Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark)

by Gena Showalter

  “Maybe we should go,” Annabelle said, rubbing at the center of her chest.

  She did that every time she was nervous. Or scared. Why? “He will not hurt you. I will not let him.”

  Her crystalline gaze was grave. “There are a thousand different ways to hurt someone, Zacharel.”

  That, he knew well. “There are also a thousand different ways to heal. Trust me in this. Your faith is out there. You said you expect a relationship with your brother to bloom, and you are even beginning to believe it, whether you realize it or not. That’s why you’re here. So, even when it doesn’t look like it’s going your way, continue to believe. If you do not give up, you will see results.”

  As he rapped his knuckles against the wood, his robe became a plain white T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting drawstring pants. He waited one minute, two, then knocked again. When that failed to gain results, he rang the doorbell over and over again. He knew Brax Miller was inside; Thane would not have let him leave.

  Finally a voice snapped, “I’m coming, jeez.” Footsteps pounded, and in the next blink hinges were squeaking and a tall, leanly muscled male in his mid-twenties was opening the door.

  Brax possessed the same blue-black hair as Annabelle, only his was cut short and shaggy. He had uptilted eyes of gold rather than crystalline blue. The eyes Annabelle had once had, Zacharel would bet.

  “Yeah?” the man said. He was shirtless, his jeans hastily tugged on and gaping around his waist.

  Beside him, Annabelle sucked in a breath. Not that the human heard. He couldn’t sense her in any way. “You are Brax Miller.” A man who had inherited a lot of money after his parents’ death. Money he would blow through entirely within the next year, according to the report Thane had brought him all those days ago—the one detailing Annabelle’s life, as well as her remaining family’s.

  “So?” His jaw held the faintest trace of a beard, and his eyes were red-rimmed, lines of tension branching from them. Not from lack of sleep, either. The scent of alcohol and…Zacharel sniffed…heroin seeped from his pores. Wonderful. He was a drug addict, his memory probably tainted.

  Didn’t matter. Zacharel had to try. “So you will let me in, and we will discuss your sister.”

  A terrible stillness came over the man. His reaction to the ring of truth in Zacharel’s tone, perhaps. Next, a terrible mix of emotion detonated inside those golden eyes, and he snarled, “I don’t have a sister!” He attempted to slam the door in Zacharel’s face, but Zacharel shoved his foot between the door and its frame.

  “We gave your way a try,” he said to Annabelle. “Now it’s time for my way.” He flattened his palm on Brax’s chest and pushed. Just a little push, but the man flew backward and slammed into the foyer wall.

  Zacharel shouldered through the door, kicking the thing shut after dragging Annabelle in with him. As the addict jumped to his feet, intending to launch himself into an attack, Zacharel removed the air hiding Annabelle from view.

  Brax caught himself, stumbled forward, then back. For a moment, he could only stutter over the words Annabelle and institution and here.

  “Surprise. I’m out,” she said, unmistakably dejected.

  “Believe,” Zacharel snapped at her.

  She gulped, nodded. “And I’m happy to see you. One day, you’ll be happy to see me.”

  Her brother gathered his wits, squared his shoulders. “What are you doing here? Your escape has been all over the news, but I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come to me.”

  In a blink, Zacharel had a hand wrapped around Brax’s throat and his body pinned against the wall, his legs dangling. Until her faith was made manifest, he would have to ensure Brax behaved himself. “You will watch the way you speak to her, or you will suffer.”

  A soft hand on his shoulder, a beseeching voice in his ear. “Zacharel. Let him down, please. Despite everything, I love him the way you love Hadrenial. I don’t want to see him hurt.”

  Golden eyes widened, bulged, really, as Zacharel increased the pressure. “Just a little longer. He disrespected you.”

  “Think about what he’s been through, though. He saw the bodies in our garage, he saw the blood. Then he had to relive it when the police showed him pictures of the crime scene. He thinks I’m responsible.”

  Brax’s lips were turning blue. Still Zacharel held on.

  “All right, how about this?” she said. “We have questions and he might have answers. Remember? And if you kill him, my faith won’t have a chance to change things.”

  “Oh, very well.” Zacharel opened his fingers, causing the man to collapse onto the tiled floor.

  “I won’t…help you…escape,” Brax said between gasps for air.

  Her chin lifted, making her the picture of stubbornness he remembered from so early in their relationship. “I don’t need your help.”

  Brax released a bitter laugh, and climbed to his feet. “Are you here to again tell me that monsters slaughtered Mom and Dad, then?”

  Her chin lifted higher. “Not monsters, plural. Monster, singular. But, no. All I want to know is what you did the few days leading up to their murder. Anything unusual, like visiting a psychic or playing with a Ouija board?”

  He scowled at her. “I don’t care what your friend does to me. You’re crazier than I suspected if you think I’ll talk to you about this.”

  “You were warned,” Zacharel said before Annabelle had time to react. He smiled, but it was not the kind smile Annabelle could wring from him. It was the cruelest of all. His wings flared from his back as he grabbed Brax by the waist. “You don’t care what I do to you? Well, let’s see if I can change your mind.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  BETWEEN ONE BLINK and the next, Zacharel and Brax vanished.

  Annabelle waited, and waited, but neither male reappeared. Worry ate at her, because she knew they’d be back, eventually—she just didn’t know if her brother would be dead or alive, and she wanted him alive. He would crave a relationship with her, as Zacharel had promised. He just would.

  She’d missed him so much. Despite his current feelings toward her, he was still her big brother, the one who had rubbed the top of her head with his knuckles until she cried about the burn, the one who had tickled her until she’d laughed so hard she’d actually peed a little, and the one who had hugged her anytime someone had hurt her feelings.

  Today, at her first glance at him, she’d wanted to cry. Not from homesickness, though she’d experienced that in full force, but from sadness. After all this time, it seemed the happy-go-lucky boy had grown into a tormented man.

  He was two years older than Annabelle, and she’d always looked up to him, admired him. In high school, all the girls had wanted to date him, and all the boys had wanted to be him. He’d never been without plans, everyone hoping to hang out with him. On multiple occasions, he’d gotten into trouble for sneaking out. Twice he’d wrecked his car. Then he’d gone to college and seemed to calm down, get serious.

  Now… He was like a shell of his former self.

  Annabelle wandered through the house, a rustic two-story made of natural stone and timber, with a breathtaking view of the mountains from the backyard. First thing she noticed was the fact that he was a slob. Clothes, empty food wrappers and beer bottles littered the floor and tabletop surfaces. He owned very few knickknacks, and had zero pictures of her or their parents.

  No, wait. He had a picture of their parents, resting facedown on the nightstand beside his queen-size bed. Why facedown? And oh, seeing her parents smiling up at her when she righted the frame caused her chest to constrict and tears to well in her eyes.

  What do you want to be when you grow up, Annabelle? Her mother’s soft voice whispered through her mind.

  She closed her eyes, imagined equally soft fingers smoothing hair from her face, then tucking the wayward strands behind her ear. I can’t decide. I want to travel the world. I want to help people. I want to wear beautiful gowns, and eat amazing food and host the bes
t parties.

  A warm laugh caressed the air between them. That’s a lot of wants. I’m thinking…a flight attendant who marries a prince?

  Annabelle swallowed back her sobs and forced herself to walk away. The master bathroom was open, and she stepped inside only to stop short. An empty syringe, a spoon, a lighter, a rubber band, plastic bag with several small, brown-colored balls of…a drug, for sure, but which drug, she didn’t know.

  She thought back to Brax, standing at the door. He hadn’t worn a shirt. Had he sported track marks? She…couldn’t recall. She’d been too busy sprinting from one emotion to another. From elated to guilty to nostalgic to angry to guilty all over again to regret and finally to the sadness that had nearly brought her to tears.

  Maybe he wasn’t a user. Maybe he had a roommate and—

  But no. With those red-rimmed eyes, those hollowed cheeks and sallow skin, he was the drug user, track marks or not, roommate or not. No wonder he’d turned the photo of their parents down. He hadn’t wanted them to see what he was doing in here. Her shoulders slumped, the weight of responsibility settling heavily. He’d probably started using to escape the pain of all that he’d lost.

  “Darling, I’m home,” a female called from below.

  Darling? For a moment the weight lifted. How bad could his drug habit be if a woman was willing to put up with it? Then a horrible stillness came over Annabelle. She recognized that voice. But…from where?

  She’d heard it recently, she was sure.

  “Darling? Didn’t you hear me?”

  Realization slammed into her. Driana, from the club. Demon possessed. Evil. Breath froze in Annabelle’s lungs, crystallizing, cutting at her. A weapon. She needed a weapon. She had the new blades Zacharel had given her, but last time knives had failed her. Frantically she searched the bathroom and bedroom for something better…and finally found a gun under a pillow.

  She’d never fired a gun before, wasn’t even sure the thing was loaded, but maybe the threat of being shot would be enough to send Driana running. Bracing her legs apart, Annabelle raised her arms, aiming the gun’s barrel at the open space in the doorway.

  “Brax?” Footsteps echoed, getting closer and closer. “Darling, answer me. I know you’re here. Unless you’re dead?” A cackling laugh. “How sad that would be.”

  A few seconds later, Driana rounded the corner and entered the room. The beautiful blonde spotted Annabelle and gasped, stilled. Her eyelids slitted, but not before Annabelle caught a glimpse of satisfaction and triumph. “Well, well. You decided to join us.”

  Annabelle’s aim remained steady as she ran her gaze over her opponent. Gone was the slutty dress. Now Driana wore a conservative business suit in charcoal-gray, the jacket and pants fitted to her sultry curves. If she was stitched up and bandaged, Annabelle couldn’t tell. “You’re dating my brother?” she demanded.

  “Dating.” A grin as Driana opened her purse and withdrew a tube of lipstick she traced over her mouth. Smack, smack. “No. I prefer the term ‘debauching.’ But, fine, whatever. Call it what you will. It’s all the same to me.”

  “Might want to guard your words. I’m the one with the gun.”

  “Well, go ahead. Pull the trigger. Hurt me, kill me. Bring the cops in.” Driana dropped the tube back into the purse. “They’re out there, you know, watching this house, waiting for you to contact your brother. One shot and they’ll think you’re here to finish the job you started four years ago, the complete annihilation of your entire family.”

  Do not react. You came here for answers, so get your answers. “Why did you target my brother?”

  “Target someone? Me? I would never—”

  “You so would, demon, and I won’t listen to your lies.”

  A pause. Another grin. “I forget that you know the truth—that you know what I am, and I don’t have to pretend. Driana had been with him for over a year before I arrived, but he’d never proposed, you see, and I helped her realize she just needed a little something extra to convince him of his eternal love. She was more than happy to let me aid her.”

  “Why would you go after them? They’ve done nothing to you.”

  “You humans. So many questions, when the answer doesn’t ever really matter. I was asked to monitor your brother’s contact with you, to ensure he always hates you and you have nowhere to run, and, well, I jumped at the chance. Now, I grow tired of this. Let’s liven things up, shall we?” Driana pulled a small gun from the purse and fired before Annabelle realized what was happening.

  Boom! Boom!

  A sharp sting in both her shoulders, jerking her backward, to her knees. There was a gush of warmth down her torso. Her arms fell to her side, too heavy to hold up, but somehow she maintained her grip on the gun. All she had to do was lift it and squeeze the trigger, and this would be over.

  “Don’t worry,” Driana said. “Neither was a kill shot. But the cops should have heard them, should be leaping from their car right now and racing inside any second.”

  Lift…lift…inch by agonizing inch…breathing through the pain. “Thank you, demon, because now a third and fourth shot won’t matter.” Finally Annabelle had the gun in the air. Praying her aim would be sufficient, she hammered at the trigger.

  Boom! Boom!

  Driana reacted as she had, jerking backward. Blood sprayed across the hallway walls, her throat torn open, now a gaping mass of crimson and meat. Her head lolled to the side, her gaze fixing somewhere behind Annabelle.

  Dead, she was dead.

  Annabelle hadn’t meant… Had only hoped to… What had she done? Pure evil had stolen her parents from her, and now she’d stolen this girl from someone else—from Brax.

  A green-and-black mist began to rise from her body, a monster quickly taking shape. It had ruby-colored eyes, a skeletal face and stooped shoulders, and it hissed at Annabelle, baring fangs dripping with thick, yellow liquid.

  If she’d had the strength, she would have screamed. Below, the front door crashed open. Male voices shouted instructions at each other and warnings for whoever had the gun. Footsteps slapped against the floor. Another hiss, and the demon shot through the ceiling, out of view.

  Annabelle dropped the weapon, and labored to her feet, searching for a way out. Dizzying sickness consumed her, hazing her surroundings.

  Zacharel appeared in front of her, his features tight with concern. He may not have been here, but he must have been close by. Must have heard the shots, too. His arms slid underneath her, and in seconds, they had cleared the house and were in the air.

  She rested her cheek on his strong shoulder and closed her eyes. “My brother?”

  “Is alive. I should not have left you alone. I am sorry. So sorry.”

  “I killed her.”

  “I know.”

  “Her demon got away.”

  “I know that, too.” He eased her down onto something cold and flat. A bed, she realized, blinking open her eyes. She was in a motel room, her brother seated on the bed across from hers.

  Though her vision clouded more with every second that passed, she could see that his eyes were swollen from tears, his cheeks were scratched and bleeding, and he was shaking uncontrollably. She tried to sit up, but Zacharel held her down.

  “What happened to him?” she managed to get out.

  “I showed him that monsters do, in fact, exist.”

  “And the b-bastard dropped me o-out of the s-sky,” Brax said through his shudders. “T-twice.”

  Zacharel ripped her soaked T-shirt from her body with a single tug of his hands, then slid her bra straps aside more gently. How they’d managed to remain intact, she might never know.

  “You’ll notice I caught him twice, too.” With barely a breath, her angel added, “The bullets went all the way through.”

  That was a good thing, she hoped.

  Brax rubbed at his shoulders, as if in sympathy. “Wh-who shot you?”

  “Your girlfriend,” she said, a wave of cold blasting her, beginning where th
e wounds originated, then spreading through the rest of her, making her shiver, keeping her awake.

  “Driana?”

  “Do you have another girlfriend?” Zacharel snapped. A long while passed in silence while he stared down at her, his eyes bright with determination.

  “But she would never… She’s…” Shock increased Brax’s trembling. “Is she okay?”

  Don’t tell him. Stay silent. “I’m sorry, but she’s dead.” He deserved to know. “I shot her.”

  He peered at her with growing horror. “What kind of monster are you? Wait. I remember. You’re the Butcher of Colorado.”