Wicked Nights. Gena Showalter

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