Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark) Read online

Boom! They smacked into tree after tree, jostling them one way and then the other, breath exploding from them both, mingling, until there was nothing left to exhale— Oh, wait, a harder smack than before proved her wrong, completely emptying out her lungs.

  She and Zacharel rolled down, down, hitting branch after branch, not really losing momentum before they…boom! The final impact proved far more jarring, harder, harsher. But then they stopped. Just stopped.

  A spiderweb of black wove through her vision. She concentrated on regaining the use of her lungs, inhaling, exhaling, too fast at first, but gradually slowing, evening out. Minutes stretched into hours, hours into eternity before she found the strength to sit up. A mistake. A tide of dizziness swept over her, turning her world upside down. She was wet, soaked actually. And oh, baby, here was the promised pain. A kaleidoscope of burning, aching and throbbing.

  Wincing, she scanned the surrounding area.

  Broken tree limbs overhead provided a perfect path for the sun, allowing hot rays to lick over her, spotlighting her. In front of her, a forest loomed. Leaves of dewy emerald brushed together, and wildflowers perfumed the air.

  Beside her…beside her sprawled Zacharel, his eyes closed, his body motionless. Both of his wings were bent at odd angles, the robe he wore no longer white but crimson.

  Blood, so much blood. Everywhere. All over her—because of him. It leaked from his mouth, dripped from his ears, and where the fabric of his robe was ripped, great tides of it overflowed, reminding her of corroded water from a spout. His torso was mutilated, one of his thighs split open. His ankle, broken. The bone had sliced through his skin, the edges jagged, chips missing.

  Her parents, ripped open, staring at nothing.

  Her parents, lying in a congealing pool.

  A hysterical laugh bubbled from her. Once again Annabelle would walk away from a gruesome scene without much damage to herself.

  No. No! she thought then. She wouldn’t leave Zacharel like this. Wouldn’t let him die.

  He’s already dead, common sense piped up.

  No! her stubborn core replied. She hadn’t known him long, but he’d twice saved her life. He’d taken care of her. He, the man who claimed to have killed his own brother. He, the man who said he could kill her without hesitation. He, the man who never lied. She wouldn’t fall into the trap of trying to humanize him, assigning him acceptable reasons for threatening her, but she wouldn’t leave him, either. He’d done his best to protect her.

  Annabelle lumbered to her knees and checked his pulse. The beat was thready, but there. There was hope!

  God, if You’re listening, thank You! With shaking hands, she put Zacharel back together as best she could, gagging, crying. Just…stay with us a little longer. He needs help.

  “You’ll heal,” she told Zacharel. “You’ll survive this.”

  Her gaze panned the surrounding forest. If she built a sled, she could drag him…where? She had no idea where they were. Doesn’t matter. She would drag him until she found someone who could call for help.

  “What did you do to him?”

  The harsh voice slashed through the air behind her, slamming into her with so much hate and rage she fell to her hands. Blood splashed. Quickly she straightened, spun. The dizziness…almost too much, the spiderwebs returning and interweaving with pinpricks of light.

  A beast of a man loomed a few feet away.

  Trembling, she reached through the slits in her new leather pants and palmed two of the blades the cloud had given her. Good. She hadn’t lost them in the fall. As she shoved her way to her feet, struggling to stay upright, she pointed both weapons at the scary-looking newcomer. “Don’t come any closer. I’ll make you regret it.”

  Ragged abrasions covered his cheeks, the edges singed, but the rest of his skin reminded her of honey sprinkled with sugar—a shocking contradiction. His eyes were black and filled with the same hate and rage she’d heard in his tone, his dark hair long and beaded, and though he wore a white robe, he wasn’t an angel. He couldn’t be an angel. No wings arched over his massive shoulders.

  He glared down at her, then at Zacharel. When those bottomless eyes next landed on her, they were narrowed and crackling with orange-gold flames. Somehow, those flames were far worse than the emotions.

  She blinked, and then he was standing in front of her—without ever having walked a step. Long, thick fingers wrapped around her wrists, squeezing. Still she hung on to her weapons.

  “Let me go!” she demanded, trying to knee him between the legs.

  He twisted, avoiding contact. “Release the blades.”

  And leave herself, and Zacharel, helpless? “Never!”

  His clasp tightened. Even when her bones fractured and agonizing pain slicked up her arms, she maintained her hold on the hilts.

  Endured worse. Gritting her teeth, she fought through the dizziness and the now-thickening spiderwebs intermingling with the ever-brightening lights, and found the strength to go for round two of Shoot His Testicles Into His Throat. He must have assumed the pain had overwhelmed her and she would submit, causing him to lower his guard, because she succeeded in connecting her knee to his groin this time.

  He did not double over, but he did fling her away from him, her already abused body propelling into a tree trunk and slinking uselessly to the ground.

  “Stay there.” He kept her within his sights as he crouched beside Zacharel.

  “No! I won’t let you hurt him,” she shouted, and lumbered to her feet. And… Thank You, God! She still held the daggers. Her hands were swollen and aching unbearably, but that was a small price to pay for Zacharel’s protection.

  Surprise lit those treacherous eyes. Because of her words, or her persistence? Whatever the reason, surprise drifted through her as he smoothly lifted Zacharel into his arms. Such gentleness from someone who looked more monster than man should have been impossible.

  Still, she pointed one of the blades at him. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but like I said, I won’t let you hurt him.”

  “I am Koldo, and I would never hurt him.”

  Her knees almost buckled with relief. Koldo. She recognized the name. He might not be an angel, but he was Zacharel’s friend. Her warrior had told her not to fight him just before commanding his cloud to vanish. “Where are you taking him? What are you going to do with him?”

  “Away. Save.”

  That harsh voice must have jostled Zacharel’s mind into activity, because his eyelids fluttered open. He struggled for freedom, saying, “The girl.” He coughed, blood gurgling from his mouth.

  He was still alive!

  A sob of relief escaped Annabelle as she rushed forward. Only, she never reached him. Both men disappeared as if they had been nothing more than holograms suddenly switched off. She experienced a tide of panic and grief, twisting around, searching for any sign of them—and finding nothing.

  This is for the best. Koldo would get Zacharel the medical treatment he needed. Without her, the demons would stay away from him and—

  Strong arms looped around her and jerked her against an equally strong chest. Instinct kicked in, and she flailed, knocking her head into her captor’s chin. He grunted, but his hold never slackened. Then a curtain of white fell over the forest, nearly blinding her. Next to go was the grass at her feet. For several heartrending seconds, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, a terrible sense of nothingness washing over her.

  The panic returned, stronger now, consuming, but as she opened her mouth to scream, a new world painted itself around her. A fairy tale. There was a domed ceiling comprised of light pink crystals, with a diamond-studded chandelier hanging from the center. The walls were textured in the richest of velvets, the windows smoked glass with cinched white curtains that peered into…she wasn’t sure, could see only darkness behind the pane. The floor polished mahogany draped with several plush pastel rugs.

  There was so much space, the room was divided into several parts. The sleeping area; the
sitting area, where a floral-printed couch formed a half circle on one side of a square glass table, while three chairs rounded things out on the other side; and the kitchen. Fresh flowers spilled from a crystal vase in the center of the dining table, sweetly scenting the air.

  As for the bedroom, the same cinched material cascading down the sides of the windows swathed the largest bed she’d ever seen.

  Bed. The word echoed through her mind, a reminder of the horrors to be experienced there…and now she was alone with her captor.

  Don’t just stand there. Fight!

  A surge of adrenaline giving her strength, Annabelle reached up and back, propelling her swollen fist into her captor’s eye. His arms fell away from her, and she spun, intending to pop him in the throat and leave him gasping for air. She came face-to-face with Koldo, but by the time his identity registered, there was no stopping her impetus. She’d already lashed out, the blades she’d forgotten about aimed at his jugular, ready to cut into his spine.

  But he must have anticipated the move, because he arced backward, out of harm’s way.

  Thank You again, God. Seriously. Her arms clomped heavily to her sides. “I’m sorry, didn’t know, couldn’t stop. Where’s Zacharel?” The words spilled from her without a single pause for breath.

  “Put your weapons away first,” he commanded. His voice still seethed with an ingrained fury he couldn’t hide, probably didn’t care to hide. He was all emotion, leaving no room for anything else.

  “Okay. Yes.” Though she wasn’t frightened of him—much—her heart thundered against her ribs as she struggled to obey. But no matter what she tried, her fingers remained petrified on the blade hilts, too swollen to move.

  “Woman! Now.”

  “I can’t,” she said, the words broken. He’d already proven he would do anything to protect his friend. Like, say, throwing a strange female across a forest after breaking her wrists. “My hands won’t cooperate.”

  A moan sounded from the bed, snagging her attention. The covers writhed, the pristine material suddenly reminding her of a violent snowstorm.

  No, not covers, she realized. Zacharel. He lay in the center. She’d missed him because his robe was as white as the comforter, the blood somehow having washed away in the bare minutes they’d been separated. She rushed forward.

  Koldo extended an arm, stopping her.

  She lifted the blades, ready to strike at him, despite the fact that they were on the same side, but he used his free hand to pry the weapons from her grip. Only then did he step aside. Trying not to put any weight on her palms, she crawled onto the bed, careful, so careful not to jostle the mattress.

  “I’m here, and I’ll guard you as long as I can,” she murmured when she reached Zacharel, and to her surprise, he stilled. “But I’m not sure how long that will be,” she added, more for Koldo’s benefit. “The demons are drawn to me, and apparently they can find me wherever I am. Zacharel can’t withstand another attack. Not like this.”

  His wings were still broken, and without the blood caking them, she could see that patches of his feathers were missing. His skin was chalk-white, his only color the dark bruises beneath his eyes. A large puncture decorated the center of his lower lip. The tip of a branch must have slicked straight through to his gums.

  “How did I walk away without a scratch, while he looks like this?” she asked softly.

  Koldo assumed a post at the foot of the bed. “Did you drink anything before you landed?”

  She thought back, recalled how Zacharel had forced that single drop of water into her mouth, and the warmth that had spread through her body, the pain. “Yes. Not much, though.”

  “Not much was still enough.”

  Excellent point. “What was that stuff?”

  Rather than reply to her question, Koldo changed the subject. Must be an angel thing. “He would not settle until I assured him you were alive. He also made me swear to keep you by his side.”

  But…but…why would Zacharel do such a thing? “Is there a way to speed his recovery?”

  “Yes.”

  When Koldo offered no more, she cast him an exasperated glance. “Well? What is it? The water he gave me?” The water he’d emptied into her before tossing the vial away.

  Features hardened on a battlefield no longer displayed any hint of emotion, yet still he couldn’t quite hide the fire banked in his eyes. “That information is not something I will share with a human, much less a demon’s consort.”

  “I am no such thing!”

  “I will not even share the information with a demon consort Zacharel has decided to protect,” he added with a frown, as if he’d just sensed something odd.

  Getting answers from an angel was like rolling a boulder up a hill, she mused—a whole lot of work without much reward. “This secret something that will speed Zacharel’s recovery. Can you get it? Or do you already have it?”

  “Yes, I can get it. No, I do not have it.”

  Silence.

  Make that a boulder with spikes. “Well, then, get it!”

  “No.”

  Annnd more silence.

  “Unless,” he added—miracle of miracles—without any prompting from her, “you vow to keep Zacharel from the heavens for one month, without telling him about our bargain. The only exception would be if he were summoned for battle.”

  “Why do you want him kept away?” And why did Koldo assume she could force Zacharel to do anything? The angel wanted her to stay with him, yes. He’d also promised to teach her how to fight the demons, so, yeah, she had the stay-by-my-side locked and loaded. But that didn’t mean he would do whatever she desired.

  What’s more, did she dare shackle herself to Zacharel for a specific length of time? As she’d said, danger currently shadowed her steps, and that danger had nearly killed him. A good girl would leave him at the first opportunity.

  Koldo braced his hands behind his back, his legs apart. A battle-ready stance she recognized, because she’d assumed the same position nearly every time she’d spied demons in the institution. “All I require from you is a yes or a no, female. Nothing more.”

  Her gaze swung back over Zacharel, his pain as obvious as the glint of her blades on the floor. His lips were contorted in a grimace and now veering toward the color blue. His broken fingers were gnarled over the comforter, yet too weak to twist the material. He needed Koldo’s “something,” whatever it was, or he would die.

  Better he live with her and her danger than die without her.

  “Yes,” she said. I owe Zacharel, and I always pay my debts. At least, that was her new motto. “My answer is yes.” Could she trust Koldo to keep his end of the bargain, though? Did she really have another choice?

  Koldo nodded once, a stiff, rough incline of his head, causing the beads in his beard to clang together. “Very well. Now, one last question. When I leave you, what will you do to Zacharel?”

  Leave her? Making her, the now-handless wonder, the only protection Zacharel had? “How long will you be gone?”

  “That I do not know.”

  Which could mean six hours or six days. Or even six years. “I’ll take care of him as best as I can.”

  “The phrase ‘take care of him’ can have many meanings, such as kill him, save him and avenge him. Even leave him. I require you to be more specific.”

  Of course he did. He and Zacharel shared the trait, a desire for details while refusing to share with others. “I mean I’ll tend to him, look after him. I would never purposely hurt him, and I will not leave him on his own, helpless.”

  He smacked his lips, as if trying to taste the truth of her claim, before he nodded. “He would hate you for calling him helpless,” he said, and then he disappeared.

  Hey! “Koldo? Warrior?”

  Nothing, no response.

  Frustration ate at her. She had no idea how long he’d be gone, where she was or what to do if demons found her before he returned. Especially since her blades had disappeared with him! So untrusting.


  But she was used to being doubted, used to being ignored, and refused to give way to hurt feelings. So, rather than wallow, she would stand guard over Zacharel. The angel who had saved her life. The man she owed. The first person to look at her as if she were more than a murderer.

  Whatever was required, she would defend him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “HOW’S MY GIRL?”

  “Good, good, I ssswear…if you don’t mind that ssshe’sss with the angel, uh, well…Zacharel.” Fear and awe drenched the name.

  Grinning, the demon high lord Unforgiveness reclined in his throne, cunningly erected from bones taken from the many angel warriors he’d killed throughout the centuries. The change in his expression caused his four-legged minion to shudder. Usually when he smiled, he was in the process of killing someone.