Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark) by Gena Showalter

Author:Gena Showalter
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Harlequin Enterprises
Published: 2012-06-25T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE BLACK VEIL WAS A HUMAN nightclub located in the pulsing heart of Savannah, Georgia. Zacharel had hunted many demons along these sultry midnight streets, and wasn’t surprised Burden had made a home there, or that he’d possessed the body of the human who owned the club, just to feed off the turmoil of the patrons.

Intensely hot this time of year, Savannah’s humidity was so thick it left a film on one’s skin—even angel skin. Had it not been for Annabelle, Zacharel would have asked the Deity for the return of the snow.

He was not in his customary robe, but wore a black mesh tank, black leather pants and scuffed combat boots. To add to the look, he’d spiked his hair down the center—a Mohawk, the humans called the style—and rimmed his eyelids with kohl. Tattoos now sleeved both of his arms, and once again his wings were hidden from human eyes. All necessary changes.

To garner the aid of the only men who could slip inside such a club and act as his backup without Burden’s knowledge, he’d had to vow to dress like this and let the whole world see him. It was utterly ridiculous. If there’d been any other way, he would have hurt the men—the children!—in ways they could not imagine for even daring to suggest such a thing.

Annabelle alternately marveled at the change in him and at the luminosity of the full moon. Other humans gave him a wide berth, nearly flattening themselves against building walls to widen the distance between them.

Annabelle danced around him, grinning. “Can I just say what a bad boy you are right now?”

“Of course you can. You just did.”

“No, I mean— Oh, never mind, you spoiled it.” Her lips dipped into a pout.

A pout he wanted to kiss away. He might look all “bad boy,” but she looked…edible. Her hair curled down her back in wanton blue-black ringlets. He’d dressed her in a tight black-and-white-checkered gown with bows at the top and ruffles at the bottom, so that no one would question their association. The hem fell just below her knees, showcasing smooth, bare legs and strappy red heels. She looked like a Goth seventies housewife, ready to await her husband with a spiked drink.

Besides, the more innocent she appeared, the more Burden would underestimate her. And yes, that meant Zacharel was operating under the assumption that Burden and Annabelle would fight, despite the fact that Zacharel would have given up all of his limbs to prevent the two from breathing the same air.

Above all, he wanted her safe. Was desperate to keep her safe.

For a man who’d felt nothing for centuries, Zacharel suddenly felt as if he was drowning in emotion, and not just the desperation. He felt worry for Annabelle’s safety. He felt an intense desire to at last experience everything she had to give before it was too late. He felt concern for Jamila’s safety. Felt guilt over the way he’d treated her. And as irrational as it was, he felt anger that she had allowed herself to be captured.

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