Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark)

by Gena Showalter

  Bjorn was a brute of a man with bronzed skin veined in gold and glittering, multihued eyes of purple, pink, blue and green. A startling contrast.

  Soon after his rescue from the demons’ brutal clutches—and his subsequent rampage of death through the heavens, where none had been safe from his indiscriminate wrath—the Heavenly High Council had ruled Bjorn unstable and unfit for duty. Falling was too lenient a punishment, they’d said, and so he had been sentenced to a true death, his spirit, the power that fueled his life, his soul, the embodiment of his emotions, and his physical body to be wiped from existence entirely.

  Thane and Xerxes had protested, demanding the warrior be reinstated and promising they would be responsible were any other problems to arise. They’d also vowed to ensure they died the true death as well if separated from their friend.

  The Council had reluctantly given in. With the amount of demon activity plaguing the world, warriors of their caliber were in high demand. Still, Zacharel doubted such a threat would ever work again.

  “There will be no reprimand,” he said, and Bjorn blinked in surprise.

  Zacharel’s gaze caught on the serpe demon even then slithering over the railing in an attempt to escape notice. Serpes possessed the head and torso of a human but the lower body of a snake, and were more temperamental than the two combined.

  Leaning over, Zacharel grabbed the thick, rattling tail and jerked. The serpe twisted, fangs bared, arms raised to attack whoever had dared stop him. Zacharel maintained a tight hold, winding its length along his forearm while using his free hand to latch on to the demon’s neck. He squeezed.

  Crimson eyes widened with alarm as talon-tipped fingers slashed at him. “Not Zacharel, anyone but Zacharel! I go back, I go back, I ssswear.”

  Finally, respect for his authority.

  “This one will do,” he told Bjorn. “You may continue with your duties.”

  The angel inclined his head even as his eyes glazed with bafflement. But he said nothing more, instead springing back into battle.

  “Pleassse! I go!”

  The demons might have been unable to enter the building for whatever reason, but Zacharel had no such problem. He commanded his body, as well as the serpe’s, to mist, and the two of them sank through the stone. Seconds later, Zacharel stood on the building’s bottom floor.

  Forgetting who held him, the serpe sighed with bliss and reached up toward the ceiling. “Time for my fun…”

  Zacharel tossed the demon across the lobby’s freshly polished floor. Multiple security guards patrolled the area and several human females manned the desk, but not a single one noticed the intruders in their midst.

  Up the walls the serpe slinked, ghosting through the ceiling and disappearing from view. Following him proved easy. Zacharel moved from floor to floor, a mere step behind. Finally the serpe ceased climbing, shooting into one of the rooms on level fourteen.

  Inside, the walls were covered with black padding. There were no windows. A single vent in the ceiling provided the only breeze, and a frigid one at that. The room was barren except for one lone piece of furniture. A hospital gurney, with…a young woman strapped to the top.

  Every muscle in his body knotted. For a moment, the past threatened to rise up and swallow him whole.

  Kill me, Zacharel. You have to kill me. Please.

  Long ago he’d built a dam to hold back his memories of the past, a barrier he’d desperately needed. Would always need, it seemed. He refortified that dam now, blanking his mind of anything but the present.

  At first glance, the woman appeared to be asleep. But then her head lolled to the side, her attention seemingly ensnared by the demon she shouldn’t be able to see. Horror, anger and fear suddenly pulsed from her.

  Had she, a mere human, somehow sensed the serpe?

  Zacharel considered her. She wore a paper-thin gown, dirty and torn, her slender frame shivering. Long hair tangled around a delicate face, the strands so black they appeared to be a breathtaking midnight-blue. Dark circles marred the fragile skin under her eyes, and her cheeks were more hollowed than they should have been, not to mention terribly bruised and scratched. Her lips were red, chapped. Her eyes were ice-blue, and in their depths he saw a never-ending storm of pain no human was equipped to bear.

  No, those eyes did not belong to a mortal, he realized. They belonged to a demon’s consort.

  Somewhere out there was a demon high lord—the most dangerous of all hell’s fiends—who considered this human his exclusive property. His to possess, his to torture…his to enjoy in whatever fashion he desired. The demon had poisoned her eyes, marking her, ensuring she could see into the spiritual world that coexisted alongside the mortal one. His world. In doing so, he had brought her to the attention of other demons, as well.

  She had to have been a willing participant in her marking, for humans could not be forced. Seduced, yes. Tricked, absolutely. Eager to dabble in the dark arts, beyond a doubt. But never forced.

  Had the high lord grown tired of her? Was that why she was here without him? No, Zacharel decided a second later. A demon never grew tired of his human. He stuck around until the bitter, bloody end—or until the human wised up and forced him to leave.

  So…why not kill her and try to hide his crime? Demon and mortal pairings were forbidden, the act carrying a sentence of death. The demon’s and the human’s. Not that Zacharel or any of his men would kill this one. That still was not on today’s menu. There would be no collateral damage.

  “Stay away from me,” she said, drawing Zacharel out of his mind. Her voice was raspy, either from drugs or strain. Or was that her natural tone? “I’m a terrible enemy to have.”

  For someone who had agreed to bond her life to a demon’s, she did not sound happy with the results. He was willing to bet she had been seduced or tricked, and now regretted it.

  Humans so rarely learned until too late, yet it didn’t have to be that way.

  “I’ll hurt you if you come any closer.” She clearly possessed Japanese ancestry, yet her voice held no hint of an accent. Odd in a way, but all the more exotic because of the lack. Soft and lilting, and the perfect contrast to her bold features.

  “Hurt me, female. Pleassse…” Tail rattling a fatal rhythm, the serpe slithered around the bed. His forked tongue darted between his fangs. “That’sss what I like—before every sssnack.”

  The minion wanted her, not because of her but because creatures of the underworld loved nothing more than one-upping their brethren. Bragging rights were as valuable as gold, as was the accompanying sense of superiority. Well, that, and the thrill of ruining someone who was supposed to be under the protection of the heavens.

  Tensing, the female said, “Touch me once, just once, and I’ll find a way out of these restraints. I’ll remove your head. I’ve decapitated your kind before, you know. Maybe even friends of yours, eh?”

  An interesting response, going deeper than mere regret.

  The brave words earned a hiss of anticipation. “You lie, you lie, you delight me asss you lie. Ssso deliciousss.”

  “I’m serious! If you think a little thing like shackles will stop me, you’re more brain damaged than I thought. And news flash—I thought your IQ was in the single digits.”

  She gazed left, right, as though searching for someone to help her. While the female could see the serpe, she could not see Zacharel. That wasn’t exactly a revelation—if he did not wish to be sensed, he would not be sensed; not by a demon, or a demon’s consort, or even by other angels.

  Curious about her reaction to him, Zacharel materialized in his natural form, at the same time creating a sword of fire from nothing but the air. His gaze never leaving the female, he slashed, decapitating the demon and ending its miserable existence. Yes, killing was that easy for him. He dismissed the flames.

  “What— How—” Crystalline eyes found him and widened. Her teeth began chattering. “A-am I dreaming? The drugs… I have to be tripping. Or dreaming, maybe. Yes, that makes
sense.”

  “It does not, for you are not.”

  “Are you sure? You look like the prince I once…uh, never mind.”

  She once…what? “I am positive.”

  “Then wh-who are you? What are you? How did you get in here?”

  Despite her questions, she seemed to know that he was not like the creature he had just defeated. Demons did their best to evoke fear. Angels did their best to evoke a sense of calm. Or rather, they were supposed to.

  “What are you?” the female asked again. “Are you here to kill me?”

  Kill me, Zacharel. You have to kill me. Please. I can’t live like this anymore. It’s too much, too hard. Please!

  Again the past threatened to rise up and consume him. Again he blanked his mind. Though he owed the female no explanation, though she was a demon’s consort and couldn’t be trusted, he found himself saying, “I will not kill you. I am an angel.”

  As with all the Deity’s angels, Zacharel’s voice held an undeniable ring of truth. Typical of her kind, she flinched at its purity—but she could not doubt him.

  Blinking rapidly, she said, “An angel. As in, an angel from heaven, defender of all that’s good and right?”

  Perhaps she could doubt him. Her tone had been sneering. But he found it interesting that she did not spew the same hate at him that she had spewed at the demon. As the mate of a high lord, she should despise Zacharel above all others. That she didn’t… Definitely tricked.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, I am from the heavens, though I am probably not the race of angel you are familiar with.” He stretched his wings. Snowflakes continued to fall from him. His feathers were once again pearlescent, the gold threaded between each one shimmering. He frowned when he noticed the gold was thicker than ever before.

  Thousands of years had passed, and his feathers had never changed color, for such a change usually indicated that an elevation of status was in the works. For those under the Deity’s charge, only the Elite Seven were blessed with wings of solid gold. Joy-bringers were characterized by wings of solid white. Warriors such as Zacharel possessed the white with mere traces of the gold. But what he had now was more than a trace.

  There had to be some other explanation. Much as he’d hoped otherwise, his Deity had said nothing to him about rising to the level of the Elite. And he was hardly in a position to be considered for an advancement, anyway, when he was fighting so staunchly to keep the title he did have.

  “There’s more than one race?” she asked after looking him over. “Never mind. Don’t take this the wrong way, but…you’re not a nice-looking man. And I’m not talking about your sexiness factor.”

  “No. I’m not nice.” Humans often pictured angels as soft, cuddly beings who frolicked in the sunshine, made roses bloom and painted rainbows in the sky. He knew that. And some angels were, but so many were not.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Mean?”

  He should not have allowed curiosity to get the better of him. Should not have opened this line of conversation.

  That ended now. “Enough, human. You have picked up more trouble than you can currently carry. I do not suggest you seek any more.”

  “Well, what do you know?” she said with a laugh devoid of amusement. The pink tip of her tongue swiped over her lips. “The doctors finally got something right. I’m hallucinating. Only in my mind would an angel treat someone so poorly.”

  “I have not treated you poorly, and you are not hallucinating.”

  “The drugs are affecting my brain, then,” she insisted.

  “They are not.”

  “But…you can’t be an angel. Only evil comes here.”

  “Wrong again.” At least today.

  “I…I… Okay, I can roll with this. I mean, why not. Let’s say you’re actually real—”

  “I am.”

  “—and that you’re one of the good guys, since you’re not here to kill me. Are you here to…release me?”

  She had asked the question with such sweet hesitation, he knew she dared not hope he would rescue her, yet with every ounce of her being she wanted to believe escape was imminent.

  Perhaps another man would have been moved by her plight, but not Zacharel. He’d seen suffering in all its forms. He’d caused suffering in all its forms. Had watched his friends, immortals who should have lived forever, die.

  Had watched his twin brother die.

  Hadrenial, his twin, his only treasure, now resting in an urn on his nightstand. He’d been identical to Zacharel in appearance, with the same black hair and green eyes, the same sculpted face and strong body. Yet, emotionally they’d been complete opposites. Though only minutes younger, Hadrenial had seemed years younger. So innocent and sweet, so kind and caring, beloved by all.

  “I cannot stand to see the humans cry, Zacharel. We must help them. Somehow, someway.”

  “That is not our purpose, brother. We are warriors, not joy-bringers.”

  “Why can’t we be both?”

  Zacharel’s hands curled into fists. You must stop thinking of him. Pondering what had happened would not change a single detail. It was what it was. Beautiful and ugly. Wonderful and terrible.

  He forced his mind onto the female and her plight—but he decided not to answer the question about her release. “Do you know the name of the demon who marked you?”

  Disappointment mixed with bitter acceptance flashed in her eyes. “Maybe you are real,” she said. “It would require a dark side I don’t have to create someone like you.”

  “You forgot to say ‘no offense’ before making that statement.”

  “No, I didn’t. I meant offense.”

  Bold little human, wasn’t she? “Shall I repeat my question?” he asked, in case she’d missed it the first time.

  “No. I remember. You want to know if I know the name of the—” Her eyes widened, the disappointment and acceptance changing to shock. She whispered, “Demon,” the revelation seeming to affect her far more potently than when she’d learned of his origins. “As in, a demon that belongs in hell?”

  “Yes.”

  “A vile being whose only purpose is to ruin human lives?”

  “Yes.”

  “A hideous creature without an ounce of light, only darkness and evil?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I should have known,” she breathed. “Demons. All this time I’ve been fighting demons, and I never realized it.” Relief joined the shock, both dripping from her words. “I’m not crazy, and we’re not alone. I told them, but the only two people who ever believed me were the schizophrenic abducted by aliens and his invisible friend. I told them!”

  “Human, you will answer me now.”

  “I told them,” she continued blithely. “I just had no idea I was fighting demons. I should have guessed, though, but I got stuck on vampires and mythological monsters, and then hallucinations, so I—”

  “Human!” Do not raise your voice to her. There would be no way to explain to his Deity that he hadn’t meant to scare her to death.

  She shook her head, pulling herself from her clearly whirling thoughts with the same determination he had used. To her credit, she appeared far from cowed by him. “I can’t answer you because I have no idea what you’re talking about. A demon marked me? How? Why?”

  Genuine confusion. He knew it was, for the lies others told always tasted bitter on his tongue, and just then the only thing he tasted was…the sweetness of her scent? A subtle hint of rose and bergamot seeping from her skin, that smooth expanse of bronzed cream.

  That he’d noticed such an unimportant detail irritated him. “You do not recall agreeing to mate with a demon, by fair means or foul?” he asked.

  “Never!” The long length of her black lashes fused together, her gaze lancing at him. “And now it’s my turn for an answer. Are you here to save me or not?”

  If she was strong enough to insist on an answer, when she had already guessed at the truth, she was strong enough to hear the re
sponse. “No. I am not.” But he would have liked to remain with her long enough to solve the mystery of her marking. When had it happened? Who had done it? How had she been tricked?

  The details do not matter. The end result matters.

  She choked out a laugh as bitter as her earlier acceptance. “Of course you’re not. Why should I ever have hoped otherwise?”

  Hinges creaked as the steel door was suddenly thrown open. Zacharel shielded himself from prying eyes, and the female tensed. A baton-wielding guard stepped aside to allow a human male to stride into the room, a thick folder in hand. He was of average height for a human, missing quite a bit of hair and bearing a falsely sympathetic expression. A white coat draped his thin build, the material stained by small spots of dried blood.