Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(81)
Author: Gena Showalter

Before a single drop could absorb into his body, he commanded the cloud to produce an urn. He scraped the rim from fingertip to elbow, until every bead had fallen into the container. After sealing the lid, he shoved the urn into a hidden pocket of air. Angels and demons alike would be drawn to it, but he would never again make anyone else responsible for its safeguarding.

Zacharel turned his attention to Annabelle. He cleaned her up, bandaged her wounds and dressed her in a warm, fur-lined robe. All the while, emotions threatened to overwhelm him. More of the shame, more of the fury, helplessness and hopelessness. He couldn’t imagine what had been done to her, to turn her into this. Even when a demon possessed a human’s body, the appearance of that human was never altered.

Annabelle was a demon’s consort—in theory, not in truth, he thought as a wave of possessive heat moved through him—but she would have transformed four years ago, at the moment of her marking, if the act was destined to change her. So…what did that leave? Not that he minded her appearance. She had been beautiful before, but she was equally beautiful now. She was simply his Annabelle. But she would be bothered, and he could not bear that.

Zacharel eased beside her and traced his thumb along her scaled cheekbone. A soft sigh left her as she leaned into his touch. She might do the opposite when she awoke, and turn away from him. She would remember what he’d done to her, how he’d hurt her. She would probably run from him.

He swallowed back a roar of denial. If she wanted to run from him, he would have to let her. He could never atone for what he’d done to her. Never. But he could follow and protect her for the rest of his days. If that meant giving up his place in the heavens, so be it.

She would have to be an important part of his life, Haidee had said.

She was. Far more important than his job, his home.

Unable to stop himself, he touched her now, while he could, and the more he stroked her, the more—sweet Deity, the faster her wound began to heal and her scales began to diminish, until only bronzed skin remained. The wings withered, finally disappearing from view.

His human Annabelle was back. How, why, he didn’t know, but he offered up a prayer of thanks, anyway, something he hadn’t done in centuries.

A rustle of clothing sounded behind him, and he spun, drawing his sword.

Lucien, the Lord of the Underworld possessed by Death, held up his hands, palms out. Black hair shagged over his forehead, and his lips curved down, a thick, jagged scar bisecting one corner. “Whoa there, angel. I come bearing news.” Fatigue dripped from each of the words.

Zacharel released the sword, barely registering when it vanished. Urgency battered him. “Tell me.”

“Amun finished digging through Burden’s secrets. The high lord you’re looking for, the one who claimed Annabelle, is named Unforgiveness.”

Unforgiveness. The name echoed through his mind. Finally, an answer and yet, relief was not forthcoming. “I have never fought him.” Had heard of him, yes. Who hadn’t? The baddest of the bad, the worst of the worst. Zacharel had hunted him the few times he’d heard the demon had been summoned by a human, but always Unforgiveness managed to hide before his arrival.

“Thank you,” he said to Lucien, already relaying the information to Thane.

We managed to capture three more minions, Thane said inside his mind. We’ll find out what they know about this Unforgiveness.

Lucien inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You’re welcome. And now I hope we’re even and never have to work together again.” With that, the warrior disappeared.

Zacharel bundled Annabelle in the blanket from the bed and lifted her into his arms. More than not wanting to draw the demons to Bianka’s cloud, he did not want Annabelle waking up and lashing out at anyone but him.

Oh, Annabelle. Will you ever be able to forgive me, when I’m not sure I can forgive myself?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

ANNABELLE AWOKE WITH A JOLT, jerking upright. She was panting, sweat running down her chest and back in rivulets. The most terrible dream had plagued her. She had become a demon, had raced through a forest and had fought Zacharel.

Zacharel.

With his name came a burst of dread she couldn’t explain, but knew she was supposed to tamp down. Dangerous, she thought.

What was? The emotion? Or Zacharel?

Her gaze darted around. She was in another hotel room, alone. I should run. I have to run. She didn’t question the thought, just threw her legs over the side of the bed. Before she could unfold to a stand, Zacharel appeared in front of her, his expression unreadable.

The dread spiked.

Stay calm. You have to stay calm. Confused, unsure, she froze. “What are you doing?” she asked.

With a pained moan he dropped to his knees, and suddenly she could read his expression. Agonized, ashamed, regretful, horrified… Just then he was a broken man, the pieces scattered in too many directions to ever find and glue back together.

“I…I… Zacharel?”

“I’m sorry, Annabelle. So sorry.”

In the next instant, the truth hit her with the force of a baseball bat. What she remembered wasn’t a dream. She had turned into a demon. She had raced through the forest. She had fought Zacharel.

Eyes wide, she held out her arms, but a robe blocked her view of herself. She only dared to breathe again when she rolled back the sleeves and saw the light brown of her skin.

Winding her arms around her back proved more difficult, but she had to know, had to—no wings! Thank the Lord! Her back was smooth where it should be smooth and ridged where it should be ridged.

Zacharel watched her without uttering a word. Still on his knees, humbled before her.

Her arms fell heavily to her sides. “You hit me,” she stated flatly. Gone was the dread, but in its place was a bone-deep disappointment.

His head bowed, his chin hitting his sternum. “I know.”

“And you didn’t know who I was.”

“No. I did not.”

He wasn’t even trying to defend himself. He could have told her that type of change in a human was unheard of, something he’d thought impossible. He could have reminded her of her reaction to him, when he had morphed into a demon.

“Why did I transform? How did you turn me back to normal?”

Not once did he glance up. “Tell me what happened in the cloud first. Then I will tell you everything I know, or even suspect. I will hide no detail from you.”

“Very well.”

He listened as she spoke, and every so often, he nodded. By the end, his shoulders were slumped as if a heavy weight rested atop them.