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rchangel Michael landed with a gentle thud on the windswept plains of the Salt Flats, his surprise masked at Sammiél’s early arrival, an occurrence that had never previously happened. Death appeared calm. His flaming skeletal head was concealed beneath his human façade. Wavy dark hair, indigo eyes clear of any crimson, even his wings were hidden, giving the UnHallowed Archangel of Death an average—unthreatening—Joe appeal.

A bit of relief coursed through Michael. These sessions were difficult enough without Sammiél in a rage. But why was he so calm? Given the present circumstances of all the UnHallowed, one would think Sammiél would be perturbed. A modicum of visible distress would be natural, even for one mired in death and destruction.

Ah! He must want something, and presenting this calm and collected version of himself was his bargaining attempt.

For a fraction of a second, Michael wallowed in satisfaction. If this was the moment Sammiél’s indomitable hubris caved, Michael would savor the groveling as much as a human savored air after nearly drowning. “Have you blocked your connection to the UnHallowed and the shadows?”

Sammiél nodded once.

The tri-cord whip formed in Michael’s hand. With a flick of his wrist, the empyreal coils unfurled. Sammiél glanced at the whip. His nostrils flared and crimson bled through the indigo of his pupils. “Amaya,” he said. “What is He up to?”

The question caused a deep frown to crease Michael’s forehead. “Why do you believe I’m privy to that information? Razuel was the Keeper of Secrets. Since his fall, Father keeps his secrets to himself.”

A tendril of smoke curled from Sammiél. “Did you not think to stop Braile?”

Michael quelled the instinctive flinch at hearing Braile’s name leave Sammiél’s mouth. “The die was cast twenty-two years ago. Be grateful his essence is still amongst us.”

Sammiél snorted. “In that useless female?”

Michael took exception to that description of his protégé. Unfortunately, defending her would only strengthen Sammiél’s low opinion of Amaya. “Braile chose her.”

“Sentimental fool,” Sam muttered with a dismissive shake of his head.

Michael expected no other reaction from Death. He wasn’t created to see the value in human life. His purpose, and that of his Reaper minions, was to lead humans to their proper place after death. Before the Fall, Sammiél was the only archangel with unfettered access to Hell. Then, for a time, he and the rest of the UnHallowed became residents. Why Father granted the betrayers mercy, Michael couldn’t understand.

Ours is not to reason why, but to obey and die in grace and with faith.

The unwritten, unspoken motto of the Celestial Order. It chafed, especially now when he’d been banned from further assisting the UnHallowed or Amaya.

“His sacrifice was pointless. You, and Him, think to ram this child down our throats and expect us not to choke. Maybe that’s your plan all along, to see who doesn’t gag and accept this bullshit. Did you consider that some of us will chew her up and swallow the pieces? What will you do then? Rescind the offer that was already rejected?” 

“Not my decision to make.” A stiff breeze moved between them, stirring the whip, as if it were a sentient being, preparing to strike. How ironic when the weapon used to belong to Sammiél. “Prepare yourself.”

At Michael’s command, two salt pillars shot from the ground. Salt vines snaked from the top and base, the latter twined around Sammiél’s ankles.

“Is the sweater of sentimental value?” Michael asked as vines drew closer to Sammiél’s shoulders.

A single shake of Sammiél’s head and the vines shredded the fabric, ripping it from his body. After stripping him from the waist up, they twined around his wrists, burning the flesh it touched, and drew his arms up, anchoring each to a pillar. Salt burned demons as well as UnHallowed equally.

A quiver ran down the length of the coils and Michael detected a responding quiver in Sammiél’s exposed flesh. This was a most disturbing instance in the symbiotic bond between weapon and owner, since the empyreal whip no longer belonged to Sammiél.

It belonged to no one, since it refused to accept another master. Michael used it for this purpose because he was the only archangel strong enough to command its most basic use.

The whip was so much more in Sammiél’s grip. It could chain a demon and yank the soul out of a human. Yet, it was only a whip in Michael’s hands. As was Metatron’s sword strapped to his side. Just a sword, yet so much more in its master’s possession.

“Recite the oath,” he commanded of Sammiél.

Red flared in the UnHallowed’s eyes, dominating his indigo irises. How he hated this part, Michael knew, yet the recital was necessary. It gave purpose to his actions and Sammiél’s sacrifice, and sealed the bargain between Heaven and the UnHallowed.

“With my body, I submit to the will of my Father. With my submission, I give my disgrace in the place of my brethren’s life, so they may live, UnHallowed, until their grace is restored and Light replaces their blighted existence,” Sammiél sighed.

The whip cracked, anxious to touch the flesh of its master. Not yet. All was not done. “Finish it,” Michael commanded. He, too, was anxious, but for another reason.

“My obedience guarantees their safety. Should I ever falter in that obedience, the UnHallowed are forfeit, their existence extinguished in the same hour as my failure.”

The whip sailed through the air, the sound worse than a banshee’s cry. Both Sammiél and Michael braced for impact because while the whip slashed the skin of the recipient, causing excruciating pain that burned for weeks, the same amount of pain raced up the coils to the one who inflicted the pain.

A symbiotic bond tying the weapon, Sammiél and Michael together in an unbreakable circle of agony. To keep the UnHallowed safe from their Father’s wrath, this was the bargain enacted in the nanoseconds after the Fall when the foolish followed Metatron. Sammiél wasn’t amongst that initial number. He saw the stupidity, and recognized the sacrifice necessary to save the archangels he loved. It was he who begged Father to still his hand, to forgive the UnHallowed. To punish and not smite. And eventually give them a reprieve.

In exchange, on the sixth of every month, Sammiél met Michael on the Salt Flats of northern Utah, to bleed and continue the pact that had saved them.

And the UnHallowed never knew of his sacrifice. And they never would.

The whip bit into Sammiél’s flesh and Michael felt the slice in his own. Without cease, he continued to flick the whip across Sammiél’s back and chest. The amount: Ten blows for each UnHallowed. Not only the ones he’d formed bonds with stronger than the disgrace polluting their bodies, but all of the UnHallowed. The ones remaining in the shadows included.

Michael didn’t stop until chunks of flesh littered the salt flats and Sammiél’s back lay exposed down to his ribs. He hung limp between the pillars, his spilled disgrace turning the pristine Salt Flats black for a square mile.

Precious moments passed as Michael waited for Sammiél to get his bearings. The vines released their hold of his arms. Sammiél slumped against one of the pillars until he got his feet under him. When he pushed away from the column, he stood tall, erect as the structure that had supported him, even though he had to be weaker than a newborn.

“I need a…favor.” The last word had lodged in Michael’s throat. He almost had to reach down and forcibly remove it.

Sammiél’s head kicked back and a brittle, mirthless sound erupted from his mouth. “You flay me and now you need a favor?” He took an unsteady step forward and spread his arms wide. “As always, on this salted field, I am at your mercy.”

His smooth words were in deep contrast to the flames fanning his head and his sunset colored wings arching over his shoulders. The pain or the request, Michael wasn’t sure which one pushed Sammiél to the edge.

Regardless… “There is someone I need to find, in Hell.”

Sammiél’s brows stitched together and the distinct scent of brimstone filled the air. The skin on his face hadn’t peeled back to reveal the black skull behind it, so he wasn’t completely enraged, Michael noted.

“Who?”

“Not for you to know.”

One of Sammiél’s eyebrows lifted. He folded his arms and leaned against the pillar, which burned him.

“I need a Reaper to retrieve this person.” Michael continued.

Sammiél held up a single finger. “First, humans go into Hell and never come out. Second”—he held up an additional finger—“Reapers do not enter into Hell…unnecessarily.”

Michael pinned his hope on Sammiél’s last word. “What would be a reason that would change?”

Sammiél raised a third finger. “I don’t control the Reapers…anymore.”

“Do not lie.” Michael scowled.

Sammiél shrugged, admitting nothing. “I haven’t controlled the Reapers since the Fall. They don’t seek my counsel or my company, for which I am grateful. I assumed someone had taken over their care.”

“There wasn’t a need. All continued to perform their duties without complaint. You trained them well.”

Sammiél jerked as if struck by an unexpected blow. “A compliment? Sounds strange on your lips.”

“I give praise when praise is deserved.”

“Not when you’re trying to manipulate?” Sammiél’s lips quirked. “What is so important about this human, Michael?”

He had no choice. He had to answer. “I never said it was a human.”

Sammiél’s brows lowered. “An angel then, because you wouldn’t trouble yourself over a demon. Again, I ask, who?”

“A warrior class angel. One you do not know.”

“He gained rank after the Fall.” Sammiél scrubbed a hand across his jaw, answering his own question.

Michael nodded, choosing not to correct Sammiél’s use of the wrong pronoun. Their gazes met. Michael was sure Sammiél was assessing how to make him pay for needing his help. The archangel suffered in silence and waited.

“Can you not control the Reapers?” Sammiél snickered, clearly happy Michael wasn’t as powerful as humanity and angels thought him to be.

“You know I cannot,” Michael snapped, in an uncharacteristic loss of control. Sammiél and Metatron were the only ones who did that to him. “I am, and always will be, the Light.”

“While I am the embodiment of the Dark, opposite of the Light, and always will be.” Sammiél finished for Michael. “Without me there can be no you. Ironic since I was an archangel, your brethren, closer to you than I am to the UnHallowed. You are the only angel given permission to enter Hell, yet Father must’ve refused your request. Interesting when you’ve followed His every command and He couldn’t give you this one boon.” A sneer twisted his lips. “When did you lose this angel I’m expected to find?”

“Six months ago, when Gideon and Dina crossed into the Cruor,” Michael grated, his patience wearing thin at the barbs.

Sammiél’s gaze narrowed. “You do realize the presence of an angel in Hell would have drawn the attention of the Demoni Lords. By now, your lost angel is dead. Or wishing he were.”

A fact Michael already knew. Still… “I need confirmation.”

“Interesting choice of word. Need, you said. Michael does not need anything other than the word of our Father. Yet you need confirmation about this angel when you should have said ‘want’.”

A slip of the tongue Michael wouldn’t admit to. “Semantics.”

Sammiél gave a noncommittal shrug. “I get a Reaper to get your confirmation, what will I gain?”

Good. The conversation had moved to safer ground. “My gratitude.”

“I don’t want it.” Sammiél’s head cocked to the side. “Too much to ask for our monthly meetings to cease?”

Michael wasn’t surprised Sammiél had put that on the table. “You know that is out of the realm of possibilities. Your pact is not with me, but with the Almighty.”

“Yes. The agreement must be maintained. But I will think of something.” Sammiél’s gaze shifted to the sword attached to Michael’s side. “You don’t deserve the honor of wielding that weapon.”  

Michael nodded and flashed a microscopic scowl. “On that we both agree.”

Sammiél looked away, into the sun. It was the only time he could enjoy the rays without incineration. “There will come a time, I will ask something of you, and you will grant it. No questions asked.”

“As long as none of Father’s tenets are broken, then I agree.”

Sammiél scowled. “I will find a Reaper and get it to do as you ask. Who is this angel you must find?”

“Gemma is her name,” Michael said and braced.

Sammiél’s brows lowered then rose until they touched his hairline. His laughter rang out across the Flats. “Oh, Michael.” His voice was sultry and laced with irony. “You are just as damned as I.”