Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(30)
Author: Gena Showalter

“I’m sorry,” Zacharel said just before twisting, placing his back to the ground and her focus on the sky, a haze of pretty blue and white. Thick clouds, puffed in every direction. “The pain you are about to suffer, transient as it will be… I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Don’t be. You did everything you could—”

He tensed, and she knew. Impact.

Boom! They smacked into tree after tree, jostling them one way and then the other, breath exploding from them both, mingling, until there was nothing left to exhale— Oh, wait, a harder smack than before proved her wrong, completely emptying out her lungs.

She and Zacharel rolled down, down, hitting branch after branch, not really losing momentum before they…boom! The final impact proved far more jarring, harder, harsher. But then they stopped. Just stopped.

A spiderweb of black wove through her vision. She concentrated on regaining the use of her lungs, inhaling, exhaling, too fast at first, but gradually slowing, evening out. Minutes stretched into hours, hours into eternity before she found the strength to sit up. A mistake. A tide of dizziness swept over her, turning her world upside down. She was wet, soaked actually. And oh, baby, here was the promised pain. A kaleidoscope of burning, aching and throbbing.

Wincing, she scanned the surrounding area.

Broken tree limbs overhead provided a perfect path for the sun, allowing hot rays to lick over her, spotlighting her. In front of her, a forest loomed. Leaves of dewy emerald brushed together, and wildflowers perfumed the air.

Beside her…beside her sprawled Zacharel, his eyes closed, his body motionless. Both of his wings were bent at odd angles, the robe he wore no longer white but crimson.

Blood, so much blood. Everywhere. All over her—because of him. It leaked from his mouth, dripped from his ears, and where the fabric of his robe was ripped, great tides of it overflowed, reminding her of corroded water from a spout. His torso was mutilated, one of his thighs split open. His ankle, broken. The bone had sliced through his skin, the edges jagged, chips missing.

Her parents, ripped open, staring at nothing.

Her parents, lying in a congealing pool.

A hysterical laugh bubbled from her. Once again Annabelle would walk away from a gruesome scene without much damage to herself.

No. No! she thought then. She wouldn’t leave Zacharel like this. Wouldn’t let him die.

He’s already dead, common sense piped up.

No! her stubborn core replied. She hadn’t known him long, but he’d twice saved her life. He’d taken care of her. He, the man who claimed to have killed his own brother. He, the man who said he could kill her without hesitation. He, the man who never lied. She wouldn’t fall into the trap of trying to humanize him, assigning him acceptable reasons for threatening her, but she wouldn’t leave him, either. He’d done his best to protect her.

Annabelle lumbered to her knees and checked his pulse. The beat was thready, but there. There was hope!

God, if You’re listening, thank You! With shaking hands, she put Zacharel back together as best she could, gagging, crying. Just…stay with us a little longer. He needs help.

“You’ll heal,” she told Zacharel. “You’ll survive this.”

Her gaze panned the surrounding forest. If she built a sled, she could drag him…where? She had no idea where they were. Doesn’t matter. She would drag him until she found someone who could call for help.

“What did you do to him?”

The harsh voice slashed through the air behind her, slamming into her with so much hate and rage she fell to her hands. Blood splashed. Quickly she straightened, spun. The dizziness…almost too much, the spiderwebs returning and interweaving with pinpricks of light.

A beast of a man loomed a few feet away.

Trembling, she reached through the slits in her new leather pants and palmed two of the blades the cloud had given her. Good. She hadn’t lost them in the fall. As she shoved her way to her feet, struggling to stay upright, she pointed both weapons at the scary-looking newcomer. “Don’t come any closer. I’ll make you regret it.”

Ragged abrasions covered his cheeks, the edges singed, but the rest of his skin reminded her of honey sprinkled with sugar—a shocking contradiction. His eyes were black and filled with the same hate and rage she’d heard in his tone, his dark hair long and beaded, and though he wore a white robe, he wasn’t an angel. He couldn’t be an angel. No wings arched over his massive shoulders.

He glared down at her, then at Zacharel. When those bottomless eyes next landed on her, they were narrowed and crackling with orange-gold flames. Somehow, those flames were far worse than the emotions.

She blinked, and then he was standing in front of her—without ever having walked a step. Long, thick fingers wrapped around her wrists, squeezing. Still she hung on to her weapons.

“Let me go!” she demanded, trying to knee him between the legs.

He twisted, avoiding contact. “Release the blades.”

And leave herself, and Zacharel, helpless? “Never!”

His clasp tightened. Even when her bones fractured and agonizing pain slicked up her arms, she maintained her hold on the hilts.

Endured worse. Gritting her teeth, she fought through the dizziness and the now-thickening spiderwebs intermingling with the ever-brightening lights, and found the strength to go for round two of Shoot His Testicles Into His Throat. He must have assumed the pain had overwhelmed her and she would submit, causing him to lower his guard, because she succeeded in connecting her knee to his groin this time.

He did not double over, but he did fling her away from him, her already abused body propelling into a tree trunk and slinking uselessly to the ground.

“Stay there.” He kept her within his sights as he crouched beside Zacharel.

“No! I won’t let you hurt him,” she shouted, and lumbered to her feet. And… Thank You, God! She still held the daggers. Her hands were swollen and aching unbearably, but that was a small price to pay for Zacharel’s protection.

Surprise lit those treacherous eyes. Because of her words, or her persistence? Whatever the reason, surprise drifted through her as he smoothly lifted Zacharel into his arms. Such gentleness from someone who looked more monster than man should have been impossible.

Still, she pointed one of the blades at him. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but like I said, I won’t let you hurt him.”

“I am Koldo, and I would never hurt him.”

Her knees almost buckled with relief. Koldo. She recognized the name. He might not be an angel, but he was Zacharel’s friend. Her warrior had told her not to fight him just before commanding his cloud to vanish. “Where are you taking him? What are you going to do with him?”