Wicked Nights (Page 37)

Oh, yes. They were stupid.

Zacharel felt the pulse of Annabelle’s fear before she beat it back, determination taking its place.

“You are making me angry,” he said, “and you do not want to make me angry.”

All three boys snickered.

“Why? Because you’ll turn into a hulking green beast?” one taunted.

More snickers abounded.

“Why don’t you beat it, before we beat you?” the leader said.

Another added, “You can have your girl back when we’re done with her,” before laughing. “Promise.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have said that,” Annabelle said far more calmly than he would have guessed possible. To him, she added, “Teach them a little, tiny lesson, Zacharel. Please.”

“Whatever you desire.” Zacharel tugged Annabelle in front of him and wrapped his arms around her to protect her from what was about to happen. He unleashed his wings from the pocket of air and in seconds was able to create a mighty wind. Each boy soon found himself facedown on the dirty ground.

They struggled to rise, but the wind pinned them in place. He could have snapped their necks before they’d ever realized he’d moved. He could have ripped open their chests and spilled their guts. In fact, he just might. He could always revive them before death staked its claim, saving himself from a whipping—or worse.

He flapped his wings harder, faster, and the wind increased in velocity, the whistle of it masking the ensuing cries of pain. The pressure was building, Zacharel knew, about to crack bone and splatter organs.

But murdering a human isn’t necessary. That would make you no better than, well, Fitzpervert. He hurt me just because he could. Annabelle’s words came back to haunt him. Why don’t the demons possess your Deity’s angels? You guys seem to have as many faults as we do.

No. He would not do this. He would not destroy these boys just because he could, and he would not give way to the urge to commit violent acts. That would be a fault.

Annabelle wrapped her fingers around his wrists and squeezed. “Okay, enough. You’ll get in trouble, and I kinda need you tonight. And really, your well-being is more important than giving these boys what they deserve.”

“Was already stopping,” he admitted, stilling his wings and easing the pressure.

The boys remained on the ground, sobbing.

“Do you have anything to say to her?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, man. Real sorry.” Snot ran down the speaker’s nose.

“Won’t do it again, swear.”

“Please, just let us go. I’ll pay you. I’ve got money.”

“Enough!” Zacharel forced the boys to their feet. First they flinched, then they wobbled. “You will march straight to the nearest police station and confess your crimes. Fail to do so, and I will come back for you.”

As much as Annabelle had doubted him lately, he halfway expected the boys to do the same. However, they reacted to the ring of truth the way he was used to, their eyes glazing over, their heads nodding. No need to flash the visage of a hulking green beast, then.

“Why are you still here?” he snarled. “Go!”

They raced away from him.

Annabelle patted him on the shoulder. “Good job, Z. Really impressive work there.”

“Sarcasm?”

“Not this time, Winged Wonder.”

He faced her and grinned. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

This woman managed to amuse him no matter the situation, and that, more than anything, revealed the depths of his attraction to her. And he wasn’t afraid of such an admission, not this time. He was becoming used to his feelings for her.

“You know, you’re pretty when you smile,” she said, patting the side of his cheek.

“Fierce, woman. I am fierce.”

“If you say so.”

He dragged her the rest of the way through the alley, pleased when she offered no protest. At the end, he turned right, hustled down another alley then turned left, and no one else tried to stop him. Finally the entrance to the club came into view.

Two demon-possessed bouncers stood sentry, a line of humans winding down the street and hoping to get in. Hard rock pumped through the seam in the doors, though there was an underlying beat of sensuality. One he might not have recognized before Annabelle. Now he knew how smoothly two bodies could move to such a rhythm, grinding when they met before parting, already eager for more.

The males gulped when they spotted him and quickly moved aside, allowing Zacharel to stride past without incident. He shouldered the doors apart.

A waitress glided past, a tray of drinks in her hand. Males and females writhed together on the dance floor, just as he’d imagined, mouths seeking, hands roaming. Atop the shoulders of several of the men and women were minions. Most were small, monkeylike creatures, with dark brown fur and long swinging tails.

“Can you see the demons sitting on their shoulders, whispering into their ears?” he asked Annabelle. “Influencing their thoughts and actions, trying to create a stronghold?”

“Where?”

“There.”

“N-no.”

And she did not like that she couldn’t, he surmised. “My guess is that you can only see demons of a certain rank and higher.”

“Should we, I don’t know, fight them? And what’s a stronghold?”

“Us? No. That is up to the humans. And a stronghold is what I was talking about outside, a permanent place in the life of a mortal, inside the mortal’s mind, where whatever wickedness the demon is pandering consumes every thought, every action.”

“Is this like the rebuking thing? They have to be taught how to fight what they cannot see?”

“Yes. They must learn the spiritual truths and laws and act accordingly.”

Beyond the dancers were the tables. Empty glasses and beer bottles were scattered everywhere. His gaze cut through the sultriness of the dark to see money exchanged for drugs, prostitutes studying their nails as their breasts were fondled, but he found no sign of his helpers.

“Hey, man, you got a light?” a male voice said.

Zacharel jolted to attention. The male stood in front of him, a cigarette balanced between his lips.

He stood as tall as Zacharel, with hair so thick and luxurious any woman would covet it. The mass was a symphony of colors, shades of flax interspaced with caramel, chocolate and coffee. His eyes were a deep, fathomless blue, and his hauntingly lovely face something out of a catalog—or the heavens—and completely at odds with his warrior’s body.

Finally.

Annabelle gasped as if she had just spotted something precious, and Zacharel could only gnash his teeth in irritation.

“Cigarettes kill,” was all Zacharel told the man. Can’t punch him. Really can’t punch him. Especially since I asked him to come here.

“So do a lot of things,” he grumbled. He tugged out the cigarette, dropped the butt, his gaze raking over Annabelle, assessing. “Pretty female. She yours?”

“Yes.” Zacharel’s tone shouted so back off.

Paris, keeper of the demon of Promiscuity, grinned slowly and with a satisfaction that only increased Zacharel’s irritation. “She mute?”

“No.” Though she certainly seemed that way. Her mouth was hanging open, but no sound was emerging.

A husky laugh slipped from Paris, and Zacharel could only marvel at the change in him. A few months ago, there’d been no one more miserable than this male. But then, the right woman could bring any man back to life, couldn’t she?

“Try not to take offense. She can’t help herself.” Whistling under his breath, Paris strolled away.

“You have something to say about everything,” Zacharel said to Annabelle, “and yet you are struck speechless in front of him?”

“It’s his scent…” she replied unabashedly, watching Paris’s muscled back until he disappeared in the crowd. “I’ve never smelled anything like it. Chocolate and coconut and champagne, and utterly mouthwatering.”

“He is possessed by the demon of Promiscuity,” Zacharel blurted out.

“What! No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Possessed,” she echoed hollowly.

Good. She would never again gaze at Paris in such a longing manner. Petty of him? Maybe. Did he care? No. “Most of the people here are demonically influenced, as I told you, but a few are actually possessed. Burden employs them—the demons, I mean, and pays them to tempt any of the Black Veil’s patrons who are not yet so evilly inclined.”

Her fingers tightened around his, and he knew she hoped to take strength from him. “So what are we supposed to do now?”

“Now we wait.”

Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait long. A female parted the masses on the dance floor, then slowly strolled toward Zacharel. One of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, she had a silky fall of pale hair, skin a light dusting of rose and eyes as golden as the moonlight outside.

Large breasts were barely concealed in a red leather dress, patches of material cut from the sides to reveal perfectly flared hips. The dress’s hem stopped just below her bottom, making it clear there were no panties to shield the apex of those mile-long legs.

Beautiful, yes. But also one of the demon possessed.

He could sense the human soul banging at the doors of her mind, desperate to escape the demon’s hold. It had been a recent possession, then. Within a few days, most likely.

She stopped in front of him, but her gaze focused squarely on Annabelle. “There’s my sweet little geisha. How I’ve missed you.”

“What did you just call me?” Annabelle gasped out.

The human male, Fitzherbert, had said those exact words to her, Zacharel recalled. Sweet little geisha. Zacharel did not believe in coincidences. The demon now possessing the woman in front of her must once have possessed someone at the institution. Not Fitzherbert—Zacharel would have sensed it—but someone who spent a great deal of time inside the building. A patient, most likely, which made sense. Minions who’d created a stronghold inside a human mind could convince their hosts to do almost anything. Burden would have wanted one with easy access to Annabelle, watching, listening, probably even encouraging others to hurt her, then reporting back.