Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)

A dread-filled moment passed as she absorbed his words. “Why is it spreading? And don’t try to redirect me, or shut me down or tell me not to worry like you did last time. I will play a card you don’t want me to play, because yes, I can be devious like that, and then we’ll both feel bad.”

He would not have her feeling bad. “The growth was slow but steady until my Deity punished me with the snow for daring to ignore his orders. Afterward, the growth was fast and steady.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why the growth?”

“It is…death.”

Her jaw dropped, but she snapped it shut. “Put back the piece you removed. Right now! That should stop the spread of death.”

“I cannot. What’s in the urn is a combination of Hadrenial and me. I cannot separate the two. They have already bonded.” Like the demon had bonded to her, he thought, his hands curling into fists.

Her chin went into the air, and he knew her stubborn side was kicking in. “Well, think of it this way. I’m not asking you to separate the two. I’m telling you to use the combination.”

Oh, yes. Stubborn. “I failed to save his life. I even rendered the deathblow. I do not deserve to live off him.”

“You gave him what he wanted. You ended his torment. You deserve—”

“Annabelle—”

“Zacharel. You are far better than you give yourself credit for. How many times have you saved me? What would I have done without you? What will happen to me if you…if you… I can’t even say the word! Do this. Please.”

How could he deny her anything? “I…will think about it,” he said, and he would, but deep down he knew that he would not change his mind. If he did as she wanted, he would forever carry a piece of his brother. Him, a man utterly unworthy of such a blessing.

“Thank you.”

Guilt rose, but he shoved it aside. “Now, will you show me why you have the pen?” he asked, changing the subject.

“My pleasure,” she said with a smile only half the wattage of the others. “Have you ever played tic-tac-toe?”

“I’ve never played anything.”

“Well, then, prepare to be dominated. I’m a master. I win against myself every time we play.”

He snorted.

Hand steady, she began to write on him, treating his chest as if it was a sheet of paper and drawing what seemed to be hundreds of tic-tac-toe boards. He was X’s, she was O’s, and they tied every game.

Well, they tied until she used his nipple as the center O, lancing sensation to a groin he’d expected to be dead for days. He moaned, and that caused her to laugh, and of course, that laughter distracted him. She finally won.

By the time they finished, he was marked up from neck to toe, and so was she. Although he hadn’t drawn boards on her—he’d written his name. And suddenly he understood the appeal of tattoos. He liked his name inked into her flesh and suspected he would like having hers inked into his.

Annabelle formed a circle with her fingers, looking at him through the center as though she was a scientist and her hands a lens. “I want to take a picture of you just…like…this. You’re—” Her eyes darkened to a haunted navy blue, and her hands fell heavily to her sides.

Each of his muscles petrified, but he fought through and cupped the side of her cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“He removed my clothes and took photos of me.” Her gaze practically seared a hole in Zacharel’s chest.

“Who?” he whispered fiercely, but he already knew the answer. The knowledge that a man had forced his attentions on this lovely woman had irritated him before, even angered and offended him, but now, after everything he and Annabelle had shared, after having his own hands on her, after having her hands on him and learning the beauty of such contact, he was beyond enraged.

“Dr. Fitzpervert. He did more than take pictures. He touched me, too.” Shame coated her voice, dripping, dripping, coating his skin with a layer of the same black oil that had covered his cloud.

“Where did he touch you? Tell me everything, Annabelle.”

In a blink of time, Zacharel felt as though he was breathing fire, his body burning up with fever. While Annabelle was strapped to a gurney and drugged, the human responsible for her care had squeezed and licked her, and touched her in places he shouldn’t. And that the horror of a human had kept reminders of these violations, that he most likely found joy in them…

“I’m sorry that was done to you.” Sorry he hadn’t found her sooner.

At last she looked up, and the same fire inside him swirled in her eyes. “When I’m stronger, I’m going back.”

She was strong enough now, but Zacharel caught the fright in her voice, a piece of her past she had not yet overcome, and knew some part of her expected the doctor to drug her and lock her back up, making her helpless all over again.

Silent, Zacharel rose from the bed and dressed. He tugged Annabelle to her feet, helped her dress in the new set of clothes Thane had left at the door, pulled a robe over the clothes, and drew her into his embrace. Still without saying a word, he flew her out of the building and across the night sky, cool air whipping against them. She remained quiet, too. No doubt she knew where he was taking her.

Thane’s report about Annabelle’s life had listed every address of every person she’d come into contact with. The closer they came to Colorado, the colder the air became, and even with the fur lining in her robe, Annabelle was soon trembling.

“We don’t have time for this now,” she said.

The doctor’s one-story home came into view. “We’ll make time.” Zacharel should have made time before this, in fact. “There is a time for mercy and a time for fighting back.”

He flew inside, landed and let her go. He wanted to hold on to her, and he also wanted to inflict maximum damage on her tormentor, but this wasn’t about him and his wants, he realized then. This was about Annabelle’s needs. Torturing Fitzherbert would make Zacharel feel better, certainly, but what would that gain Annabelle? Merely a fleeting sense of satisfaction.

He strode through the home, Annabelle at his heels.

“What are you going to do?” she asked softly.

“Me? Nothing,” he replied in his normal tone. This was her war, and her long-awaited victory. He noticed the neatness, the simplicity. Fitzherbert enjoyed comfort over luxury, yet favored aesthetics over practicality. An odd combination. “Unless you desire something of me.”

“Shh! What if he’s here?”

“He is. I can hear him breathing. But he cannot sense us.” Yet.

She relaxed, but only slightly.

The lights were out, but Zacharel’s gaze cut through the shadows without any problems. He found the bedroom and positioned himself at the end of the queen-size bed. Fitzherbert was a lump in the center, snoring peacefully.

Beside him, Annabelle tensed.

“He is divorced with two children,” Zacharel said. “Teenagers. They live with their mother, so he is alone.”

“Do you think I should…kill him?”

If she did, Zacharel would be blamed. As with the demon-possessed Driana, he wasn’t concerned by her actions. He would gladly bear the consequences. “Will that bring you peace?”

A moment of silence. A sag of her shoulders. “No. For the rest of my life I would remember what I did to him, rather than what he did to me. I will have killed a human the way a demon killed my parents.”

“I will kill him if that is what you desire, and I promise you, I can make his pain last. Or, if you prefer, I can end him quickly. I would be satisfied either way.”

Another round of silence as she wrung her hands together. “No. I won’t let you go down for something like this.”

Then he would never, ever tell her that her actions were as his own.

“Will you…I don’t know, wake him up and hold him still?”

There was no need for her to ask twice. With only a thought, Zacharel allowed their presence to manifest. He spread his wings and rose, hovering over Fitzherbert, grabbing him and tossing him into the wall. Plaster cracked and dust plumed around him. In a flash, Zacharel closed the distance, latched on to the doctor’s neck and lifted him off his feet, pinning him to the wall.

Impact had woken Fitzherbert up, and now the man struggled for freedom.

Annabelle switched on a light, and when the human saw who held him—and who watched him—he stilled, his skin turning a putrid shade of green. His jaw dropped, a bit of spittle rolling from the corner of his mouth.

“Tell her where the photos are,” Zacharel demanded, loosening his hold just enough to allow the man to speak.

The green deepened. “I d-don’t know what you’re— Okay, okay, I know,” he rushed out when Zacharel tightened his hold. “They’re deleted. Of course. I swear.”

A foul taste suddenly coated Zacharel’s tongue. “A lie. And I do not like liars, Dr. Fitzherbert.” He tightened his grip, making it more of a vise than before, and felt the man’s bones begin to crack.

You aren’t to kill him, remember?

“He wouldn’t risk having them developed,” Annabelle said with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “I bet they’re still in his phone. Or maybe on his computer.”

Fitzherbert burst into motion, clawing at Zacharel’s arms.

“I bet you’re right,” Zacharel said.

Paler by the second, Annabelle picked up the cell phone resting on the nightstand. She pressed a few buttons, frowned. “I was wrong about the phone. There are no photos saved in here.”

The doctor relaxed. “Told you,” he squeaked out.

“You mentioned a computer. Check the one in his office. Two rooms down.”

The flailing renewed.

Annabelle left the room, her footsteps fading. Zacharel released Fitzherbert, the disgusting man slamming into the ground, wheezing for air. Before he could scramble away, Zacharel crouched down and placed his knee in the man’s chest.