Beauty Awakened (Angels of the Dark #2)(11)
Author: Gena Showalter

Oh, really? “How so?”

“You believe what you see and feel.”

“Uh, doesn’t everyone?”

“Everything in this natural world is changeable. Temporary. But the things you cannot see or feel are eternal.”

She slammed her tea on the tabletop. Liquid splashed from the hole in the lid, burning her hand. “Lookit. Maybe you’re not getting enough oxygen up there where your head lives, but you sound like a crazy person.”

“I’m not crazy. I know you can be healed.”

Healed? As if she hadn’t tried everything already. “Some things can’t be changed. Besides, you don’t have any clue about the things I’ve done or the future I have.”

“I know more than you think. You’re so afraid to live, you’re actually killing yourself.”

Heavy silence descended. He’d…nailed it, she thought. She’d watched as fear slowly ate away at her sister’s happiness, tainting every aspect of her existence. And in the days before she’d landed in the hospital, that’s all Laila had had. An existence.

Her stomach had always hurt, ruining her appetite. Nicola was already striding down that road.

Laila had lost weight, and even her bones had seemed to wither. Give Nicola another few months.

Laila’s hair had lost its glossy sheen. Blue and black smudges had become a permanent fixture under her eyes. Yeah, another few months should take care of that for Nicola, too.

“Somewhere along the way you lost hope,” Koldo said, and there was a grim quality to his voice, as if he had suffered a loss of his own. “But if you’ll listen to me, if you’ll do what I say, your heart and body will mend and you’ll at last do all the things you’ve always wanted to do.”

“Are you a doctor?” she demanded. “How do you know that? And what do you think you can do for or to me that hasn’t already been tried?”

Ignoring her questions, he said, “Selah, Nicola.”

And with that, he disappeared, there one moment, gone the next.

CHAPTER FOUR

DETERMINED TO PROVE A POINT to Nicola, Koldo flashed out of the hospital to his underground home in West India Quay. The place of his greatest shame.

The place he kept his mother.

The small, hidden cave was illuminated by a soft green glow emanating from a lake of water uncontaminated by human life. Air so fresh it literally crackled with vitality enveloped him.

Just like the home in South Africa, he kept no furniture here, no wall hangings, no decorations and no amenities of any kind. Unlike the other home, there was a cage, a bucket for food, a bucket for water and a blanket. He would have provided his mother with a bed, but then, she’d never given him one.

“Well, well,” she said. “Look who’s returned.”

And there she was. Cornelia. A name that meant horn. And she was certainly that. Sharp and deadly, able to puncture a man’s heart and coldly walk away as his very life drained from him.

She sat in the corner of the cage, wearing a robe made by human hands and natural fabric. One Koldo had tossed her after ripping off the one made in the skies, for the robes their people wore could clean themselves and their wearers. But he hadn’t wanted Cornelia cleansed in any way. He’d wanted her to know the feel of dirt that could never be scrubbed away.

Her skin was pallid, her freckles a stark contrast. Her long hair had been shorn and now fell to her ears, the locks tangled and sticking out in spikes. He hadn’t been the one to do this deed. A few weeks ago, she had been captured by a horde of pică and dragged into hell in an attempt to force Koldo to betray Zacharel. He hadn’t. He had rescued her instead.

He had no idea what else had been done to her, only that torture had, indeed, taken place. When he’d found her, she had hovered at the edge of death, and that was the only reason she hadn’t fought him as he doctored her back to health. Now, here they were.

Her, as hate-filled as ever.

Him, shockingly dissatisfied with the situation.

As a child trapped under his father’s reign, he had dreamed of punishing her in the worst of ways. And he still wanted to. Oh, did he want to. The desire was always there, burning in his chest. But he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. He’d allowed himself to do little things, like denying her the bed and proper robe, but nothing else. He was nothing like her, and every day he proved it. He would come here, pit himself against the pull to act and then leave.

Wise men knew not to even approach the door of their temptation, but Koldo hadn’t yet convinced himself to stop.

“Hello, Mother.”

She sucked in a breath. “I should have cut your tongue out of your mouth when I had the chance.” She tossed a pebble at him. The stone bounced off his shoulder and tumbled to the floor.

“Just like you should have drowned me. I know.”

Her eyes narrowed, long lashes fusing together and hiding the violet depths he so often saw in his nightmares. “I hadn’t the stomach for violence back then. But your father… I expected better of him. He should have done what I could not.”

“Oh, never doubt that he tried.” Many times.

Koldo thought back to the day Cornelia had flown him over his father’s camp and dropped him. As weak and agonized as he’d been, landing had hurt more than the brutal removal of his wings.

A huge, bald man with more muscles and scars than Koldo had ever seen stomped toward him. Cornelia called, “Meet your son, Nox—may you destroy each other,” before flying away.

Nox. A name that meant night.

Koldo had blacked out seconds after that, only to awaken on the floor of a spacious tent, the bald man looming over him, grinning widely, his eyes as black as his name implied.

“You’re my son, are you? Raised by a do-gooder angel.”

His mother? A do-gooder?

“I’m betting you’re filled with silly notions about right and wrong,” Nox had continued. “Aren’t you, boy?”

Concentrating on the words had proven difficult—everything inside Koldo had been screaming at him to run and never look back. But he’d been trapped inside a body too weak to move or flash. All he could do was watch as thin curls of smoke wafted from the male’s pores, scenting the air with sulfur.

That’s when realization had slammed into Koldo with collision force. A bald head, bottomless eyes and black smoke could mean only one thing. Nefas. His father hailed from the most dangerous, vile race in existence. A race that sneaked up on humans, poisoned slowly, painfully…destroying utterly. A race without a conscience.