Wicked Nights. Gena Showalter
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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