Wicked Nights. Gena ShowalterЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 a psychic?”
“No.”
“Cast a spell? Any spell?”
“No, okay? No!”
“Lied, cheated or stolen from a neighbor? Hated someone, anyone? Feared something, anything?”
The next tremor to slide the length of her body proved stronger than the others, locking her jaw, silencing her and rattling the entire bed. By the time she stilled, her anger had drained and she radiated a bleakness that somehow widened the fissure in his chest by the minutest degree.
“I’m done talking to you,” she said quietly.
Meaning yes, she had. He had seen proof of hatred and fear already. “But I am not done talking to you. Spiritually, all of the things I mentioned grant your enemy permission to attack you.”
“But how can a person stop feeling fear?”
“It is not what you feel that truly matters but what you say and how you act while feeling that way.”
A moment passed as she absorbed his words. Ultimately, she sighed. “Okay, look. I’m tired, and you were kind enough to ensure Fitzpervert wouldn’t be coming back. This will be my only chance to rest without someone sneaking up on me. Will you just go already?”
If you cannot do what I need, then leave me here. I hate that you’re seeing me like this. Go, please. For once, listen to me and obey. Go!
He gritted his teeth. No more thinking about his brother.
“I will go, yes,” he said, “but you? What will you do?”
“The same as always.” Her tone was as emotionless as his own, and he wasn’t sure he liked that. He much preferred her mettle. “I’ll survive.”
But for how much longer?
For several minutes, Zacharel debated what to do with