Wicked Nights

“You do not feel forced?” There was only one line Thane would not cross in the bedroom, and that was forcing himself on another. “No matter what happens between us, you will be free to leave this place.”

“No, I’m not being forced. I was told I’d be paid.”

Ah. She wanted money, not him. He was utterly okay with that, had had to go this route before. “You will be.”

“Then why would I leave when wealth awaits me if I stay?” she asked, hooking a lock of hair behind her ear.

An ear that pointed at the end. “Excellent question.”

She grinned, and he saw that her teeth were fanged like a vampire’s. Her body was a study of beauty, a wealth of sensuality. Though he couldn’t see the back of her, he knew she would be covered in tattoos that bore the mark of her tribe.

“You were told what would be required of you?” he asked.

“Yes, which means all this talking is merely wasting my time and your money.”

“We don’t want that.” With a single tug, his robe fell away from his body, leaving him bare. The material was so light, it made no sound as it landed on the floor.

Thane crawled onto the mattress, the edge dipping with his muscled weight. A moment later, the female was on him. For a long while, he knew nothing but the burn of her nails and the scrape of her teeth. Then little beads of fire began to seep from her pores, blistering him just right and wringing exquisite groan after exquisite groan from him. He loved it as much as he hated it.

She performed every terrible act he required without hesitation, and he toyed with the idea of keeping her far longer than he’d ever kept another. Usually he was done after two or three beddings, not wanting to see revulsion smoldering in eyes that should be filled with desire. Because, after a while, the females always gave way to revulsion. They thought about what they’d done, what he’d done, and they regretted it all. But this female laughed with genuine pleasure as she performed, and he would be willing to bet she always would. Her greed for money would allow nothing less.

When it was over, Thane lay still, trying to catch his breath, enjoying the sensation of burning from the inside out.

Through the wall at his left—purposely thin so that he and his boys would hear if they were needed—he caught the heartbreaking echo of Xerxes retching into the toilet, just as he always did after sex.

He wanted more for his friend. Better. But he had no idea how to help.

He dressed and left the Phoenix exhausted on the bed. Bjorn was already in the sitting room, alone and peering blankly into a fresh glass of vodka.

Thane fell into a chair. Bjorn never glanced up, too lost in his head, in the darkness that had finally come for him.

Xerxes stepped out of his room, pale and shaky, and avoided Thane’s gaze. He, too, fell into a chair.

Thane loved these men. He did. He would happily die for them—but he would not let them die. Not like this. Not in misery.

They’d crawled out of that dungeon together, and somehow, someway, he would drag them out of their self- imposed hell.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE NEXT MORNING, A NAKED Zacharel sat at the edge of his bed and rolled his brother’s urn in his hands. It was a clear, hourglass-shaped jar, the substance inside a thick liquid as transparent as the urn, with only the tiniest of rainbow flecks glittering in the light.

This urn was Zacharel’s greatest treasure. His only treasure. Now and forever, he would protect this urn as he had not protected his brother.

“I love you, Zacharel.”

“I love you, too, Hadrenial. So much.”

“Do you?”

“You know I do.”

“And you would do anything for me?”

“Anything.”

“Kill me, then. A true death. Please. You can’t leave me like this.”

“Like this” had been broken, bloody and violated in unspeakable ways. “Anything but that. You’ll recover. One day you will even be happy again.”

“I don’t want to recover. I want to cease to exist, now and forever. That’s the only way to end my torment.”

“We’ll make the demons pay for what they did to you. Together. Then we can talk about this again.” And Zacharel would once again deny him.

“If you don’t kill me, I’ll kill myself. You know what will happen to me then.”

Yes, he’d known. You could not render the true death upon yourself. Hadrenial would have been able to slay his own body, but his spirit, dark as it had currently been, would have lived on and been cast into hell. That hadn’t swayed Zacharel. Still he’d said no. But in the end, Hadrenial had stayed true to his promise. He had tried to end himself over and over again. Always Zacharel had brought him back with the Water of Life.

Those years, his entire existence had been spent chasing after his brother, saving his brother and, finally, killing his brother to at last end his pain. It was a decision Zacharel regretted to this day, for this urn contained all that was left of Hadrenial.

Zacharel had mined from deep inside his brother’s chest the essence of all the love he’d ever felt, then poisoned him with the Water of Death, taken from the stream that flowed beside the Deity’s River of Life. That water was the only way to kill an immortal once and for all.

To obtain the smallest of vials, an angel had to go through the same process as for the Water of Life: a whipping to prove his determination, followed by a meeting with the Heavenly High Council, where permission was granted or denied. If granted, a sacrifice of the Council’s choosing had to be made.

Zacharel had gone through all of that—after his brother had been denied—but he had hesitated inside the temple. The two rivers ran side by side, life and death, happiness and sorrow. The choice had belonged to him. He could have taken from Life. He should have taken from Life. But all that would have done was heal his brother’s body, not his mind.

Spending time in the presence of the Most High would have been needed to save his mind, for the Most High could soothe and save anyone, but Hadrenial had refused to try. Still he’d wanted an end.

“How could you ask that of me?” he demanded. “How could I do it?”

Of course, there was no response. There never was.

Zacharel had poured Death down his brother’s throat. Had watched the life drain from him, the light dim in his eyes. Had then burned his body with a sword of fire. Had watched his brother turn to ash and float away.

He’d followed pieces of that ash for days.

Now he gazed down at the black smudge growing on his chest. The day of his brother’s death, Zacharel had removed his own sense of love, a portion far smaller than Hadrenial’s had been, placing it inside the urn, and glorying as it mingled with all that was left of his brother. There, at least, they were still together.

A week later, a tiny black dot had appeared on the exact spot he’d taken that portion from, and over the years that dot had slowly but steadily increased in size. However, after Zacharel’s appointment with the Deity, when the snow began to drip from his wings, the rate of increasing had quadrupled.

He knew what it meant, what the end result would be, but he wasn’t concerned. Was actually glad. If he failed in his mission this year and was kicked from the heavens, he wouldn’t have to suffer long.

“I wonder if Annabelle would have fascinated you, too.”

He paused, picturing the two together. Yes, Annabelle’s courage would have delighted the gentle Hadrenial. Would they have fought for her?