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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?”