Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark)

by Gena Showalter

  “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.

  “You aren’t going anywhere. You hurt my female.”

  The human held up his hands, palms out, all innocence. “I don’t know who you are, but I do know she’s a killer. Violently insane. I’m her doctor. I would never—”

  Zacharel backhanded him, breaking his jaw and ensuring silence. “I told you. I do not like liars. You hurt her, and one way or another you will suffer for that.”

  Wide eyes filled with horror, the doctor wilted on the floor. He knew. He knew he had reached the end of the line.

  “I have encountered males like you before. You are weak, but you like to pretend you are strong. That’s why you pick victims who cannot fight back.” He arched a brow. “I wonder, does your wife know what a vile coward you are? Is that why she left you? Do your children know?” Zacharel got in his face. “Do not worry. If they don’t, they soon will.”

  Annabelle stomped into the room, tears tracking down her face, her chin trembling. “You sick pervert! You…you…monster!” A screeching catapult, she launched herself at Fitzherbert, punching him, kicking at him.

  Zacharel stepped out of the way, and waited for her to finish. Already her skin was patched with demon scales, her nails sharpened into claws. She’d removed the robe, and he could see that the back of her shirt was ripped, the jagged edges of wings trying to emerge.

  Eventually the last of her energy drained. She threw herself away from the now-bloody man and sobbed.

  “Tell me,” Zacharel commanded softly.

  After a few gasping breaths, she managed to get out, “The pictures were on his computer. They were also loaded into a digital frame, along with those of other women he’s abused. They flash as he works.”

  “Did you delete them?”

  “No. I wanted to, almost did, but…I want to take him and the evidence of what he’s done to the police. I want him to pay for what he’s done the right way.”

  Fitzherbert’s struggles renewed, his panic nearly tangible.

  “And so he shall.”

  Though it took some
convincing—in the form of Zacharel’s fists—Fitzherbert eventually dialed 911 himself and confessed his crimes. That done, Zacharel gagged him, stripped him and staked him to his own front lawn to await his arrest. His neighbors came out to watch. The fact that nobody attempted to intervene told him that Annabelle wasn’t the only one who loathed the good doctor.

  Annabelle was fully demon by the time the policemen arrived, so Zacharel kept her hidden from prying eyes, not only with his abilities, but also by tucking her into his side and covering her with his wings.

  At first she struggled against him. “D-don’t touch me when I’m like this. I can’t bear it.”

  A lie. She could bear it; she also needed the contact as much as he did. He’d hurt her while she was in this form, and so she assumed he found her ugly, repulsive even. He needed to prove otherwise.

  “Come closer to me.” He forced her to tuck herself into the line of his body. “I want to show you something.”

  Her claws embedded in his chest, and she released a dejected breath. “Let me guess. The end of a dagger?”

  A lance of self-directed anger, no longer contained near his heart, but shooting through his entire body. “I told you I would never again hurt you, and I meant it.”

  Silence.

  “You’re right.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ll go wherever you want me to go.”

  “Good girl. And as you once told me, I’ll make you so happy you said that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SCREAMS OF PAIN AND PLEAS for mercy roused Koldo from his nap. He sat up, the scabs on his back splitting, fresh blood flowing. To his left, Thane, Bjorn and Xerxes exuded relish as they interrogated three demons chained to his wall. The scent of rot and diseased blood saturated the air.

  He experienced a rush of disappointment and even anger. His home was ruined now. The home he’d spent centuries building, hiding and decorating. The only place he could fully relax, unwind. The luxurious prison he’d meant to keep the angel who had removed his wings. But that plan had been blown the moment he’d brought Zacharel and the human girl here, so…if he blamed anyone, he had to blame himself.

  He rubbed at his scalp and the patches of stubble that remained. He was bald now. Would probably be bald forever, the mirror image of his father’s people.

  “Learn anything?” he asked no one in particular.

  Thane paused in the removal of his victim’s claws only long enough to say, “Their orders came from the high lord Unforgiveness.”

  Unforgiveness. A true nightmare Koldo had never had the pleasure of fighting—but had wanted to fight many times over. The demon caused more trouble than any of his kind. “And those orders were?”

  “We’re still working on that part.”

  Koldo swept his gaze over the minions. Bigger than the little ones that latched themselves to humans, but no less dangerous, they were broken, cut and bleeding, hunched over, fighting for breath, even crying. Had any humans been here, they would have felt sorry for the creatures. Perhaps even pleaded for mercy, too. Koldo felt no such sympathy. How could he? He knew what these beings were capable of, knew the destruction they had rained would continue if they were freed.

  To consider a demon redeemable was a fatal mistake.

  His legs shook as he stood. Shook more as he walked over to Thane, who sat on a stool in front of his minion, and patted the man on the shoulder, careful not to brush against his wings.

  The warrior with the sweetly curling hair and the wicked, heavenly eyes glanced up, frowned. “Do you desire a turn?”

  There was a hitch in his voice, and Koldo knew Thane fought the need to rebuke him for daring to touch him without permission. But this was Koldo’s home, and Thane was here without permission of his own. “No. I want you to let the minion go. Alive.”

  Thane leapt to his feet, the stool skittering back. His boys did the same, flanking his side in seconds. They formed a wall of muscle and might, a support system no one else would ever be able to breach. “You must still burn with fever to even suggest such a thing. It will only possess, rape and murder.”

  How little these men thought of him. But unlike Zacharel, he would not embrace his ability to speak in the minds of his fellow soldiers and convince them otherwise. That was an invasion, plain and simple, and he didn’t trust the men to only listen to his words and never attempt to search through his mind, his memories.

  He barreled between Thane and Bjorn and gripped the minion by the throat, forcing the male to look up, into his eyes. One crimson orb was missing, blood trekking down a bony cheek.

  “Only one of the three demons here will walk away,” he announced.

  Behind him, the angels hissed with outrage. But they didn’t contradict him, and he was grateful for that, at least.

  “I have a message for your high lord. Will you be the one to deliver it?”

  The minion brightened instantly. “Yes, yes, of course. Would be my pleasure to serve you in this way.”

  A lie, most surely.

  “No, no. I’ll deliver it,” the minion beside him said. “Let me.”

  “No, me,” the third rushed out. “I’ll do anything. Anything!”

  Koldo kept his gaze on the one he held. “I do not believe you. And that is why I’m keeping a piece of you here. If you want that piece back, you’ll have to come and get it with proof of your actions.” That said, Koldo ripped off the creature’s right arm.

  A scream of agony, jagged at the edges. The spurt of black blood.

  He tossed the appendage to the floor. As greedy and selfish as demons were, they could not bear for anyone else to have what belonged to them.

  “I’ll go,” was the panted reply. “I’ll go and return. Swear.”

  Truth or lie? Other angels would have been able to tell, but because of his father, Koldo could not. “When you see him, tell Unforgiveness that his cowardly hiding will not save him from our wrath.”

  Koldo removed the chains.

  In a blink, the demon bolted up and through the side wall, disappearing from view, laughing gleefully.

  “What now?” Thane asked, angry.

  “Now,” Koldo replied, “I follow him to the high lord. I have a lock on his spiritual trail.” An ability he hadn’t wanted the demon to know about, hence the pretense that he expected proof. “Once I discover where Unforgiveness and his horde are staying, I can lead Zacharel straight to him. In the meantime, kill these two. They are no longer needed and now possess information they shouldn’t.”

  Amid the demons’ protests and the warriors’ grunts of approval, Koldo hid himself in a pocket of air, knowing that not even the angels could sense him any longer, and followed the trail the fleeing demon had left for him. He saw sparks of pink—relief. Fetid green and slick black, like diseased oil leaking from a car—the need to hurt someone mixed with fear.

  The minion surprised him, doing as Koldo had commanded and going straight to the high lord. Through layers of dirt and rock, through long, winding tunnels, and into hell, a land of fire, ash and utter doom. Prairies and hills were scorched, charred to nothing. Ash curled through the air, creating a choking breeze. The intensity of the heat licked at him, causing his skin to sweat and welt. Screams of agony assaulted his ears, followed quickly by eerie laughter.

  Angels were not allowed to enter without permission. Hell was not their realm, nor was it under their control, subject to their rules. But again, Koldo was not just any angel. His father had— No, he would not think about the man and why, exactly, he could pass between heaven and hell. He would then think about his mother.

  Koldo caught sight of the minion, zipping along a bone-laden bridge. Water did not flow beneath, but blood, so much blood. Spikes anchored one side of that bridge to the other, a soul writhing in the center of each. At the end was a palace of gloom and torment, comprised only of human skulls. Thousands of empty eye sockets seemed to watch him.

  As he entered, the fine hairs at the back of his neck rose to attention. Would th
e Deity grant Zacharel permission to come here? Or would Zacharel have to fall first? Whenever an angel fell, his wings were permanently removed and his weak, vulnerable body cast here. If that happened, Zacharel would not stand a chance.

  Perhaps I can end things here and now. It wasn’t wise for a lone warrior to take on a horde, especially when that lone warrior was injured, but if there was a chance…

  Koldo found the minion in the throne room. Up the dais steps his gaze went, landing on the giant lounging across the throne’s arms. The minion bowed.

  This had to be Unforgiveness.

  The bones of his face were exaggerated, his forehead too wide and bulging. His teeth were sharpened into fangs, and his skin a smooth expanse of crimson. Wings knotted and ridged curved from around his back and scraped at his thighs, as well as the throne. A long, thin tail rested in his lap, his fingers toying with the metal spike at the end.