Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(77)
Author: Gena Showalter

You are a warrior. Act like one. He blanked his mind, raised his hand and created his sword of fire. In a blink, his soldiers had their swords raised, as well. No one broke rank, acting before the signal was given. That was new, too.

Zacharel’s war cry blasted through the heavens. “Now!”

The angels swooped down, Zacharel included. The demons froze in place, most quaking, but none leaving. He hacked his way through them, black blood spraying over the pure alabaster and mother-of-pearl facade of the temple, heads rolling down, down, his opponents dying with…smiles, he realized, as if they knew a secret he did not.

Again he looked to his cloud, but still the demons stayed away from it. Perhaps he should check on Annabelle. She—

A heavy weight slammed into him, flipping him end over end. He lost his hold on the sword, and it vanished. He crashed into the bottom step, air shoving from his lungs. No, not shoving. Seeping out. The organs had been punctured—because a pair of horns had embedded in his chest. A paralyzing poison was sprayed directly into his body.

Distraction killed. He knew that. Oh, but he knew that, and now he would pay. His muscles spasmed as he commanded his arms to punch and his legs to kick, but the limbs did not obey. The demon jerked free, laughed gleefully and shouted for his friends. Soon, minions swarmed Zacharel, biting at him, clawing at him, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

Are you still at the temple? he projected to Thane.

Nearby. A rasping reply, indicating the swiftness of the warrior’s motions as he spoke.

I’m at the bottom of the steps. Help…me. He’d never had to request aid before, and that he had to here and now…it was humiliating.

An eternity seemed to pass before grunts and groans of pain sounded around him. Teeth were ripped out of him, horns were severed, and one by one the demons began to collapse around him.

“Don’t worry. I’ve been where you are.” Thane remained poised beside him, slaying any minion who dared approach. “The toxin should wear off in a few minutes.”

Zacharel could only lie there, feeling as though he’d been thrown into the fires of hell. At least he could still see his cloud…a cloud that now had three spots of color in the center. Dark, blooming…red?

Red. Blood. Annabelle’s blood.

A demon fell from the center, shooting toward the earth like arrows.

The cloud, he mentally shouted at Thane. My cloud. Inside. Annabelle. Help her!

Thane didn’t stick around to ask questions, but darted up. Instantly, the minions who’d been waiting on the sidelines, too afraid to attack with the warrior there, swarmed Zacharel. He nearly bit his tongue in half, so forcefully did he strain. He wasn’t surprised when his shoulder bone popped from its socket. But did he manage to free himself from the taint of the poison? No.

His face was clawed. His chest was slashed. His legs were sliced. The demons were too happy, too distracted to notice when his muscles finally began to twitch back to life. First his fingers wagged, then his toes, then finally, the toxin dissipated completely. He popped his shoulder back into place and surged into motion. Roaring, he created another sword of fire and swung in a circle, cutting through everyone who clustered around him. Heads flew, and bodies collapsed.

He spread his wings and bolted into the air. Almost there… “Annabelle!” When he attempted to enter the cloud, he ricocheted backward, bones vibrating from impact.

Thane flew around from the other side. “There’s some kind of block. I can’t get through without killing your home.”

“I’m sorry,” Zacharel told the cloud as he swung his sword through the blackened ooze. This was not the merciful death he’d imagined, but it was a death nonetheless. He had to reach Annabelle. Instantly a doorway was created, the edges sizzling, the fire growing, spreading. Zacharel leveled out and zipped to his bedroom.

Horror filled him. Blood dripped from the walls, covered the bed and the nightstand, and even formed little pools all over the floor—but there was no body. No urn.

Thane approached his side. “She is stronger than she appears. Whatever happened, she will recover.”

“Yes.” Would she, though? A vicious battle had clearly taken place here. “Annabelle,” he shouted.

No response.

Doing his best not to panic, he searched room after room as the cloud continued to burn from the outside in, soon to vanish forever, but found no sign of her. She had simply disappeared. “She’s not here. How can she not be here?”

“Could she have…fallen?” Sympathy laced Thane’s voice.

No. No! Zacharel arrowed out of the cloud and toward land, Thane right behind him.

I watched a demon leave the cloud, he projected. That demon could have taken her with him, and I simply missed her.

If that was the case, she would have fought the demon the entire way down, willing to die rather than be captured and imprisoned. If somehow the demon had managed to maintain his hold on her, she would be hurt, and hurt terribly, but Zacharel would rather she hurt than die.

Hurt he could save. Dead he could not.

Now, however, he had an answer to his earlier suspicion. The demons had attacked the temple for a reason, only he had not guessed they’d desired his distraction and Annabelle’s solitude. Furious with the demons, with himself, he straightened far too close to the earth’s surface, nearly shredding his wings as they slowed his momentum. The landing jolted his entire body, causing him to stumble forward.

The first thing he noticed was the demon carcass in pieces on the ground. A fresh kill, the blood liquid, without clots, and not from impact but from claws. Two demons fighting against each other? For rights to Annabelle, perhaps. Zacharel looked around through narrowed eyes, searching for any sign of her. Miles of forest in every direction, the animals and insects unnaturally quiet.

To the left, moonlight reflected off of something. Something of Annabelle’s? He raced over, leaving a trail of ice in his wake, and picked up—his brother’s urn. It was empty.

The glass shattered in his hand.

“What is it?” Thane asked as he landed.

Zacharel bent down, patted the ground. Dry. His twin’s essence had not spilled here. It could have spilled inside the cloud, and if that was the case, it was gone forever, rendered nothing but ash. Destroyed by his hand just as Hadrenial himself had been. Or one of Annabelle’s attackers could have emptied it out on the way down. But Zacharel didn’t scent—

Wait. Yes, he did. He scented his brother: the morning sky, dew drops and a hint of the tropics. Someone had absorbed his essentia.