Wicked Nights

temptation for more was the danger of her. He caressed a fingertip along her cheekbone, whispered, “Perhaps the urn isn’t my greatest treasure,” and left her.

* * *

ANNABELLE’S FIRST THOUGHT: Did he just imply what I think he just implied?

Her second: The little woman stays home, while the big strong tough guy goes to war.

Would their relationship always work this way?

She studied the urn she was to protect. Clear liquid swirled inside, thicker than the Water of Life, with violet beads glittering throughout. Angel ashes?

Whatever it was, she would protect the stuff, as she’d been asked to do, and hopefully her debt to Zacharel would be paid. He had reunited her with her brother, convinced Brax of the truth, and though the relationship was anything but smooth, it was no longer hate-filled, either. The possibility for more, for better, was there.

To the urn, she said, “I need a change of clothes and a cool, new weapon. Also, wings would be nice.” The last was said on a wistful sigh. “Your brother has done a marvelous job of protecting me and providing for me, but I’d love to show him I can protect and provide for myself, too, you know.”

“Very well,” said an eerie, laughing voice—one that did not come from the urn. A second later, the cloud shook so violently, she had to grip a bedpost to remain standing.

“What’s going on? Who’s there?” No one had appeared; she was still alone.

The moment the shaking stopped, she looked around to assess the damage. Everything appeared the same —until she looked down at herself. Her T-shirt and jeans had been replaced by… What the heck? A sexy devil costume?

She now wore a short red dress, with patches of material cut out of the waist, just like Driana’s, the hem stopping just below the curve of her butt. A padded forked tail uncurled to her feet. Five-inch stilettos encased her feet. Red fishnets stretched to midthigh, garters hooking them to…matching red panties. Great. Also, her blades were gone.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” she demanded. “You better tell me who you are and where you are. Now.”

More laughter, more shaking, and then a rusty pitchfork with glass shards hooked to each of the prongs appeared on top of the bed. “Can’t forget the rest of what you wanted.”

Her weapon, she realized, the one she’d requested. Wait. Was the cloud able to speak now? “What am I supposed to do with—”

Another round of laughter interrupted her. The shaking started up again, more intense than before. Her mind whirled with possibilities. She’d asked for a change of clothes and gotten this. She’d asked for a new weapon and gotten that. Dread became a noose around her neck. She’d asked for wings and would get…what?

When the laughter at last quieted and the shaking stilled, a sharp pain lanced up her spine. But that was it. A pain there and gone, and for a long while, nothing else happened. She began to relax.

“Cloud,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind about the clothes, the weapon and the wings. Okay?”

“Sorry, naughty girl, but I’m not the cloud—and there can be no take backs. Just give it a moment. You might like it.”

As if on cue, warmth burgeoned between her shoulder blades. At first, it was actually comforting. But that warmth heated…and heated…until it was blistering, surely crackling with actual flames.

“Stop this,” she demanded. “Whatever you’re doing, stop.”

Hotter and hotter…sweat beading over her skin, breath emerging shallow and fast. But okay. She could handle this. She could— The flesh between her shoulder blades ripped open and blood gushed down her back, something sharp slicing through muscle.

Her knees gave out, and she collapsed. “Stop! Please.”

“Why would I stop now? I’ve been waiting for you, knew you would return.”

The voice came from across the room this time, and she managed to lift her head enough to see a grinning demon step from the oozing black wall. Not the cloud, after all.

Stay clam. Don’t let him feed off your emotions.

Fighting the pain, dizzy, she lumbered to her feet and grabbed the pitchfork. “How’d you…hide from… Zacharel?”

“Your angel is not all-powerful, and he cannot see all things. I followed the cloud after our attack, and laid siege.” The creature was tall, though thin, with scales as smooth and shiny as black ice. His eyes were red, not the pretty ruby of so many of his brethren, but edged with rust. “The cloud is now mine. Mine to control…to pervert however I wish.”

“A cloud…can’t give a human…wings.”

“Well, you are more than human, aren’t you, naughty girl? You belong to a demon.”

Calm…“I belong to myself.” Drawing on every ounce of strength in her being, she jabbed the tip of the pitchfork at him.

He hunched his body and twisted out of the way, rendering her attack ineffective. Flashing his too-sharp teeth, he said, “No need to play rough. I’m not going to hurt you…much.”

Again she jabbed the pitchfork at him. This time he wasn’t fast enough. Contact. The prongs sank deep into his thighbone, the long handle vibrating from the force. Only, he was not the one to scream and drop to his knees as agony overwhelmed him. She was. The muscles in her leg…torn to shreds, surely.

His chuckle rebounded from the walls. “Do you really think I’m stupid enough to give you a weapon that could harm me?”

“Yes,” she gasped out. “I really do.”

He took no insult. “The beauty of the pitchfork is that the one who wields it feels the injuries it causes. Tell me if this hurts.” He jerked the prongs from his thigh.

Another scream left her, a black mist fogging her line of vision. Not because of her thigh—though yeah, that was beyond awful—but because of her chest. Whenever she received an injury somewhere else, razors seemed to scrape at the burn there, as if Zacharel had just poured his water down her throat.

“Well?” the demon asked.

“Endured…worse.”

“If only I was not forbidden to taste you.” He closed the distance between them and crouched in front of her, his vile scent overwhelming her senses. “My master has Zacharel’s other female, did you know that?” He opened his palm, revealing a curling lock of dark hair. “The pretty angel.”

“He has what remains of her body, you mean.”

“No. She lives.”

“You lie.”

“Do I? Can you really take that chance?”

No. No, she couldn’t. A conscious effort was needed to keep the urgency out of her tone, to hold herself still. “Just who is your master, huh, that he can do what even Zacharel could not, and bring someone back from the dead?”

“I am not to tell you. I am to introduce you to him. And if you ask him nicely, I bet he’ll let the female go. Or not. Mostly not. But that doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

His master had to be the high lord who had stabbed her parents, the demon who had marked her, tainted her…ruined her. How she’d dreamed of facing him.

So yes, she was tempted to give in and go. But would she allow this creature to leave this cloud alive? No. Never. She might not have her blades, and the pitchfork might be a no go, but she had her fists and she knew how to use them.

The demon’s rusty gaze flicked to the nightstand. “We will be bringing Zacharel’s brother with us, of course.” He clapped, happy with the way things had turned out. “I’m not sure which will hurt him most. The death of his woman or the loss of all that remains of his cherished sibling.” He straightened, reached toward the urn. “Let’s find out.”

Though she felt as if she were ready to burst apart at the seams, Annabelle struck.