Wicked Nights

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE NEXT MORNING, A NAKED Zacharel sat at the edge of his bed and rolled his brother’s urn in his hands. It was a clear, hourglass-shaped jar, the substance inside a thick liquid as transparent as the urn, with only the tiniest of rainbow flecks glittering in the light.

This urn was Zacharel’s greatest treasure. His only treasure. Now and forever, he would protect this urn as he had not protected his brother.

“I love you, Zacharel.”

“I love you, too, Hadrenial. So much.”

“Do you?”

“You know I do.”

“And you would do anything for me?”

“Anything.”

“Kill me, then. A true death. Please. You can’t leave me like this.”

“Like this” had been broken, bloody and violated in unspeakable ways. “Anything but that. You’ll recover. One day you will even be happy again.”

“I don’t want to recover. I want to cease to exist, now and forever. That’s the only way to end my torment.”

“We’ll make the demons pay for what they did to you. Together. Then we can talk about this again.” And Zacharel would once again deny him.

“If you don’t kill me, I’ll kill myself. You know what will happen to me then.”

Yes, he’d known. You could not render the true death upon yourself. Hadrenial would have been able to slay his own body, but his spirit, dark as it had currently been, would have lived on and been cast into hell. That hadn’t swayed Zacharel. Still he’d said no. But in the end, Hadrenial had stayed true to his promise. He had tried to end himself over and over again. Always Zacharel had brought him back with the Water of Life.

Those years, his entire existence had been spent chasing after his brother, saving his brother and, finally, killing his brother to at last end his pain. It was a decision Zacharel regretted to this day, for this urn contained all that was left of Hadrenial.

Zacharel had mined from deep inside his brother’s chest the essence of all the love he’d ever felt, then poisoned him with the Water of Death, taken from the stream that flowed beside the Deity’s River of Life. That water was the only way to kill an immortal once and for all.

To obtain the smallest of vials, an angel had to go through the same process as for the Water of Life: a whipping to prove his determination, followed by a meeting with the Heavenly High Council, where permission was granted or denied. If granted, a sacrifice of the Council’s choosing had to be made.

Zacharel had gone through all of that—after his brother had been denied—but he had hesitated inside the temple. The two rivers ran side by side, life and death, happiness and sorrow. The choice had belonged to him. He could have taken from Life. He should have taken from Life. But all that would have done was heal his brother’s body, not his mind.

Spending time in the presence of the Most High would have been needed to save his mind, for the Most High could soothe and save anyone, but Hadrenial had refused to try. Still he’d wanted an end.

“How could you ask that of me?” he demanded. “How could I do it?”

Of course, there was no response. There never was.

Zacharel had poured Death down his brother’s throat. Had watched the life drain from him, the light dim in his eyes. Had then burned his body with a sword of fire. Had watched his brother turn to ash and float away.

He’d followed pieces of that ash for days.

Now he gazed down at the black smudge growing on his chest. The day of his brother’s death, Zacharel had removed his own sense of love, a portion far smaller than Hadrenial’s had been, placing it inside the urn, and glorying as it mingled with all that was left of his brother. There, at least, they were still together.

A week later, a tiny black dot had appeared on the exact spot he’d taken that portion from, and over the years that dot had slowly but steadily increased in size. However, after Zacharel’s appointment with the Deity, when the snow began to drip from his wings, the rate of increasing had quadrupled.

He knew what it meant, what the end result would be, but he wasn’t concerned. Was actually glad. If he failed in his mission this year and was kicked from the heavens, he wouldn’t have to suffer long.

“I wonder if Annabelle would have fascinated you, too.”

He paused, picturing the two together. Yes, Annabelle’s courage would have delighted the gentle Hadrenial. Would they have fought for her?

No, he decided. Because Zacharel would have given her up. Planned to do so now, in fact, after his obligation was fulfilled.

Very carefully Zacharel set the urn on his nightstand and stood. He could have hidden the thing in a pocket of air, dragging it with him wherever he went. But other angels would have scented his brother and asked questions he had no wish to answer. Demons would have scented him, as well, and tried to destroy him all over again.

He tugged on a robe before stalking to Annabelle’s door. There he paused, unsure whether or not he should enter. Yesterday he had been angry with himself for agreeing to help her learn to fight demons, and had left her to her own devices.

As promised, he had not locked her in the room. He had expected her to hunt him down, but she had stayed put—and that had made him angrier.

What was she doing to him? Usually he was a man without a temper. For centuries he had been known for his coldness both inside and out, yet around her he felt as though he were teetering at a very sharp ledge of danger. Even now he was tense, his jaw aching from the constant grinding of his teeth.

All night he’d imagined kissing her. Kissing her deeper, harder, better than the man who had come before him, finally giving into temptation that he kept trying to convince himself wasn’t truly temptation. Why? She wasn’t special. She was a nuisance, a burden, existing for only a brief span of time. There were thousands like her.

Were there really?

Yesterday he’d peered down at those lush pink lips and craved. He’d never before craved. Maybe because he’d had another woman’s taste in his mouth, his interest in the act had been pricked, a desire kindling to compare what was forced with what was given. Maybe not.

The report Thane brought him had made Zacharel want Annabelle a thousand times more. She had endured multiple beatings from humans and demons alike, yet they hadn’t diminished her audacity. She had an older brother who’d written her terribly hurtful letters, lashing out at her for her actions, yet she had responded with only kindness and understanding. Doctors had locked her up, overmedicated her, harmed her irrevocably, but she had fought back with every bit of her strength.

No, there weren’t thousands like her.

He should walk away from her now, before he decided to nix his plan, abandon common sense and keep her—and later lose her. Before he caused collateral damage on purpose, simply to avenge her.

Zacharel had only to stay with her a little while longer. A few weeks, perhaps a few months—no longer than a year—and she would be able to fight the evil that hunted her. He would make sure of it. They could then part, and he would never again have to think about her…though he had no idea where he would take her or how he would absolve himself of her responsibility in the Deity’s eyes, but those were details for another day.

Determined, he entered the room.

She sat at the edge of the bed. When she spotted him, she hopped to her feet, her blue-black ponytail swinging back and forth. “I think it will be best if we end our association now” were the first words out of her mouth.

Then you should have worn something else, he thought, dazed as he drank her in. Gone were the tank and soft, flowing pants. Instead, she wore a black leather bustier that revealed more cleavage than it concealed, and scuffed black leather pants that molded to the lithe strength of her.

Suddenly self-conscious, she shifted from one booted foot to the other. “I asked the cloud for battle-ready clothing, and this is what I got. There are slits all over the pants, for easy access to the weapons, I’m guessing. But the bustier has me stumped. Unless, of course, the cloud thinks my cleavage will stun my opponents into stupidity.” Frowning, she anchored her hands on her hips, shook her head. “My outfit doesn’t matter. Take me back to Colorado.”

“No, it doesn’t matter and no, I won’t. I thought we had come to an arrangement.”

“Yes, but…” Her gaze dropped to her feet, only to snap back up and narrow.

“What?”

“You are beyond frustrating,” she grumbled. “Why can’t you do what I ask you to do without issuing a million questions first?”

“I could say the same to you.”

“I don’t— Argh.” She raised a fist at him. “So maybe I do ask a lot of questions. So what. Anyone in my position would do the same. Besides, I’m a girl and that’s my job. You’re a boy. You’re supposed to pound your chest with your fists and grunt, then do everything in your power to please me.”

“Hardly. The man you just described is more likely to knock you over the head with a club and drag you away by the hair.”

With his every word, amusement had grown in that blue, blue gaze.

The show of her temper, and the subsequent humor, delighted him. But only a little, he assured himself, and only because he could not guess what she would do or say next. “How are you feeling?” he asked, studying her once more. She still had bruises under her eyes, her lips were chapped from being chewed and her limbs shook. “You are unwell again?”

“I’m still suffering from withdrawal, that’s all.”

Zacharel recalled the long list of medications she had been prescribed. Such withdrawals would be substantial. He could give her the remaining drop of water from the River of Life, but— His jaw clenched. Considering such an option before, while she’d been bedbound, he could justify. He hadn’t known whether she would live or die and that’s exactly what the water was for. Life and death. It was not for relieving a few aches and pains.

“I’ll be fine,” she added, probably to fill the sudden silence. “Now. Will you please take me back? Without asking me any more questions.”

“I might be beyond frustrating—” in fact, he was pretty sure the name Zacharel meant bastard in several languages “—but you are safer with me than with anyone else.”

“Safer with the guy who threatened to kill me?”

Ah. Now he understood. After a good night’s sleep, her head finally clear, she had recalled what he’d said to her—I could kill you now—and wanted to escape him. “I did not threaten you.” Truth. He had merely stated a fact. He could kill her at any moment.

“But you said—”

“I know what I said. But I tell you now, again, that you are safer with me than with anyone else.” Even if he hurt her, even if he did decide to slay her, she was still safer with him. Everyone else would do far worse.

For once taking him at his word, she drew in a deep breath and nodded. “All right, I’ll stay. For now.”

He felt an odd urge to say thank-you but managed to bite the words back. “You are simply too good to me.”

She crossed her arms over her middle. “Is that sarcasm? I think I detect sarcasm.”

“Are you sure I even know what that word means?”

She tsked under her tongue. “Another question from your end.” Her head tilted to the side and she studied him for the first time since he’d entered, the visual perusal a whispering touch over his entire body. “Your wings…”

“Yes?” He stretched out one, then the other, examining their lengths. Snow still trickled from each, but the glistening crystals were smaller than usual.

“They’re more gold than white. Yesterday the opposite was true.”

She was right. The amount of gold had increased yet again. That could only mean…he was evolving into one of the Elite, whether his Deity had spoken to him about it or not.

But…but…that could only mean his Deity was pleased with him and that Zacharel had been chosen to replace Ivar. There was no other explanation that made sense.

But why?

Because Zacharel had saved a human, despite the risk to himself? Because he had finally taken charge of his army, was finally earning the respect of his men? If so, that would mean his Deity had never wanted him to fail, that the promotion was to be his prize.

“Well?” Annabelle prompted. “And don’t think I was complaining. Your wings are very pretty.”

Pretty? The word should not have offended him, but it did. They were magnificent, thank you.

He owed her no explanation about this, and had to stop offering details so freely. When they parted, and they would, she could be captured, could give the information to his enemy. But still he did it. Still he told her. His training would ensure she was never captured. Surely.

“A p-promotion. H-how cool,” she said through suddenly chattering teeth. Mist swirled in front of her face. “Not to change the subject, but, uh, is it cold in here to you?”

Reminded of when he’d first found her, of how frozen she’d been, Zacharel decided he was no longer accepting or grateful for the chill he carried with him. Annabelle suffered, and that he did not like. He would have to ask his Deity for leniency in this matter. And perhaps he would receive it, now that he knew there was a way back into his leader’s good graces.

“A coat,” he said now, and Annabelle’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“I should have thought of that.”

“I’m sure you would have.” He held out his hand and a white faux-fur coat appeared.

“Thanks,” she said. “You know, you are one huge contradiction. You’re mean one moment, then nice the next. Threatening one moment, then protective the next.”

“You mean for me to take offense, like before at the institution?”

“Not this time.”

“But you do not sound pleased by the knowledge.”

“Well, I’m not. It’s too hard to get a read on you.”

“I am not a book,” he said.

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“But—”

“Just stick with the meanness and the threatening,” she interjected. “I don’t want to like you.”

A more confusing conversation he’d never had. “Why?”

“I plead the fifth.”

He no longer liked this evasive strategy of hers. “You cannot refuse to respond to all of my queries.”

“Uh, not true. I totally can.”

As she’d just proven. “Then we must work out some sort of reward for when you do answer.” Though that smacked of bribery—because it was—and implied that he cared—which he did. There could be no more denying that, he supposed. Not that the admission would change anything.

One of her brows arched in a parody of an expression he’d given her more than once. “And a spanking for when I don’t?”

“Do not be silly. I would never spank you for such a minor offense, Annabelle.” He liked her name on his lips. Liked the sound of it, the feel of it. “For something major…maybe. But I would never do anything that would cause lasting damage. You are not one of my soldiers. More than that, you are human. You could not withstand much.”

“You might be surprised by my fortitude.”

He meant to respond, he truly did, but he was suddenly snagged by a desire to trace his fingertips over her cheeks, her lips, to know if she would burn him, if her pulse would hammer out of control as he suspected his own would do. He wanted to know if she would inch closer to him or turn away.

You are not a slave to such mortal desires. He would not touch her, and he would not consider her response. But while he could fight the physical—and win—he found he could not fight the mental. His curiosity about her was too great and he found himself saying, “Your mother was Japanese, yet your name is not.”

Annabelle accepted the change of subject with a relieved squaring of her shoulders. “She spent most of her life in the States. And I was named after my father’s mother, Anna Bella.” She drew the lapels of the coat tighter and gave in to her own curiosity. “I’ve been wondering. Are you like the angels in the Bible? I, uh, had the cloud provide me with one last night. I read a few passages, and…well…”

“You see differences between me and the angels you read about,” he finished for her.

“Exactly. And I do remember you saying you were part of a different race…or something.”

He couldn’t help pointing out, “I could refuse to answer, as you have done to me.”

“But that would be the equivalent of a spanking,” she pointed out, “and you, who never lie, won’t do that to me.”

A very smart girl, his Annabelle. Wait. His Annabelle? “What you read is true. In human terms, my Deity is a king. He rules only a certain portion of the heavens and serves under the Most High, who rules every inch of the heavens, even what the Greeks and Titans claim to own—but that is another story. And we are not like the Most High’s angels because we were not created for the same purposes.”

She tossed up her hands. “Then why are you called angels?”

“We are winged, and we fight evil. It’s a label, and it stuck.”

“Argh! But if you both fight evil, how are you different?”

He had so rarely interacted with humans, and he had never had to explain this kind of thing. “All humans are living beings, yes, and share many similarities, but not all have the same purpose. Some build. Some entertain. Some teach.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than the walls of the cloud darkened, thickened, lightning strikes sparking from within, small at first, but growing in length and intensity. Confused, he searched for other differences, found none.

Annabelle reached out, intending to stroke her fingertips over the lightning. He grabbed her wrist and stilled her.

“Cloud?” he said. “What’s the problem?”

Demons… A whisper inside his head. Attacking…

Impossible. Right? But…what if it wasn’t? Zacharel summoned his sword of fire. Demons rarely ventured into the heavens, much less to an angel’s residence, but it could be done.

All the color drained from Annabelle’s face. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“We’re under attack.” Either the demons had no idea who owned this cloud, or their desire to obtain Annabelle was too great, their ability to track her far better than he had anticipated.

The cloud would hold them off, but would, eventually, fail. Clouds such as this one were designed for comfort rather than battle, something that had never bothered him before. Actually, at any other time, Zacharel would have relished this challenge, the chance for victory. Now he experienced the tiniest shard of fear. Annabelle could be hurt. He hadn’t spent these past few days seeing to her survival just to watch her fall prey to his enemy’s evil.

“Show me,” he commanded the cloud.

Beside him, a portion of air thickened, a multitude of colors flickering to life, blending together. He stiffened. Annabelle gasped. At least fifteen demons surrounded his home, clawing at the outer walls in an effort to get inside. They were worked into a frenzy, foaming at the mouth, desperate, their nails tipped with poison.

“They came for me,” she said, toneless.

Zacharel snaked his free hand around her waist and tugged her into the line of his body. “Hold on to me and don’t let go under any circumstances.”

“But I can help you fight them.” Good. There’d been a layer of determination that time.

Still, he barked, “Can you fly? Or will you tumble to the earth without me?” They both knew the answer to that one.

No longer hesitating, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers locked tight at his nape. Soft breasts snuggled against the pound of his heartbeat, and their lower bodies pressed together. He inhaled sharply, amazed he even noticed the sensations at such a time as this.

Focus. “That isn’t good enough,” he said. His hand lowered to her bottom, and he hefted her up. “Legs.”

Her legs wrapped around his waist.

Their eyes met, a clash of green against that otherworldly blue—a blue currently fogged with the determination he’d heard as well as the terror he’d sensed. But she nodded, ready for battle.

Brave girl.

“At least you stopped snowing,” she said.

Had he? His Deity must have heard his unspoken desire and responded, a gesture Zacharel would be sure to thank him for.

“I wish there was another way,” he said. In this position, Annabelle would act as his shield. He despised that on every level, but he had no other solution. He couldn’t flash her away and return—moving from one location to another with only a thought—because he couldn’t flash. Only a rare few could, like the wingless Koldo.

What Zacharel could do was camouflage his body so that no one could see or sense him. But he couldn’t camouflage Annabelle to that same degree, so that was out, too.

I need you—he projected first to Koldo because he could be the biggest help right now, then to every other member of his army. He’d never done this before, wasn’t sure it would work, and cursed himself for not practicing speaking inside their minds. Demons. My cloud. Battle.

There was no time to await their responses, if they even knew how to reply in such a manner. “If I hand you to a man named Koldo, do not fight him. He will whisk you to safety.”

“What about you?”

Excellent question. “Now,” he said to the cloud, ignoring her, “I want you to leave this location. Go somewhere the demons cannot reach you, and guard the urn. I’ll return to the heavens and find you.”

Whoosh.

The cloud was gone, taking the foundation at his feet, too. Annabelle gasped, clutched him tighter. Suddenly bright morning sunlight glowed with piercing intensity. Demons surrounded him, their jagged wings flapping frantically as they struggled to understand what had just happened. Zacharel swung his sword and beheaded the one nearest him. With the flicker of the flames and the slick sound of bone detaching from bone, the others realized their prey was in sight.

They converged on him en masse. Ducking, diving and twisting, Zacharel worked his way through them. Two more bodies fell, erupting into flames as they plummeted toward the earth. Twelve remaining. They did not fight honorably, but then, he knew that about them and knew how to counteract their moves.

“I must let you go,” he said to Annabelle. “Do not relax your grip.”

“Got it.”

When four swarmed him at the same time, swiping out, he rolled through the sky, releasing Annabelle as announced to block the two demons coming at him from the left, while using the sword to behead the two demons coming at him from the right.

Shocking him, she unhooked one leg from his waist and kicked at the demons he’d blocked, the sharp heel of her boot nailing one in the eye.

“Annabelle!”

“What? I didn’t relax my grip,” she said. “Not with my hands.”

A demon latched on to her ankle before she could right herself, and she yelped.

Zacharel swirled his wrist back, then sliced forward, going low…lower…moving with the demon—finally destroying him. Another head tumbled through the air, black blood spraying.

“Behind you!” Annabelle shouted.

He spun quickly—but not quickly enough. Demon claws meant for his neck swiped out and connected with the side of one wing, causing a sharp lance of pain to echo through him…and freeze the appendage in place.

Zacharel gritted his teeth as he plunged through the daylight. Annabelle released a shrill scream of terror. Every bit of his strength and determination were needed to force the injured wing back into motion. At first, he failed to hold it steady. Finally, though, he caught an air current and jerked to a stop.

“That was close,” she said, clearly battling an urge to vomit.

Too close. “The end result is all that matters.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Stay alive.” No other angels were in sight. Either they were engaged in their own battles elsewhere, or he had been unsuccessful in summoning them.

“Well, you, too.”

The demons found them, once again attacking from every angle. His sword blazed through the air, and because he wasn’t as fast as before, another set of talons soon managed to slice through his wing.

Down he fell and this time, there was no stopping his momentum. A tendon had been severed. Annabelle’s ponytail slapped at his cheeks, his lips, the inside of his mouth.

“Zacharel!” The force of the wind even managed to rip her from his embrace, her body tumbling end over end.

Cackling with glee, several demons followed her.

Zacharel thought fast. The Deity’s angels could die physically because of bodily injury, yes. Impact would splatter his organs, no question, but even still he might regenerate. Annabelle was human. There was no question about whether or not she would regenerate. She would not.

He tucked his good wing into his back, and arrowed toward her. She faced the ground, away from him, her hair flying behind her. He closed the distance in a matter of seconds, withdrew throwing stars from the pockets of air where he’d stored them and nailed every demon reaching for her.

Shrieks of pain echoed as hands were detached, and one by one the beings fell away from her. Almost there…so close…contact! Zacharel wrapped his arms around her and tucked her into his chest.

Her elbows pounded at him, and her legs kicked at him. “Let me go, you sick, disgusting piece of—”

“I’ve got you,” he said, and in that moment he knew. There was only one thing he could do to ensure she lived.

Instantly she calmed. “Zacharel?” Twisting, she wound her arms around his neck. “Thank the Lord!”

“Yes. It is I.” He produced his vial containing the Water of Life. Only a single drop remained, but this was a matter of life and death. He didn’t allow her to question or deny him. He simply tipped the rim over her lips so that the droplet could find its way into her mouth. “Drink.”

Eyes wide, she swallowed. There. No matter what happened next, she would live. She might wish otherwise, but she would live.