Wicked Nights aotd-1 Read online

  For the past thirteen days, she’d been kept in the hole, a dark, padded room where deprivation of the senses slowly drove her (genuinely) insane. She had been starved for contact, and had thought any interaction would do—until Fitzpervert drugged and photographed her.

  This morning, he arranged her release from solitary confinement, followed by this outing. She wasn’t stupid; she knew he hoped to bribe her into accepting his mistreatment.

  If Mom and Dad could see me now…. She bit back a sudden, choking sob. The young, sweet girl they’d loved was dead, the ghost somehow alive inside her, haunting her. At the worst times, she would remember things she had no business remembering.

  Taste this, honey. It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever eaten!

  A terrible cook, her mother. Saki had enjoyed tweaking recipes to “improve” them.

  Did you see that? Another touchdown for the Sooners!

  A die-hard football fan, her dad. He had attended O.U. in Oklahoma for three semesters, and had never cut those ties.

  She could not allow herself to think about them, about her mother and father and how wonderful they’d been…and…oh, she couldn’t stop it from happening…. Her mother’s image formed, taking center stage in her mind. She saw a fall of hair so black the strands appeared blue, much like Annabelle’s own. Eyes uptilted and golden, much like Annabelle’s used to be. Skin a rich, creamy mix of honey and cinnamon and without a single flaw. Saki Miller—once Saki Tanaka—had been born in Japan but raised in Georgetown, Colorado.

  Saki’s traditional parents had freaked when she and the white-as-can-be Rick Miller had fallen hopelessly in love and married. He’d come home from college on holiday, met her and moved back to be with her.

  Both Annabelle and her brother were a combination of their parents’ heritages. They shared their mother’s hair and skin, the shape of her face, yet had their father’s height and slender build.

  Although Annabelle’s eyes no longer belonged to either Saki or Rick.

  After that horrible morning in her garage, after her arrest for their murders, after her conviction, her lifelong sentencing to this institution for the criminally insane, she’d finally found the courage to look at herself in a mirror. What she’d seen had startled her. Eyes the color of winter ice, deep in the heart of an Arctic snowstorm, eerie and crystalline, barely blue with no hint of humanity. Worse, she could see things with these eyes, things no one should ever have to see.

  And oh, no, no, no. As the trust circle yammered on, two creatures walked through the far wall, pausing to orient themselves. Heart rate spiraling, Annabelle looked at her fellow patients, expecting to see expressions of terror. No one else seemed to notice the visitors.

  How could they not? One creature had the body of a horse and the torso of a man. Rather than skin, he was covered by glimmering silver…metal? His hooves were rust-colored and possibly some kind of metal as well, sharpened into deadly points.

  His companion was shorter, with stooped shoulders weighed down by sharp, protruding horns, and legs twisted in the wrong direction. He wore a loincloth and nothing else, his chest furred, muscled and scarred.

  The scent of rotten eggs filled the room, as familiar as it was horrifying. The first flood of panic and anger burned through her, a toxic mix she could not allow to control her. It would wreck her concentration and slow her reflexes—her only weapons.

  She needed weapons.

  The creatures came in all shapes and sizes, all colors, both sexes—and maybe something in between—but they had one thing in common: they always came for her.

  Every doctor who’d ever treated her had tried to convince her that the beings were merely figments of her imagination. Complex hallucinations, they said. Despite the wounds the creatures always left behind—wounds the doctors claimed she managed to inflict upon herself—she sometimes believed them. That didn’t stop her from fighting, though. Nothing could.

  Glowing red gazes at last settled on her. Both males smiled, their sharp, dripping fangs revealed.

  “Mine,” Horsey said.

  “No. Mine!” Horns snapped.

  “Only one way to settle this.” Horsey licked his lips in anticipation. “The fun way.”

  “Fun,” Horns agreed.

  Fun, the code word for “beat the crap out of Annabelle.” At least they wouldn’t try to rape her.

  Don’t you see, Miss Miller? one of the doctors had once told her. The fact that these creatures will not rape you proves they are nothing more than hallucinations. Your mind stops them from doing something you can’t handle.

  As if she could handle any of the rest. How do you explain the injuries I receive while bound?

  We found the tools you hid in your room. Shanks, a hammer we’re still trying to figure out how you got, glass shards. Shall I go on?

  Yeah, but those had been for her protection, not her mutilation.

  “Who goes first?” Horsey asked, drawing her out of the depressing memory.

  “Me.”

  “No, me.”

  They continued to argue, but the reprieve wouldn’t last long. It never did. Adrenaline surged through her, making her limbs shake. Don’t worry. You’ve got this.

  Though no other patients were aware of what was going on, they were all sensitive to her shift in mood. Grunts and groans erupted around her. Both men and women, young and old, writhed in their seats, wanting to run away.

  The guards posted at the only exit stiffened, going on alert but unsure who was to blame.

  Fitzpervert knew, pegging Annabelle with his patented king-of-the-world frown. “You look troubled, Annabelle. Why don’t you tell us what’s bothering you, hmm? Are you regretting your earlier outburst?”

  “Screw you, Fitzpervert.” Her gaze returned to her targets. They were the bigger threat. “Your turn will come.”

  He sucked in a breath. “You are not allowed to speak to me that way.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. I meant, screw you, Dr. Fitzpervert.” Unarmed did not mean helpless, she told herself, and neither did bound; today, she would prove it to the creatures and Fitzpervert.

  “Feisty,” Horsey said with a gleeful nod.

  “So amusing to break,” Horns cackled.

  “As long as I’m the one to break her!”

  And so began another round of arguing.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the good doctor motion one of the guards forward, and she knew the guy would take her jaw in an inexorable grip and shove her cheek against his stomach to hold her in place. A degrading and suggestive position that humiliated even as it cowed, preventing her from biting so that Fitzherbert could inject her with another sedative.

  Have to act now. Can’t wait. Not allowing herself to stop and think, she jumped up, pulling her knees to her chest, sliding her bound arms underneath her butt and over her feet. Gymnastics classes hadn’t failed her. Hands now in front of her, she twisted, grabbed and folded the chair, and positioned the metal like a shield.

  Perfect timing. The guard reached her.

  She swung to the left, slamming her shield into his stomach. Air gushed from his mouth as he hunched over. Another swing and she nailed the side of his head, sending him to the floor in an unconscious heap.

  A few patients shouted with distress, and a few others cheered her on. The droolers continued leaking. Fitzpervert rushed to the door to force the remaining guard to act as his buffer, as well as summon more guards with the single press of a button. An alarm screeched to life, tossing the already disconcerted patients into more of a frenzy.

  No longer content to bicker on the sidelines, the creatures stalked toward her, slow and steady, taunting her.

  “Oh, the things I’ll do to you, little girl.”

  “Oh, how you’ll scream!”

  Closer…closer…almost within striking distance…totally within striking distance… She swung. Missed. The pair laughed, separated and in unison reached for her.

  She used the chair to bat one set o
f hands away, but couldn’t track both of her adversaries at the same time and the other managed to scratch her shoulder. She winced but otherwise ignored the pain, spinning around to—hit air, only air.

  Laughter growing in volume, the creatures ran circles around her, constantly swinging at her.

  I can handle this. When Horsey was in front of her, she rammed the top of the chair under his chin, knocking his teeth together and his brain, if he had one, into the back of his skull. At the same time, she kicked out a leg, punting Horns, who was behind her, in the stomach. Both creatures stumbled away from her, their grins finally vanishing.

  “That all you got, girls?” she goaded. Two more minutes, that’s all she had, and then the summoned guards would rush inside and tackle her, pinning her down, Fitzpervert and his needle taking charge. She wanted these creatures finished.

  “Let’s find out,” Horsey hissed. He opened his mouth and roared, his awful breath somehow creating a strong, unstoppable wind that pushed the arsonist at Annabelle.

  To everyone else, it probably seemed like the guy was leaping at her of his own volition, intending to restrain her. Another swing, and the chair sent him flying through Horsey’s body and to his butt, as if the creature were nothing more substantial than mist. To Fire Boy, he wasn’t. The creatures were only ever tangible to her and whatever she held.

  Sometime during the exchange, Horns had moved beyond her periphery. Now he managed to sneak up behind her and rake his claws against her already bleeding shoulder. As she turned, he turned with her, once again raking her with those claws.

  The pain…oh, the pain. No longer ignorable.

  Stars winked in her line of vision. She heard laughter behind her, and knew Horns was there, ready to claw her again. She darted forward, out of the way, and tripped.

  Horsey caught her by the forearms, preventing her from falling. He let her go—only to punch her in the face. More pain, more stars, but when he lifted his hand for a second blow, she was ready. She jerked the chair up and nailed him under the jaw, then spun so that he broke his knuckles on the seat of the chair rather than her cheekbone. His howl rent the air.

  Footsteps behind her. She kicked backward, connecting with Horns. Before her leg landed, she spun and kicked out with the other, scissoring her ankles to double tap his gut. When he collapsed, wheezing for air, she flipped the chair upside down and finished him off, slamming the metal rim into his trachea.

  Black blood pooled and bubbled around him, frothing and sizzling as it seared the tiled floor. Steam rose, curling through the air.

  One minute to go.

  Maximum damage, she thought.

  Horsey called her a very rude name, his entire body shaking with his wrathful intent. He closed the distance with stomping steps and lashed out with those clublike arms. No claws, just fists. Playtime was over, she supposed. She blocked, ducked and bowed her back to ensure those meaty hammers only ever swiped the chair. All the while she punched at him with the dented metal, landing multiple blows.

  “Why did you come for me?” she demanded. “Why?”

  A flash of bloodstained fangs. “Just for the fun. Why else?”

  Always she asked, and always she received the same reply, no matter that each of her opponents was different. The creatures came once, only once, and after raining havoc, creating chaos, they disappeared forevermore. If they survived.

  She’d cried after her first kill—and her second and her third—despite the fact that the creatures had only ever wanted to hurt her. There was just something so terrible about taking a life, no matter the reason for doing so. Hearing the last breath rattle…watching the light dim in someone’s eyes…and knowing you were responsible… She always thought of her parents. Somewhere along the way, her heart had hardened into a block of stone and she’d stopped crying.

  The backup guards finally arrived, three hard bodies slamming into her from behind and knocking her to the ground. When she crashed, she crashed hard, cracking her already injured cheek on the tile. She experienced a sharp lance of pain as the taste of old pennies filled her mouth, coated her tongue. More of those too-bright stars winked through her vision, corrosive things that grew…grew…blinding her.

  That blindness panicked her, reminding her of that terrible, fateful morning so long ago. “Let me go! I mean it!”

  Inflexible knees dug into her bleeding shoulders, her back and her legs, and rough fingers pressed all the way to bone. “Be still.”

  “I said let me go!”

  Horsey must have fled because the scent of rot was suddenly replaced by the scent of bacon and aftershave, warm breath caressing her cheek. She didn’t allow herself to cringe, didn’t allow herself to reveal her abhorrence for the doctor now looming over her.

  “That’s enough out of you, Annabelle,” Fitzpervert said in a chiding tone.

  “Never enough,” she replied, forcing herself to calm on her own. Deep breath in, deep breath out. The more emotion she displayed, the more sedative he would have to use.

  “Tsk, tsk. You should have played nice. I could have helped you. Sleep now,” he crooned.

  “Don’t you dare—” Her jaw went slack a second after the expected pinch in her neck. In a blink of time, there was white lightning in her vein, spreading just as swiftly as the stars.

  Though she despised this feeling of helplessness and knew Fitzpervert would be paying her a visit later, though she fought with every bit of her remaining strength, Annabelle slipped into the waiting darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “LOOK AT ME, ZACHAREL! Look how high I’m flying.”

  “You’re doing so well, Hadrenial. I’m proud of you.”

  “Think I can flip without falling to the ground?”

  “Of course you can. You can do anything.”

  A laugh as sweet as tolling bells, echoing through the sky. “But I’ve already fallen three times.”

  “Which means you now know what not to do.”

  “Sir? Your Great and Mighty Highness? Are you listening to me?”

  The masculine voice drew Zacharel from the past and the only bright light in an otherwise dark life, jerking him straight into the present. He glanced at Thane, the self-appointed second in command of his angelic army. A promotion he had not disputed, despite the warrior’s attitude. The fact was, Thane was the best of the lot—which wasn’t actually saying much.

  Every angel in his army had pushed the Deity, their king, past the limit of his patience. Each had broken so many rules, skirted so many laws, it was a miracle they still had their wings…and an even greater miracle that Zacharel had tolerated the warriors as long as he had.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m listening, yes.” Now.

  “My humblest apologies if I bored you before” was Thane’s flippant reply.

  “Accepted.”

  A crack of the angel’s jaw as he realized Zacharel had taken no insult. “I asked if you were ready for us to attack.”

  “Not yet.”

  Thane hovered beside him, the great length of their wings outstretched but not touching. Neither of them liked to be touched. Of course, Thane always made allowances for the females he bedded, but Zacharel made no such exceptions for anyone.

  “I’m eager to fight, Majesty. We all are.”

  “I’ve told you before not to call me by that title. As for your request, you will wait as ordered. All of you.” To disobey was to be punished—a concept Zacharel himself was now intimately acquainted with.

  It had begun a few short months ago, when he was summoned to the Deity’s temple, that sacred sanctuary so few angels were privileged to visit. During that unprecedented encounter, snowflakes had begun to fall from the feathers of Zacharel’s wings, a constant storm and a sign of his Deity’s cold displeasure. And the Deity’s words, though softly spoken, had been just as biting as the snowfall.

  Apparently, Zacharel’s “severe detachment from emotion” had caused him to ignore “collateral damage” during his battles with de
mons. On multiple occasions, the Deity had charged, Zacharel had chosen to slay his enemy at the expense of innocent human life. Of course, such behavior was “unacceptable.”

  He’d apologized, even though he wasn’t sorry for his actions, only that he had angered the one being with the power to destroy him. In truth, he did not understand the appeal—or usefulness—of the humans. They were weak and frail, claiming all they did was for love.

  Love. Zacharel sneered. As if mere mortals knew anything about unselfish, life-giving love. Not even Zacharel knew. Hadrenial had—but Zacharel wasn’t thinking about him anymore.

  His apology meant nothing, his Deity had told him. Actually, less than nothing, for his Deity could see into the dark mire of his chest, where his heart should beat with emotion—but didn’t.

  I should take your wings and immortality and banish you to the earth, where you will not be able to see the demons living among us. If you cannot see them, you cannot fight them as you are used to doing. If you cannot fight them, you cannot kill the humans around them. Is that what you want, Zacharel? To live among the fallen and mourn the life you once had?

  No, he wanted nothing of the sort. Zacharel lived for killing demons. If he could not see and fight them, he was better off dead. Again he’d voiced his contrition.

  You have apologized to the Heavenly High Council for this very crime many times in the past, Zacharel, yet you have never changed your ways. Even still, my trusted advisors have long recommended leniency. After everything you’ve suffered, they hoped that in time you would find your path. But time and again you’ve failed to do as the Council has asked, and no longer can they turn a blind eye to your transgressions. Now I must intervene, for I, too, am answerable to a higher power—and your deeds reflect poorly on me.

  In that moment Zacharel had known there would be no talking his way out of his sentence. And he’d been right.

  Words are so easily spoken, as you’ve proven, the Deity had continued, but so rarely are they backed up with action. Now you will carry the physical expression of my unhappiness, so that you never forget this day.