Wicked Nights

crimson scales, his bloodstained fangs, too-sharp horns and spiked tail, he was a study of horror.

“I can taste your fear already,” he said.

Sobs shook her entire frame. “Please. Don’t hurt me, I beg you.”

She lacked Annabelle’s fire and bravery. How disappointing.

But…just thinking his Annabelle’s name filled him with excitement. How badly did Zacharel want her?

What would he do to save her?

What would he be willing to save her from?

The minions Unforgiveness sent her way were not allowed to rape or kill her. Unforgiveness would have the privilege. And Zacharel would have to watch it all, before at last joining her in death. Well, death of the body, for Unforgiveness would not grant Zacharel the true death: spirit, soul and body. No, he wanted the angel here, transformed into a demon high lord, his actions a film of acid on his skin, loss and failure his lifelong companions.

“Please,” the human said, drawing him back into the present.

A wandering mind would get him killed. Unforgiveness curled his fingers around the female’s neck and urged her face toward his. “Please what?”

“Let me go,” she choked out.

His lips curled into another grin, this one slow and as dark as his soul. “Why would I do that? I must keep my strength up. And do you know how I keep my strength up, my precious?”

Tremor, tremor. “N-no.”

Perhaps not, but she suspected. “Well, it will be my pleasure to show you.”

CHAPTER TEN

AS ONE DAY SLID INTO a second, Annabelle remembered the joys of Zacharel’s home and summoned a few weapons. A girl had to be prepared when evil monsters chased her. Sadly, nothing appeared in her hands—now shockingly healed—or anywhere else, which meant she wasn’t in another cloud. Bummer. She’d already searched every corner, every piece of furniture, but had found nothing. Not even a change of clothes.

Now she patted down the walls, probing for any doorways the demons might attempt to enter, but there wasn’t so much as a seam, as if the only way to enter or leave was through…teleporting? Was that what Koldo was doing, popping in and out as he did?

And why did the guy want Zacharel out of the heavens? she wondered for the thousandth time. Hopefully she hadn’t made a fatal mistake with their exchange.

Fatal. The thought returned her attention to Zacharel. Fresh blood had soaked his robe anew, causing the material to cling to his body, the crimson obscene against the purity of the white. In the bathroom, she gathered the few remaining washrags and a small basin of water. But by the time she had the supplies situated around the injured angel, the blood had already disappeared.

How was he doing that? The phenomenon had happened several times before, and she had hoped his injuries had somehow healed. But each time before, that hope had been in vain. Gently she raised the hem of the robe, baring his legs—disappointment shot through her. He was still bruised, parts of him still twisted at odd angles. He had deep gashes everywhere, and his abdomen… Oh, poor Zacharel. No, his injuries hadn’t healed this time, either. He was dying.

Her parents, dying…dead. No longer savable, gone forever.

Oh, no. She wasn’t going there.

She forced herself to think about something else. Like, how, for the first time in four years, she had purpose, an attainable goal, a safety net, and if she were being completely honest with herself, a gargantuan attraction to a man. Zacharel’s hypnotic beauty mesmerized her. His insistence on the truth delighted her. His strength fascinated her. He had protected her, and he had intrigued her during their few conversations. He wasn’t a smiler, but she suspected she’d come pretty close to amusing him a few times.

I want him to live. He was… She was… She…

Had fallen asleep, she realized, waking to find her chin pressed against her sternum. Exhaustion overwhelming her, she took up a post at the foot of the bed, ready to leap into action if anyone entered the room.

Where are you, Koldo? The silence in the room was broken only by the harshness of her breathing. She despised that silence—until Zacharel began to release one agonized groan after another.

She returned to his side, cooed at him, but his groans only increased in volume. He thrashed, blood soaking him, the robe and the comforter beneath him. Soon he practically floated in a pool of the stuff.

How much more could he stand to lose?

“Kill them,” he gritted out. “Must kill them.”

Kill the demons? Probably. They’d done this to him, after all.

“Kill them.”

“Don’t worry. You did. You killed them,” she said softly.

She had no medical knowledge, no idea what to do to help Zacharel. Applying pressure to the wound, the one thing she did know to do when someone was bleeding, wouldn’t help in this case. She would be applying pressure directly to…she gagged…and might do more damage.

“Kill them!”

“You did, honey. You did.” Annabelle spread the faux-fur coat Zacharel had given her on the bed and stretched out beside him, tracing her fingertips over his brow. His skin burned with fever, the cold long gone. He leaned into the touch, his grimace easing the slightest bit.

“Save her.”

Her—Annabelle? That, she wasn’t as sure about. “You did. You saved her.”

“I…return,” a broken voice said from across the room.

She jolted in surprise, then nearly screamed in horror when she spied Koldo. Or, more accurately, what was left of Koldo.

His hands were clasped to his chest, his big fingers wrapped around something clear and thin. As he dropped to his knees, no longer able to hold his own weight, blood dripped from his now-shaved head. Gone was his robe. He was shirtless, with loose, low-hanging pants covering his legs.

Annabelle eased from the bed to race to his side. “What happened to you?”

“Make…him…drink.” Koldo fell face-first to the floor, his arms extending, the clear, thin something—a vial— rolling from his now-open grip.

His back. Oh, sweet mercy, his back. There was no flesh left, just ruined muscle and fractured bone.

“Do not…give to…me.” His eyes closed, as if his lids were too heavy to keep open. “Only him.”

Nausea churned in her stomach. She was (somewhat) used to blood considering what she’d dealt with these past twenty-four hours, and she was totally used to violence. But this…so much in such a short amount of time… just like the past…rising up to consume her…

For a moment, she was petrified in place, memories flooding her, drowning her, devastating her. Somehow she found a life raft—save Zacharel—and tugged, tugged, tugged herself to the surface.

Make him drink, Koldo had said. Shaking, she swiped up the vial and returned to Zacharel’s side. The stopper proved to be a problem, and she struggled to remove it, feeling like an idiot as she yanked and failed, yanked and failed.

“Is this the same stuff he gave me?” The same stuff that had hurt her before saving her?

“Yes,” Koldo said.

Finally, Annabelle’s biceps came through and the cork popped free. As unsteady as she was, she spilled several droplets down the side of her hand.

“I’m sorry, Zacharel,” she whispered. Because she had no idea how much a big man like him would need, especially since he was an immortal rather than a human—would too much cause an overdose and hurt him, or would too little work too slowly?—she poured half the bottle down his throat.