Zacharel was at the other bed, backhanding Brax and nearly dislocating his jaw before Annabelle could blink. “Your woman was demon possessed and tried to kill your sister. Annabelle was protecting herself.”
A fresh bout of tears streaked down Brax’s cheeks. “N-no. I refuse to b-believe that. She couldn’t have been demon possessed, she just couldn’t! She hasn’t been herself lately, but…but…” The force of his sobs had him curling into himself. And finally, blessedly, the ring of truth struck his core and he accepted what Zacharel had said. “I’m…sorry, Annabelle. If she had been herself, she would never have tried to hurt you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said as Zacharel returned to her side.
“Are you okay?” Brax asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. She hoped. She ached, oh, did she ache, her muscles throbbing, her bones creaking, but she kept her features relaxed. “I’ve healed from worse, right, Zacharel?”
The angel nodded. “I’ll make sure you heal this time, too.” Jaw clenched, he withdrew a clear vial from the air. The Water of Life. “Open.”
“No, I—”
With one hand under her neck, lifting her head, and the other tipping the vial back, he ensured a droplet hit her tongue before she could finish her protest. Cool, crisp, the clean flavor slid down her throat, into her stomach, and torpedoed through the rest of her. As new cells were created, as muscle and tissue wove back together, her pain magnified, chill replaced by heat.
But then, a few minutes later—an eternity, surely—strength replaced her weakness, and most of the pain dulled, leaving her in a breathless heap atop the bed.
No, not true. Her pain hadn’t dulled but had simply relocated. Her chest, just above her heart, began to burn, burn unbearably, and only getting worse.
“What’s wrong with her now?” Brax asked.
A frowning Zacharel ignored him, saying to Annabelle, “You are still hurting?”
“Yes.” She rubbed at her chest, reminded herself to breathe in, breathe out and concentrate on something besides her body. But that was easier said than done, because oh, no, no, no, she felt as if she were actually on fire from the inside out. “Help,” she squeaked.
Strong hands pinned her arms against the mattress before smoothing over her chest. Zacharel rubbed gentle circles at first, creating friction, then increased the fervency of his strokes. “Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.”
“Trying.”
“In. Out. In. Go get some ice,” he shouted.
“Can’t.”
“Not you. You continue breathing. Out. In. Good girl.”
She must have blacked out at some point, because the next thing she knew, she lay in a cool puddle of water, her chest on the road to normal. She was able to breathe easily and without prompting.
“Better?”
“Yes, thank you, but listen up.” She ran her fingers over her sternum, the skin frozen and wet. “I don’t want any more of that water. I would have eventually healed from the gunshot on my own, and I can’t tolerate that burning again.”
“Your pain has now eased completely. I do not consider that a waste.”
“Well, you aren’t the one who just got back from hell.”
“You are alive, aren’t you?”
She blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re arguing with me now?”
“What should I be doing?”
“Fawning, you turd.”
He flashed the quickest of grins. “Chalk it up to a rookie mistake.” He pulled a T-shirt out of the air, and helped her dress. He motioned to her brother. “Tell her what you told me.”
Her gaze strayed to Brax. He watched her and Zacharel with horror, as if only then realizing how close they were. His shivers had slowed, at least. “You healed.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
“Tell her.” A harsh command that would meet with harsh reprisal if ignored a second time.
“After you tell me why you didn’t heal Driana.”
Zacharel’s hands curled into fists. “The water cannot bring back the dead. Now talk.”
Brax gulped. “I came home for your birthday. You, Mom and Dad went to dinner and the movies to celebrate a little early because you were going to be with friends on the actual day, and I said I wasn’t feeling well. While you were out, a friend of mine from high school came over. He brought a book and…a joint with him. I hadn’t gotten high in so long, and I felt like total crap, so…”
Dread settled in the pit of her stomach. “What’s the name of the book?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What kind of book was it?”
“Some kind of, uh…spell book.”
Her gaze darted to Zacharel. He’d tried to tell her something had welcomed the demon into her life. She hadn’t believed him, and hadn’t really thought the answer would lie with her brother.
Zacharel nodded, telling her without words the book was indeed the reason.
“Why weren’t you killed?” she demanded. “Why wouldn’t you wake up the morning of the…of the… I screamed for you, I shook you, but you never even opened your eyes.”
“I was passed out from the grass. I just… I’m sorry, Annabelle. I really am.”
“Why wasn’t he killed?” she asked Zacharel.
“A demon rarely kills his summoner right away. They want a host to possess, so that they can remain on earth. But I’m betting your brother was not possessed because you were spotted, you were desired, and the need to mark you distracted the demon. Your parents got in his way. After that, I’m not sure why you were left.”
Deep breath in…out… Here were the reasons for her parents’ murder finally laid bare. But there was no comfort with the answers. No sense of closure.
Zacharel glared at Brax. “Do you yet realize that you are responsible for your sister’s circumstances? Your actions killed your parents, not hers, yet you allowed Annabelle to suffer for your crime. You abandoned her when she needed you most. You.”
Brax gave a violent shake of his head. “I—I didn’t. Or if I did, I didn’t know. I promise you I didn’t know. You have to believe me.”
The way he had believed her when she had spoken those very words to him?
Your prints are all over the knife, Annabelle! Yours. Only yours. No one else’s. Do you really think we’re that stupid? Do you really think anyone will believe a monster did this terrible thing? Oh, a monster did it, all right, but that monster is you.
Of course her prints had been all over a knife. She’d grabbed one just in case the monster came back.
“You don’t remember anything else about that day?” she asked, pushing the ugly memory to the back of her mind. “A dream, maybe, where someone seemingly wonderful asked you something terrible?”
“No. I’m sorry,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
Unable to deny him, she offered him a soft smile of forgiveness. “It’s okay. We’ll get through this.” He was the only family she had.
He closed his eyes as if her forgiveness was too much for him to bear.
“What do we do now?” she asked, gaze settling on Zacharel. She gasped, did a double take. “Your wings.”
“What—” He flared out one, then the other. A curse exploded from him.
Snow once again fell from the tips of the feathers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HIS DEITY WAS DISPLEASED with him. Again, Zacharel thought. For once, however, he knew why beyond any doubt, without being told. He had assumed responsibility for Annabelle, and she had then killed a human, demon possessed or not.
Not that Zacharel blamed her for her actions. He would rather suffer the Deity’s displeasure than lose her, and he would have lost her had she not reacted and protected herself. The blame rested on his shoulders, and his alone. He had trained her a bit in the art of fighting demons, but he had not prepared her for a situation such as this.
“The police will wish to speak with you,” he told her
brother. “Tell them what we have discussed and you’ll find yourself locked away as Annabelle was.”
A thousand emotions crossed the boy’s face. And he was a boy, no matter how much older he was than Annabelle. He lacked her courage, and her fire. “You’re leaving me? But the monsters…”
“We’re leaving him?” Annabelle echoed.
“Yes. You are the draw, not him, which means you are in constant danger. And that means you will place your brother in danger if you stay with him. Once you leave him, he should be fine.”
“Should be?” she demanded, and he knew that wasn’t good enough for her.
“Will be,” he amended. He would send one of his soldiers to secretly guard Brax. “I’ll make certain of it.”
The siblings peered at each other, silent, neither sure what to do or say next. Brax certainly didn’t deserve a sister like Annabelle, but Zacharel was still envious of him and this moment. He would have given anything to see Hadrenial again.
“Well, then.” Annabelle cleared her throat. “Take care of yourself, Brax.”
“You, too. And, uh, Annabelle?”
A warm breeze suddenly wafted through Zacharel’s mind, the first sign of the Deity’s coming summons. He stiffened, losing track of the siblings and their stilted goodbye.
Zacharel, my soldier. A voice that was at once soothing and commanding echoed inside his head. I have need of your services. You will gather your army and stop the demons attempting to infiltrate my temple. As this battle will take place in the heavens, I will not have to worry about collateral damage, will I.
Not a question. Definitely a dig about his past performance. Also an order from his Deity, as well as his next assignment.
For however long he was needed, he would not be searching for Jamila’s tormentors, would not be protecting Annabelle, but fighting demons. He’d feared such a moment, and now that fear ate at him with razored teeth.
But wasn’t that always the way? Whatever a man feared, he received. A spiritual law as binding as all the others.
“Zacharel?”
He pulled himself out of his mind. Both Annabelle and her brother were staring at him, blinking with confusion.
“Come,” he said. “We must go.”
“Uh, Zacharel? What just happened? You were flickering in and out, as if you were here but not here.”
“That’s because I was here but not here. Part of me was with my Deity in his temple in the heavens. That temple is being attacked, and I have been charged with its safekeeping.”
Color drained from her cheeks.
“Do not worry. I will leave the moment the temple is safe, and we will return to earth.” Not just because of Annabelle’s bargain, but because he would be desperate to whisk her to safety.
“I—” Her mouth floundered open and closed. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome. Now come.”
With a final wave to her brother, she closed the distance to Zacharel and wrapped her arms around his neck. He misted both of their bodies and flew her straight into the afternoon sky. Brax’s shout of, “Take care of yourself, Anna,” followed them, and Annabelle had to blink away a sudden tear.
The sun was hidden behind gloomy storm clouds, the heavens a blanket of darkening velvet. Higher and higher they ascended, until the only spots of color stemmed from angels, the off-duty warriors darting one way, joy-bringers darting the other, all determined to complete a task.
“So many,” Annabelle gasped.
He maneuvered her through the masses, twisting and rolling and finally reaching a clear patch of air. “Cloud!” he shouted. “Return to me.”
Five seconds passed…ten…twenty, but his home eventually appeared around him. However, the misty walls were no longer a soft baby-blue; they were black, as slick as oil, as though weeping the essence of evil. His stomach twisted. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t known it was possible. A cloud had never changed so drastically and so quickly.
“What happened?” Annabelle said.
“I don’t know. It’s dying, perhaps.” The demons that attacked must have poisoned it somehow. “My bedroom. Show me.”
His bed appeared, as did his nightstand. He reached inside the pocket of air and withdrew— Relief nearly buckled his knees. The urn was safe.
“Follow me to the temple, and remain within my sight,” he commanded the cloud. “Guard her, give her anything she requests, and when I return, I will end your suffering.” A pang inside his chest. Of remorse? This home had been his only…friend for a very long time.
Annabelle clutched at his robe. “Let me help you.”
He hardened his heart against her; he had to. “You have no wings, and carrying you will hinder me.”
“But surely I can—”
“You are helping me by staying here and protecting my greatest treasure.”
“Bedroom furniture?” she asked drily.
“Inside that urn is all that I have left of my brother.” Before she could ask questions he wasn’t prepared to answer, he meshed his lips against hers, his tongue plumbing the depths of her warm, wet mouth, stealing a last taste before the coming battle.
By the time he lifted his head, he wanted only to stay with her. But from the very beginning he’d known the temptation for more was the danger of her. He caressed a fingertip along her cheekbone, whispered, “Perhaps the urn isn’t my greatest treasure,” and left her.
* * *
ANNABELLE’S FIRST THOUGHT: Did he just imply what I think he just implied?
Her second: The little woman stays home, while the big strong tough guy goes to war.
Would their relationship always work this way?
She studied the urn she was to protect. Clear liquid swirled inside, thicker than the Water of Life, with violet beads glittering throughout. Angel ashes?
Whatever it was, she would protect the stuff, as she’d been asked to do, and hopefully her debt to Zacharel would be paid. He had reunited her with her brother, convinced Brax of the truth, and though the relationship was anything but smooth, it was no longer hate-filled, either. The possibility for more, for better, was there.
To the urn, she said, “I need a change of clothes and a cool, new weapon. Also, wings would be nice.” The last was said on a wistful sigh. “Your brother has done a marvelous job of protecting me and providing for me, but I’d love to show him I can protect and provide for myself, too, you know.”
“Very well,” said an eerie, laughing voice—one that did not come from the urn. A second later, the cloud shook so violently, she had to grip a bedpost to remain standing.
“What’s going on? Who’s there?” No one had appeared; she was still alone.
The moment the shaking stopped, she looked around to assess the damage. Everything appeared the same—until she looked down at herself. Her T-shirt and jeans had been replaced by… What the heck? A sexy devil costume?
She now wore a short red dress, with patches of material cut out of the waist, just like Driana’s, the hem stopping just below the curve of her butt. A padded forked tail uncurled to her feet. Five-inch stilettos encased her feet. Red fishnets stretched to midthigh, garters hooking them to…matching red panties. Great. Also, her blades were gone.
“Is this supposed to be funny?” she demanded. “You better tell me who you are and where you are. Now.”
More laughter, more shaking, and then a rusty pitchfork with glass shards hooked to each of the prongs appeared on top of the bed. “Can’t forget the rest of what you wanted.”
Her weapon, she realized, the one she’d requested. Wait. Was the cloud able to speak now? “What am I supposed to do with—”
Another round of laughter interrupted her. The shaking started up again, more intense than before. Her mind whirled with possibilities. She’d asked for a change of clothes and gotten this. She’d asked for a new weapon and gotten that. Dread became a noose around her neck. She’d asked for wings and would get…what?
When the laughter at last quiete
d and the shaking stilled, a sharp pain lanced up her spine. But that was it. A pain there and gone, and for a long while, nothing else happened. She began to relax.
“Cloud,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind about the clothes, the weapon and the wings. Okay?”
“Sorry, naughty girl, but I’m not the cloud—and there can be no take backs. Just give it a moment. You might like it.”
As if on cue, warmth burgeoned between her shoulder blades. At first, it was actually comforting. But that warmth heated…and heated…until it was blistering, surely crackling with actual flames.
Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark) Page 30
