Wicked Nights. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ Zacharel could not get the words out fast enough.

      “Then why have you spread your essentia all over her?”

      “I have not touched her.”

      “And yet her skin bears your tinge.”

      “Not mine.” Essentia, a substance that swirled inside each of their bodies, sometimes seeping through the pores of their hands to become a fine powder, allowing them to claim any object they considered their exclusive property. Demons produced a similar substance, only theirs was tainted.

      Zacharel’s attention whipped to the female. “I have never claimed a human.” He’d never had so much as a yearning to do so. “She does not glow.” He saw nothing out of the ordinary about her skin.

      She watched him unabashedly, and he nearly shifted on his feet. Him. Shifting. Inconceivable!

      “I promise you,” Thane said, “the gleam is very dull but there, and it’s a definite warning to other males not to touch what belongs to you.”

      Him? Impossible. “You are mistaken, that’s all.”

      “Argh!” the girl interrupted. “I’m done listening to this meaningless jabber. Team Winger sucks! Just forget that I’m here. Oh, wait. You already have. So here’s an idea—leave.”

      She had more mettle than even Zacharel had realized, and he was trying not to be impressed, or baffled, himself. “Go,” he said to his warrior. “I want you and my other advisors—” which included Jamila “—waiting in my cloud. No, strike that. Not you. Go and find every detail about this human that you can.” A need to learn more about her kept pricking at him. Better to heed it than to regret not doing it.

      “Whatever you say, glorious leader.” Thane stalked from the room. Just before he vanished, he cast the girl one final glance, causing Zacharel’s hands to clench into fists. How many times would the action happen in a single day, when before he’d gone years without doing it once?

      “If you want to know about me,” she snapped the moment she was alone with Zacharel, “you could have just asked me.”

      “And give you the chance to lie?”

      Hurt cascaded over her features, but only for a second. Pride took its place, and remained. “You’re right. I’m a no-good liar, and you’re Mr. Truth. So why are you here, Mr. Truth? I’m pretty clear on the fact that it’s not to save or free me.”

      There was no reason not to tell her. “I was told to destroy the horde of demons trying to get inside the building.”

      A beat of panic. “Horde, as in army?”

      “Yes, but they are no longer any type of threat. My army was successful against them.”

      Slowly she exhaled. “They wanted me, right?”

      “Yes.”

      Another beat of panic before she sagged against the bed. “But why me?”

      She had no idea what had been done to her. None at all. Yet she would have remembered being tricked… or seduced. So how had the demon managed to mark her?

      “Well?” she demanded.

      Ignoring her, Zacharel claimed the folder still lying on the floor, the one the doctor had dropped, and riffled through the pages.

      She banged her head against her pillow once, twice. “Fine. Pretend I’m not speaking. Whatever. I’m used to it. But please, glorious leader, allow me to save you the trouble of digging through the little details, since even a liar like me would have no need to fudge those.” Without pausing to allow him to respond, she added, “To start, my name is Annabelle Miller.”

      The truth, confirmed in the notes. Annabelle. Latin for loveable. “I am called Zacharel.” Not that it mattered.

      “Well, Zachie, I—”

      “Glorious leader,” he rushed out. “You may call me glorious leader.”

      “There’s no way I’m calling you that,” she said, despite the fact that she had already done so, “but enough about your exalted opinion of yourself. I’m here because I killed my parents. I stabbed them to death, or so I’m told.”

      He glanced up, watched another of those tremors rock her. Perhaps he should fetch her a blanket.

      Fetch her a blanket? Seriously? His frown returned. Her comfort did not concern him. “So you were told? You do not remember?” he asked, remaining in place.

      “Oh, I remember.” The bitterness returned to her voice, thicker now. “I watched a creature… a demon do it, tried to stop him, tried to save them, and when I told the authorities what had really happened, I was deemed criminally insane and locked here for the rest of my life.”

      Again, he knew she spoke truthfully. Not just because the details she mentioned were typed, scribbled and repeated throughout the pages in the folder—though none of her doctors had believed her—but because he tasted only the rose and bergamot, both fragile, delicate flavors he liked. Odd. He’d never cared for scents or tastes before. They were what they were, and he’d had no preference.

      “Why have these demons targeted me?” she asked again. “Why? And just so you know, telling me is the only way to stop me from pestering you about it.”

      “That’s not exactly true. I could leave, and then you would not be able to pester me about anything.” Rather than ignore her yet again, however, he decided there was no reason not to give her this information, either. Her reaction interested him.

      Fires of hell, but something must be wrong with him. Nothing interested him.

      “Sometime before your parents were killed,” he stated, “you invited a demon into your life.”

      “No. No way.” Violently she shook her head, tangling those blue-black strands around her temples. “I would never invite one of those things anywhere. Except, maybe, a house-burning party.”

      How was she expressing such undeniable doubt about something he had said, with the ring of truth as ripe as ever in his tone? Yes, there were humans who possessed doubts more powerful than that ring, but Annabelle did not fit the type.

      “Humans fail to realize how easy demons are to welcome. The negative words you speak, the detestable things you do. Utter a lie, meditate on hate, entertain the urge to commit violence, and you might as well sound the dinner bell.”

      “I don’t care what you say. I never welcomed a demon.”

      How could he make her understand? “Demons are the equivalent of spiritual deliverymen. Your words and actions can be a request for a package. In other words, a curse. They come to your door, knock. It’s your choice whether or not you open that door and accept. You did.”

      “No,” she insisted.

      “Have you ever played the Ouija?” he asked, trying to reach her stubborn core from a different angle.

      “No.”

      “Visited СКАЧАТЬ