.

  Sophie’s Plan B had turned into Plan Z when her mother came back from a weekend in Atlantic City married for the third time. It only took thirty days for Sophie to wake up to find the hubby standing beside her twin bed, milking the last bit of cum out of his cock. The asshole had left his sperm all over her comforter. Then he choked her scream off before it could form.