Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author

GENA SHOWALTER

The Darkest Passion

‘Showalter gives her fans another treat, sure to satisfy!’

—RT Book Reviews

The Darkest Whisper

‘If you like your paranormal dark and passionately flavoured, this is the series for you.’

—RT Book Reviews

The Darkest Pleasure

‘Showalter’s darkly dangerous Lords of the Underworld trilogy, with its tortured characters, comes to a very satisfactory conclusion… [her] compelling universe contains the possibility of more stories to be told.’

—RT Book Reviews

The Darkest Kiss

‘In this new chapter the Lords of the Underworld engage in a deadly dance. Anya is a fascinating blend of spunk, arrogance and vulnerability—a perfect match for the tormented Lucien.’

—RT Book Reviews

The Nymph King

‘A world of myth, mayhem and love under the sea!’

—J. R. Ward

Playing with Fire

‘Another sizzling page-turner… Gena Showalter delivers an utterly spell-binding story!’

—Kresley Cole

Wicked Nights

Gena Showalter

Angels of the Dark

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I have been intrigued by the stone-cold angel Zacharel since the first moment he stepped on to the pages of my LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD series in The Darkest Secret. I mean, really. An immortal warrior who finds it easier to slay an enemy than to smile at a friend? Yeah, I had to know his secrets.

I also had to flip his entire world upside down, and oh, did I have fun doing it. He’s been put in charge of the biggest, baddest beings ever created—an army of angels about to be kicked out of the heavens forever. He’s met the first woman ever to kindle a fire his blood, and he’s in danger of losing his greatest treasure (and no, I’m not just talking about his virginity).

What better way to begin my new ANGELS OF THE DARK series?

Sacrifices will have to be made, and battles between good and evil will have to be fought. (Go, Team Good!) Zacharel has one chance to get this right. Just one—because it’s his last. If he fails, he will be stripped of everything that matters to him. His position, his power… and even his love.

I hope you enjoy this journey as much as I enjoyed writing it. After all, as you travel you’ll be in the arms of an exquisite winged warrior…

All the best,

Gena Showalter

To Jill Monroe,

for encouraging phone calls and e-mails, and the laughs!

(And I want it forever noted that you are listed first.)

To Sheila Fields and Betty Sanders,

for the friendship, the brainstorming, and the laughs!

To Joyce and Emmett Harrison, Leigh Heldermon,

and Sony Harrison, for the support, the love,

and the laughs! (Yes, I’m big on laughs.)

To Mickey Dowling and Anita Baldwin,

fantastic ladies I adore!

To Kresley Cole and Beth Kendrick—

a thousand thank-yous, ladies.

Actually that’s not enough. A million thank-yous, ladies!

And to Kathleen Oudit and Tara Scarcello, for seriously

knocking this one out of the park!

So gorgeous!

PROLOGUE

THE MORNING OF HER eighteenth birthday, Annabelle Miller woke from the most amazing dream feeling as if her eyes had been ripped out, dipped in acid and shoved back into their sockets. She became aware of the sensation gradually, her mind still fogged from sleep. When full awareness finally struck, her entire body tensed and bowed, a scream ripping free of her throat.

She pried her swollen eyelids apart, but… there was no dawning light. Only darkness greeted her.

The pain spread, riding the too-swift tides in her veins and threatening to burst through her skin. She rubbed at her face, even clawed, hoping to remove whatever was causing the problem, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. No bumps, no scratches. No… wait. There was something. A warm liquid now coated her hands.

Blood?

Another scream left her, followed by another and another, each like a serrated piece of glass scraping her throat raw. In seconds, panic chewed her up and spit her out. She was blind, bleeding—and dying?

The whine of hinges, the clack of high heels against the hardwood floor. “Annabelle? Are you all right?” A pause, then a hiss of breath. “Oh, baby, your eyes. What happened to your eyes? Rick! Rick! Hurry!”

A curse was followed by the pound of hard, fast footsteps. A second later, a horrified gasp filled her bedroom. “What happened to her face?” her father bellowed.

“I don’t know, I don’t know. She was like this when I came in.”

“Annabelle, sweetheart.” Her dad, now so tender and concerned. “Can you hear me? Can you tell me what happened to you?”

Annabelle tried to speak—Daddy, help me, please, help me—but the words became diamond hard and too jagged to swallow. And oh, dear heaven, the burn migrated to her chest, flames sparking every time her heart beat.

Strong arms slid under her, one at her shoulders, the other at her knees, and lifted her. The movement, temperate though it was, jostled her, magnifying the pain and she moaned.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” her dad assured her. “We’ll get you to the hospital and everything will be okay. I promise.”

The sharpest edges of her panic ebbed. How could she not believe him? He’d never made a promise he couldn’t keep, and if he thought everything would be okay, everything would be okay.

Her dad carried her to the SUV in the garage and laid her across the backseat as her mother’s sobs echoed. Her dad didn’t bother with a buckle, just shut the door and sealed Annabelle inside. She expected his door to open next, then her mom’s. She expected her parents to climb inside and drive her to the hospital, as promised, but… nothing.

Annabelle waited… and waited… seconds ticking by with excruciating slowness, the raggedness of her inhalations becoming laced with the taint of rotten eggs, fetid and sharp enough to nip at her nostrils. She cringed, confused and frightened by the change in the air.

“Daddy?” she said. Her ears twitched as she listened intently for his reply, but all she heard was…

Muffled voices through the glass.

The shrill grind of metal being scratched.

Eerie laughter…

… a grunt of agony.

“Go inside, Saki,” her father shouted in a terrified tone Annabelle had never before heard him use. “Now!”

Saki, her now-shrieking mother.

Grimacing through the pain, Annabelle managed to struggle into a sitting position. Miraculously, the unbearable blaze in her eyes at last faded. As she wiped away the blood, tiny rays of light pierced her line of vision. One second passed, two, then the light spread, colors appearing, blue here, yellow there, until she was taking in the full scope of the garage.

“I’m not blind!” she cried, but her relief was short-lived.

She spotted her father, shielding her mother against the far wall, his gaze darting this way and that but never landing on anything specific. Grisly cuts marred his cheeks, blood drip… dripping from each.

Shock and horror blended, becoming an unstoppable avalanche tumbling through every inch of her. What had happened to him? There was no one else in the small enclosure and—

A man materialized in front of her parents.

No, not a man, but a… a… What was that?

Annabelle scrambled backward, hitting the other side of the car. The newcomer wasn’t a man but a creature plucked from the depths of her worst nightmare. Another scream formed, this one lodging in her desiccated throat. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, could only stare in revulsion.

The… thing was freakishly tall, the top of its head brushing against a ceiling she couldn’t reach with a step-ladder. It possessed a barbarian’s oversize bones and fangs she’d only ever read about in vampire novels, with skin the darkest shade of crimson and as smooth as glass. Claw-tipped fingers dripped with blood. Gnarled wings of pitted black stretched from its back, and small horns protruded along the length of its spine. A long, thin tail curled from the base, ending in a blood-soaked metal spike that clanged against the concrete floor as it swished back and forth, back and forth.

Whatever it was, she suspected it had caused her father’s injuries—and it would only cause more.

Fear overcame every other emotion inside her, yet still she lurched forward, banged her fist against the window and forced her voice to work. “Leave my parents alone!”

The beast looked back at her with shockingly lovely eyes that reminded her of newly cut rubies. It flashed those razored fangs in a parody of a grin—before slashing its claws across her father’s throat.

In an instant, flesh tore and blood sprayed a thin line over the car window. Her father fell… hit the ground… his hands wrapped around his weeping throat, his mouth open as he gasped for air he couldn’t, wouldn’t, find.

A sob left her, formed from incredulity but sharpened by rage.

Her mother shrieked, scanning the garage with wide eyes as her father had done, as if she had no idea where the threat had come from. Her hands tented over her mouth and tears tracked down her cheeks, smearing the blood already splattered there.

“D-don’t hurt us,” she stuttered. “Please, don’t.”

A forked tongue flicked out, as though tasting her fear. “I like the way you beg, female.”

“Stop!” Annabelle shouted. Have to help her, have to help her. She wrenched open the car door and flew out, only to slip in a pool of her father’s—no. No, no, no. Gagging, she fought to stay upright. “You have to stop!”

“Run, Annabelle. Run!”

More eerie laughter—before those claws struck, silencing her mother. Her mother, who collapsed.

Shocked, Annabelle stopped fighting. She toppled to the floor, uncaring as oxygen burst from her lungs. Her mother… on top of her father… twitching… stilling.

“This can’t be happening,” she babbled. “This isn’t happening.”

“Oh, yes,” the creature said in a deep, rasping voice. She caught the undertone of amusement, as if her parents’ murder was nothing but a game.

Murder.

Mur. Der.

No. Not murder. She could not accept that word. They had been assaulted, but they would pull through. They had to pull through. Her heart slammed against her ribs, bile searing a path up her chest and past her larynx. “Th-the cops are on the way,” she lied. Wasn’t that what all the experts on all the reality shows about survival said you should do to save yourself? Claim help was on the way? “Go. Leave. You don’t want to get in any more t-trouble, do y-you?”

“Hmm, I love the sound of more trouble.” The monster turned, facing her fully, its grin expanding. “I’ll prove it.” It began to swipe… swipe… swipe at the bodies… clothes and skin ripping, bones cracking, pulp and tissue flying.

Can’t process.

Can’t… But oh, she really could. She knew. If her parents had had any chance of survival, that chance had now withered to ash.

Get up! You let that thing mutilate the people you love. Are you going to allow it to mutilate you, too? And what about your brother, upstairs, alone, probably asleep and unprepared for a slaughter?

No. NO! With a roar that sprang from a soul soon to be shredded by grief, Annabelle launched herself into that massive, boxy chest and punched at that ugly face. The monster fell back, but swiftly recovered, rolling her over and pinning her down. Wings outstretched, curtaining the rest of the world so that only the two of them existed.

Still she punched and punched and punched. For some reason, the creature never tried to claw her. In fact, it batted her hands away and tried to… kiss her? Laughing, laughing, never stopping with the laughing, it pressed its lips against hers, blew fetid breath into her mouth and shivered with sublime pleasure.

“Stop,” she cried, and it thrust its tongue so horribly deep she gagged all over again.

When it lifted its head, it left a white-hot slime behind, the disgusting substance coating the lower half of her face. Ecstasy shone in its eyes. “Now, this is going to be fun,” it said, and then it was gone, vanishing in a puff of putrid smoke.

For a long while, Annabelle felt paralyzed in mind and body. Only her emotions were on the move, and they were escalating at an alarming rate. The fear… the shock… the grief… each pressing against her chest, nearly suffocating her.

Do something! Finally, the flicker of a thought. It could return at any moment.

The realization gave her the strength to free herself from the prison. Slipping and sliding, she made her way to her parents’ bodies. Bodies she could not put back together, no matter what she tried.

Though everything inside her rebelled at the thought, she had to leave them behind if she hoped to save her brother. “Brax!” she screamed. “Brax!” She tripped her way into the house and called 911. After a hasty explanation, she dropped the phone and ran upstairs, again shouting for her brother. She found him in his bedroom, sleeping peacefully.

“Brax. Wake up. You have to wake up.” No matter how hard she shook him, he merely muttered about wanting a few minutes more.

She remained with him, protecting him, until the first responders arrived. She showed them to the garage, but they could not put her parents back together, either.

The cops arrived soon afterward—and within the hour, Annabelle was blamed for the murders.

CHAPTER ONE

Four years later

“HOW DOES THAT MAKE you feel, Annabelle?” The male voice lingered over the word feel, adding a disgusting layer of sleaze.

Keeping the other patients in the “trust circle” in her periphery, Annabelle tilted her head to the side and met the gaze of Dr. Fitzherbert, otherwise known as Fitzpervert. In his early forties, the doctor had thinning salt-and-pepper hair, dark brown eyes and perfectly tanned, though slightly lined, skin. He was on the thin side, and at five-ten, only an inch taller than she was.

Overall, he was moderately attractive. If you ignored the blackness of his soul, of course.

The longer she stared at him, rebelliously silent, the more his lips curled with amusement. Oh, how that grated—not that she’d ever let him know it. She would never willingly do anything to please him, but she would also never cower in his presence. Yes, he was the worst kind of monster, power hungry, selfish and unacquainted with the truth, and yes, he could hurt her. And would.

He already had.

Last night he’d drugged her. Well, he’d drugged her every day of his two-month employment at the Moffat County Institution for the Criminally Insane. But last night he had sedated her with the express purpose of stripping her, touching her in ways he shouldn’t and taking pictures.

Such a pretty girl, he’d said. Out there in the real world, a stunner like you would make me work for something as simple as a dinner date. Here, you’re completely at my mercy. You’re mine to do with as I please… and I please plenty.

Humiliation still burned hot and deep, a fire in her blood, but she would not betray a moment of weakness. She knew better.

Over the last four years, the doctors and nurses in charge of her care had changed more times than her roommates, some of them shining stars of their profession, others simply going through the motions, doing what needed doing, while a select few were worse than the convicted criminals they were supposed to treat. The more she caved, the more those employees abused her. So, she always remained on the defensive.

One thing she’d learned during her incarceration was that she could rely only on herself. Her complaints of abominable treatment went unheeded, because most higher-ups believed she deserved what she got—if they believed her at all.

“Annabelle,” Fitzpervert chided. “Silence isn’t to be tolerated.”

Well, then. “I feel like I’m one hundred percent cured. You should probably let me go.”

At least the amusement drained. He frowned with exasperation. “You know better than to answer my questions so flippantly. That doesn’t help you deal with your emotions or problems. That doesn’t help anyone here deal with their emotions or problems.”

“Ah, so I’m a lot like you then.” As if he cared about helping anyone but himself.

Several patients snickered. A couple merely drooled, foamy bubbles falling from babbling lips and catching on the shoulders of their gowns.

Fitzpervert’s frown morphed into a scowl, the pretense of being here to help vanishing. “That smart mouth will get you into trouble.”

Not a threat. A vow. Doesn’t matter, she told herself. She lived in constant fear of creaking doors, shadows and footsteps. Of drugs and people and… things. Of herself. What was one more concern? Although… at this rate, her emotions would be the thing to finally bury her.

“I’d love to tell you how I feel, Dr. Fitzherbert,” the man beside her said.

Fitzpervert ran his tongue over his teeth before switching his attention to the serial arsonist who’d torched an entire apartment building, along with the men, women and children living inside of it.

As the group discussed feelings and urges and ways to control them both, Annabelle distracted herself with a study of her surroundings. The room was as dreary as her circumstances. There were ugly yellow water stains on the paneled ceiling, the walls were a peeling gray and the floor carpeted with frayed brown shag. The uncomfortable metal chairs the occupants sat upon were the only furniture. Of course, Fitzpervert luxuriated on a special cushion.

Meanwhile, Annabelle had her hands cuffed behind her back. Considering the amount of sedatives pumping through her system, being cuffed was overkill. But hey, four weeks ago she’d brutally fought a group of her fellow patients, and two weeks ago one of her nurses, so of course she was too menacing to leave unrestrained, no matter that she’d sought only to defend herself.

For the past thirteen days, she’d been kept in the hole, a dark, padded room where deprivation of the senses slowly drove her (genuinely) insane. She had been starved for contact, and had thought any interaction would do—until Fitzpervert drugged and photographed her.

This morning, he arranged her release from solitary confinement, followed by this outing. She wasn’t stupid; she knew he hoped to bribe her into accepting his mistreatment.

If Mom and Dad could see me now…. She bit back a sudden, choking sob. The young, sweet girl they’d loved was dead, the ghost somehow alive inside her, haunting her. At the worst times, she would remember things she had no business remembering.

Taste this, honey. It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever eaten!

A terrible cook, her mother. Saki had enjoyed tweaking recipes to “improve” them.

Did you see that? Another touchdown for the Sooners!

A die-hard football fan, her dad. He had attended O.U. in Oklahoma for three semesters, and had never cut those ties.

She could not allow herself to think about them, about her mother and father and how wonderful they’d been… and… oh, she couldn’t stop it from happening…. Her mother’s image formed, taking center stage in her mind. She saw a fall of hair so black the strands appeared blue, much like Annabelle’s own. Eyes uptilted and golden, much like Annabelle’s used to be. Skin a rich, creamy mix of honey and cinnamon and without a single flaw. Saki Miller—once Saki Tanaka—had been born in Japan but raised in Georgetown, Colorado.

Saki’s traditional parents had freaked when she and the white-as-can-be Rick Miller had fallen hopelessly in love and married. He’d come home from college on holiday, met her and moved back to be with her.

Both Annabelle and her brother were a combination of their parents’ heritages. They shared their mother’s hair and skin, the shape of her face, yet had their father’s height and slender build.

Although Annabelle’s eyes no longer belonged to either Saki or Rick.

After that horrible morning in her garage, after her arrest for their murders, after her conviction, her lifelong sentencing to this institution for the criminally insane, she’d finally found the courage to look at herself in a mirror. What she’d seen had startled her. Eyes the color of winter ice, deep in the heart of an Arctic snowstorm, eerie and crystalline, barely blue with no hint of humanity. Worse, she could see things with these eyes, things no one should ever have to see.

And oh, no, no, no. As the trust circle yammered on, two creatures walked through the far wall, pausing to orient themselves. Heart rate spiraling, Annabelle looked at her fellow patients, expecting to see expressions of terror. No one else seemed to notice the visitors.

How could they not? One creature had the body of a horse and the torso of a man. Rather than skin, he was covered by glimmering silver… metal? His hooves were rust-colored and possibly some kind of metal as well, sharpened into deadly points.

His companion was shorter, with stooped shoulders weighed down by sharp, protruding horns, and legs twisted in the wrong direction. He wore a loincloth and nothing else, his chest furred, muscled and scarred.

The scent of rotten eggs filled the room, as familiar as it was horrifying. The first flood of panic and anger burned through her, a toxic mix she could not allow to control her. It would wreck her concentration and slow her reflexes—her only weapons.

She needed weapons.

The creatures came in all shapes and sizes, all colors, both sexes—and maybe something in between—but they had one thing in common: they always came for her.

Every doctor who’d ever treated her had tried to convince her that the beings were merely figments of her imagination. Complex hallucinations, they said. Despite the wounds the creatures always left behind—wounds the doctors claimed she managed to inflict upon herself—she sometimes believed them. That didn’t stop her from fighting, though. Nothing could.

Glowing red gazes at last settled on her. Both males smiled, their sharp, dripping fangs revealed.

“Mine,” Horsey said.

“No. Mine!” Horns snapped.

“Only one way to settle this.” Horsey licked his lips in anticipation. “The fun way.”

“Fun,” Horns agreed.

Fun, the code word for “beat the crap out of Annabelle.” At least they wouldn’t try to rape her.

Don’t you see, Miss Miller? one of the doctors had once told her. The fact that these creatures will not rape you proves they are nothing more than hallucinations. Your mind stops them from doing something you can’t handle.

As if she could handle any of the rest. How do you explain the injuries I receive while bound?

We found the tools you hid in your room. Shanks, a hammer we’re still trying to figure out how you got, glass shards. Shall I go on?

Yeah, but those had been for her protection, not her mutilation.

“Who goes first?” Horsey asked, drawing her out of the depressing memory.

“Me.”

“No, me.”

They continued to argue, but the reprieve wouldn’t last long. It never did. Adrenaline surged through her, making her limbs shake. Don’t worry. You’ve got this.

Though no other patients were aware of what was going on, they were all sensitive to her shift in mood. Grunts and groans erupted around her. Both men and women, young and old, writhed in their seats, wanting to run away.

The guards posted at the only exit stiffened, going on alert but unsure who was to blame.

Fitzpervert knew, pegging Annabelle with his patented king-of-the-world frown. “You look troubled, Annabelle. Why don’t you tell us what’s bothering you, hmm? Are you regretting your earlier outburst?”

“Screw you, Fitzpervert.” Her gaze returned to her targets. They were the bigger threat. “Your turn will come.”

He sucked in a breath. “You are not allowed to speak to me that way.”

“You’re right. Sorry. I meant, screw you, Dr. Fitzpervert.” Unarmed did not mean helpless, she told herself, and neither did bound; today, she would prove it to the creatures and Fitzpervert.

“Feisty,” Horsey said with a gleeful nod.

“So amusing to break,” Horns cackled.

“As long as I’m the one to break her!”

And so began another round of arguing.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the good doctor motion one of the guards forward, and she knew the guy would take her jaw in an inexorable grip and shove her cheek against his stomach to hold her in place. A degrading and suggestive position that humiliated even as it cowed, preventing her from biting so that Fitzherbert could inject her with another sedative.

Have to act now. Can’t wait. Not allowing herself to stop and think, she jumped up, pulling her knees to her chest, sliding her bound arms underneath her butt and over her feet. Gymnastics classes hadn’t failed her. Hands now in front of her, she twisted, grabbed and folded the chair, and positioned the metal like a shield.

Perfect timing. The guard reached her.

She swung to the left, slamming her shield into his stomach. Air gushed from his mouth as he hunched over. Another swing and she nailed the side of his head, sending him to the floor in an unconscious heap.

A few patients shouted with distress, and a few others cheered her on. The droolers continued leaking. Fitzpervert rushed to the door to force the remaining guard to act as his buffer, as well as summon more guards with the single press of a button. An alarm screeched to life, tossing the already disconcerted patients into more of a frenzy.

No longer content to bicker on the sidelines, the creatures stalked toward her, slow and steady, taunting her.

“Oh, the things I’ll do to you, little girl.”

“Oh, how you’ll scream!”

Closer… closer… almost within striking distance… totally within striking distance… She swung. Missed. The pair laughed, separated and in unison reached for her.

She used the chair to bat one set of hands away, but couldn’t track both of her adversaries at the same time and the other managed to scratch her shoulder. She winced but otherwise ignored the pain, spinning around to—hit air, only air.

Laughter growing in volume, the creatures ran circles around her, constantly swinging at her.

I can handle this. When Horsey was in front of her, she rammed the top of the chair under his chin, knocking his teeth together and his brain, if he had one, into the back of his skull. At the same time, she kicked out a leg, punting Horns, who was behind her, in the stomach. Both creatures stumbled away from her, their grins finally vanishing.

“That all you got, girls?” she goaded. Two more minutes, that’s all she had, and then the summoned guards would rush inside and tackle her, pinning her down, Fitzpervert and his needle taking charge. She wanted these creatures finished.

“Let’s find out,” Horsey hissed. He opened his mouth and roared, his awful breath somehow creating a strong, unstoppable wind that pushed the arsonist at Annabelle.

To everyone else, it probably seemed like the guy was leaping at her of his own volition, intending to restrain her. Another swing, and the chair sent him flying through Horsey’s body and to his butt, as if the creature were nothing more substantial than mist. To Fire Boy, he wasn’t. The creatures were only ever tangible to her and whatever she held.

Sometime during the exchange, Horns had moved beyond her periphery. Now he managed to sneak up behind her and rake his claws against her already bleeding shoulder. As she turned, he turned with her, once again raking her with those claws.

The pain… oh, the pain. No longer ignorable.

Stars winked in her line of vision. She heard laughter behind her, and knew Horns was there, ready to claw her again. She darted forward, out of the way, and tripped.

Horsey caught her by the forearms, preventing her from falling. He let her go—only to punch her in the face. More pain, more stars, but when he lifted his hand for a second blow, she was ready. She jerked the chair up and nailed him under the jaw, then spun so that he broke his knuckles on the seat of the chair rather than her cheekbone. His howl rent the air.

Footsteps behind her. She kicked backward, connecting with Horns. Before her leg landed, she spun and kicked out with the other, scissoring her ankles to double tap his gut. When he collapsed, wheezing for air, she flipped the chair upside down and finished him off, slamming the metal rim into his trachea.

Black blood pooled and bubbled around him, frothing and sizzling as it seared the tiled floor. Steam rose, curling through the air.

One minute to go.

Maximum damage, she thought.

Horsey called her a very rude name, his entire body shaking with his wrathful intent. He closed the distance with stomping steps and lashed out with those clublike arms. No claws, just fists. Playtime was over, she supposed. She blocked, ducked and bowed her back to ensure those meaty hammers only ever swiped the chair. All the while she punched at him with the dented metal, landing multiple blows.

“Why did you come for me?” she demanded. “Why?”

A flash of bloodstained fangs. “Just for the fun. Why else?”

Always she asked, and always she received the same reply, no matter that each of her opponents was different. The creatures came once, only once, and after raining havoc, creating chaos, they disappeared forevermore. If they survived.

She’d cried after her first kill—and her second and her third—despite the fact that the creatures had only ever wanted to hurt her. There was just something so terrible about taking a life, no matter the reason for doing so. Hearing the last breath rattle… watching the light dim in someone’s eyes… and knowing you were responsible… She always thought of her parents. Somewhere along the way, her heart had hardened into a block of stone and she’d stopped crying.

The backup guards finally arrived, three hard bodies slamming into her from behind and knocking her to the ground. When she crashed, she crashed hard, cracking her already injured cheek on the tile. She experienced a sharp lance of pain as the taste of old pennies filled her mouth, coated her tongue. More of those too-bright stars winked through her vision, corrosive things that grew… grew… blinding her.

That blindness panicked her, reminding her of that terrible, fateful morning so long ago. “Let me go! I mean it!”

Inflexible knees dug into her bleeding shoulders, her back and her legs, and rough fingers pressed all the way to bone. “Be still.”

“I said let me go!”

Horsey must have fled because the scent of rot was suddenly replaced by the scent of bacon and aftershave, warm breath caressing her cheek. She didn’t allow herself to cringe, didn’t allow herself to reveal her abhorrence for the doctor now looming over her.

“That’s enough out of you, Annabelle,” Fitzpervert said in a chiding tone.

“Never enough,” she replied, forcing herself to calm on her own. Deep breath in, deep breath out. The more emotion she displayed, the more sedative he would have to use.

“Tsk, tsk. You should have played nice. I could have helped you. Sleep now,” he crooned.

“Don’t you dare—” Her jaw went slack a second after the expected pinch in her neck. In a blink of time, there was white lightning in her vein, spreading just as swiftly as the stars.

Though she despised this feeling of helplessness and knew Fitzpervert would be paying her a visit later, though she fought with every bit of her remaining strength, Annabelle slipped into the waiting darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

“LOOK AT ME, ZACHAREL! Look how high I’m flying.”

“You’re doing so well, Hadrenial. I’m proud of you.”

“Think I can flip without falling to the ground?”

“Of course you can. You can do anything.”

A laugh as sweet as tolling bells, echoing through the sky. “But I’ve already fallen three times.”

“Which means you now know what not to do.”

“Sir? Your Great and Mighty Highness? Are you listening to me?”

The masculine voice drew Zacharel from the past and the only bright light in an otherwise dark life, jerking him straight into the present. He glanced at Thane, the self-appointed second in command of his angelic army. A promotion he had not disputed, despite the warrior’s attitude. The fact was, Thane was the best of the lot—which wasn’t actually saying much.

Every angel in his army had pushed the Deity, their king, past the limit of his patience. Each had broken so many rules, skirted so many laws, it was a miracle they still had their wings… and an even greater miracle that Zacharel had tolerated the warriors as long as he had.

He cleared his throat. “I’m listening, yes.” Now.

“My humblest apologies if I bored you before” was Thane’s flippant reply.

“Accepted.”

A crack of the angel’s jaw as he realized Zacharel had taken no insult. “I asked if you were ready for us to attack.”

“Not yet.”

Thane hovered beside him, the great length of their wings outstretched but not touching. Neither of them liked to be touched. Of course, Thane always made allowances for the females he bedded, but Zacharel made no such exceptions for anyone.

“I’m eager to fight, Majesty. We all are.”

“I’ve told you before not to call me by that title. As for your request, you will wait as ordered. All of you.” To disobey was to be punished—a concept Zacharel himself was now intimately acquainted with.

It had begun a few short months ago, when he was summoned to the Deity’s temple, that sacred sanctuary so few angels were privileged to visit. During that unprecedented encounter, snowflakes had begun to fall from the feathers of Zacharel’s wings, a constant storm and a sign of his Deity’s cold displeasure. And the Deity’s words, though softly spoken, had been just as biting as the snowfall.

Apparently, Zacharel’s “severe detachment from emotion” had caused him to ignore “collateral damage” during his battles with demons. On multiple occasions, the Deity had charged, Zacharel had chosen to slay his enemy at the expense of innocent human life. Of course, such behavior was “unacceptable.”

He’d apologized, even though he wasn’t sorry for his actions, only that he had angered the one being with the power to destroy him. In truth, he did not understand the appeal—or usefulness—of the humans. They were weak and frail, claiming all they did was for love.

Love. Zacharel sneered. As if mere mortals knew anything about unselfish, life-giving love. Not even Zacharel knew. Hadrenial had—but Zacharel wasn’t thinking about him anymore.

His apology meant nothing, his Deity had told him. Actually, less than nothing, for his Deity could see into the dark mire of his chest, where his heart should beat with emotion—but didn’t.

I should take your wings and immortality and banish you to the earth, where you will not be able to see the demons living among us. If you cannot see them, you cannot fight them as you are used to doing. If you cannot fight them, you cannot kill the humans around them. Is that what you want, Zacharel? To live among the fallen and mourn the life you once had?

No, he wanted nothing of the sort. Zacharel lived for killing demons. If he could not see and fight them, he was better off dead. Again he’d voiced his contrition.

You have apologized to the Heavenly High Council for this very crime many times in the past, Zacharel, yet you have never changed your ways. Even still, my trusted advisors have long recommended leniency. After everything you’ve suffered, they hoped that in time you would find your path. But time and again you’ve failed to do as the Council has asked, and no longer can they turn a blind eye to your transgressions. Now I must intervene, for I, too, am answerable to a higher power—and your deeds reflect poorly on me.

In that moment Zacharel had known there would be no talking his way out of his sentence. And he’d been right.

Words are so easily spoken, as you’ve proven, the Deity had continued, but so rarely are they backed up with action. Now you will carry the physical expression of my unhappiness, so that you never forget this day.

As you wish, he’d replied.

But, Zacharel… do not doubt that worse awaits you should you disobey me again.

He’d thanked his Deity for the chance to do better and he had meant it—until his very next battle. He had hurt and killed multiple humans without thought or mercy, because they had hurt and killed Ivar, one of the Deity’s Elite Seven. A warrior of unimaginable strength and ability.

The fact that Zacharel’s actions had been in the name of vengeance hadn’t mattered—had actually harmed his cause. The Most High was to decide how to handle such a situation, and as He was the higher power Zacharel’s Deity answered to, His word was law. Zacharel should have displayed patience.

The following day, the Deity had again summoned him.

He’d hoped that, despite what he’d done, he would be chosen as the next Elite, but instead he learned he had earned another punishment. “Worse,” he discovered, was exactly that.

For one year, Zacharel would lead an army of angels just like him. The ones no one else wanted under their command. The rebellious ones. The tortured ones. His assignment: to teach them the respect that he himself had yet to demonstrate—for the Deity, for the sanctity of human life. And to ensure that he took his responsibility seriously, he alone would bear the consequences of his warriors’ actions.

If any of his angels killed a human, he would suffer a whipping.

He’d already suffered eight.

At the end of the year, if Zacharel’s good deeds outweighed the bad, he and all of his angels would be allowed to stay in the heavens. If the bad outweighed the good, he and all of his angels would lose their wings and their place in the sky.

Clearly, Zacharel had mused, the Deity was cleaning house. This way, he could rid the heavens of every thorn in his side in one fell swoop, and none on his Council could call him cruel or unfair, for he’d given them a year’s worth of chances to redeem themselves.

So here Zacharel and his army were, tasked with handling chores far beneath their skill level. For the most part, that meant finding a way to free demon-possessed humans, aiding those who were immorally influenced and participating in the occasional insignificant battle.

Tonight marked his army’s nineteenth assignment—though only their third round of combat—and each one had ended worse than the last. No matter what he threatened, the angels seemed to enjoy disregarding his orders. They flipped him off. They cussed at him. They laughed in his face.

He did not understand them. This year was their last chance, too. They had just as much to lose. Shouldn’t they seek his favor?

“Now?” Thane asked eagerly, his voice more smoke than substance. Once upon a time, his throat had been slit… and slit and slit until scars had become a permanent necklace.

“Not yet. I mean it.”

“If you fail to sound the battle cry soon…”

They would act anyway.

“Does no one care that they will suffer my wrath?” he groused. He peered down at the Moffat County Institution for the Criminally Insane, which was hidden in the mountains of Colorado. The building was tall and wide, with a barbed, electric fence, and armed guards walking both the parapet and grounds. Halogens shone bright light into every corner, chasing away the shadows.

What the guards couldn’t see, no matter how intense their lighting, were the demon minions crawling all over the walls, desperate to slink inside.

But like the guards, the demons could not see the threat surrounding them. The twenty soldiers under Zacharel’s command remained hidden. Their wings, usually white threaded with gold, were now a star-pricked onyx, a mirror of the heavens. The effortless change was made with only a single mental command. More than that, their angelic robes were now shirts and pants fitted to their muscular bodies, black and combat ready.

“Why would demons choose to overtake this place?” Zacharel asked. And they had attempted to do so for years, apparently. Other armies had been sent, but none had made any real progress. As soon as one set of minions was taken care of, a new crop would arrive.

There were only two reasons no other army had thought to find out why. One, they had not cared to aid the humans inside the building. Or two, their job had ended with the battle. Either way, Zacharel would not make the same mistake. He couldn’t.

Golden hair curling innocently around a face somehow more devilish than saintly, Thane cast a wicked sapphire gaze his way. The contrast between innocent and carnal could be mesmerizing, or so Zacharel had heard. Human and immortal females alike threw themselves at Thane—who made no secret of his sexual desires when he revealed himself to those who were not supposed to know he was there. Especially since his desires skirted the edge of dangerous… of acceptable.

Most angels belonging to their Deity, whether they were of the warrior class or among the joy-bringers, were as immune to the passions of the flesh as Zacharel. But then, most had not been captured by a horde of demons, trapped and tortured for weeks, as Thane had been.

When you lived as long as they did, he supposed, especially when those years were spent at war, you were more likely to learn the true meaning of pain and to seek refuge in whatever pleasure you could find.

Xerxes and Bjorn, Thane’s equals in terms of strength and cunning, had been trapped and tortured, as well. The three were now inseparable, the trauma and horror of the experience bonding them. Warping them—yes, that, too, as proven by their place within his army’s ranks, but bonding them nonetheless.

“Evil craves the company of other evil, desperate to destroy anything worth saving,” Thane said, wisdom replacing his earlier irreverence. “Perhaps someone inside summoned them.”

Perhaps. If so, the battle had just become a dilemma. The summoning of demons was strictly forbidden, a crime punishable only through death. Death that would not be collateral damage but intentional, and yet, Zacharel was not sure how the Deity would react to such a slaying.

Humans, he thought, shaking his head with disgust. Nothing but trouble. They had no idea the dark power they danced with. A power that might seem exciting at first, but one that would merely eat away at their humanity.

“None of the demons have actually entered the building,” he said. “I’m curious as to why.”

Thane’s head tilted to the side, his study of the demons intensifying. “I hadn’t noticed, but I see now that you are correct. Majesty.”

No reaction. “Capture one of the demons, and cart it to my cloud for questioning.”

“That will be my pleasure.” As much as Thane enjoyed debauching his lovers, he enjoyed torturing demons more. “Anything else, Lord of Us?”

No. Reaction. “Yes. On my signal, the army may attack, but I want Bjorn to bring the most feral demon he can find to the roof of the institution. Quickly.” Zacharel could have—should have—spoken the orders inside the minds of his soldiers, as all commanders could do, but doing so would have invited their voices into his mind, and that was an intimacy he would not allow.

A smile of relish flashed, straight white teeth revealed. “Consider it done.”

Before Thane could whisk himself away, Zacharel added, “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that no humans are to be harmed during the battle. If you must forgo a demon kill to save a human life, do so. Make sure the others know.”

At first, he hadn’t minded when his men opted to destroy a human to get to a demon. After his third whipping for a crime he had not committed himself, he’d begun to mind.

One beat of silence, two. Then, “Yes, of course, Leader of the Supremely Unworthy.” With that parting shot, Thane disappeared in a burst of motion to alert the others even now circling the building.

A scant minute later, swords of fire appeared in every angel’s hand, the flames more intense, far purer, than any found in hell. Menacing shards of amber light licked over determined expressions and hard-won muscle… and those lights began to arc down in swift succession, screams of pain—and final gasps of breath—soon echoing. Scaled, gnarled and now-headless bodies rained from the walls.

So much for waiting for Zacharel’s signal. That would have to be dealt with later.

Though he would have enjoyed slaying the demons alongside his men, he waited, for he sought bigger prey this night. A path eventually cleared, and he glided down… down… and landed gracefully on the flat edge of the roof. He tucked his wings into his back.

“The feral demon, as requested, Magnificent King,” a familiar voice said from beside him. “Quickly.”

A huge beast thumped lifelessly at Zacharel’s feet. Poison beaded at the end of its claws. Large horns protruded from its shoulders, and patches of fur and scales formed a double helix pattern on its legs.

Slight problem. The demon had no head.

“This demon is deceased,” he said.

Only the barest of pauses before Bjorn responded, “Thane relayed your order verbatim. In this, you were not wise enough to specify a preference.”

“True.” He absolutely should have known better.

Bjorn, hovering at the side of the building, said, “Shall I bring you another or do you think to reprimand me for your mistake, Glorious King?” The words held a bitter edge.

Bjorn was a brute of a man with bronzed skin veined in gold and glittering, multihued eyes of purple, pink, blue and green. A startling contrast.

Soon after his rescue from the demons’ brutal clutches—and his subsequent rampage of death through the heavens, where none had been safe from his indiscriminate wrath—the Heavenly High Council had ruled Bjorn unstable and unfit for duty. Falling was too lenient a punishment, they’d said, and so he had been sentenced to a true death, his spirit, the power that fueled his life, his soul, the embodiment of his emotions, and his physical body to be wiped from existence entirely.

Thane and Xerxes had protested, demanding the warrior be reinstated and promising they would be responsible were any other problems to arise. They’d also vowed to ensure they died the true death as well if separated from their friend.

The Council had reluctantly given in. With the amount of demon activity plaguing the world, warriors of their caliber were in high demand. Still, Zacharel doubted such a threat would ever work again.

“There will be no reprimand,” he said, and Bjorn blinked in surprise.

Zacharel’s gaze caught on the serpe demon even then slithering over the railing in an attempt to escape notice. Serpes possessed the head and torso of a human but the lower body of a snake, and were more temperamental than the two combined.

Leaning over, Zacharel grabbed the thick, rattling tail and jerked. The serpe twisted, fangs bared, arms raised to attack whoever had dared stop him. Zacharel maintained a tight hold, winding its length along his forearm while using his free hand to latch on to the demon’s neck. He squeezed.

Crimson eyes widened with alarm as talon-tipped fingers slashed at him. “Not Zacharel, anyone but Zacharel! I go back, I go back, I ssswear.”

Finally, respect for his authority.

“This one will do,” he told Bjorn. “You may continue with your duties.”

The angel inclined his head even as his eyes glazed with bafflement. But he said nothing more, instead springing back into battle.

“Pleassse! I go!”

The demons might have been unable to enter the building for whatever reason, but Zacharel had no such problem. He commanded his body, as well as the serpe’s, to mist, and the two of them sank through the stone. Seconds later, Zacharel stood on the building’s bottom floor.

Forgetting who held him, the serpe sighed with bliss and reached up toward the ceiling. “Time for my fun…”

Zacharel tossed the demon across the lobby’s freshly polished floor. Multiple security guards patrolled the area and several human females manned the desk, but not a single one noticed the intruders in their midst.

Up the walls the serpe slinked, ghosting through the ceiling and disappearing from view. Following him proved easy. Zacharel moved from floor to floor, a mere step behind. Finally the serpe ceased climbing, shooting into one of the rooms on level fourteen.

Inside, the walls were covered with black padding. There were no windows. A single vent in the ceiling provided the only breeze, and a frigid one at that. The room was barren except for one lone piece of furniture. A hospital gurney, with… a young woman strapped to the top.

Every muscle in his body knotted. For a moment, the past threatened to rise up and swallow him whole.

Kill me, Zacharel. You have to kill me. Please.

Long ago he’d built a dam to hold back his memories of the past, a barrier he’d desperately needed. Would always need, it seemed. He refortified that dam now, blanking his mind of anything but the present.

At first glance, the woman appeared to be asleep. But then her head lolled to the side, her attention seemingly ensnared by the demon she shouldn’t be able to see. Horror, anger and fear suddenly pulsed from her.

Had she, a mere human, somehow sensed the serpe?

Zacharel considered her. She wore a paper-thin gown, dirty and torn, her slender frame shivering. Long hair tangled around a delicate face, the strands so black they appeared to be a breathtaking midnight-blue. Dark circles marred the fragile skin under her eyes, and her cheeks were more hollowed than they should have been, not to mention terribly bruised and scratched. Her lips were red, chapped. Her eyes were ice-blue, and in their depths he saw a never-ending storm of pain no human was equipped to bear.

No, those eyes did not belong to a mortal, he realized. They belonged to a demon’s consort.

Somewhere out there was a demon high lord—the most dangerous of all hell’s fiends—who considered this human his exclusive property. His to possess, his to torture… his to enjoy in whatever fashion he desired. The demon had poisoned her eyes, marking her, ensuring she could see into the spiritual world that coexisted alongside the mortal one. His world. In doing so, he had brought her to the attention of other demons, as well.

She had to have been a willing participant in her marking, for humans could not be forced. Seduced, yes. Tricked, absolutely. Eager to dabble in the dark arts, beyond a doubt. But never forced.

Had the high lord grown tired of her? Was that why she was here without him? No, Zacharel decided a second later. A demon never grew tired of his human. He stuck around until the bitter, bloody end—or until the human wised up and forced him to leave.

So… why not kill her and try to hide his crime? Demon and mortal pairings were forbidden, the act carrying a sentence of death. The demon’s and the human’s. Not that Zacharel or any of his men would kill this one. That still was not on today’s menu. There would be no collateral damage.

“Stay away from me,” she said, drawing Zacharel out of his mind. Her voice was raspy, either from drugs or strain. Or was that her natural tone? “I’m a terrible enemy to have.”

For someone who had agreed to bond her life to a demon’s, she did not sound happy with the results. He was willing to bet she had been seduced or tricked, and now regretted it.

Humans so rarely learned until too late, yet it didn’t have to be that way.

“I’ll hurt you if you come any closer.” She clearly possessed Japanese ancestry, yet her voice held no hint of an accent. Odd in a way, but all the more exotic because of the lack. Soft and lilting, and the perfect contrast to her bold features.

“Hurt me, female. Pleassse…” Tail rattling a fatal rhythm, the serpe slithered around the bed. His forked tongue darted between his fangs. “That’sss what I like—before every sssnack.”

The minion wanted her, not because of her but because creatures of the underworld loved nothing more than one-upping their brethren. Bragging rights were as valuable as gold, as was the accompanying sense of superiority. Well, that, and the thrill of ruining someone who was supposed to be under the protection of the heavens.

Tensing, the female said, “Touch me once, just once, and I’ll find a way out of these restraints. I’ll remove your head. I’ve decapitated your kind before, you know. Maybe even friends of yours, eh?”

An interesting response, going deeper than mere regret.

The brave words earned a hiss of anticipation. “You lie, you lie, you delight me asss you lie. Ssso deliciousss.”

“I’m serious! If you think a little thing like shackles will stop me, you’re more brain damaged than I thought. And news flash—I thought your IQ was in the single digits.”

She gazed left, right, as though searching for someone to help her. While the female could see the serpe, she could not see Zacharel. That wasn’t exactly a revelation—if he did not wish to be sensed, he would not be sensed; not by a demon, or a demon’s consort, or even by other angels.

Curious about her reaction to him, Zacharel materialized in his natural form, at the same time creating a sword of fire from nothing but the air. His gaze never leaving the female, he slashed, decapitating the demon and ending its miserable existence. Yes, killing was that easy for him. He dismissed the flames.

“What—How—” Crystalline eyes found him and widened. Her teeth began chattering. “A-am I dreaming? The drugs… I have to be tripping. Or dreaming, maybe. Yes, that makes sense.”

“It does not, for you are not.”

“Are you sure? You look like the prince I once… uh, never mind.”

She once… what? “I am positive.”

“Then wh-who are you? What are you? How did you get in here?”

Despite her questions, she seemed to know that he was not like the creature he had just defeated. Demons did their best to evoke fear. Angels did their best to evoke a sense of calm. Or rather, they were supposed to.

“What are you?” the female asked again. “Are you here to kill me?”

Kill me, Zacharel. You have to kill me. Please. I can’t live like this anymore. It’s too much, too hard. Please!

Again the past threatened to rise up and consume him. Again he blanked his mind. Though he owed the female no explanation, though she was a demon’s consort and couldn’t be trusted, he found himself saying, “I will not kill you. I am an angel.”

As with all the Deity’s angels, Zacharel’s voice held an undeniable ring of truth. Typical of her kind, she flinched at its purity—but she could not doubt him.

Blinking rapidly, she said, “An angel. As in, an angel from heaven, defender of all that’s good and right?”

Perhaps she could doubt him. Her tone had been sneering. But he found it interesting that she did not spew the same hate at him that she had spewed at the demon. As the mate of a high lord, she should despise Zacharel above all others. That she didn’t… Definitely tricked.

“Well?”

“Yes, I am from the heavens, though I am probably not the race of angel you are familiar with.” He stretched his wings. Snowflakes continued to fall from him. His feathers were once again pearlescent, the gold threaded between each one shimmering. He frowned when he noticed the gold was thicker than ever before.

Thousands of years had passed, and his feathers had never changed color, for such a change usually indicated that an elevation of status was in the works. For those under the Deity’s charge, only the Elite Seven were blessed with wings of solid gold. Joy-bringers were characterized by wings of solid white. Warriors such as Zacharel possessed the white with mere traces of the gold. But what he had now was more than a trace.

There had to be some other explanation. Much as he’d hoped otherwise, his Deity had said nothing to him about rising to the level of the Elite. And he was hardly in a position to be considered for an advancement, anyway, when he was fighting so staunchly to keep the title he did have.

“There’s more than one race?” she asked after looking him over. “Never mind. Don’t take this the wrong way, but… you’re not a nice-looking man. And I’m not talking about your sexiness factor.”

“No. I’m not nice.” Humans often pictured angels as soft, cuddly beings who frolicked in the sunshine, made roses bloom and painted rainbows in the sky. He knew that. And some angels were, but so many were not.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Mean?”

He should not have allowed curiosity to get the better of him. Should not have opened this line of conversation.

That ended now. “Enough, human. You have picked up more trouble than you can currently carry. I do not suggest you seek any more.”

“Well, what do you know?” she said with a laugh devoid of amusement. The pink tip of her tongue swiped over her lips. “The doctors finally got something right. I’m hallucinating. Only in my mind would an angel treat someone so poorly.”

“I have not treated you poorly, and you are not hallucinating.”

“The drugs are affecting my brain, then,” she insisted.

“They are not.”

“But… you can’t be an angel. Only evil comes here.”

“Wrong again.” At least today.

“I… I… Okay, I can roll with this. I mean, why not. Let’s say you’re actually real—”

“I am.”

“—and that you’re one of the good guys, since you’re not here to kill me. Are you here to… release me?”

She had asked the question with such sweet hesitation, he knew she dared not hope he would rescue her, yet with every ounce of her being she wanted to believe escape was imminent.

Perhaps another man would have been moved by her plight, but not Zacharel. He’d seen suffering in all its forms. He’d caused suffering in all its forms. Had watched his friends, immortals who should have lived forever, die.

Had watched his twin brother die.

Hadrenial, his twin, his only treasure, now resting in an urn on his nightstand. He’d been identical to Zacharel in appearance, with the same black hair and green eyes, the same sculpted face and strong body. Yet, emotionally they’d been complete opposites. Though only minutes younger, Hadrenial had seemed years younger. So innocent and sweet, so kind and caring, beloved by all.

“I cannot stand to see the humans cry, Zacharel. We must help them. Somehow, someway.”

“That is not our purpose, brother. We are warriors, not joy-bringers.”

“Why can’t we be both?”

Zacharel’s hands curled into fists. You must stop thinking of him. Pondering what had happened would not change a single detail. It was what it was. Beautiful and ugly. Wonderful and terrible.

He forced his mind onto the female and her plight—but he decided not to answer the question about her release. “Do you know the name of the demon who marked you?”

Disappointment mixed with bitter acceptance flashed in her eyes. “Maybe you are real,” she said. “It would require a dark side I don’t have to create someone like you.”

“You forgot to say ‘no offense’ before making that statement.”

“No, I didn’t. I meant offense.”

Bold little human, wasn’t she? “Shall I repeat my question?” he asked, in case she’d missed it the first time.

“No. I remember. You want to know if I know the name of the—” Her eyes widened, the disappointment and acceptance changing to shock. She whispered, “Demon,” the revelation seeming to affect her far more potently than when she’d learned of his origins. “As in, a demon that belongs in hell?”

“Yes.”

“A vile being whose only purpose is to ruin human lives?”

“Yes.”

“A hideous creature without an ounce of light, only darkness and evil?”

“Exactly.”

“I should have known,” she breathed. “Demons. All this time I’ve been fighting demons, and I never realized it.” Relief joined the shock, both dripping from her words. “I’m not crazy, and we’re not alone. I told them, but the only two people who ever believed me were the schizophrenic abducted by aliens and his invisible friend. I told them!”

“Human, you will answer me now.”

“I told them,” she continued blithely. “I just had no idea I was fighting demons. I should have guessed, though, but I got stuck on vampires and mythological monsters, and then hallucinations, so I—”

“Human!” Do not raise your voice to her. There would be no way to explain to his Deity that he hadn’t meant to scare her to death.

She shook her head, pulling herself from her clearly whirling thoughts with the same determination he had used. To her credit, she appeared far from cowed by him. “I can’t answer you because I have no idea what you’re talking about. A demon marked me? How? Why?”

Genuine confusion. He knew it was, for the lies others told always tasted bitter on his tongue, and just then the only thing he tasted was… the sweetness of her scent? A subtle hint of rose and bergamot seeping from her skin, that smooth expanse of bronzed cream.

That he’d noticed such an unimportant detail irritated him. “You do not recall agreeing to mate with a demon, by fair means or foul?” he asked.

“Never!” The long length of her black lashes fused together, her gaze lancing at him. “And now it’s my turn for an answer. Are you here to save me or not?”

If she was strong enough to insist on an answer, when she had already guessed at the truth, she was strong enough to hear the response. “No. I am not.” But he would have liked to remain with her long enough to solve the mystery of her marking. When had it happened? Who had done it? How had she been tricked?

The details do not matter. The end result matters.

She choked out a laugh as bitter as her earlier acceptance. “Of course you’re not. Why should I ever have hoped otherwise?”

Hinges creaked as the steel door was suddenly thrown open. Zacharel shielded himself from prying eyes, and the female tensed. A baton-wielding guard stepped aside to allow a human male to stride into the room, a thick folder in hand. He was of average height for a human, missing quite a bit of hair and bearing a falsely sympathetic expression. A white coat draped his thin build, the material stained by small spots of dried blood.

“She puts up a good fight,” the man said, “but she’s restrained and she can’t hurt me. Pay no attention to what you hear. Also, this therapy session will take some time, so don’t come back in until I signal you.”

The guard cast the female a sympathetic glance, but in the end, he nodded. “Whatever you say, Doc.” He closed the door, shutting the newcomer inside.

Zacharel told himself to leave. Not even joy-bringers, who were the most actively involved with the humans, were to interfere with free will. Plus, the most important aspects of tonight’s mystery had been solved. The demons had come for the girl, inexorably drawn to her, delighting in hurting what belonged to another of their kind.

As for her, she would find freedom only in death.

Yes, I really should leave. And yet, he found himself lingering. Fear and revulsion now wafted from her, creating the… Surely not. But yes, there was no denying its presence. Creating the tiniest of fissures in the ice and darkness that lived inside his chest. Creating a flicker of… guilt?

He did not understand. Why here? Why now?

Why her?

Instantly the answer slid into place, and though he wanted to shy away from it as he had earlier, he couldn’t. She reminded him of Hadrenial. Not in demeanor—she was too full of fire—but in circumstance.

Hadrenial had died while tied to his bed.

Doesn’t matter. You must walk away. Emotions were nothing more than a waste. Zacharel had mourned his brother for centuries. He had wept and he had raged and he had sought death himself, but nothing he’d done had eased his guilt or his shame. Only when he’d cut himself off from all emotions had he experienced any relief.

And now…

Now, the frigid crystals weighing him down and dripping from his wings proved to be a blessing, reminding him of his status—commander—his duty—defending heavenly laws—and his goal—victory against the demons without any collateral damage. The girl could not, would not, matter.

“So predictable, Fitzpervert,” she taunted. “I knew you’d come for me.”

“As if I could stay away from my sweet little geisha. After all, we need to discuss your behavior today.” Lust glazed the man’s eyes as he perused her slender body, lingering over her very feminine curves.

Her gaze darted between the human and Zacharel. He knew she could no longer see him, that she was simply trying to reason out whether or not he was still there. And he knew the moment she decided that yes, he was still there, for quivers of humiliation overtook her.

“Why don’t we discuss your behavior instead?” A tinge of desperation belied her bravado. “You’re supposed to help your patients, not hurt them further.”

A lecherous grin met her words. “What we do together doesn’t have to hurt. If you make me feel good, I’ll make you feel very good.” He tossed the folder to the floor, removed his jacket. “I’ll prove it.”

“Don’t do this.” Her nostrils flared with the force of her breathing. “You’ll get caught, lose your job.”

“Darling, when are you going to learn? It’s your word against mine.” Withdrawing a syringe from his pant pocket, he walked forward. “I’m a highly respected medical professional. You’re a girl who sees monsters.”

“And I’m seeing one now!”

He chuckled. “I’ll change your mind.”

“I despise you,” she said, and Zacharel watched as she rallied her wits one more time. “Do you not realize this will come back to haunt you? If you plant seeds of destruction, you will have to live with the crop you grow, thorns and all.”

“How cute. A life lesson from one of the institution’s most violent inmates. But until my harvest comes in…”

She looked away from the human, from where Zacharel stood, and stared somewhere far away. Tears shone in those otherworldly eyes before she blinked them away. She would not break this eve; and really, this man would not break her for many months or even years. But she would hurt this eve. Badly.

CHAPTER THREE

THE MOMENT ZACHAREL FLEW out of the room, the fissure inside his chest elongated, and he would have sworn he heard ice cracking. Would a few words with the doctor truly be considered interfering? he wondered, slowing down. Afterward, he could return to his cloud, forget the female and continue on the way he had always continued on, alone, unaffected and unconcerned. The way he liked it. The way his Deity probably preferred it.

Very well. He was decided.

Zacharel returned to the room and materialized in front of the human male. A male who deserved to die for his crimes. But Zacharel would not be the one to harm him. He could only content himself with the knowledge that the doctor would one day reap a harvest of all the evil he had sown. Everyone always did.

Before the man could panic, Zacharel peered deeply into his eyes and said coldly, “You have something better to do.”

The doctor flinched and, snared by the ring of truth in Zacharel’s tone, replied, “Something better. Yes. I do.”

See? Zacharel wasn’t interfering as much as helping the doctor rediscover… whatever he considered better than harming one of his patients. “You will leave this room. You will not come back. You will not remember this night.”

A nod, and the man turned on his heel, rapped on the door.

Zacharel shielded himself inside a pocket of air as a surprised guard stepped into the room and looked the girl over. “All done, Dr. Fitzherbert? I thought you said you’d take a while.”

“Yes, I’m all done” was the monotone reply. “I will leave now. I have something better to do.”

“O-kay.”

Once again Zacharel found himself alone with the girl. He stepped from his shelter.

“I thought you weren’t going to save me,” she whispered, still looking somewhere outside the room. What did she see with those eyes?

Beautiful eyes, if he cared about that kind of thing—which he did not. “You asked if I had come to save you, and I had not. I came for another reason.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat, swallowed. “Well, thank you anyway. For sending him away, I mean.”

Huh. Zacharel liked hearing thank-you from her lips. As rusty as her tone had been, he suspected she had not uttered those words very often. Perhaps she simply hadn’t had reason to—and why was his chest aching again? “What would he have done to you?”

Silence.

“Hurt you, then.” That, Zacharel had already guessed. “Has he hurt you before?”

More silence.

“That’s a yes.” Killing humans wasn’t something Zacharel usually enjoyed, but it wasn’t something he detested, either. He would do anything to anyone and never experience a moment of remorse. However, ripping the doctor’s heart out of his chest might have given him a small thrill. “Correct?”

And even more silence.

I’m being purposely ignored. Never before had he been disregarded. Not even by his men! Feral as they were, even they listened to him—before blatantly disobeying him. And his former leader, Lysander, had taken his every word under advisement. What’s more, the only beings outside of his race that he counted as… what? Not friends, but not potential targets for elimination, either. The demon-possessed immortals known as the Lords of the Underworld had fought beside him and earned his respect for resisting the evil of their demons so forcefully. They had always watched him with rapt fascination. The few humans to see him throughout the centuries had been utterly mesmerized.

That this tiny fluff of nothing so easily dismissed him was baffling.

Before he could decide how best to handle this, Thane walked through the far wall. Fury crackled over his expression the moment he spotted the girl. He did not question Zacharel, however. A small blessing.

“The demons have been eliminated, Majesty, and the one you requested has been taken to your cloud. Alive.” His smoky voice contained the same treacherous crackles.

Slowly the female turned her head, hunks of that tangled hair falling over her forehead and shielding her eyes. She blew the strands away and studied Thane.

“I’m certainly popular tonight. Are you an angel, too?” she asked, her gaze stroking over the man’s still-black wings.

Zacharel noticed Thane did not elicit the doubt that he had. Why?

“Yes.” Thane sniffed the air, frowned and whipped his gaze to Zacharel. “You plan to free her?”

“No.” Why would he think that?

The frown deepened. “But why… Never mind. If you have changed your mind about her, I will take her with me.”

When they did not know why she was here or what she had done? “No,” he repeated.

Thane bowed, as though he were a slave humbled by his master. “Of course not, Majesty. How dare I entertain such a silly desire. No one in such a place as this deserves compassion, correct?”

Would his men ever simply obey him without question? “Were any humans harmed during the battle?” he asked. The girl was not the only one whose queries he would disregard.

Head held high, Thane replied through clenched teeth, “One of the guards. A sword of fire sliced through his middle.”

Zacharel found his hands tightening into fists for the second time that day. Direct disobedience—again. “A sword of fire does not slice through a human by accident.” While angels operated on the spiritual plane, not even their weapons could be sensed—or felt—by the humans. Therefore, the angel who’d done this deed had deliberately entered the mortal realm.

“The guard was demon possessed and needed to die,” Thane said.

“And yet he was still human. Who disobeyed my orders?”

Thane ran his tongue over his teeth. “Perhaps it was I.”

Familiar with the tricks that could be used to circumvent the ring of truth, Zacharel knew Thane was not the culprit. “Who? You will tell me or you will watch me penalize Bjorn and Xerxes.” Truth. He would do it without a single qualm.

Another pause, this one several beats longer. “Jamila.”

Jamila. One of four females in his army, but the one he had trusted most. She was the only one who had never challenged his authority. Yet now, because of her, he would receive another whipping.

“You,” the female on the bed said, her timbre shaded with irritation. “New guy. Angel Boy. Colonel Curls, or whatever you want to be called. I’m done asking, so now I’m commanding. Free me.”

Zacharel actually had to fight an urge not to smile. Him. Smile. The absurdity was staggering. But she’d just called his warrior by several insulting names, the same way that warrior often called Zacharel by insulting names.

Thane relaxed, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Colonel Curls. I like that. But, my beautiful human, you asked me to save you, not to free you.”

“Same thing,” she said, exasperated.

“They are quite different, I assure you. But what will you do if I fail to heed your command, hmm?”

She uttered a silky, “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

Zacharel pursed his lips, no longer amused. Was this flirting? This had better not be flirting. He and Thane were on a mission.

“Because knowing will not deter me?” Thane asked just as silkily.

“Because it’s so horrible even hearing it will make you puke.”

Thane coughed—or covered up a snort. It was too difficult to tell. “Did you hear that?” he asked Zacharel, speaking to him as if they were friends for the first time in their acquaintance, as if they were sharing a moment of understanding. “She just ordered me to obey her will, then threatened to hurt me if I failed to comply.”

“I have ears,” he replied drily. “I heard.” But why hadn’t she done the same to Zacharel?

“And she actually believes in her success,” Thane continued, bewildered.

“You do not have to sound so impressed,” Zacharel said, not liking the idea on any level. Impressed, Thane would desire the female… perhaps stop at nothing to have her.

Thane frowned at him. “I’m simply curious. And, very well, I will ask what is not my business. Why have you claimed her as your own if you plan to leave her here?”

“I have not claimed her.” Zacharel could not get the words out fast enough.

“Then why have you spread your essentia all over her?”

“I have not touched her.”

“And yet her skin bears your tinge.”

“Not mine.” Essentia, a substance that swirled inside each of their bodies, sometimes seeping through the pores of their hands to become a fine powder, allowing them to claim any object they considered their exclusive property. Demons produced a similar substance, only theirs was tainted.

Zacharel’s attention whipped to the female. “I have never claimed a human.” He’d never had so much as a yearning to do so. “She does not glow.” He saw nothing out of the ordinary about her skin.

She watched him unabashedly, and he nearly shifted on his feet. Him. Shifting. Inconceivable!

“I promise you,” Thane said, “the gleam is very dull but there, and it’s a definite warning to other males not to touch what belongs to you.”

Him? Impossible. “You are mistaken, that’s all.”

“Argh!” the girl interrupted. “I’m done listening to this meaningless jabber. Team Winger sucks! Just forget that I’m here. Oh, wait. You already have. So here’s an idea—leave.”

She had more mettle than even Zacharel had realized, and he was trying not to be impressed, or baffled, himself. “Go,” he said to his warrior. “I want you and my other advisors—” which included Jamila “—waiting in my cloud. No, strike that. Not you. Go and find every detail about this human that you can.” A need to learn more about her kept pricking at him. Better to heed it than to regret not doing it.

“Whatever you say, glorious leader.” Thane stalked from the room. Just before he vanished, he cast the girl one final glance, causing Zacharel’s hands to clench into fists. How many times would the action happen in a single day, when before he’d gone years without doing it once?

“If you want to know about me,” she snapped the moment she was alone with Zacharel, “you could have just asked me.”

“And give you the chance to lie?”

Hurt cascaded over her features, but only for a second. Pride took its place, and remained. “You’re right. I’m a no-good liar, and you’re Mr. Truth. So why are you here, Mr. Truth? I’m pretty clear on the fact that it’s not to save or free me.”

There was no reason not to tell her. “I was told to destroy the horde of demons trying to get inside the building.”

A beat of panic. “Horde, as in army?”

“Yes, but they are no longer any type of threat. My army was successful against them.”

Slowly she exhaled. “They wanted me, right?”

“Yes.”

Another beat of panic before she sagged against the bed. “But why me?”

She had no idea what had been done to her. None at all. Yet she would have remembered being tricked… or seduced. So how had the demon managed to mark her?

“Well?” she demanded.

Ignoring her, Zacharel claimed the folder still lying on the floor, the one the doctor had dropped, and riffled through the pages.

She banged her head against her pillow once, twice. “Fine. Pretend I’m not speaking. Whatever. I’m used to it. But please, glorious leader, allow me to save you the trouble of digging through the little details, since even a liar like me would have no need to fudge those.” Without pausing to allow him to respond, she added, “To start, my name is Annabelle Miller.”

The truth, confirmed in the notes. Annabelle. Latin for loveable. “I am called Zacharel.” Not that it mattered.

“Well, Zachie, I—”

“Glorious leader,” he rushed out. “You may call me glorious leader.”

“There’s no way I’m calling you that,” she said, despite the fact that she had already done so, “but enough about your exalted opinion of yourself. I’m here because I killed my parents. I stabbed them to death, or so I’m told.”

He glanced up, watched another of those tremors rock her. Perhaps he should fetch her a blanket.

Fetch her a blanket? Seriously? His frown returned. Her comfort did not concern him. “So you were told? You do not remember?” he asked, remaining in place.

“Oh, I remember.” The bitterness returned to her voice, thicker now. “I watched a creature… a demon do it, tried to stop him, tried to save them, and when I told the authorities what had really happened, I was deemed criminally insane and locked here for the rest of my life.”

Again, he knew she spoke truthfully. Not just because the details she mentioned were typed, scribbled and repeated throughout the pages in the folder—though none of her doctors had believed her—but because he tasted only the rose and bergamot, both fragile, delicate flavors he liked. Odd. He’d never cared for scents or tastes before. They were what they were, and he’d had no preference.

“Why have these demons targeted me?” she asked again. “Why? And just so you know, telling me is the only way to stop me from pestering you about it.”

“That’s not exactly true. I could leave, and then you would not be able to pester me about anything.” Rather than ignore her yet again, however, he decided there was no reason not to give her this information, either. Her reaction interested him.

Fires of hell, but something must be wrong with him. Nothing interested him.

“Sometime before your parents were killed,” he stated, “you invited a demon into your life.”

“No. No way.” Violently she shook her head, tangling those blue-black strands around her temples. “I would never invite one of those things anywhere. Except, maybe, a house-burning party.”

How was she expressing such undeniable doubt about something he had said, with the ring of truth as ripe as ever in his tone? Yes, there were humans who possessed doubts more powerful than that ring, but Annabelle did not fit the type.

“Humans fail to realize how easy demons are to welcome. The negative words you speak, the detestable things you do. Utter a lie, meditate on hate, entertain the urge to commit violence, and you might as well sound the dinner bell.”

“I don’t care what you say. I never welcomed a demon.”

How could he make her understand? “Demons are the equivalent of spiritual deliverymen. Your words and actions can be a request for a package. In other words, a curse. They come to your door, knock. It’s your choice whether or not you open that door and accept. You did.”

“No,” she insisted.

“Have you ever played the Ouija?” he asked, trying to reach her stubborn core from a different angle.

“No.”

“Visited a psychic?”

“No.”

“Cast a spell? Any spell?”

“No, okay? No!”

“Lied, cheated or stolen from a neighbor? Hated someone, anyone? Feared something, anything?”

The next tremor to slide the length of her body proved stronger than the others, locking her jaw, silencing her and rattling the entire bed. By the time she stilled, her anger had drained and she radiated a bleakness that somehow widened the fissure in his chest by the minutest degree.

“I’m done talking to you,” she said quietly.

Meaning yes, she had. He had seen proof of hatred and fear already. “But I am not done talking to you. Spiritually, all of the things I mentioned grant your enemy permission to attack you.”

“But how can a person stop feeling fear?”

“It is not what you feel that truly matters but what you say and how you act while feeling that way.”

A moment passed as she absorbed his words. Ultimately, she sighed. “Okay, look. I’m tired, and you were kind enough to ensure Fitzpervert wouldn’t be coming back. This will be my only chance to rest without someone sneaking up on me. Will you just go already?”

If you cannot do what I need, then leave me here. I hate that you’re seeing me like this. Go, please. For once, listen to me and obey. Go!

He gritted his teeth. No more thinking about his brother.

“I will go, yes,” he said, “but you? What will you do?”

“The same as always.” Her tone was as emotionless as his own, and he wasn’t sure he liked that. He much preferred her mettle. “I’ll survive.”

But for how much longer?

For several minutes, Zacharel debated what to do with her—and reeled over the fact that a debate was needed at all. Were he to take her with him, she would cause problems. Of that, there was no doubt. He would have interfered in a human’s life, many human lives, and he would surely be chastised. Right now, he already had one whipping looming over his head. Jamila’s. But were he to leave Annabelle behind, she would eventually break. The thought of her crying and begging as his brother had done disturbed him.

He could visit her once a week, he supposed. Check on her, guard her. Unless he was called to battle, of course. Or injured. And in the meantime, while he was gone? What would happen to her?

A counterargument sparked to life. If he aided her, he would not be interfering. Not really. He would be protecting her fully, and that’s why he was here, after all. That’s what his Deity wanted him to do: protect the humans at any cost. Zacharel would be rewarded, not reprimanded. Surely.

Well, then, decision made.

When he closed the distance between them, he… at last discerned the glow Thane had mentioned. A soft, gentle light the same shade as Zacharel’s eyes seeped from her, washing over her, bathing her with a subtle radiance.

But… he had not touched her. Not once.

“Have you been in contact with another angel?” he asked, though no two angels produced the same shade of essentia. But a demon could not have done it. There was no way the epitome of evil could have produced such a magnificent color.

“No.”

Truth. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps… perhaps the glow was all her own, natural. Just because he had never heard of such a thing did not mean it was impossible.

“What are you planning to do to me?” She met his gaze, surprising him with the ferocity banked there, daring him to do… something.

“We will find out together.” He reached out, intending to undo one of the cuffs, and she flinched.

“Don’t!” she said.

Realization dawned. She had been abused, and she expected the same treatment from him.

To promise never to harm her in any way was, perhaps, to lie to her, and he could not lie to her. Humans were sensitive beings, their feelings and bodies easily hurt. Accidents happened. No telling what she would find fault with in their dealings together.

Just how long do you plan to be with her?

“Right now, I plan only to free you and escort you from this place,” he said. “All right?”

Hope flickered in those crystal eyes. “But you said—”

“I changed my mind.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Thank you,” she rushed out. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you. You won’t regret this, I promise. I’m not a danger to anyone. I just want to go somewhere and be by myself. I won’t cause any trouble. I promise! And seriously, thank you!”

He undid the first cuff, walked to her other side and repeated the entire process.

Tears filled her eyes as she pulled her hands tight to her chest and rubbed at her wrists. Not from pain, he didn’t think, but from joy. “Where will you escort me?”

“To my cloud, where you will be safe from the demons.”

A shake of her head, as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “Your… cloud? As in, a cloud in the sky?”

“Yes. You may bathe, change clothes, eat. Whatever you wish.” And then… still he had no idea.

“But—and stop me if this sounds crazy—I want to stay on solid ground, where I won’t plunge through mist and fall a bazillion feet only to go splat.”

He loosened one ankle cuff. “Were I to take you anywhere on land, you would be hunted by your own people… not to mention other demons. You’ll be safe in my cloud, I promise you.” He loosened the other cuff.

The moment she was free, she jerked upright, threw her legs over the bed and stood. Though she swayed, she managed to remain on her feet. “Just get me out of the building, and we can go our separate ways. You’ll have done a good deed, and I will remain hidden forever.”

Refusal to obey him, when he’d finally decided to aid her. Was she trying to twist him into knots? “I cannot liberate you without supervision, for I would be blamed for any damage you caused.”

“I won’t—”

“Mean to, I know. But you will.”

“Just give me a chance!”

That’s what he was trying to do. “You have two choices, Annabelle. Stay here, or go to my cloud. Nothing else will be considered.”

Her chin lifted, painting her the very picture of stubbornness. “Can I stay with the other angel, then? The blond.”

Thane? “Why?” he demanded.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I like him better than I like you.”

There was a right way to take that statement?

Honesty was to be commended, and yet Zacharel suddenly battled an inexplicable need to shake her. “You cannot know who you like better. You only spent a few seconds in his company.”

“Sometimes a few seconds is all it takes.”

The fissure in his chest widened. No guilt this time, but a measure of… anger? Oh, yes. Anger. Zacharel was the one who had prevented the doctor from violating her. Zacharel was the one who had freed her. She should like him best. “I am just as fierce a warrior as he is. Fiercer, even.”

A tremor shook her.

Such a reaction… “Perhaps you do not want fierce,” he said, more to himself than to her. Perhaps she craved what she clearly had not encountered in this place. Kindness.

“Look, Winged Wonder. Get me out of here, then we’ll hammer out the details about where I’m staying. Okay?”

“Winged Wonder,” he said, nodding. “I find that I do not mind that one. It fits.”

“Captain Modesty fits better,” she muttered.

“I disagree. Winged Wonder is clearly the better choice for a man such as me, and we will discuss the details now.” He could hardly believe he was having a conversation such as this one. “I will not have you acting out later because there was a misunderstanding between us. I’m dealing with enough of that already.” His gaze pinned her in place. “Tell me why you wish to stay with Thane.”

She gulped but said, “I feel safer with him, that’s all. And besides, snow wasn’t falling from his wings. Why is it falling from yours?”

“The answer does not pertain to you. As for your safety, I have already promised you will be unharmed in my cloud. Therefore, your requirement is met and the details are hammered out. You will stay with me. Come. I will waste no more time with arguments.”

She could not fly, could not flash from one location to another with only a thought, which meant he would have to touch her. He would dislike every second of the contact, he was sure, but he would endure it nonetheless. He extended his hand, motioned with his fingers. “Last chance. Do you stay or do you go?”

I’LL SOON BE FREE OF THIS HELLHOLE, Annabelle thought, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. She wanted to dance with relief, then hide under the covers from panic. Escape… finally… but would it be the heaven she’d craved—or another version of hell?

Does it matter? You’ll be free of Fitzpervert, free of this cage, free of the drugs and the other patients and the orderlies… free from the demons.

All this time she had been fighting evil beings from hell. Neither of her parents had believed in an afterlife. They had raised her to be skeptical, too. Well, they had been wrong, and she had been wrong, and now she had a lot to learn.

“Annabelle,” Zacharel prompted, again motioning with his fingers.

This man could teach her, she thought. This heavenly man who appeared so devilish, like a dark, seductive dream meant to lure a female straight into midnight temptations.

Dangerous… Yes, this man is dangerous….

The words were a soft, erotic whisper against her flesh. A whisper she’d heard and felt since the moment he’d entered the room.

Still she said, “I… choose to go.” Staying with him any longer than necessary was another story, however. He might remind her of the dark fairy-tale prince she’d dreamed about so long ago, the night before her birthday, but this man was no charmer.

Trembling, she wrapped her fingers around his. At the moment of contact, he sucked in a breath as if she’d somehow burned him and she nearly jerked away. Steady.

Zacharel called himself an angel, but she had no idea what that meant or what it entailed other than the standard “good and right” stuff. More, she had no idea where he was taking her—a cloud? really?—or what he planned to do with her when he got her there.

“Are you okay?”

“I… need a moment to adjust,” he said, a strain in his voice.

Good, because she needed a moment, too. “Take all the time you need, Captain Modesty.”

“I am Winged Wonder, and I will. Do not move.”

“Uh, that might be a problem.” As cold as she was, his skin proved to be colder. Soon the shivers would overtake her.

He offered no reply. Just peered down at her through narrowed lids, as if he blamed her for something catastrophic.

Could she trust him? Maybe, maybe not. But she wanted her freedom and he could give her that. And yeah, she also wanted to be on her own, relying only on herself. One day, she would be. For right now, escape would suffice.

If he tried to hurt her when they got to… wherever he was taking her, she would fight the way she’d always fought—dirty—whether he was an angel or not.

“This contact,” Zacharel said. He frowned, the downward curve of his lips surely a default expression he couldn’t control. Not once had she seen him smile.

Was there anything that would amuse him, or even rattle him?

“What about it?” she forced herself to ask.

“I expected certain sensations to fade, but they still have not.” His grip tightened on her hand, as if he sensed she verged on pulling away. He tugged her closer, closer, until her body was flush against his. “This is not what I imagined.”

As he wrapped his free arm around her waist, he peered down at her with those eyes the color of emeralds. Her birthstone. Once her favorite stone, in fact, but her birthday had become synonymous with death and destruction and, well, she’d decided emeralds sucked.

But she couldn’t deny his eyes were gorgeous. Long, thick lashes framed those jewel-toned irises that lacked any hint of emotion, softening his features from impossibly cruel to maybe-I’ll-only-make-you-scream-a-little-before-I-slay-you.

He had silky hair that reminded her of a starless night. And oh, how long since she’d stared up at the sky? His forehead was neither too long nor too wide, his cheekbones hollowed as though chiseled by a master sculptor. His lips so lush and red a woman needed only a single glance to fantasize for the rest of eternity.

If only he’d been short. But, no. He was tall, at least six foot five, with wide shoulders and the most superb muscle mass she’d ever seen. And his wings? A-maz-ing. They arched over his shoulders and cascaded all the way to the floor. Feathers of the purest white glistened with the essence of the purest rainbow, thick threads of gold forming a hypnotic pattern that led into patches of down.

The other guy, the blond, had been visually delicious as well, but despite the depraved gleam in his cerulean eyes, she’d thought she could handle him. At least better than she could handle this one.

Too late for that. And maybe that was for the best, she decided then. She was filled with so much hate, anger, desperation and helplessness—each, apparently, an aphrodisiac for the demons—Zacharel’s coldness would be a refreshing change.

“So, uh, what did you imagine?” she finally asked.

“Nothing I will tell you. Now, put your arms around my neck,” Zacharel commanded, his voice rough with expectation.

Had anyone ever told him no? she wondered as she linked her fingers at his nape.

“Good. Now close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“You and your questions.” He sighed. “I plan to whisk you through the walls and into the sky. The view might disconcert you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Closing her eyes would make her far more vulnerable than she already was.

If he was impressed by her bravery, he didn’t show it. His lips, those gorgeous red lips, pursed, even as his wings burst from his back to glide up and down, slow and easy. Mesmerizing. “Also,” he added, “I do not wish to look into your eyes and see the taint of the demon.”

She had a demon’s eyes? That’s why her irises had turned blue? “But I can’t be a demon,” she gasped out. “I just can’t be.”

“You are not. You are tainted by one. As I said.”

Gradually she calmed—despite the fact that his tone shouted, If you had listened, you would have realized that. “What’s the difference?”

“Humans can be influenced, claimed or possessed by demons, but they cannot become one. You have been claimed.”

“By who?” The one who had killed her parents? If so, she would… what? What could she really do?

“I do not know.”

If he didn’t know, there was no hope for her. “Well, I don’t care if you find my eyes repellant.” She so cared. She disliked the fact that a part of her appeared demonic. “You can deal.”

Several seconds passed in silence. Then, he nodded and said, “Very well. You have only yourself to blame.”

A strange sensation coursed through her, chilling her blood another degree and icing over her skin. The tile beneath her vanished. Suddenly she was in the air, seeing room after room whiz past her, then the roof of the building, then the sky, pinpricks of light scattered in every direction.

Oh, my. Tears of happiness welled in her eyes. She had been liberated from what had seemed to be a life of endless torture. She was truly free. And for the first time in years, she had something to look forward to rather than something to dread. A joy like she’d never known flooded her, consumed her. This was… this was… too much.

The sheer splendor of the night overwhelmed her, and the tears splashed onto her cheeks. The most amazing perfumes fragranced the air. Wildflowers and mint, dew and freshly cut grass. Milk and honey, chocolate and cinnamon. The subtlest hint of smoke, curling on a gentle breeze.

“I had forgotten,” she whispered, hair whipping against her cheeks. But even that was a delight. She was free, she was free, she was finally free.

“Forgotten what?” Zacharel asked, and there was something strange about his voice. The first hint of emotion, perhaps.

“How beautiful the world is.” A world her parents had left far too soon. A world her parents would never again enjoy.

Sadness threaded through the joy.

She’d gone from helpless victim to murder suspect to tormented convict far too quickly to mourn the passing of her mother and father. She couldn’t help but wonder how they would have reacted to this moment. No question, Zacharel would have flabbergasted them both. Not just because of what he was, but because they had been an emotional, volatile couple, and had fought as passionately as they’d loved. They would not have known what to make of his coldness. But this… this they would have welcomed. A flight through the glittering stars, breathing air that dripped with emancipation as she glided toward a future now brightened with hope.

Forget the sadness. She would deal with that later. Right now, she would simply enjoy. For the first time in four years, Annabelle threw back her head and laughed.

CHAPTER FOUR

ZACHAREL RELEASED THE GIRL the moment he was able, depositing her in the center of an empty room and stepping away from her tempting warmth, the sweetness of her scent and the gentle caress of her hair against his skin. He’d liked touching her. He shouldn’t have liked it on any level, but no matter how many lectures he’d given himself, the like had only intensified.

During the flight, the changes in her expressive face had entranced him. He’d watched her go from rapture to sorrow, then back to rapture again. He, who had long-ago battled back his emotions until he no longer experienced them, had actually found himself envious of her willingness to reveal all she thought and felt.

She had looked so uninhibited, utterly caught up in the moment. And when she’d laughed… oh, sweet heavens. Her voice had washed over him, enveloping him, embracing him.

She had intrigued him, perplexed him, transfixed him, and he’d marveled about what had brought about those quicksilver changes, but he’d had too much pride to ask.

She was the consort of a demon, his enemy. Not by choice, no, but a consort nonetheless. She was also a human and therefore beneath him; her emotions could not matter to him.

He should not have brought her here, he realized. He should not have accepted the pleasure of having her in his arms.

He should not be looking at her now, wondering if the delight she’d found in the midnight sky would extend to his home. He should not want her delight.

“Why did you laugh?” he asked. So much for his pride. He had to know the reason.

“I’m free, I’m free, I’m finally free,” she replied, with a twirl.

The tumbling length of her hair flew around her, slapping him in the face. He barely curbed the urge to grab on to the strands and rub them between his fingers, just to remind himself of how soft they could be.

Her head tilted to the side as she looked at him. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’re frowning at me.”

“I frown at everyone.”

“Good to know. So this is your cloud, huh?” Her brows scrunched in confusion. She studied the walls that looked no more substantial than mist. The floor was as thick as morning fog, clinging to her ankles, and seemingly just as flimsy.

“This is my home, yes.”

“I gotta say, it’s exactly as I predicted.”

Was that derision in her tone? “What do you mean?” he asked, trying not to reveal how insulted he was. Another reaction, now? When they weren’t touching? Truly?

“Mist, mist and more mist. I’m only surprised the foundation is solid.”

“The entire enclosure is solid.”

She extended her arm to the side. Awe consumed her features when her fingers disappeared inside the mist. “Solid… but not. Fascinating.”

You are fascinating.

No. No! She wasn’t.

He’d had females here before. Fellow warriors, and even joy-bringers he considered friends, as well as the once human, now immortal named Sienna, who just happened to be the new queen of the Titan gods—immortals who considered themselves rulers of the entire world. She liked to stop by unannounced, and he liked to kick her out.

Then there was Lysander’s wife, Bianka, a Harpy no one dared deny. She held their leader’s heart in her hands, and her happiness was his, but still Zacharel could never get rid of her fast enough. And yet, seeing Annabelle here affected Zacharel strangely. She was here, surrounded by his walls, ensconced in his world, safe because he had made it so. He, and no other.

The thought should not have filled him with satisfaction, but it did.

Time to leave her, he decided. For real. Distance would do him some good. Put him back on his game and numb him out, the way he preferred.

“I want you to be at ease, Annabelle,” he said. “Demons would not dare try to enter.”

Her relief was tangible. “Good.”

“I have business I must attend to, but I will not be far. Only a few rooms over.” He hadn’t meant to snap, hadn’t known he was capable of doing so, but snap he had. “However, you will remain inside this one.”

Just like that, her countenance changed. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed. “Are you saying I’m your prisoner? Did I trade one cell for another?”

Forced to tell the truth for thousands of years, he had found ways to misdirect. “How can you consider yourself a prisoner when your every wish will be granted while you are here?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Suspicious, prickly human. She was annoyingly perceptive. “And yet it addressed some of your concerns, I’m sure.”

She stomped her foot, every inch the willful child—but that didn’t annoy him as it should have. “I won’t be held captive. Not ever again.”

Her words, on the other hand… A glint of anger formed inside the fissure, burning in the center of his chest. Too many people had questioned his authority lately, and he’d reached the end of his tolerance. “You would rather die, Annabelle?”

“Yes!”

She blinked at her own vehemence, and so did he.

“Yes,” she said softly.

The claim was false, even though he could not taste a lie. Surely. “You do realize I could crush you in seconds, yes?”

“Believe me, at this point, death would be a mercy. So crush me if you can’t tolerate being told off, because I will never be a cooperative prisoner. I will fight you forever if necessary.”

Death would be a mercy. One other person had uttered those words to him, and death had indeed been a mercy then. For Hadrenial, but not for Zacharel. He would suffer eternally for what had transpired that terrible night.

You must stop comparing Annabelle to your brother.

Right now, he had two choices. Convince the female she was not a prisoner, which would take time he did not have, or let her go. Neither appealed to him. Perhaps there was a third option, though. One he’d never before attempted. Courtesy.

It was worth a shot, he supposed. “I humbly request that you remain here. Whatever you desire, you have only to ask for it, and it will be yours.” The moment he spoke he recalled her liking for Thane. The small flame of anger intensified, and he would have sworn he heard a drip, drip. “Except for a male. You may not summon a male.”

Zacharel had saved her. Zacharel would see to her care.

The light in the room hit her at a different angle, and he saw the bruises marring the soft skin under her eyes, the deep hollows of her cheeks. So breakable, this human. “I don’t understand. Do you have servants who will bring me what I want?”

“No servants. I will show you how it works. What is something you desire? Besides a male,” he hurried to add.

“A shower.” Offered with no hesitation. “Without anyone watching me.”

“A private shower,” he said, then motioned behind her.

Expression set in disbelief, she spun. Mist began to thicken and take shape, until a shower stall stood tall and proud. It was encased by smoked glass, and had multiple knobs and a drain in the floor.

She gasped with equal parts pleasure and disbelief. “Food,” she said next, immeasurable relish in her tone.

Drip, drip. Except… no longer was anger at the center of the flame. He wasn’t sure what was.

A pout curved her mouth downward. “Nothing happened.”

“You must be specific,” he instructed.

Her tongue emerged, swiping over her lips. “I want lobster mac-and-cheese, biscuits and gravy, asparagus risotto, beef enchiladas, chicken-fried steak, brownies with frosting, brownies without frosting, blackberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream, turkey and dressing, and… and… and…”

Beside him appeared a large, round table, wings intricately carved into its legs. Next came an elegant white tablecloth that perfectly conformed to its size. The requested dishes appeared next, one at a time, until the surface was covered with steaming bowls and perfectly arranged plates.

Shaky limbs brought her forward. She gripped the table’s edge, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, rapture consuming her lovely features. “I don’t know where to start,” she admitted.

“Start at one side and work your way to the other.”

She licked her lips. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything? If so, I’ll need to summon more.”

More? “No, thank you. I will eat on the morrow.” He never ate before battle, and he wasn’t quite done with his assignment. But he would have enjoyed watching her, he thought. Witnessing her delight, her passion and—what are you doing? “No one will disturb you.”

She gave no reply, was reaching for the ice cream.

He turned on his heel and stepped through the mist. When he turned back, that mist blocked her from his view—but as insubstantial as it seemed, it would hold her inside.

He held out his hand and commanded the seams of the door to seal. Only he would be able to unseal them. Only he would be able to enter—or leave. What’s more, Annabelle would hear nothing that happened outside her room.

That done, he stalked down the hall, the floor extending before him with every step. Past his bedroom, his private sanctuary, and into the holding bay, where the five most trusted warriors of his army awaited him. Trusted being a relative term, of course.

Thane, Bjorn and Xerxes stood off to the side, together as always and somehow separate from the others. Unlike most other angels, Xerxes lacked physical perfection. He had long white hair he kept pulled back in a jeweled torque. His skin was without color, as though death had settled beneath the surface, with tiny scars forming patterns of three. Three lines, gap, three lines, gap, three lines. Red eyes watched the world with an intelligence—and anger—matched by few.

Just then, those demonlike eyes were glaring at the minion even now bound by tendrils of cloud that clung to her gnarled wrists and ankles like ivy, holding her in place with no hope of escape.

Beside her stood the equally bound fallen angel Zacharel had brought here months ago. The male refused to behave, causing trouble for the new queen of the Titans, and so Zacharel, who had been told to curry her favor, had to restrain him.

Zacharel’s attention moved to the other angels. In the far corner, Koldo cleaned his hooked sword, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world. He had sun-drenched skin and black eyes as deep and fathomless as a pit of despair. He also possessed a thick black beard and long black hair that hung down his back in multiple braids.

As a child, demons had ripped out his wings. And because of his young age, his regenerative powers had not yet taken hold, so those wings had never grown back and never would. Instead his shoulders, back and legs were tattooed with crimson feathers depicting the wings he must miss with every ounce of his being. Not that he ever complained. Koldo was a man of few words, and those he did utter were deep, hoarse and soul chilling.

Jamila paced in front of the demon. With her dark skin and the long black ringlets cascading down her back and eyes of the sweetest honey, she was one of the original joy-bringers, promoted to warrior only after she had ventured into hell, alone, to rescue one of her pet humans.

Weeks had passed before she’d emerged, and though she’d saved the human’s spirit, she had not saved herself. Something down there had changed her. No longer did she laugh easily or flitter through life without a care. No one looked over her shoulder more than Jamila, as if expecting evil to be waiting in every corner.

Until tonight’s battle, though, Zacharel hadn’t understood why she had been given to his care. Now he knew. Clearly, she had a problem following orders… not to mention the fact that she no longer prized human life.

She would have to be punished. She would probably cry.

I should have chosen Axel as my fifth. The male was irreverent, always laughing, obsessed with wreaking havoc, but he would not shed a single tear when Zacharel pronounced his sentence.

Xerxes noticed him first and straightened. The others followed suit.

“The human girl,” Thane said. “I would like to return for her.”

Still thinking of her, was he? “No need. She’s here with me,” he replied with an unexpected edge to his tone. “You may tell me what you learned about her once we finish with the demon.”

A satisfied gleam entered Thane’s eyes, and that, more than anything else that day, angered Zacharel. Did he hope to win her? “I’ve yet to learn anything. There hasn’t been time.”

Another order unheeded. “You will make time when you leave.”

Something in his tone must have gotten through to Thane. Rather than issuing one of his customary retorts, he nodded. “I will.”

“What human girl are we discussing?” Jamila asked.

Zacharel waved the question away. “The only human that should matter to you is the one you killed during the battle.”

“Yeah. So? So what if I killed one?” she shot back, and he heard the unspoken, So have you. So have they.

His eyes narrowed on her, lances of resolve. “How many times in the past three months have I told you that you are not to make a demon kill if it causes you to harm a human?” He could have pulled her aside, could have chastised her in private, but she had committed her sin in front of others and she would now deal with the consequences in front of others.

Red suffused her cheeks. She gazed at her peers before refocusing on Zacharel. “There are approximately thirty days in a month, and you have mentioned it at least once a day. So my guess is ninety.”

The number was not an exaggeration. “And yet you made the kill anyway.”

She raised her chin in haughty defiance, eyes nearly black in the shadows cast by her lashes. Eyes completely dry. “I did. He taunted me through the human.”

Too many females had raised their chins at him today. Actually, one was too many. Annabelle had been allowed because she was human and knew no better, and had no other way of expressing her displeasure with him. And he’d been oddly… charmed by her. That was not the case in this instance.

“A good soldier knows to ignore the insults hurled at him. Your rebellion has earned me another whipping. Not you. Me.” And perhaps that was the problem. Jamila gave no thoughts to reprisal. None of them did.

“I’m sorry,” she gritted out.

Exactly what he’d said to his Deity, but surely not in that same irritating manner. “You aren’t sorry for your actions, only that I found fault with you.” The moment his words registered inside his mind, he scowled.

Was his Deity laughing right now? He had said those very words to Zacharel.

What a turn of events. Zacharel had gone from rebellious to exemplary, simply to continue fighting the beings responsible for his brother’s torture. Well, his soldiers would find he’d do a lot worse to them than the Deity had done to him.

Jamila’s lips pressed into a mulish line, no response forthcoming.

“If this happens again, Jamila, I will make you suffer in ways you cannot yet imagine, for whatever punishment I am issued, I will return to you a hundredfold.” After this next whipping, he still might. As for now, an example had to be made. “Tonight you will visit every member of my army and apologize for your actions. You will beg for their forgiveness—for you are the reason they will spend tomorrow morning in human form—” their wings hidden from mortal eyes “—cleaning every alleyway and street in Moffat County, Colorado.” The scene of the crime.

Humiliating for her, infuriating for them. Everyone would learn.

She inclined her head, but she did not cry.

Good. “Anyone who refuses to obey this order will be held in my cloud, my prisoner until the end of the year. I will not tolerate your disrespect any longer.” He met each warrior’s gaze.

He received reluctant nods. Reluctant, yes, but a nod was a nod.

“Now, let us speak no more of this,” he said.

Xerxes jerked a thumb toward the fallen angel. “Who is he, and why is he here?” A pause. “If I may ask,” he added.

The change of subject was welcome. “His name is McCadden, and he is now your responsibility.” McCadden had committed crimes against his fellow angels, as well as humans, to be with a woman who had not even wanted him.

But why he had been deemed unfit for the heavens, stripped of his wings and kicked to the earth, while Zacharel and these five had not, was a mystery. On the surface, McCadden looked no different from any of Zacharel’s other men. He’d dyed his pale hair pink, had tattooed bloody teardrops under his eyes and added silver piercings to his brows. Underneath all that, he must be a cesspool of darkness.

“When we finish here, you will take him from my cloud and keep him locked in your home at all times,” Zacharel said. He didn’t want the former angel in the same location as Annabelle. “And now, I will not be blamed for any crimes he commits. You will.”

Xerxes gnashed his teeth, but offered no complaint.

Thane snickered, and Bjorn drilled his knuckles into Xerxes’ biceps. “Lucky.”

“Now, for the captured demon,” Zacharel said.

Relish glimmered from every angelic body, including his own. In unison, the six of them turned and faced the being in question. She writhed against her bonds, mist stretching over her forehead and inside her mouth, holding her still, keeping her silent. Mist also plugged her ears, blocking the sound of their voices.

She was a minion of Disease. Her skin sagged, was paper-thin and covered in sores. Her skeletal body lacked muscle and any hint of fat. What few teeth she had were yellow, as pitted as her skin, and as pointed and curling as her claws.

“Allow her to hear us,” Zacharel commanded the cloud. The plugs thinned, dissipated completely. “Allow her to speak.” Just as quickly the mist covering her mouth thinned and dissipated.

She hissed out a terrible curse.

“In case you are unaware of how this works,” he said, ignoring her insult for the ineffectual lash-out it was, “I will instruct you.”

“Not Zacharel,” she moaned. “Anyone but Zacharel.” A scent of rot wafted from her, evidence of her sudden burst of fear.

His penchant for torturing his enemy was well known. “You will die this day, minion. That outcome will not change. The method of your execution is the only variable you can control.” Demons, he knew, were more susceptible to the ring of truth than humans; this one flinched every time he finished a sentence. “I have questions for you, and you will answer each one honestly.”

“You know we will taste your lies,” Thane said.

“Taste and rebuke,” Bjorn added.

“Why did you remain outside the Moffat County Institution this night?” Details were more than important; they were necessary. Without quantifiers, demons could infer anything they wished and answer accordingly.

Her thin lips lifted at the corners. “For the same reasonsss the other demonsss did so, I ssswear it.”

Truth without enough context to be helpful. Cute.

“For what reason did the other demons remain outside the Moffat County Institution?” he asked. “You will not receive another chance to answer this question.”

“I’m happy to anssswer. They ssstayed outside for the sssame reassson I ssstayed outssside. That’sss the truth, you have my word.”

Zacharel reached into an air pocket and withdrew his vial of water from the River of Life. To even set foot near the river’s shoreline hidden inside the temple given to the Deity by the Most High, an angel had to sacrifice the skin off his back—literally. To capture a single vial of the precious, life-saving liquid? The angel had to sacrifice much, much more.

Zacharel had only a few drops left, but he considered a demon’s torment worth the loss.

“I find that your truth does not satisfy my curiosity, so I am forced to take my satisfaction another way. You will receive a castigation from each of us, as warned.” From his nod, his soldiers knew what he wanted them to do. They might have worked together only a short time, but in this instance, they desired the same thing.

Koldo moved behind the demon and pinned her head against his massive chest, his long, thick fingers applying pressure to her brow. Xerxes and Thane stepped forward, both summoning metal blades. In unison, they stabbed her in the gut. As black blood sprang from both wounds, she released an unholy scream of agony. The wounds wouldn’t be fatal, but they would hurt and weaken her.

While humans were to be protected, demons were never extended the same courtesy.

Bjorn and Jamila replaced Xerxes and Thane in front of her. After Bjorn pried open her mouth, Jamila produced a thin scalpel to remove all of the demon’s remaining teeth.

By the time the five were finished, the demon could only plead for mercy. Mercy she had never shown her own victims. Mercy Zacharel did not have. Minions of Disease purposely infected human bodies with sickness, feeding off their growing frailty and despair, their pain, their panic, and loving every moment of it.

He was the next to move in front of her. “I warned you,” he said.

“I didn’t lie, told only the truth,” the minion slurred, thanks to Jamila’s impromptu root canal.

“You played with the truth. With me.”

She stopped writhing, another eerie smile lifting the corners of her mouth, black blood dripping from her lips. “And you don’t like being played with, angel? I doubt that. You reek of human female right now. Did you play with her?” The words were even more garbled than before, but Zacharel was able to decipher her meaning.

He motioned to Thane.

The warrior returned his blade to her gut—and left it there.

A grunt. A gurgle of blood from her mouth. Through panting breaths, she said, “All right, all right. You don’t like to play. Perhapsss I can change your mind. Give me five minutes, and I will do thingsss to your body… thingsss you’ll dream about for yearssss.”

As she spoke, he upended the vial he held, allowing a single droplet of the water to catch on his fingertip. “Ah, but in five minutes I believe you will have more pressing matters on your mind. For the time has come for me to have my turn.” He reached out and shoved his finger into her mouth, forcing the droplet down her throat.

The shrill, broken scream that followed made a mockery of the one that had come before, the water attacking the disease she perpetually carried, spreading health and vitality. She bucked against Koldo with so much force, several of her bones snapped out of place.

When at last she quieted, tears sliding down her pitted cheeks, the putrid scent of her rot fading, Zacharel said calmly, “I have decided to be benevolent and give you one last chance. Why did you remain outside the institution this night?”

There was the barest of pauses before she offered faintly, “Wasssn’t… my time… to enter.” Her words were punctuated by gasps of residual pain.

“According to whom?”

A longer pause as she considered what more Zacharel could do to her. In the end, she decided an evasion was not worth it. “Burden.”

Burden. A demon who had once been second in command to the high lord of Greed, and widely regarded as one of hell’s fiercer warriors. Currently he was without a master.

Was he the one who had marked Annabelle? “Where is Burden right now?”

“Don’t… know.”

He detected no lie this time, either. “How did Burden contact you?”

“Disseassse too busssy… with humansss… I had to align myself… with sssomeone. Burden wasss… the mossst powerful… of my optionsss.”

“What were his orders?”

“What do you… think… they were?”

He nodded to Thane.

Thane twisted the knife.

The minion grunted through the renewed pain. “We were… to have fun… with a human female. The one currently… ssscenting your… robe.”

“Why?”

“Did… not ask. Did… not care.”

Truth. “You have earned your death, minion. She’s all yours,” he told his soldiers.

Thane removed the blade, and she sagged against her bonds. A second later, five fiery swords appeared, and in the next blink of time, the minion was missing her head and all her limbs. Demons liked fire, yes, and could withstand the flames. But the fires in hell were fires of damnation. The soldiers’ swords possessed the fire of justice, and that the demons could not withstand.

His warriors held the tips of their swords against each piece of the minion, until flesh and bone caught flame, charred to ash and swirled away in a sudden breeze.

Zacharel had the answers he’d sought. The question now was what to do with them.

CHAPTER FIVE

SO MUCH FOR ENJOYING her change of scenery, Annabelle thought.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She had. At first.

After she had devoured all her favorite foods, her stomach so full she could have burst, she had showered, feeling cleaner than she had in four years. If only she’d felt cleaner than ever, but no. There was a film of dirt under her skin, in her blood, that she had been unable to wipe away.

Wah, wah, whatever. No whining. Not now. She dressed in the tank and soft flowing pants she had requested. Then she stood there. Just stood there, exhaustion completely overwhelming her. She asked the cloud—the cloud!—for a bed. A king-size monstrosity with gorgeous silk sheets appeared, and she crawled on top gratefully. But… she was unable to sleep, too afraid of being vulnerable, too worried about the nightmares that would plague her—too caught up in thoughts of Zacharel.

Where had he gone? Who was he with? What was he doing?

Why did it matter to her?

By morning, little aches and pains in her body made their presence known and she forgot all about her curiosity. Soon after that, she began to shiver and sweat from withdrawal. So many years of continuous drug use and now, quitting cold… probably not the wisest course of action. And yes, she could have asked the cloud for a sedative, but she resisted the idea with every fiber of her being. Never would she do to herself what the doctors had done to her.

The second day, she vomited over and over again, until there was nothing left inside her stomach except—surely—glass shards and rusty nails. And maybe a herd of stampeding buffalo.

The third day, she returned to the trembling and the sweating, so weak she could barely lift her head or even open her eyes.

Eventually, sleep battered past every wall of resistance she had erected, and she slipped into the land of dreams. Her parents hugged and kissed her, telling her how much they loved her. Her older brother, Brax, rubbed his knuckles into her hair. Oh, how she had missed him. Since her incarceration, he’d made his dislike of her very clear.

Once upon a time, he had threatened any boy who’d wanted to date her. He had smiled at her every morning as he’d fixed her breakfast, her parents having already rushed off to work. On the drive to school, he had lectured her about studying harder and keeping her grades up so that she could get into a good college and have the best possible future.

That wasn’t possible now. The man Brax had become did not believe Annabelle’s recollection of that fateful morning. He did not trust her, and he certainly did not adore her and want the best for her.

Best? What was the best for someone like her? Despite the euphoria she’d felt upon first leaving the institution, despite her desire to live on her own, happy and carefree, the truth was now unavoidable. The only future she had was one on the run from the law.

The dream morphed, her parents and Brax pushed to the back of her mind and replaced by the demons she’d fought throughout the years. She saw blood-soaked floors no one else could see, her feet slipping and sliding in the puddles as she cried for help she would never receive.

Thankfully, that dream morphed, as well. She lay beside Zacharel, and he placed his cold hands on her, gently brushing her hair from her face as he mumbled about troublesome humans. He stuffed sweet, juicy clumps of fruit down her throat, and she somehow found the energy to slap him for being such a turd about it.

The fourth day, everything changed. Her sleep calmed, her mind blanking. The aches and pains faded. Finally, blessedly, even the trembling and the sweating eased, and strength returned to her limbs. She stretched and struggled to a sitting position, dizziness waiting at the fringes of her mind, ready to devour her entire being.

She looked at her surroundings—she was still inside the cloud—then at herself. She was dressed in a white robe as soft as cashmere and scrubbed clean from head to toe, despite the length of time that had passed. Who had changed her? Bathed her?

Zacharel?

Her cheeks flushed with heat. Yeah, Zacharel. His part hadn’t been a dream, after all, but straight-up reality.

How… nice of him.

Zacharel didn’t seem like the type to concern himself with the suffering of others, especially at the expense of his own comfort, but he’d risked a few slaps from a whacked-out female just to ensure she ate.

Poor guy. He probably regretted releasing her.

She threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood, swayed. It was time to hunt Zacharel down, thank him and figure out her next move.

“PESKY HUMAN,” ZACHAREL muttered as he paced the center of his cloud. He had never before taken care of a sick human, or even a sick angel, for that matter. Clearly. Under his care, Annabelle had only gotten worse.

And she’d slapped him! On multiple occasions! Not even his Deity had ever dared such a thing. Whip him, yes. Zacharel was still recovering from his latest round with the leather strap, but slap him? Never. Not that the puny actions had hurt. It was the principle of the thing. He’d taken time out of his day to care for her, precious time he should be devoting to his new army and their various missions, and she couldn’t thank him?

“Typical mortal,” he grumbled now. His anger with her did not stem from worry, he was certain of it. He rubbed the heel of his palm up and down the center of his chest and smacked his lips, cringing at the sour taste in his mouth.

He wouldn’t voice a lie, but he would certainly entertain one in his own mind.

Annabelle would live or she would die, and Zacharel wasn’t going to concern himself one way or the other any longer. He just wasn’t.

He grimaced as that sour taste intensified. Enough of this! He would do what any other man would have done in this situation. He would summon a female to take over. Jamila. Yes, Jamila would ensure Annabelle’s safety.

“Inform Jamila I require her presence,” he told the cloud.

How long would it take her to fly here? It would take him less than a minute to thrust Annabelle into her arms and kick them both out of his home. He was tired of thinking about Annabelle, tired of wondering how badly she hurt, if she would survive whatever sickness had struck her. Tired of reaching inside the air pocket containing his vial of water from the River of Life, only to catch himself before he made contact with it. To even consider giving her the remaining drop was ludicrous.

“More threats?” Jamila asked the moment she arrived.

At last. He whirled to meet her head-on. “You’re late.”

Golden eyes glittered with… anger? Couldn’t be. There was heat there, but nothing irate. “How can I be late? You didn’t give me a time frame.” Her wings tucked into her sides, and dark curls settled over her shoulders, falling down the smooth expanse of her arms. “Besides, I didn’t feel a need to rush to another scolding.”

“I have no intention of scolding you further. You disobeyed the night of the battle, and I proclaimed your punishment. That subject is now closed.”

She twirled one of her ringlets around her finger. “Then why am I here?”

“You are female.”

A slight quirk of her mouth. “Nice of you to notice.”

“I want you to… I need you to…” He pursed his lips, massaged his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He tried to speak again. Failed. The words refused to leave him.

If he placed Annabelle in Jamila’s care, he would not be able to see her without begging an invitation to the angel’s home. He would never know what happened to her. And Jamila was so impulsive, so often controlled by her emotions. What if Annabelle angered her? Annabelle possessed a bit of a temper, and did not always mind her words. How would Jamila react to a callous retort from a lowly human? Not well, that much he knew.

I can’t place Annabelle in her care.

A strange sort of relief crashed over him, lifting a debilitating weight from his shoulders and shining something light and bright into his heart. No, not relief. Couldn’t be. He felt irritated by this turn of events, surely. He was back to where he’d started, to where he had no desire to be.

The angel was staring at him expectantly.

“What do females require?” he asked, refusing to change his mind yet again. Annabelle stayed, and that was that.

Jamila shifted to the side, her robe rippling with the motion. “Require for what?”

“For the meeting of needs.”

Her eyes widened, her pupils flaring and gulping down all that gold. Rosy pink flushed her cheeks, her lips softening, parting. “I had no idea you had begun to experience desire, Zacharel. You should have said something sooner. I could have told you that I require only your cooperation.”

As he tried to process her words, she stepped into the line of his body, wound her arms around his neck and lifted to her tiptoes. Then she meshed her mouth into his, and forced her tongue past his teeth.

O-KAY. THE ULTRACOLD Zacharel was capable of emotion. Desire. But that didn’t make him any less of a jerk.

Annabelle had wanted to know where he was, not because she cared about the man—she didn’t—but because he’d done something to the cloud to prevent her from leaving her room. Enraged, she’d demanded that the cloud show her where he was and what he was doing, and it—he? she?—had.

A TV-like screen had appeared just in front of her, comprised of nothing but air. She’d watched, her hands fisting, her eyes narrowing, as a stunner with curling dark hair wrapped herself around Zacharel, molding the two of them together and feeding him a decadent kiss. The rise in her temper wasn’t about jealousy, but about her circumstances. She was trapped, and he was making out.

Now she watched as Zacharel jerked away from the girl. He growled, “What are you doing?”

Again the stunner conquered the distance, trying to refit her mouth over his. “I’m kissing you. Now kiss me back.”

“No.” Frowning, he set her away from him, and this time, he held her in place. His wings were tucked into his sides, though they arced backward, away from the female. Snowflakes rained from their tips, tiny crystals that formed little piles on the floor. “Why are you kissing me?”

The girl’s sensual confidence died a slow, torturous death. “Because you hunger for me as I have hungered for you these past few months?” A question when she’d probably meant it to be a statement.

“I do not hunger for you, Jamila.”

Ouch. There was such brutal honesty in his tone, even Annabelle flinched.

“But you said…” Jamila floundered. “I thought…”

Oh, honey. Just walk away before he does more than trample on your pride, Annabelle thought, sympathy for the girl momentarily superseding her anger with Zacharel.

“I said nothing to make you think I desired you,” he stated with the same coldness that always infused his words. “You simply assumed. Therefore, now I will tell you plainly. I do not want you. I have never wanted you, and I will never want you.”

Okay, so, wrong again. The man had no feelings.

A sob parted the woman’s lips, and she spun on her heel, her wings expanding in a burst of movement. Hers possessed far less gold than Zacharel’s, but they were lovely nonetheless. She shot into the air and out of the cloud.

He faced the screen Annabelle still watched, and she knew he was headed into her room. Not wanting to be caught spying, she waved the TV screen away. “Go!”

The air thinned, until only the cloud wall remained.

A second later, Zacharel stepped through that wall, seeming to appear out of a forbidden midnight dream far better than the ones she’d entertained. Thick, silken black hair tumbled down a flawless forehead and into a gaze that studied her with unwavering intensity. Though his features had been painted with a brush of youth, he appeared beyond ancient, the wintry green of his eyes seeing everything, missing nothing.

A long, white robe draped him, somehow displaying his incredible strength, and oh, oh, oh, but he had brought the chill of the Arctic with him. She drew her arms around her middle for warmth.

He looked her over. Something passed over his expression, something she couldn’t read, before he carefully blanked his features. “You are well.”

I will not be intimidated, and I absolutely will not be awed by his appearance. Annabelle forced herself to unleash the ire she’d been nursing. “And you are a douche. You made me a prisoner, after I told you I’d rather die!”

Far from intimidated, he said, “That is no way to speak to me, Annabelle. I am in a dangerous mood.”

Like she wasn’t? “Well, well, the mighty Zacharel actually feels something,” she said snippily. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“It is not Christmas, and I suggest you sweeten your tone. Otherwise, I might take you at your word and kill you. How about that?”

She gasped, stepped back until she hit the edge of the bed and almost fell. “You wouldn’t dare. Not after you went to so much trouble to save me.”

Stark self-loathing darkened his eyes. “I killed my own brother, Annabelle. There is no one I will not take down.”

Wait, wait, wait. He’d done what? “You’re lying.” He had to be lying.

He snapped his teeth at her, reminding her of an injured animal in too much pain to accept aid from anyone. “I do not lie. There is no need. People lie because they worry over the consequences of admitting the truth. I worry over nothing. People lie because they wish to impress those around them. I seek to impress no one. You would be wise to remember that.”

How was this the same man who had cared for her so sweetly? “Why did you kill your brother?”

“That is none of your concern.”

She persisted. “How did you kill your brother?”

Silence.

“An accident?”

“Annabelle!”

A chastisement if ever she’d heard one. Fine. She’d drop the subject for now. The wounded-animal thing made sense, though. Whatever he’d done, he suffered for it.

“Why are you letting me stay in your cloud,” she said, “when I so clearly frighten you? And I do frighten you, no matter what you say. Why else would you lock me up?”

A heartbeat of quiet, his anger seeming to drain from him. “You mean to bait me with that question, I think. You hope to embarrass me into apologizing, into vowing never to lock you up again.”

“No.” Well, maybe a little.

“Did you wish to leave my cloud?”

“I wished to leave the room.”

“And failed in your attempt.”

“Your cloud was the failure, not me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Why did you wish to leave?”

Rather than lie—or slap him again as he so richly deserved—she tossed his earlier words back at him. “That is none of your concern.”

Were the corners of his lips twitching? “Did you want to see me? Speak to me?”

Every word caused heat to deepen in her cheeks. “I will not answer those questions, either.”

“Smart girl. You have realized it is better to refuse me than to lie to me. But with your nonanswers, you have told me what I wanted to know. Yes, you wished to see me, to speak to me. But about what?”

Irritating angel. “Look. Either you promise never to lock me up again, or I bail sooner rather than later. And I realize that’s not really a deterrent for you, but those are the only options I’m willing to entertain.”

“Fine. I will never again lock you in this room.”

He offered the vow so easily, she was momentarily taken aback. “Well, okay, then.”

“You will stay?”

“Yes.” For a little while longer, because she wasn’t sure where else to go… or how to return to earth without spilling her guts. “But enough about me,” she said, not wanting him to change his mind. “Did you have to be so mean to that woman?” So much for hiding the fact that she’d been spying.

His gaze flicked to the empty space beside her, narrowed and returned to her. “You watched me.” The words were velvet, soft in a way he probably hadn’t intended. All the while, vapor puffed in front of his face, adding to the erotic-dream factor.

This isn’t your business, Miller. And yet she nodded to encourage him to continue. “I did,” she said, and the scent of him… suddenly clinging to every inch of her… nearly sent her to her knees. How had she missed its allure before this moment?

One of his brows arched, slipping under that fall of hair. “How was I mean to her? I simply told her the truth.”

“You told her the truth, sure, but you did it with no concern for her feelings.” Do not reach out and brush that hair away.

“Yes, and she kissed me with no certainty of my feelings.”

All right. Okay. That changed everything. Annabelle had been forcibly kissed before, and she had hated every moment of it. She had lashed out at the culprit, too. His reaction was understandable.

“Actually,” he added, “if I was mean to her, and I’m not admitting that I was, it was to spare her feelings in the future. Now she knows my thoughts on the matter, without any doubt. She will not make the same mistake twice. Furthermore, the truth might hurt but when used properly, it’s never purposely cruel.”

What kind of woman would take this man on? she mused. A brave one, certainly. And why was she even entertaining such thoughts? His stupid scent must be affecting her brain.

“Are you married?” The notion shouldn’t bother her, but it did. But only because she would feel guilty about finding him so attractive when he belonged to another woman, surely.

“No, I am not married,” he said.

“Dating anyone?” Though the word date seemed way too mundane to be applied to the celestial being in front of her.

“No.”

“Wanting to date anyone?”

“No. Enough questions.”

“Have you ever dated anyone?”

He worked his jaw in irritation. “I have never dated anyone, nor have I ever wanted to date anyone.”

Her eyes widened. “But that would mean…”

“That Jamila’s kiss was my first, yes.”

No way. No way that had been this beautiful man’s first kiss. Despite his standoffishness, someone would have tried to seduce him before now. “Did you like it?” Oh, no, no, no. She had not just asked him that.

“Clearly not.” He moved around her, fingered the silk of the sheets draped over the bed. Very casually, he asked, “Have you ever been kissed?”

She sighed as memories assailed her. The good, the bad and the wretchedly ugly. Before the institution, the kisses she’d experienced had been with a boy of her choosing. Some had been sweet, some had been passionate, but all had been welcome. After the institution… She shuddered with revulsion. “Yes.” Would Zacharel think less of her now?

“Did you like it?”

There’d been no condemnation in his voice, which was the only reason she responded with, “Depends on which kiss we’re talking about.”

He released the fabric and faced her, flattening one of his hands on the bedpost. “More than one person has kissed you?”

Still no judgment, and yet, there was something in his tone. Something hot. So hot, in fact, the snow stopped falling from his wings, the cold somehow suddenly sucked away.

Well, crap. She changed her mind a third time. He couldn’t be emotionless. Raw fury blended with sensuality, radiating from those heavy eyelids to his lush lips, already plump and glistening, to the pulse hammering in his neck, to the slow curl of his fingers. “Yes,” she said. “But only one actually counts. Before my confinement, I had a boyfriend. We were together for over a year and did things together. Those kisses I liked.” Or thought she had at the time. “After my parents’ murder, he broke up with me and never came to visit.” She shrugged, as if she hadn’t cared.

Truth was, she’d more than cared. She’d needed someone who knew her to believe her, to believe in her, to show her a measure of support or understanding. Heath’s defection had cut deeper than her brother’s, leaving her hollowed out and disheartened. She’d trusted him, and yet he’d so easily walked away from her. Now she had to live with the fact that he’d seen her naked.

“Who else?” Zacharel asked.

“A few times, while in lockup, a patient or a doctor…” Another shrug, this one stiff, jerky.

As she spoke, he lost that hint of sensuality, the coldness returning to him. She took comfort in that. Like her, he hated the thought of others being forced.

“What made the kisses with your boyfriend so nice?”

“We loved each other. Well, I loved him. Turns out he was just using me for what I’d give him. I wonder if that’s a teenage boy thing, or just a Heath thing.” She chewed on her bottom lip, her mind still caught on Zacharel’s confession of total and complete abstinence. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Older than you can possibly imagine.”

Please. “One hundred? Two hundred?”

He shook his head.

Her jaw dropped. “Five hundred? A… thousand.” When he gave another shake, she said, “No way. Just no way. You can’t be older than a thousand.”

He arched a brow.

“You are,” she gasped out. “You really are.”

“I am thousands of years old.”

Thousands, as in more than one. She flattened her hands over her twisting stomach. “And you’ve really never kissed anyone? Of your own free will, I mean.”

He stepped into her personal space, saying softly, “This doubt you express toward my confessions is as offensive as it is baffling.” Cold breath trekked over her face, clean and sweet. “I have never, in all my centuries, spoken a lie.”

I will not inch away. I will not show weakness. “Sorry, it’s just, you’ve been around a long time, have probably seen humans do everything.” She paused, waiting for his confirmation. Confirmation he gave with a single nod. “I’m just surprised.”

He gathered a lock of her hair between his fingers, rubbing the strands together. The contrast between the blue-black of the lock and the sun-kissed sweetness of his skin was magnificent, almost magical.

If she wasn’t careful, she would throw herself at him. And she would find herself rejected and embarrassed, just like the other girl.

She had to remind herself that she wasn’t interested in a romantic entanglement right now. After everything she’d been through, she wasn’t sure how she would even react to a man’s advances.

While rape had never happened, plenty of other things had. Hands, wandering. Fingers, massaging. Tongues, licking. Her utter helplessness had disgusted and sickened her. And the fact that Fitzpervert had pictures of her…

Might vomit. Had he shown anyone? Did he sometimes laugh about the pain he had caused her?

“What’s wrong?” Zacharel asked.

She forced her mind to return to the cloud and the angel still towering in front of her. He had released her hair, had backed away from her. Snow once again rained from the tips of his wings, the air now so frigid little goose bumps were popping up all over her body.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she muttered.

He smacked his lips as if he tasted something foul. “You lie.”

“So?” See? Already dark memories were affecting her dealings with a man, tainting everything.

“So? I tell you the truth, yet you lie to me. That is intolerable, Annabelle, and I will not allow it.”

And how did he plan to stop it? “Let’s just say that if something’s wrong, it’s none of your business.” Just then, only one thing mattered. Answers. “Before, you told me I had been marked by a demon.”

He accepted the change of subject with a soft “Yes.”

“And he did this to claim me as his property?” She remembered waking up with burning eyes. She remembered the creature in her garage, clawing her parents to death. She remembered the way he’d kissed her—the worst kiss of her life.

“Yes. He must have seen you, desired you and decided to keep you, even if he couldn’t take you with him. Did he say anything to you?”

“Only classic B movie stuff. You know, I love the sound of trouble. And this is gonna be fun.”

“He didn’t ask you to belong to him, and you didn’t say yes?”

“Hardly. But he will come back for me, won’t he?” She’d always wondered. She’d always feared. And, according to Zacharel, fear was a draw for all kinds of evil.

A more hesitant yes was offered this time.

She wasn’t going to fear anymore. She was going to prepare. “Well, I plan to kill him when he finds me. So, on that note, I have one more question for you. Will you give me one of those fire swords?”

ZACHAREL PEERED DOWN at the human woman who had made him feel more in the span of five minutes than anyone had in the centuries since his brother’s death. He did not understand this, or her, or what was happening to him.

Those otherworldly blue eyes were filled with so many secrets, haunting secrets. He wanted to plumb her depths and discover everything she tried to hide. And he wanted to… touch her. Was her skin as soft and smooth as it appeared? He’d held her, but her clothes had prevented him from knowing the texture of her skin. Would her warmth seep past the layers of cold encasing him and consume him?

He wanted to kiss her, to discover if her taste would match her succulent scent. Wanted to know if her kiss would differ from Jamila’s. Wanted to know if she would enjoy his kiss as much as she had enjoyed the former boyfriend’s. And he hated that others had touched and kissed her without permission, the knowledge fanning to sparkling life an urge to maim and kill the culprits.

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