FOCALOR HUNG FROM metal cuffs, spikes from the interior digging deeper into his wrists. How long had he been out this time—a few hours, days, months perhaps? He had no fucking clue. They had pulverized every inch of his body a hundred times over. The only thing he knew with one hundred percent certainty was he was going to tear Gadreel apart, slowly, methodically, and without any remorse as soon as his hands were free.

The muffled sounds of his chains clanking tried to break through the blood-caked ear holes where his ears used to be. Gadreel’s stooge had sliced off Focalor’s ears down to the skull and pierced his eardrums with red-hot spikes. And hey, whattyda know, he was missing seven out of ten digits from mid-knuckle up. What a fucking peachy time he was having in club Hell!

Sulfur and brimstone brutalized his nose as the cell door opened, wafting the scent in until it mixed with the coppery tang smell of his blood. With a groan, he rolled his head forward, wincing as the pull of back muscles stretched over his wing anchors. More than anything, he wished it were merely a case of phantom limb pain, but nope, the shit was real. Although he hadn’t earned his true wings back, what he had, had been sawed off with a dull blade.

“So what’s it to be this time? Boiling oil? Flaying what’s left of my skin? What?” He didn’t want to look into the eyes of his warden, or his warden’s subordinate. He had seen enough horror in their faces to last an angel’s lifetime. But it didn’t stop him from lifting a heavy, swollen lid a hair to see both Gadreel and Jacob—as he had come to know during the beating sessions—were standing in front of him. The former wore a twisted grin full of malice, erring on the side of sick deviance. The latter reeked of eau de Pissed Off cologne. The grimace Jacob wore suggested Focalor’s assessment was spot on.

“Time to wake him up. Get the bucket.” He sucked in a ragged breath, not needing to have perfect hearing to make out the last word. Without thinking, his body unwillingly coiled in on itself as he tried to maintain an unfazed façade. It was a fail of epic proportions. “Ah, I see he’s awake already. Fantastic!”

“Sir?”

“No, do it anyways. Nothing like getting his full attention.” This was going to suck, in all ways possible. Focalor gritted his teeth, and waited for this round’s onslaught of pain to begin. He knew precisely what was going to happen. The bucket wasn’t full solely of water. Nope. Gadreel had concocted a rich mixture or salt, brimstone ash, and poesy-pods, which he called Hell’s Divinity. Since Hell, and more specifically the Desmoterion cells, were all about perpetual torment, the irony of its name was suiting. Once hit, the agony would sear throughout the body. After the initial shock wore off, a mind numbing pleasure followed, and with it, a sick desire for pain again, as euphoria clogged the brain up. With every inch of flesh naked, raw, and most of his skin flayed from his body, Focalor had more meat showing than flesh to cover it. Yep, this was going to suck to apocalyptic magnitudes. All he could do was close his one good eye, and take it, as the reasons why he was in this predicament flooded his cortex.

He hadn’t always been a Watcher, let alone a Fallen. His reasons for falling, though, were a stain he wouldn’t ever be able to remove. No amount of repentance could make up for what he had done. In his darkest days, bloodlust had gotten the better of him. But things were different now. He was different now. Except for the part where they ripped his wings off his back. It was a repeat experience. One he loathed. Biting down in to the pain, Focalor demanded his muscles to remain on lock-down. Last thing he wanted was to give Gadreel or his peon sidekick the satisfaction of witnessing the worse than death bodily reactions.

“Wait a sec, kid. Grab me that.” Whatever ‘that’ was, Focalor has a distinct feeling it would involve a helluva lot more pain. “Have you realized yet that you’re never going to leave the Desmons? Those feathered fuckers don’t give a rat’s ass about you, brother. You belong on this side of the fence. Time you start accepting it. It’s who you are. We both know it.”

The idea Gadreel would ever consider him a ‘brother’ in any context of the word, let alone any notion that Focalor ‘belonged’ to the dark side, had him gritting his teeth and wishing he had his innate abilities back for two minutes. “Never!” he snarled, lifting his one lid higher, training his sight on the redheaded evil Watcher. “Don’t ever call me ‘brother’. You’re not worthy of such a title.”

“Whoa-oh! Look whose balls have finally dropped after … what? Twenty-seven hundred years!”

“Are you going to talk me to death, or are you going to get on with it? I don’t have all day.”

“Too bad we have other plans for you. Death isn’t in the cards for you ‘brother’. Jacob, come here.”

“Yes, sir.” The male sounded like a well-trained soldier; full of confidence, and ready for someone else to do the thinking for him.

“Once we get this asshole comfortable, I want you to bring in the Siltchins. Make sure they wrap him up tight before he heads down to Level Nine. I want you to stay by his side until I come back.” Focalor sensed the growing grin on Gadreel’s face, and a flood of panic scattered around his mind. His rage was growing, consuming him to the point of insanity. Maybe the redheaded asshat was right. His hope the League of Guardians were going to come after his shredded ass was looking more like a pipe dream.

“Sir?”

“Yeah. What?”

“I thought we were to bring him to Level Eight.”

“I decided he should see what Nine has to offer. So what?”

“Sir, I don’t have clearance for Level Nine.”

“You do now.” A moment hadn’t passed between the last word Gadreel said and the searing plunge of metal spearing through his gut, which made his body torque against his will. “Hit him with the HD. Make sure to get his anchors. Hurts worse than a bitch biting your dick off.”

The syllables strung together sounded garbled in his ears as the pain exploded throughout his body. His clenched teeth were on the verge of breaking with each passing second. His body quavered to Gadreel’s enjoyment. “I will kill you, if it’s the last thing I do, you sick fuck.”