Wicked Nights

Page 17

She performed every terrible act he required without hesitation, and he toyed with the idea of keeping her far longer than he’d ever kept another. Usually he was done after two or three beddings, not wanting to see revulsion smoldering in eyes that should be filled with desire. Because, after a while, the females always gave way to revulsion. They thought about what they’d done, what he’d done, and they regretted it all. But this female laughed with genuine pleasure as she performed, and he would be willing to bet she always would. Her greed for money would allow nothing less.
When it was over, Thane lay still, trying to catch his breath, enjoying the sensation of burning from the inside out.
Through the wall at his left—purposely thin so that he and his boys would hear if they were needed—he caught the heartbreaking echo of Xerxes retching into the toilet, just as he always did after sex.
He wanted more for his friend. Better. But he had no idea how to help.
He dressed and left the Phoenix exhausted on the bed. Bjorn was already in the sitting room, alone and peering blankly into a fresh glass of vodka.
Thane fell into a chair. Bjorn never glanced up, too lost in his head, in the darkness that had finally come for him.
Xerxes stepped out of his room, pale and shaky, and avoided Thane’s gaze. He, too, fell into a chair.
Thane loved these men. He did. He would happily die for them—but he would not let them die. Not like this. Not in misery.
They’d crawled out of that dungeon together, and somehow, someway, he would drag them out of their self-imposed hell.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING, A NAKED Zacharel sat at the edge of his bed and rolled his brother’s urn in his hands. It was a clear, hourglass-shaped jar, the substance inside a thick liquid as transparent as the urn, with only the tiniest of rainbow flecks glittering in the light.
This urn was Zacharel’s greatest treasure. His only treasure. Now and forever, he would protect this urn as he had not protected his brother.
“I love you, Zacharel.”
“I love you, too, Hadrenial. So much.”
“Do you?”
“You know I do.”
“And you would do anything for me?”
“Anything.”
“Kill me, then. A true death. Please. You can’t leave me like this.”
“Like this” had been broken, bloody and violated in unspeakable ways. “Anything but that. You’ll recover. One day you will even be happy again.”
“I don’t want to recover. I want to cease to exist, now and forever. That’s the only way to end my torment.”
“We’ll make the demons pay for what they did to you. Together. Then we can talk about this again.” And Zacharel would once again deny him.
“If you don’t kill me, I’ll kill myself. You know what will happen to me then.”
Yes, he’d known. You could not render the true death upon yourself. Hadrenial would have been able to slay his own body, but his spirit, dark as it had currently been, would have lived on and been cast into hell. That hadn’t swayed Zacharel. Still he’d said no. But in the end, Hadrenial had stayed true to his promise. He had tried to end himself over and over again. Always Zacharel had brought him back with the Water of Life.
Those years, his entire existence had been spent chasing after his brother, saving his brother and, finally, killing his brother to at last end his pain. It was a decision Zacharel regretted to this day, for this urn contained all that was left of Hadrenial.
Zacharel had mined from deep inside his brother’s chest the essence of all the love he’d ever felt, then poisoned him with the Water of Death, taken from the stream that flowed beside the Deity’s River of Life. That water was the only way to kill an immortal once and for all.
To obtain the smallest of vials, an angel had to go through the same process as for the Water of Life: a whipping to prove his determination, followed by a meeting with the Heavenly High Council, where permission was granted or denied. If granted, a sacrifice of the Council’s choosing had to be made.
Zacharel had gone through all of that—after his brother had been denied—but he had hesitated inside the temple. The two rivers ran side by side, life and death, happiness and sorrow. The choice had belonged to him. He could have taken from Life. He should have taken from Life. But all that would have done was heal his brother’s body, not his mind.
Spending time in the presence of the Most High would have been needed to save his mind, for the Most High could soothe and save anyone, but Hadrenial had refused to try. Still he’d wanted an end.
“How could you ask that of me?” he demanded. “How could I do it?”
Of course, there was no response. There never was.
Zacharel had poured Death down his brother’s throat. Had watched the life drain from him, the light dim in his eyes. Had then burned his body with a sword of fire. Had watched his brother turn to ash and float away.
He’d followed pieces of that ash for days.
Now he gazed down at the black smudge growing on his chest. The day of his brother’s death, Zacharel had removed his own sense of love, a portion far smaller than Hadrenial’s had been, placing it inside the urn, and glorying as it mingled with all that was left of his brother. There, at least, they were still together.
A week later, a tiny black dot had appeared on the exact spot he’d taken that portion from, and over the years that dot had slowly but steadily increased in size. However, after Zacharel’s appointment with the Deity, when the snow began to drip from his wings, the rate of increasing had quadrupled.
He knew what it meant, what the end result would be, but he wasn’t concerned. Was actually glad. If he failed in his mission this year and was kicked from the heavens, he wouldn’t have to suffer long.
“I wonder if Annabelle would have fascinated you, too.”
He paused, picturing the two together. Yes, Annabelle’s courage would have delighted the gentle Hadrenial. Would they have fought for her?
No, he decided. Because Zacharel would have given her up. Planned to do so now, in fact, after his obligation was fulfilled.
Very carefully Zacharel set the urn on his nightstand and stood. He could have hidden the thing in a pocket of air, dragging it with him wherever he went. But other angels would have scented his brother and asked questions he had no wish to answer. Demons would have scented him, as well, and tried to destroy him all over again.
He tugged on a robe before stalking to Annabelle’s door. There he paused, unsure whether or not he should enter. Yesterday he had been angry with himself for agreeing to help her learn to fight demons, and had left her to her own devices.
As promised, he had not locked her in the room. He had expected her to hunt him down, but she had stayed put—and that had made him angrier.
What was she doing to him? Usually he was a man without a temper. For centuries he had been known for his coldness both inside and out, yet around her he felt as though he were teetering at a very sharp ledge of danger. Even now he was tense, his jaw aching from the constant grinding of his teeth.
All night he’d imagined kissing her. Kissing her deeper, harder, better than the man who had come before him, finally giving into temptation that he kept trying to convince himself wasn’t truly temptation. Why? She wasn’t special. She was a nuisance, a burden, existing for only a brief span of time. There were thousands like her.
Were there really?
Yesterday he’d peered down at those lush pink lips and craved. He’d never before craved. Maybe because he’d had another woman’s taste in his mouth, his interest in the act had been pricked, a desire kindling to compare what was forced with what was given. Maybe not.
The report Thane brought him had made Zacharel want Annabelle a thousand times more. She had endured multiple beatings from humans and demons alike, yet they hadn’t diminished her audacity. She had an older brother who’d written her terribly hurtful letters, lashing out at her for her actions, yet she had responded with only kindness and understanding. Doctors had locked her up, overmedicated her, harmed her irrevocably, but she had fought back with every bit of her strength.
No, there weren’t thousands like her.
He should walk away from her now, before he decided to nix his plan, abandon common sense and keep her—and later lose her. Before he caused collateral damage on purpose, simply to avenge her.
Zacharel had only to stay with her a little while longer. A few weeks, perhaps a few months—no longer than a year—and she would be able to fight the evil that hunted her. He would make sure of it. They could then part, and he would never again have to think about her…though he had no idea where he would take her or how he would absolve himself of her responsibility in the Deity’s eyes, but those were details for another day.
Determined, he entered the room.
She sat at the edge of the bed. When she spotted him, she hopped to her feet, her blue-black ponytail swinging back and forth. “I think it will be best if we end our association now” were the first words out of her mouth.
Then you should have worn something else, he thought, dazed as he drank her in. Gone were the tank and soft, flowing pants. Instead, she wore a black leather bustier that revealed more cleavage than it concealed, and scuffed black leather pants that molded to the lithe strength of her.
Suddenly self-conscious, she shifted from one booted foot to the other. “I asked the cloud for battle-ready clothing, and this is what I got. There are slits all over the pants, for easy access to the weapons, I’m guessing. But the bustier has me stumped. Unless, of course, the cloud thinks my cleavage will stun my opponents into stupidity.” Frowning, she anchored her hands on her hips, shook her head. “My outfit doesn’t matter. Take me back to Colorado.”
“No, it doesn’t matter and no, I won’t. I thought we had come to an arrangement.”
“Yes, but…” Her gaze dropped to her feet, only to snap back up and narrow.
“What?”
“You are beyond frustrating,” she grumbled. “Why can’t you do what I ask you to do without issuing a million questions first?”