Wicked Nights

Pretty? The word should not have offended him, but it did. They were magnificent, thank you.

He owed her no explanation about this, and had to stop offering details so freely. When they parted, and they would, she could be captured, could give the information to his enemy. But still he did it. Still he told her. His training would ensure she was never captured. Surely.

“A p-promotion. H-how cool,” she said through suddenly chattering teeth. Mist swirled in front of her face. “Not to change the subject, but, uh, is it cold in here to you?”

Reminded of when he’d first found her, of how frozen she’d been, Zacharel decided he was no longer accepting or grateful for the chill he carried with him. Annabelle suffered, and that he did not like. He would have to ask his Deity for leniency in this matter. And perhaps he would receive it, now that he knew there was a way back into his leader’s good graces.

“A coat,” he said now, and Annabelle’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“I should have thought of that.”

“I’m sure you would have.” He held out his hand and a white faux-fur coat appeared.

“Thanks,” she said. “You know, you are one huge contradiction. You’re mean one moment, then nice the next. Threatening one moment, then protective the next.”

“You mean for me to take offense, like before at the institution?”

“Not this time.”

“But you do not sound pleased by the knowledge.”

“Well, I’m not. It’s too hard to get a read on you.”

“I am not a book,” he said.

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“But—”

“Just stick with the meanness and the threatening,” she interjected. “I don’t want to like you.”

A more confusing conversation he’d never had. “Why?”

“I plead the fifth.”

He no longer liked this evasive strategy of hers. “You cannot refuse to respond to all of my queries.”

“Uh, not true. I totally can.”

As she’d just proven. “Then we must work out some sort of reward for when you do answer.” Though that smacked of bribery—because it was—and implied that he cared—which he did. There could be no more denying that, he supposed. Not that the admission would change anything.

One of her brows arched in a parody of an expression he’d given her more than once. “And a spanking for when I don’t?”

“Do not be silly. I would never spank you for such a minor offense, Annabelle.” He liked her name on his lips. Liked the sound of it, the feel of it. “For something major…maybe. But I would never do anything that would cause lasting damage. You are not one of my soldiers. More than that, you are human. You could not withstand much.”

“You might be surprised by my fortitude.”

He meant to respond, he truly did, but he was suddenly snagged by a desire to trace his fingertips over her cheeks, her lips, to know if she would burn him, if her pulse would hammer out of control as he suspected his own would do. He wanted to know if she would inch closer to him or turn away.

You are not a slave to such mortal desires. He would not touch her, and he would not consider her response. But while he could fight the physical—and win—he found he could not fight the mental. His curiosity about her was too great and he found himself saying, “Your mother was Japanese, yet your name is not.”

Annabelle accepted the change of subject with a relieved squaring of her shoulders. “She spent most of her life in the States. And I was named after my father’s mother, Anna Bella.” She drew the lapels of the coat tighter and gave in to her own curiosity. “I’ve been wondering. Are you like the angels in the Bible? I, uh, had the cloud provide me with one last night. I read a few passages, and…well…”

“You see differences between me and the angels you read about,” he finished for her.

“Exactly. And I do remember you saying you were part of a different race…or something.”

He couldn’t help pointing out, “I could refuse to answer, as you have done to me.”

“But that would be the equivalent of a spanking,” she pointed out, “and you, who never lie, won’t do that to me.”

A very smart girl, his Annabelle. Wait. His Annabelle? “What you read is true. In human terms, my Deity is a king. He rules only a certain portion of the heavens and serves under the Most High, who rules every inch of the heavens, even what the Greeks and Titans claim to own—but that is another story. And we are not like the Most High’s angels because we were not created for the same purposes.”

She tossed up her hands. “Then why are you called angels?”

“We are winged, and we fight evil. It’s a label, and it stuck.”

“Argh! But if you both fight evil, how are you different?”

He had so rarely interacted with humans, and he had never had to explain this kind of thing. “All humans are living beings, yes, and share many similarities, but not all have the same purpose. Some build. Some entertain. Some teach.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than the walls of the cloud darkened, thickened, lightning strikes sparking from within, small at first, but growing in length and intensity. Confused, he searched for other differences, found none.

Annabelle reached out, intending to stroke her fingertips over the lightning. He grabbed her wrist and stilled her.

“Cloud?” he said. “What’s the problem?”

Demons… A whisper inside his head. Attacking…

Impossible. Right? But…what if it wasn’t? Zacharel summoned his sword of fire. Demons rarely ventured into the heavens, much less to an angel’s residence, but it could be done.

All the color drained from Annabelle’s face. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“We’re under attack.” Either the demons had no idea who owned this cloud, or their desire to obtain Annabelle was too great, their ability to track her far better than he had anticipated.

The cloud would hold them off, but would, eventually, fail. Clouds such as this one were designed for comfort rather than battle, something that had never bothered him before. Actually, at any other time, Zacharel would have relished this challenge, the chance for victory. Now he experienced the tiniest shard of fear. Annabelle could be hurt. He hadn’t spent these past few days seeing to her survival just to watch her fall prey to his enemy’s evil.

“Show me,” he commanded the cloud.

Beside him, a portion of air thickened, a multitude of colors flickering to life, blending together. He stiffened. Annabelle gasped. At least fifteen demons surrounded his home, clawing at the outer walls in an effort to get inside. They were worked into a frenzy, foaming at the mouth, desperate, their nails tipped with poison.

“They came for me,” she said, toneless.

Zacharel snaked his free hand around her waist and tugged her into the line of his body. “Hold on to me and don’t let go under any circumstances.”

“But I can help you fight them.” Good. There’d been a layer of determination that time.

Still, he barked, “Can you fly? Or will you tumble to the earth without me?” They both knew the answer to that one.

No longer hesitating, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers locked tight at his nape. Soft breasts snuggled against the pound of his heartbeat, and their lower bodies pressed together. He inhaled sharply, amazed he even noticed the sensations at such a time as this.

Focus. “That isn’t good enough,” he said. His hand lowered to her bottom, and he hefted her up. “Legs.”

Her legs wrapped around his waist.

Their eyes met, a clash of green against that otherworldly blue—a blue currently fogged with the determination he’d heard as well as the terror he’d sensed. But she nodded, ready for battle.

Brave girl.