Wicked Nights

“Well, then.” Annabelle cleared her throat. “Take care of yourself, Brax.”



“You, too. And, uh, Annabelle?”



A warm breeze suddenly wafted through Zacharel’s mind, the first sign of the Deity’s coming summons. He stiffened, losing track of the siblings and their stilted goodbye.



Zacharel, my soldier. A voice that was at once soothing and commanding echoed inside his head. I have need of your services. You will gather your army and stop the demons attempting to infiltrate my temple. As this battle will take place in the heavens, I will not have to worry about collateral damage, will I.



Not a question. Definitely a dig about his past performance. Also an order from his Deity, as well as his next assignment.



For however long he was needed, he would not be searching for Jamila’s tormentors, would not be protecting Annabelle, but fighting demons. He’d feared such a moment, and now that fear ate at him with razored teeth.



But wasn’t that always the way? Whatever a man feared, he received. A spiritual law as binding as all the others.



“Zacharel?”



He pulled himself out of his mind. Both Annabelle and her brother were staring at him, blinking with confusion.



“Come,” he said. “We must go.”



“Uh, Zacharel? What just happened? You were flickering in and out, as if you were here but not here.”



“That’s because I was here but not here. Part of me was with my Deity in his temple in the heavens. That temple is being attacked, and I have been charged with its safekeeping.”



Color drained from her cheeks.



“Do not worry. I will leave the moment the temple is safe, and we will return to earth.” Not just because of Annabelle’s bargain, but because he would be desperate to whisk her to safety.



“I—” Her mouth floundered open and closed. “Thank you.”



“You are welcome. Now come.”



With a final wave to her brother, she closed the distance to Zacharel and wrapped her arms around his neck. He misted both of their bodies and flew her straight into the afternoon sky. Brax’s shout of, “Take care of yourself, Anna,” followed them, and Annabelle had to blink away a sudden tear.



The sun was hidden behind gloomy storm clouds, the heavens a blanket of darkening velvet. Higher and higher they ascended, until the only spots of color stemmed from angels, the off-duty warriors darting one way, joy-bringers darting the other, all determined to complete a task.



“So many,” Annabelle gasped.



He maneuvered her through the masses, twisting and rolling and finally reaching a clear patch of air. “Cloud!” he shouted. “Return to me.”



Five seconds passed…ten…twenty, but his home eventually appeared around him. However, the misty walls were no longer a soft baby-blue; they were black, as slick as oil, as though weeping the essence of evil. His stomach twisted. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t known it was possible. A cloud had never changed so drastically and so quickly.



“What happened?” Annabelle said.



“I don’t know. It’s dying, perhaps.” The demons that attacked must have poisoned it somehow. “My bedroom. Show me.”



His bed appeared, as did his nightstand. He reached inside the pocket of air and withdrew— Relief nearly buckled his knees. The urn was safe.



“Follow me to the temple, and remain within my sight,” he commanded the cloud. “Guard her, give her anything she requests, and when I return, I will end your suffering.” A pang inside his chest. Of remorse? This home had been his only…friend for a very long time.



Annabelle clutched at his robe. “Let me help you.”



He hardened his heart against her; he had to. “You have no wings, and carrying you will hinder me.”



“But surely I can—”



“You are helping me by staying here and protecting my greatest treasure.”



“Bedroom furniture?” she asked drily.



“Inside that urn is all that I have left of my brother.” Before she could ask questions he wasn’t prepared to answer, he meshed his lips against hers, his tongue plumbing the depths of her warm, wet mouth, stealing a last taste before the coming battle.



By the time he lifted his head, he wanted only to stay with her. But from the very beginning he’d known the temptation for more was the danger of her. He caressed a fingertip along her cheekbone, whispered, “Perhaps the urn isn’t my greatest treasure,” and left her.



* * *



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



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



Would their relationship always work this way?



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



“A cloud…can’t give a human…wings.”



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



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



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



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



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



“Yes,” she gasped out. “I really do.”



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