Glossy pink lips curled in a seductive smile. “Did you miss me, too, little geisha? I could take pictures of myself and give them to you. That way, whenever we part, you can look at them and think of me.”

For some reason, the comment enraged Annabelle. She grabbed—and launched—two of her daggers. Both were soon embedded in the other woman’s chest.

“I’d like a picture of you just like this,” Annabelle snarled. “Thoughts?”

The female let out a shriek of shock and pain…then unleashed a stream of black curses, ending with, “I’ll straight-up murder you!”

Some of the dancers noticed the violence and screamed, running for the door. Others just kept bumping and grinding.

“You will do no such thing,” Zacharel said.

The woman gritted her teeth and removed the now-dripping blades with a sharp jerk. “Control your pet, angel.”

“Unlike you, demon, I do not stoop to controlling humans.” And if his Deity thought to reprove Annabelle, he would stand in the gap and bear the punishment for her.

Funny that he had complained about just such a thing only a few days ago. Even funnier that he was more than willing—happy—to now do so.

“Sorry about that,” Annabelle muttered. “Rage got the better of me.”

He clasped her hand, squeezed. “Because of the demonic charge in the air, that will be easier to do. Guard your emotions.”

“Enough!” the demon shouted. Her eyes narrowed…eyes now glowing a bright, bright red. Clearly she did not appreciate being ignored. “This way.” With that she turned and led them through the club, pausing to look smugly over her shoulder. “But do not expect Burden to be as welcoming as I was.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ANNABELLE STRUGGLED TO maintain a calm facade during the entire journey to the main office. The three of them pounded up a winding flight of stairs and through the smoky haze of the VIP lounge. She managed to hold her head high, even when people stopped what they were doing—having sex, snorting coke, torquing veins—to glare at her and Zacharel. Demons had to be resting on their shoulders, as Zacharel had said, but she couldn’t see them.

When at last their trio stepped inside a seeming paradise, her struggle for composure jumped to the next level. Everything looked so normal, yet deep down she knew it was oh, so wrong. The room was spacious, with white walls and a white shag carpet interspersed with black, creating hypnotizing squares. Bookshelves lined the wall behind a desk shaped like a half-moon. A chandelier hung overhead, positioned in the center of a three-tiered ceiling.

Nice, right? But behind the desk sat a beautiful golden-haired man in his mid-thirties, the high back of his leather chair rising several inches above his head, Dr. Evil style. He was far too thin, like, sickly thin, but his pose was all about the casual, his elbows resting on the chair arms, his fingers steepled over his mouth. Still, he couldn’t hide his air of cruelty.

Who was he? The last line of security before they reached the demon?

His eyes were a darker shade of blue than Annabelle’s own, and dulled, his lashes brown yet tipped in gold. The shadow of a beard scruffed his jaw. He wore a navy blue pinstriped suit and smelled of money, musk and pungent alcohol.

The two armed guards behind him wore muscle tanks and leather pants, their expressions expectant. No doubt they were the type to shoot first and ask questions later.

The beautiful blond girl from the club, the one Annabelle had stabbed, plopped into a couch beside the door, mumbling about the best ways to torture pesky humans as she patched herself up.

“Hello, Burden,” Zacharel said.

Burden. This was Burden? The demon-possessed man who had ordered all those other demons to attack her inside the institution? I shouldn’t have wasted my last two knives on the girl.

Dr. Evil’s smile became all the more welcoming—and all the more sinister.

“Ah, Zacharel,” Burden said. “I’m so pleased you received my invitation.”

“I will see Jamila now,” her angel replied, pleasantries clearly over.

“Your manners…for shame.” Burden’s voice was all satisfaction and potent desires. “Business first? How rude. May we offer you a drink? A whore? A hit?”

Silence.

“No? And what about you, my dear?” His navy gaze moved to Annabelle, slithered over her body and mentally removed her clothing. “Would you like anything?”

Zacharel stiffened as she said, “I’d love something. For starters, I’ll take your head on the floor, detached from your body. After that, we can talk about my next demand.” So he’d told her to keep her mouth shut and her hands to herself while they were here and she had failed at both. So what?

You’re already a target. Do not make yourself more of one, he’d said.

That would have been great advice…when dealing with anyone but a demon. She could not come off as weak. Demons pounced on weakness, exploiting it. But she would rein herself in from now, she vowed. Zacharel had a plan; she knew he did. He and the other three angels had stood in front of each other, silent, for half an hour, their facial expressions changing every few minutes. Somehow, someway, they had been communicating with each other. Not that anyone had explained anything to her when they’d finished.

Burden’s chuckle echoed through the office, cold and slick. “Your thirst for blood does my heart proud, Annabelle. But I wonder…are you hiding any more weapons?” Another once-over ensued. “Oh, yes, I think you are.”

She wasn’t, but so wished she was.

He motioned to one of the guards, and it was obviously an order to frisk her.

Zacharel moved in the blink of an eye, a sword of fire in his hand, and poised at the demon’s throat. “No one touches her.”

The guards made no move to stop him. Either they were too afraid of him, or they had their own orders to obey.

Burden shifted in his seat, but any discomfort he felt was quickly masked with an air of superiority. “If you strike at me, my people know to kill Jamila.”

“I would be no kind of leader if I protected one of my charges above another. So I repeat, no one touches the girl. Ever.”

That’s my man.

“Very well. No one will touch her while you’re here,” Burden allowed, evidently not the least bit upset that his authority had been questioned.

“Agreed.”

Wait. What?

Zacharel’s sword vanished.

The demon’s grin returned. “Because I’m so generous, I’ll allow your woman to keep her weapons.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Annabelle said, acting as if she did, in fact, have a few surprises tucked away. Now it’s time for you to zip it, Miller, and let Zachie do his thing. Remember?

Burden ignored her, but said to Zacharel with a bit more edge to his tone, “She’ll find I’m not as easy to hurt as the beautiful Driana.” He nodded briefly toward the woman still nursing her wounds on the couch.

“This conversation grows tiresome.” Zacharel flexed his fingers at his side, before curling his hands into fists. “Let’s move on.”

Burden lifted a pen from his desk and twirled the thing one way, then the other. “Impatient as ever, I see. To be honest—” he chuckled at his own words “—I’m a little surprised you came. You had to know I wouldn’t keep my end of the bargain to return Jamila to you.”

Zacharel eyed him impassively. “That goes without saying.”

Wait. He’d known they were walking into a trap? Then what the heck were they doing here?

“So why are you here, angel?” Burden asked.

“I will tell you. After I see proof that Jamila still lives.”

Burden flinched at the layer of truth in Zacharel’s voice. “Some things never change, I suppose. It’s comforting to know you’re as suspicious as you are impatient.”

“And you, in turn, are as untrustworthy as you are repulsive.”

The demon inclined his head in acknowledgment, as if he’d just received a compliment. “Thank you. But why don’t I liven things up and do the unexpected? I’ll give you your proof,” he said, “after I have your word that no other warrior angels are here or even nearby.”

He had guards all over the club, and probably cameras, too. He should already know the answer.

“Why should he believe you this time when you’ve already admitted to lying?” Annabelle demanded.

Burden laughed. “Smart girl. But he believes me because he can taste the truth of my words.”

Zacharel ran his tongue over his teeth. “I can. And I agree to your terms. My angels are not here.”

“Someone else’s angels?”

“No. I am the only angel you will be dealing with.”

Burden pursed his lips, pondered the situation then nodded. “This is somewhat disappointing. I expected the mighty Zacharel to put up some kind of fight, at the very least. Now I have to wonder why you are so agreeable about this. You knew you could not save Jamila. You knew you were bringing the human into the danger zone.”

“And you know that according to the bargain just struck I’m not required to give you that information.”

“True, but I had to try. I’m sure you understand.” The demon leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk. “Here is what’s about to happen. I will show you your precious angel, as I agreed. Then, you will either walk out of my club without bloodshed or you will stay and watch as my men and I enjoy the human.”

Annabelle’s heart skipped a treacherous beat. Zacharel will not walk away. He will not leave you or let these men hurt you. More than that, you will not let these men hurt you.

Zacharel smiled, but it was a cruel one, full of frost, cut with a promise to deliver pain. “You truly think you and your men, or even an army of men, could take me?”

“Maybe, maybe not, but your Jamila will die while we fight.”

Zacharel shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “Show me what you promised to show me.”