Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(57)
Author: Gena Showalter

“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 br**sts 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 br**sts 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.

Glossy pink lips curled in a seductive smile. “Did you miss me, too, little geisha? I could take pictures of myself and give them to you. That way, whenever we part, you can look at them and think of me.”

For some reason, the comment enraged Annabelle. She grabbed—and launched—two of her daggers. Both were soon embedded in the other woman’s chest.

“I’d like a picture of you just like this,” Annabelle snarled. “Thoughts?”

The female let out a shriek of shock and pain…then unleashed a stream of black curses, ending with, “I’ll straight-up murder you!”

Some of the dancers noticed the violence and screamed, running for the door. Others just kept bumping and grinding.

“You will do no such thing,” Zacharel said.

The woman gritted her teeth and removed the now-dripping blades with a sharp jerk. “Control your pet, angel.”

“Unlike you, demon, I do not stoop to controlling humans.” And if his Deity thought to reprove Annabelle, he would stand in the gap and bear the punishment for her.

Funny that he had complained about just such a thing only a few days ago. Even funnier that he was more than willing—happy—to now do so.

“Sorry about that,” Annabelle muttered. “Rage got the better of me.”