Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(26)
Author: Gena Showalter

To obtain the smallest of vials, an angel had to go through the same process as for the Water of Life: a whipping to prove his determination, followed by a meeting with the Heavenly High Council, where permission was granted or denied. If granted, a sacrifice of the Council’s choosing had to be made.

Zacharel had gone through all of that—after his brother had been denied—but he had hesitated inside the temple. The two rivers ran side by side, life and death, happiness and sorrow. The choice had belonged to him. He could have taken from Life. He should have taken from Life. But all that would have done was heal his brother’s body, not his mind.

Spending time in the presence of the Most High would have been needed to save his mind, for the Most High could soothe and save anyone, but Hadrenial had refused to try. Still he’d wanted an end.

“How could you ask that of me?” he demanded. “How could I do it?”

Of course, there was no response. There never was.

Zacharel had poured Death down his brother’s throat. Had watched the life drain from him, the light dim in his eyes. Had then burned his body with a sword of fire. Had watched his brother turn to ash and float away.

He’d followed pieces of that ash for days.

Now he gazed down at the black smudge growing on his chest. The day of his brother’s death, Zacharel had removed his own sense of love, a portion far smaller than Hadrenial’s had been, placing it inside the urn, and glorying as it mingled with all that was left of his brother. There, at least, they were still together.

A week later, a tiny black dot had appeared on the exact spot he’d taken that portion from, and over the years that dot had slowly but steadily increased in size. However, after Zacharel’s appointment with the Deity, when the snow began to drip from his wings, the rate of increasing had quadrupled.

He knew what it meant, what the end result would be, but he wasn’t concerned. Was actually glad. If he failed in his mission this year and was kicked from the heavens, he wouldn’t have to suffer long.

“I wonder if Annabelle would have fascinated you, too.”

He paused, picturing the two together. Yes, Annabelle’s courage would have delighted the gentle Hadrenial. Would they have fought for her?

No, he decided. Because Zacharel would have given her up. Planned to do so now, in fact, after his obligation was fulfilled.

Very carefully Zacharel set the urn on his nightstand and stood. He could have hidden the thing in a pocket of air, dragging it with him wherever he went. But other angels would have scented his brother and asked questions he had no wish to answer. Demons would have scented him, as well, and tried to destroy him all over again.

He tugged on a robe before stalking to Annabelle’s door. There he paused, unsure whether or not he should enter. Yesterday he had been angry with himself for agreeing to help her learn to fight demons, and had left her to her own devices.

As promised, he had not locked her in the room. He had expected her to hunt him down, but she had stayed put—and that had made him angrier.

What was she doing to him? Usually he was a man without a temper. For centuries he had been known for his coldness both inside and out, yet around her he felt as though he were teetering at a very sharp ledge of danger. Even now he was tense, his jaw aching from the constant grinding of his teeth.

All night he’d imagined kissing her. Kissing her deeper, harder, better than the man who had come before him, finally giving into temptation that he kept trying to convince himself wasn’t truly temptation. Why? She wasn’t special. She was a nuisance, a burden, existing for only a brief span of time. There were thousands like her.

Were there really?

Yesterday he’d peered down at those lush pink lips and craved. He’d never before craved. Maybe because he’d had another woman’s taste in his mouth, his interest in the act had been pricked, a desire kindling to compare what was forced with what was given. Maybe not.

The report Thane brought him had made Zacharel want Annabelle a thousand times more. She had endured multiple beatings from humans and demons alike, yet they hadn’t diminished her audacity. She had an older brother who’d written her terribly hurtful letters, lashing out at her for her actions, yet she had responded with only kindness and understanding. Doctors had locked her up, overmedicated her, harmed her irrevocably, but she had fought back with every bit of her strength.

No, there weren’t thousands like her.

He should walk away from her now, before he decided to nix his plan, abandon common sense and keep her—and later lose her. Before he caused collateral damage on purpose, simply to avenge her.

Zacharel had only to stay with her a little while longer. A few weeks, perhaps a few months—no longer than a year—and she would be able to fight the evil that hunted her. He would make sure of it. They could then part, and he would never again have to think about her…though he had no idea where he would take her or how he would absolve himself of her responsibility in the Deity’s eyes, but those were details for another day.

Determined, he entered the room.

She sat at the edge of the bed. When she spotted him, she hopped to her feet, her blue-black ponytail swinging back and forth. “I think it will be best if we end our association now” were the first words out of her mouth.

Then you should have worn something else, he thought, dazed as he drank her in. Gone were the tank and soft, flowing pants. Instead, she wore a black leather bustier that revealed more cle**age than it concealed, and scuffed black leather pants that molded to the lithe strength of her.

Suddenly self-conscious, she shifted from one booted foot to the other. “I asked the cloud for battle-ready clothing, and this is what I got. There are slits all over the pants, for easy access to the weapons, I’m guessing. But the bustier has me stumped. Unless, of course, the cloud thinks my cle**age will stun my opponents into stupidity.” Frowning, she anchored her hands on her hips, shook her head. “My outfit doesn’t matter. Take me back to Colorado.”

“No, it doesn’t matter and no, I won’t. I thought we had come to an arrangement.”

“Yes, but…” Her gaze dropped to her feet, only to snap back up and narrow.

“What?”

“You are beyond frustrating,” she grumbled. “Why can’t you do what I ask you to do without issuing a million questions first?”

“I could say the same to you.”

“I don’t— Argh.” She raised a fist at him. “So maybe I do ask a lot of questions. So what. Anyone in my position would do the same. Besides, I’m a girl and that’s my job. You’re a boy. You’re supposed to pound your chest with your fists and grunt, then do everything in your power to please me.”