Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark) Page 14

  But then, this was almost as good. The fact that Annabelle was with Zacharel thrilled Unforgiveness to the depths of his rotting black soul. That’s why he’d marked her, after all—to gain the warrior’s attention.

  He’d begun to wonder if the warrior would ever find her. He’d begun to regret not giving in to his desire to torture Annabelle while he’d had the chance. Now he was glad for his restraint.

  Now he could torture her and Zacharel.

  Grin widening, Unforgiveness rubbed two blunt-tipped claws over his jaw. Every day he had to file the nails down to prevent himself from killing his prey before he was ready. Because, when the bloodlust came upon him, he lost track of his surroundings, his ambitions, and simply gorged. He forgot food tasted better if it was aged for a few months, unending terror the perfect marinade.

  “Do you require anything more of me, sssire?” the minion asked him, still huddling there on the middle dais steps.

  “Yes.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “You will kneel before me and I will remove your head. Your stench offends me.” As did the fact that he’d shown such admiration for Zacharel.

  A sob burst from the minion’s too-thin lips, but he did not deny Unforgiveness’s demand. To do so would have earned him a good tormenting before his inevitable death.

  “That would be…my pleasure, sssire.”

  He assumed the position.

  Unforgiveness palmed his sword, swung. The minion’s head rolled down the steps. And I never even had to stand. He returned his sword to its rightful place against his throne arm and motioned several other minions forward. They lined the walls of the chamber, some tall, some short, but all ugly and here to serve his every twisted desire.

  “You, clean the blood. You, feed the body to my army. You, bring me a morsel to eat. A good one this time, or you’ll join your headless friend.”

  They rushed to obey. He almost wished one—or all—would defy him. That would certainly alleviate the boredom of the day. Or rather, the centuries. If only for a little while.

  Unforgiveness was trapped here. Only when a human managed to summon him could he leave, and then, he could only remain on earth for the time required to complete whatever unholy task the human had summoned him for, or until the human died. Whichever came first, and to be honest—something he never was—the human usually died.

  That had begun to bore him, too…until he’d finally stumbled upon Zacharel’s mate. Oh, yes. He’d recognized what she was, and who she was meant to be with, instantly. Maybe he would tell Zacharel how…maybe not. Either way, Zacharel, the warrior angel who had nothing to lose, the soldier who loved nothing and no one, had something worth fighting for.

  Now the real fun would begin.

  Finally Zacharel would pay for sending Unforgiveness down here.

  Demon high lords were fallen angels who had welcomed evil into their hearts. Yes, Unforgiveness had welcomed the evil all on his own, but he hadn’t meant to do so. How could he have known that the smallest pinch, received unintentionally, would cause more to spill inside of him until no goodness remained?

  Once he’d realized what was happening, he had fought, tried to save himself. But evil was insidious, a disease that grew inside you, sometimes so slowly you had no idea it was there. Without a proper cleansing, however, it was there, ready to strike, and in the end, you would cave under its weight.

  Oh, you might cry when you made your first kill, but the second, third and fourth were easier, and soon you would no longer shed any tears at all. Soon you would no longer uphold life in any form. Soon you were merely a husk of your former self.

  But Zacharel had known all of this and could have saved him. Should have saved him. Instead, Zacharel had betrayed him.

  “Your morsssel, sssire.” The minion’s voice blended with the sobs of the damned human female he dragged forward.

  Unforgiveness blinked to focus. The female was shoved up the steps and forced to kneel between his spread legs. In her mid-twenties, with brown hair and a delicate face, she reminded him of Annabelle.

  Every high lord kept a few minions at the gates of hell. When fresh meat was escorted inside, those minions fought for ownership. Down here, might equaled right. Unforgiveness craved the most bitter and hardened of the males and females, and he got them. No one challenged his minions, because no one wanted to deal with him. But every so often, he would discover a brunette beauty like this one.

  Tears tracked down this one’s cheeks. Her eyes were hazel, a deep green flecked with golden brown.

  He captured one of the tears with his fingertip, and she flinched away from him. He expected the reaction, even enjoyed it. Once, he’d been a study of magnificence. Females had gazed upon him with wonder. Now, with his crimson scales, his bloodstained fangs, too-sharp horns and spiked tail, he was a study of horror.

  “I can taste your fear already,” he said.

  Sobs shook her entire frame. “Please. Don’t hurt me, I beg you.”

  She lacked Annabelle’s fire and bravery. How disappointing.

  But…just thinking his Annabelle’s name filled him with excitement. How badly did Zacharel want her?

  What would he do to save her?

  What would he be willing to save her from?

  The minions Unforgiveness sent her way were not allowed to rape or kill her. Unforgiveness would have the privilege. And Zacharel would have to watch it all, before at last joining her in death. Well, death of the body, for Unforgiveness would not grant Zacharel the true death: spirit, soul and body. No, he wanted the angel here, transformed into a demon high lord, his actions a film of acid on his skin, loss and failure his lifelong companions.

  “Please,” the human said, drawing him back into the present.

  A wandering mind would get him killed. Unforgiveness curled his fingers around the female’s neck and urged her face toward his. “Please what?”

  “Let me go,” she choked out.

  His lips curled into another grin, this one slow and as dark as his soul. “Why would I do that? I must keep my strength up. And do you know how I keep my strength up, my precious?”

  Tremor, tremor. “N-no.”

  Perhaps not, but she suspected. “Well, it will be my pleasure to show you.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  AS ONE DAY SLID INTO a second, Annabelle remembered the joys of Zacharel’s home and summoned a few weapons. A girl had to be prepared when evil monsters chased her. Sadly, nothing appeared in her hands—now shockingly healed—or anywhere else, which meant she wasn’t in another cloud. Bummer. She’d already searched every corner, every piece of furniture, but had found nothing. Not even a change of clothes.

  Now she patted down the walls, probing for any doorways the demons might attempt to enter, but there wasn’t so much as a seam, as if the only way to enter or leave was through…teleporting? Was that what Koldo was doing, popping in and out as he did?

  And why did the guy want Zacharel out of the heavens? she wondered for the thousandth time. Hopefully she hadn’t made a fatal mistake with their exchange.

  Fatal. The thought returned her attention to Zacharel. Fresh blood had soaked his robe anew, causing the material to cling to his body, the crimson obscene against the purity of the white. In the bathroom, she gathered the few remaining washrags and a small basin of water. But by the time she had the supplies situated around the injured angel, the blood had already disappeared.

  How was he doing that? The phenomenon had happened several times before, and she had hoped his injuries had somehow healed. But each time before, that hope had been in vain. Gently she raised the hem of the robe, baring his legs—disappointment shot through her. He was still bruised, parts of him still twisted at odd angles. He had deep gashes everywhere, and his abdomen… Oh, poor Zacharel. No, his injuries hadn’t healed this time, either. He was dying.

  Her parents, dying…dead. No longer savable, gone forever.

  Oh, no. She wasn’t going there.

  S
he forced herself to think about something else. Like, how, for the first time in four years, she had purpose, an attainable goal, a safety net, and if she were being completely honest with herself, a gargantuan attraction to a man. Zacharel’s hypnotic beauty mesmerized her. His insistence on the truth delighted her. His strength fascinated her. He had protected her, and he had intrigued her during their few conversations. He wasn’t a smiler, but she suspected she’d come pretty close to amusing him a few times.

  I want him to live. He was… She was… She…

  Had fallen asleep, she realized, waking to find her chin pressed against her sternum. Exhaustion overwhelming her, she took up a post at the foot of the bed, ready to leap into action if anyone entered the room.

  Where are you, Koldo? The silence in the room was broken only by the harshness of her breathing. She despised that silence—until Zacharel began to release one agonized groan after another.

  She returned to his side, cooed at him, but his groans only increased in volume. He thrashed, blood soaking him, the robe and the comforter beneath him. Soon he practically floated in a pool of the stuff.

  How much more could he stand to lose?

  “Kill them,” he gritted out. “Must kill them.”

  Kill the demons? Probably. They’d done this to him, after all.

  “Kill them.”

  “Don’t worry. You did. You killed them,” she said softly.

  She had no medical knowledge, no idea what to do to help Zacharel. Applying pressure to the wound, the one thing she did know to do when someone was bleeding, wouldn’t help in this case. She would be applying pressure directly to…she gagged…and might do more damage.

  “Kill them!”

  “You did, honey. You did.” Annabelle spread the faux-fur coat Zacharel had given her on the bed and stretched out beside him, tracing her fingertips over his brow. His skin burned with fever, the cold long gone. He leaned into the touch, his grimace easing the slightest bit.

  “Save her.”

  Her—Annabelle? That, she wasn’t as sure about. “You did. You saved her.”

  “I…return,” a broken voice said from across the room.

  She jolted in surprise, then nearly screamed in horror when she spied Koldo. Or, more accurately, what was left of Koldo.

  His hands were clasped to his chest, his big fingers wrapped around something clear and thin. As he dropped to his knees, no longer able to hold his own weight, blood dripped from his now-shaved head. Gone was his robe. He was shirtless, with loose, low-hanging pants covering his legs.

  Annabelle eased from the bed to race to his side. “What happened to you?”

  “Make…him…drink.” Koldo fell face-first to the floor, his arms extending, the clear, thin something—a vial—rolling from his now-open grip.

  His back. Oh, sweet mercy, his back. There was no flesh left, just ruined muscle and fractured bone.

  “Do not…give to…me.” His eyes closed, as if his lids were too heavy to keep open. “Only him.”

  Nausea churned in her stomach. She was (somewhat) used to blood considering what she’d dealt with these past twenty-four hours, and she was totally used to violence. But this…so much in such a short amount of time…just like the past…rising up to consume her…

  For a moment, she was petrified in place, memories flooding her, drowning her, devastating her. Somehow she found a life raft—save Zacharel—and tugged, tugged, tugged herself to the surface.

  Make him drink, Koldo had said. Shaking, she swiped up the vial and returned to Zacharel’s side. The stopper proved to be a problem, and she struggled to remove it, feeling like an idiot as she yanked and failed, yanked and failed.

  “Is this the same stuff he gave me?” The same stuff that had hurt her before saving her?

  “Yes,” Koldo said.

  Finally, Annabelle’s biceps came through and the cork popped free. As unsteady as she was, she spilled several droplets down the side of her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Zacharel,” she whispered. Because she had no idea how much a big man like him would need, especially since he was an immortal rather than a human—would too much cause an overdose and hurt him, or would too little work too slowly?—she poured half the bottle down his throat.

  A moment passed, then another, and nothing happened.

  Well, what did you expect? He—

  Snarled, his body bowing. He slammed his fists against the headboard, cracking the wood. Next he punched the mattress with so much force, Annabelle was bounced to the floor, more of the liquid spilling from the bottle she still held.

  She scrambled to her feet, expecting to see his wounds mending, but…he continued to thrash, to bleed, to snarl.

  White-hot fury flowed through her veins, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. No wonder Koldo had told her not to give him any of the liquid. It was poison! And how stupid was she to have trusted him? Well, she would—

  As quickly as Zacharel had erupted, he calmed. His body sagged against the bed, and he released a soft sigh. Before her eyes, bones popped back into place. Skin wove back together, until he bore not a single bruise or scratch. Her widening gaze fell to the bottle. What was this stuff?

  “The Water of Life.” Zacharel jerked upright, scanning his surroundings, seeming to take everything in all at once. “Where is it?”

  “You’re healed.” The words burst from her, riding the tides of her shock.

  Emerald eyes landed on her, as clear as the liquid—the Water of Life?—and utterly pain free. Once again he possessed a face chiseled from dreams and honed by fantasies, lovely in a way no mortal could ever hope to be.

  Her breath caught, and her blood heated with something other than fury. She wanted to shout with joy and throw herself in his arms. She wanted to dance and sing about the wonder of this mighty miracle. She wanted…more than she was willing to admit.

  “You survived,” he said.

  All emotion had been wiped from his voice, offering no hint of how he felt. “I did. Because of you, so thank you. Which, I know, isn’t an adequate payment. You took the brunt of the impact yourself, and all I can give you is words. I’m sorry.” She was babbling, she knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop. “If I had more, I’d give you more.”

  “I would like to say it was a pleasure. Yes, I would like to say that, but impact hurt.”

  She choked back a laugh. “Did you just make a joke?”

  “A joke, when I spoke only the truth?” He waved his fingers at her. “The Water of Life,” he repeated. “Give it to me.”

  “Oh. Here.” She held out the bottle.

  Slowly, carefully he removed the bottle from her kung fu grip. “Who gave this to you?”

  “Koldo.”

  In his eyes she saw a flare of shock even the stoic Zacharel couldn’t hide.

  Uh-oh. Had the other warrior broken some kind of rule? “But I take full responsibility,” she added. “I asked him to do it. Therefore, any penalty should be mine.” Koldo had more than come through for her and for Zacharel. She owed him and according to her new motto, she had to pay him back.

  “Where is he?”

  As much as she liked Zacharel, as much as she owed him, too, she didn’t know him, not really, and wouldn’t throw the other guy straight into the fire. “What do you plan to do to him?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I would not harm a man who has aided me, if that is what you are hinting at.”

  Very well. She pointed to the warrior still unconscious on the floor. “I didn’t harm him, either. He left and came back like that.”

  Zacharel stood, his robe falling to his feet. He replaced the bottle’s stopper; a moment later, the entire thing vanished.

  “How did you do that?” she couldn’t help but ask. What had he done?

  “I hid the vial in a tiny pocket of air I will now force to follow me.” He bypassed her, careful not to touch her, as if she were suddenly toxic.

  Message received. He wanted nothing more to do
with her. And my feelings are not hurt. What was one more rejection, anyway? She was a freak, a murderer, a crazy girl who saw monsters, or so a thousand people had told her. So what that she’d just spent an entire day worrying over this man’s health. A man who knew the truth about her. A man who’d previously protected her. Why the sudden change?

  A hiss of breath as he crouched beside the injured male, glided his palm over that newly shorn scalp. “How could you let them take your hair, warrior? Why?”

  Annabelle could guess the answer to the second question, but she’d given Koldo her promise never to discuss the details of their deal. So, she remained silent. What she wanted to know was why Zacharel was more upset by his friend’s newfound baldness than he was by the condition of the guy’s back.