Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark)

by Gena Showalter

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ANNABELLE STRUGGLED TO maintain a calm facade during the entire journey to the main office. The three of them pounded up a winding flight of stairs and through the smoky haze of the VIP lounge. She managed to hold her head high, even when people stopped what they were doing—having sex, snorting coke, torquing veins—to glare at her and Zacharel. Demons had to be resting on their shoulders, as Zacharel had said, but she couldn’t see them.

  When at last their trio stepped inside a seeming paradise, her struggle for composure jumped to the next level. Everything looked so normal, yet deep down she knew it was oh, so wrong. The room was spacious, with white walls and a white shag carpet interspersed with black, creating hypnotizing squares. Bookshelves lined the wall behind a desk shaped like a half-moon. A chandelier hung overhead, positioned in the center of a three-tiered ceiling.

  Nice, right? But behind the desk sat a beautiful golden-haired man in his mid-thirties, the high back of his leather chair rising several inches above his head, Dr. Evil style. He was far too thin, like, sickly thin, but his pose was all about the casual, his elbows resting on the chair arms, his fingers steepled over his mouth. Still, he couldn’t hide his air of cruelty.

  Who was he? The last line of security before they reached the demon?

  His eyes were a darker shade of blue than Annabelle’s own, and dulled, his lashes brown yet tipped in gold. The shadow of a beard scruffed his jaw. He wore a navy blue pinstriped suit and smelled of money, musk and pungent alcohol.

  The two armed guards behind him wore muscle tanks and leather pants, their expressions expectant. No doubt they were the type to shoot first and ask questions later.

  The beautiful blond girl from the club, the one Annabelle had stabbed, plopped into a couch beside the door, mumbling about the best ways to torture pesky humans as she patched herself up.

  “Hello, Burden,” Zacharel said.

  Burden. This was Burden? The demon-possessed man who had ordered all those other demons to attack her inside the institution? I shouldn’t have wasted my last two knives on the girl.

  Dr. Evil’s smile became all the more welcoming—and all the more sinister.

  “Ah, Zacharel,” Burden said. “I’m so pleased you received my invitation.”

  “I will see Jamila now,” her angel replied, pleasantries clearly over.

  “Your manners…for shame.” Burden’s voice was all satisfaction and potent desires. “Business first? How rude. May we offer you a drink? A whore? A hit?”

  Silence.

  “No? And what about you, my dear?” His navy gaze moved to Annabelle, slithered over her body and mentally removed her clothing. “Would you like anything?”

  Zacharel stiffened as she said, “I’d love something. For starters, I’ll take your head on the floor, detached from your body. After that, we can talk about my next demand.” So he’d told her to keep her mouth shut and her hands to herself while they were here and she had failed at both. So what?

  You’re already a target. Do not make yourself more of one, he’d said.

  That would have been great advice…when dealing with anyone but a demon. She could not come off as weak. Demons pounced on weakness, exploiting it. But she would rein herself in from now, she vowed. Zacharel had a plan; she knew he did. He and the other three angels had stood in front of each other, silent, for half an hour, their facial expressions changing every few minutes. Somehow, someway, they had been communicating with each other. Not that anyone had explained anything to her when they’d finished.

  Burden’s chuckle echoed through the office, cold and slick. “Your thirst for blood does my heart proud, Annabelle. But I wonder…are you hiding any more weapons?” Another once-over ensued. “Oh, yes, I think you are.”

  She wasn’t, but so wished she was.

  He motioned to one of the guards, and it was obviously an order to frisk her.

  Zacharel moved in the blink of an eye, a sword of fire in his hand, and poised at the demon’s throat. “No one touches her.”

  The guards made no move to stop him. Either they were too afraid of him, or they had their own orders to obey.

  Burden shifted in his seat, but any discomfort he felt was quickly masked with an air of superiority. “If you strike at me, my people know to kill Jamila.”

  “I would be no kind of leader if I protected one of my charges above another. So I repeat, no one touches the girl. Ever.”

  That’s my man.

  “Very well. No one will touch her while you’re here,” Burden allowed, evidently not the least bit upset that his authority had been questioned.

  “Agreed.”

  Wait. What?

  Zacharel’s sword vanished.

  The demon’s grin returned. “Because I’m so generous, I’ll allow your woman to keep her weapons.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” Annabelle said, acting as if she did, in fact, have a few surprises tucked away. Now it’s time for you to zip it, Miller, and let Zachie do his thing. Remember?

  Burden ignored her, but said to Zacharel with a bit more edge to his tone, “She’ll find I’m not as easy to hurt as the beautiful Driana.” He nodded briefly toward the woman still nursing her wounds on the couch.

  “This conversation grows tiresome.” Zacharel flexed his fingers at his side, before curling his hands into fists. “Let’s move on.”

  Burden lifted a pen from his desk and twirled the thing one way, then the other. “Impatient as ever, I see. To be honest—” he chuckled at his own words “—I’m a little surprised you came. You had to know I wouldn’t keep my end of the bargain to return Jamila to you.”

  Zacharel eyed him impassively. “That goes without saying.”

  Wait. He’d known they were walking into a trap? Then what the heck were they doing here?

  “So why are you here, angel?” Burden asked.

  “I will tell you. After I see proof that Jamila still lives.”

  Burden flinched at the layer of truth in Zacharel’s voice. “Some things never change, I suppose. It’s comforting to know you’re as suspicious as you are impatient.”

  “And you, in turn, are as untrustworthy as you are repulsive.”

  The demon inclined his head in acknowledgment, as if he’d just received a compliment. “Thank you. But why don’t I liven things up and do the unexpected? I’ll give you your proof,” he said, “after I have your word that no other warrior angels are here or even nearby.”

  He had guards all over the club, and probably cameras, too. He should already know the answer.

  “Why should he believe you this time when you’ve already admitted to lying?” Annabelle demanded.

  Burden laughed. “Smart girl. But he believes me because he can taste the truth of my words.”

  Zacharel ran his tongue over his teeth. “I can. And I agree to your terms. My angels are not here.”

  “Someone else’s angels?”

  “No. I am the only angel you will be dealing with.”

  Burden pursed his lips, pondered the situation then nodded. “This is somewhat disappointing. I expected the mighty Zacharel to put up some kind of fight, at the very least. Now I have to wonder why you are so agreeable about this. You knew you could not save Jamila. You knew you were bringing the human into the danger zone.”

  “And you know that according to the bargain just struck I’m not required to give you that information.”

  “True, but I had to try. I’m sure you understand.” The demon leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk. “Here is what’s about to happen. I will show you your precious angel, as I agreed. Then, you will either walk out of my club without bloodshed or you will stay and watch as my men and I enjoy the human.”

  Annabelle’s heart skipped a treacherous beat. Zacharel will not walk away. He will not leave you or let these men hurt you. More than that, you will not let these men hurt you.

  Zacharel smiled, but it was a cruel one, full of frost, cut with a promise
to deliver pain. “You truly think you and your men, or even an army of men, could take me?”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but your Jamila will die while we fight.”

  Zacharel shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “Show me what you promised to show me.”

  Only Annabelle’s determination to see this through held her in place as panic threatened to overwhelm her. She trusted Zacharel. Right? But so cold was he right now, the snow could have been falling from his wings. Just remember, he told everyone to leave you alone, and that has to count for something.

  Burden tapped a few keys on the state-of-the-art computer on his desk, then paused. His eyes glazed with satisfaction. “Are you sure you want to see this?”

  If Zacharel felt any foreboding at the demon’s smug tone, he hid it well. “Yes.”

  He swiveled the monitor around.

  Annabelle’s knees nearly gave out. The image on the screen… Oh, mercy, the image. Jamila was bound to a bed, her stomach pressed into the blood-and-feather-laden mattress, her back a mess of torn muscle and mutilated flesh.

  She was alive, as Burden had promised, but someone had cut off her wings.

  “She’s a screamer, this one,” Burden said, his relish palpable. He turned the screen back around and reclined in his seat. “I think I’ll let her heal, and when her wings grow back, remove them a second time. And a third.”

  Oh, no. No, no. No! Annabelle had been there and done the whole subjected and forced thing. She wouldn’t allow the same to happen to Zacharel’s charge. “You’ll pay for this,” she said. “Where is she? Tell us. Now!”

  Ignoring her, the demon addressed Zacharel. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Zacharel, but I believe the terms of our deal are now met and concluded. You have seen proof that the angel still lives, and in exchange you have gifted me with this delightful young human. I’ll keep my end of the bargain, again, and not touch her until you’re out of the building. And if you’re a good boy and leave without incident, I’ll be the one to have her today. If not, I’ll allow every man inside the club to have her.” He motioned to Driana, who still sat on the couch. “Show him out.”

  “Me?” the demon-possessed female said. “But I’m—”

  “Show. Him. Out.” Though spoken calmly, there was no doubt Burden would hurt her if she dared question him again.

  “Yes, sir” was the cowed response.

  “Go with them,” he told the guards. “If he tries anything or speaks to anyone, kill him.”

  But Zacharel remained in place. “Why let me go without trying to harm me, at the very least?”

  Wait, wait, wait. He wasn’t going to say anything about leaving her behind? Wasn’t going to protest, even a little? Probably just part of his plan. Any second now, he’ll erupt into a sword-wielding hero and Burden would be the one to cower.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I would enjoy killing you, then killing your sweet little Jamila, but there would be a trial and who has the time? This way, there’s nothing you can do but remember your failure.”

  Zacharel stood still for one heartbeat, then another, silent, stiff. Annabelle waited for him to act, to finally show the slimeball there were consequences for acting this way. Except…he turned on his heel and walked away.

  He’ll spin around and attack. Just watch.

  Driana opened the door. The guards went first, filing out to await Zacharel in the hall.

  Zacharel followed on their heels.

  Annabelle’s panic beat at the gates of her mind, desperate to escape.

  “Zacharel,” she said in a weak, trembling voice.

  His shoulders stiffened, but he never turned around. He was actually leaving her?

  Impossible.

  “Zacharel!” she snarled.

  He paused. His head turned, giving her a view of his profile. He said nothing.

  Driana sauntered up behind him. “I’ll take good care of you, green eyes. Promise.”

  Don’t do this, Annabelle silently screamed, but he gave no notice. But…but…

  Driana faced her, grinned and waved goodbye. The door shut with a sickening click.

  The gates in Annabelle’s mind swung wide-open, panic spilling through her. He’d done it. He’d lured her here under false pretenses. He’d handed her over to the enemy—to men who would try to destroy her—choosing Jamila’s safety over Annabelle’s, despite his pretty words to Burden about valuing all his “charges” equally. He’d tricked her. Used her.

  Nothing you can do about that. Not now.

  Now she had to find a way out of this.

  Burden chuckled. “And then there were two. What think you of that, little girl?”

  Annabelle met his gaze with all the bravado she could muster. “I think it’s time to finish this. You and me, right here, right now, winner take all.”

  He rubbed a too-long pinky nail between his teeth before he said, “I see now why you’ve garnered so much interest. I find I admire your courage, foolish as it is…and I know I will enjoy breaking you. Which I’ll do, before I escort you to your new master.”

  “Ohhh, a new master. Scary. Why don’t you keep me instead?” she suggested. “You can give me a tour of the club.” I can knee you in the balls and run. “We’ll get to know each other better and…who knows what else.”

  “Darling, it’s impossible to trick me. I’m—”

  The door split down the middle. Suddenly wings wrapped around her, shielding her view of the room. “I’m here,” Zacharel said. “I just had to get the guards outside the office.”

  Oh, sweet mercy! Zacharel had never intended to leave her alone, she realized, had always had her best interests at heart. She should be ashamed of herself for assuming otherwise, but at the moment she was simply too grateful.

  “I thought—” Her words were cut off as gunfire erupted. The horrible clang of metal against metal—and then metal popping through flesh and into bone. Grunts and groans sounded. Shock and confusion blasted through her, holding her immobile. War had broken out, but all Annabelle could do was stand there, clutching the collar of Zacharel’s robe.

  Robe? Yep, she realized. The street clothes had melted away, returning to a flowing drape of material. “Friends of yours?” she asked.

  “Yes. Their timing leaves something to be desired. They should have burst into the office much earlier,” he added more loudly.

  “Hey!” someone said. “We got up here as fast as we could.”

  “Then you need more training,” Zacharel growled.

  Annabelle gave him a shake. “What can I do to help?” She owed him. Because really, this had all happened because of her. She didn’t want anyone else hurt on her account.

  A pause as Zacharel panned the room. “There is no need for you to do anything. Burden is already contained.”

  “True that. We’re all done, big guy. You’re welcome, by the way,” said a husky voice she recognized.

  A voice she would never forget, because it shivered through her with unnatural force. Of course, the scents of champagne and chocolate drifted to her nose, confirming her suspicions.

  The man possessed by the demon of Promiscuity was here.

  Annabelle would have assumed a defensive position—or maybe offensive—but Zacharel held her steady.

  “You’re not done until you clean up the mess,” he announced harshly.

  Wait. They were working together?

  Do not assume the worst. Not this time.

  Grumbles, then, “Whatever you say, angel cake,” a woman said. “Dibs on telling others what to clean!”

  “Kaia,” a man groaned. “You are such a brat.”

  “You’re only jealous you didn’t think of it first.”

  “True.”

  Different sounds soon filled Annabelle’s ears. Something being dragged. A body? A trash bag being opened. Heavy things falling inside, landing. Mumbles of complaint.

  She blocked each one. “Why didn’t you tell me your plan?”

  “Because demons can
taste fear.”

  “And he needed to taste mine to believe you,” she finished for him.

  “Not necessarily. Even though you are learning to look past such emotions, I needed your reactions to be honest.” At long last, Zacharel’s wings lowered.

  Annabelle spun. Smears of blood covered the walls and floor, though she could tell someone had tried to wipe them away. Other than that, there was no sign that a battle had taken place. Four bloodstained male warriors and the three females stood in the center of the room, each studying her with avid interest.