his throat and slammed him against the wall. Diel hissed in his face, his monster salivating at finally having one of them in his hold.
Diel didn’t hear the other men behind him, coming to the priest’s defense. He didn’t hear anything until electricity wrapped around his neck like a charged noose and pierced his skin with hundreds of volts. He squeezed Brady’s neck harder, trying to hold on, to fulfill this kill, but the volts increased and brought Diel, screaming, to his knees.
Diel wouldn’t let go.
“Diel!”
He blinked, his gaze coming back into focus. His monster had no choice but to retreat, leaving Diel—panting, bruised and bloodied—behind. He blinked again, clearing his eyes of the rest of their red mist, and a head of golden hair came into view. Blue eyes were fixed on his. But these eyes were nothing like Father Brady’s. These ones were watching him with something that Diel thought could be kindness … no, sorrow.
It was a trick. This was a motherfucking Brethren trick.
With a savage roar, Diel shot to his feet, slamming the blond Brethren imposter back against the wall. The ring of electricity around Diel’s neck burned so fiercely that Diel smelled the singeing of skin, of body hairs burning. His teeth ground together so hard at the pain that they threatened to crack. “Di …el …” the priest pleaded under Diel’s hold. His voice was broken. The haunting timbre circled Diel’s fogged-up mind. The voice … Diel knew that voice. He recognized that voice.
But before he could think harder on whose it was, he heard a bellow of “Michael!” from behind him. Suddenly hands were wrapped around his throat from behind, and sharp points pierced his throat above his collar. The pain was too much to withstand. Diel screamed as his hand slipped from the Brethren priest’s neck and he was slammed to the ground. As he looked up, ice-blue eyes stared down at him from above, lips covered in blood … blood that was slowly dripping down crimson-coated fangs.
The collar crackled as it eased its attack.
“Michael. Stop.”
Diel’s eyes darted around him. The sight of familiar walls cut through his brain. The smell of sweat and wooden floors sailed into his nostrils, grounding him, hurtling him back home. The man who hovered above him had porcelain skin, and a tattoo of a sword and wings that moved up and down with his rapid breaths.
Jet-black hair. Ice-blue eyes rimmed with dark liner. Long fingernails that were painted black.
Diel knew that gentle voice. A new face suddenly looked down on him. Blond curls fell around his eyes, and he had the same tattoo—a sword and wings.
“Diel. Are you back with us?” the blond asked.
Other faces came into view, all of them familiar. None of them belonging to the Brethren. No Father Brady. No Father Quinn. No torture room or burning pillar candles. Diel’s hand twitched. The one with black hair stepped in front of the blond, teeth bared, ready to bite.
“Michael,” the blond said, carefully placing a hand on the dark-haired man’s arm. “It’s okay. Let me talk to him.” The dark one’s ice-blue eyes narrowed on Diel, but he moved to let the blond back through, although he stayed close to his side.
Michael. The one with fangs was called Michael.
Diel looked at the blond again. Gabriel.
Diel looked at the others who were now coming closer. Red hair—Bara. Tattoos—Uriel. Golden eyes—Raphael. And long dark hair—Sela. Sela, his closest friend.
“You back, brother?” Sela leaned down a little, meeting Diel’s gaze.
Diel closed his eyes and breathed. These men weren’t the Brethren. They were his family. Diel felt his monster pacing, wanting to keep up the fight, continue the spree. Wanting to punish Michael for even fucking daring to touch him, wanting to rip out his fangs and pierce his throat. But when Diel opened his eyes, Gabriel was crouching beside him, studying him. Gabriel’s face was pale, and there were bright red marks on his neck—finger marks. Diel’s finger marks.
“I want the Brethren,” Diel rasped, for once his own desires aligning with that of his monster’s. Gabriel froze. The room went completely silent.
Eventually, Sela reached down and offered Diel his hand. Michael hovered behind Gabriel, his gaze never leaving Diel, tracking his every move. Diel took Sela’s hand, and Sela helped him into a sitting position. “I want the fucking Brethren,” Diel said again, and Gabriel took a deep, frustrated breath.