Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(54)
Author: Gena Showalter

The ice shuttered back over his emerald gaze. “He was better off.”

Clearly that marked the end of the conversation. But…now she wondered if the brother had been sick. That’s usually what better off implied. Poor Zacharel. “Well, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Before the last word left her mouth, he was on her, his clawed hands shoving her down but not cutting her. Surprised, she flailed as she fell, loosening her hold on one of the daggers.

Between one blink and the next, his weight was pinning her in place, his hand manacling her arms above her head, rendering the weapon she did have useless. Argh! She bucked once, twice, but couldn’t dislodge him.

“If I were truly a demon,” he said with the same coldness she’d glimpsed in his eyes, “what would you do to escape me right now?”

“Bite you when you lean down.” As she’d had to do in the institution time after time.

“And risk swallowing tainted demon blood?”

Rocks filled her stomach, their edges sharp. “What happens when you swallow tainted demon blood?”

“You sicken.”

His tone implied you could die. Trying not to panic, she thought back over the past four years. The only times she’d gotten sick were due to overdoses of the drugs the staff had forced on her. So, she must not have swallowed any of the blood. Right?

“Pay attention to me.” He gripped her shoulders and shook her. “To free yourself, you are to stab one of my horns.”

“Okay, but not all demons have horns.”

“And I will show you how to fight the hornless next time. Today, you learn how to deal with horns.”

In other words, concentrate on the here and now.

“But you’re holding my hands captive.”

“And you cannot somehow trick me into loosening my grip?

Well, yeah. Him, she could. But someone else? “Let’s say I manage it. Wouldn’t the dagger just lodge there, leaving me without any kind of weapon?” Teeth were no longer an option—ever.

“Yes, and that’s the point. The hard outer shell protects a soft, vulnerable center. If you cut into the nerves properly, you can paralyze the demon for several seconds, sometimes even minutes.”

Now, there was a tip she could use.

“All right. Let’s test this theory of yours.”

Just as she geared up to trick him into loosening his grip, three enormous shadows fell over them and Zacharel leapt off her. Thinking the demons had found her, she scrambled to her feet. Rather than a misshapen enemy horde, however, she saw the blond warrior from the institution—Thane. He appeared and landed at her left, white wings threaded with gold outstretched.

At her right appeared a robed warrior with hair and scarred skin the same shade of white. The only color he possessed was in the red eyes even now glaring at her.

Directly in front of her was the biggest male alive—possibly ever created—his skin the most luscious shade of gold she’d ever seen, his eyes a rainbow of brilliant colors.

“We’ve been searching for you, Zacharel,” Thane said. “We tried to reach you mentally, but you failed to respond.”

Interesting that he recognized Zacharel, even in this form. Interesting, too, that he had called her angel by his name rather than Majesty, as he’d done at the institution.

“I had closed myself to receiving.”

Like switching off a phone?

“Shall we change our visage, as well, and join the party?” Thane looked over Zacharel’s demon skin and frowned. “You’re bleeding.” He turned to his companions. “He’s bleeding.”

“She cut him,” the rainbow-eyed guy said, his incredulity unmatched. “Her blade still drips.”

The scarred guy took a menacing step toward her.

She braced her legs apart, ready to greet him. “You want to taste my blade, too? ’Cause I’ll let you if you try and challenge me.”

Zacharel moved in front of her. In a blink, the demon visage was gone, his dark hair, sun-kissed skin and robe returned. “No one touches the girl. Ever. Anyone does, and he will die.”

“Yeah,” she said, jumping in front of him—only to be pushed back. “He’ll die.” Would no one ever look at her and think she’s innocent?

All three men gaped first at Zacharel, then at her. Then one by one they nodded. And if she wasn’t mistaken, they cast each other sly, amused glances. That amusement baffled her.

“Two shockers in one day,” Thane said. “First, concern for my commander. Second, watching a tiny fluff of nothing act as his protector. Are you ashamed, Zacharel?”

Zacharel tossed her a this is your fault glare.

She shrugged, not sorry in the least.

“Well, now that we know Zacharel is so well guarded,” the rainbow-eyed warrior said in a sneering tone, “we have business to attend to.” Any lingering amusement vanished. “We thought you’d like to know that the demons that attacked your cloud were sent by Burden and we now have his location.”

Zacharel reached back and clasped Annabelle’s hand, as if he needed to assure himself she was there and she was well.

The one with red eyes perused Annabelle up and down before dismissing her. “He’s at the Black Veil. We tracked him down, but did not have an opportunity to fight him. He let us know that he has Jamila, then he demanded ‘the weak and vulnerable Annabelle’ in trade—and don’t try to gainsay me, female,” he added without looking her way. “You are.”

“Am not,” she grumbled. She so was, when compared to these creatures.

To Zacharel, he continued with a clenched jaw, “He also said that if you go with an angel escort, he will behead Jamila. If you refuse to go, he will behead Jamila.”

Annabelle translated: in essence, Zacharel was screwed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE BLACK VEIL WAS A HUMAN nightclub located in the pulsing heart of Savannah, Georgia. Zacharel had hunted many demons along these sultry midnight streets, and wasn’t surprised Burden had made a home there, or that he’d possessed the body of the human who owned the club, just to feed off the turmoil of the patrons.

Intensely hot this time of year, Savannah’s humidity was so thick it left a film on one’s skin—even angel skin. Had it not been for Annabelle, Zacharel would have asked the Deity for the return of the snow.

He was not in his customary robe, but wore a black mesh tank, black leather pants and scuffed combat boots. To add to the look, he’d spiked his hair down the center—a Mohawk, the humans called the style—and rimmed his eyelids with kohl. Tattoos now sleeved both of his arms, and once again his wings were hidden from human eyes. All necessary changes.