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permanent place in the life of a mortal, inside the mortal s mind, where whatever wickedness the
demon is pandering consumes every thought, every action.
 Is this like the rebuking thing? They have to be taught how to fight what they cannot see?
 Yes. They must learn the spiritual truths and laws and act accordingly.
Beyond the dancers were the tables. Empty glasses and beer bottles were scattered every-
where. His gaze cut through the sultriness of the dark to see money exchanged for drugs, prosti-
tutes studying their nails as their breasts were fondled, but he found no sign of his helpers.
 Hey, man, you got a light? a male voice said.
Zacharel jolted to attention. The male stood in front of him, a cigarette balanced between his
lips.
He stood as tall as Zacharel, with hair so thick and luxurious any woman would covet it. The
mass was a symphony of colors, shades of flax interspaced with caramel, chocolate and coffee.
His eyes were a deep, fathomless blue, and his hauntingly lovely face something out of a cata-
log or the heavens and completely at odds with his warrior s body.
Finally.
Annabelle gasped as if she had just spotted something precious, and Zacharel could only
gnash his teeth in irritation.
 Cigarettes kill, was all Zacharel told the man. Can t punch him. Really can t punch him.
Especially since I asked him to come here.
 So do a lot of things, he grumbled. He tugged out the cigarette, dropped the butt, his gaze
raking over Annabelle, assessing.  Pretty female. She yours?
 Yes. Zacharel s tone shouted so back off.
Paris, keeper of the demon of Promiscuity, grinned slowly and with a satisfaction that only
increased Zacharel s irritation.  She mute?
 No. Though she certainly seemed that way. Her mouth was hanging open, but no sound
was emerging.
A husky laugh slipped from Paris, and Zacharel could only marvel at the change in him. A
few months ago, there d been no one more miserable than this male. But then, the right woman
could bring any man back to life, couldn t she?
 Try not to take offense. She can t help herself. Whistling under his breath, Paris strolled
away.
 You have something to say about everything, Zacharel said to Annabelle,  and yet you are
struck speechless in front of him?
 It s his scent&  she replied unabashedly, watching Paris s muscled back until he disap-
peared in the crowd.  I ve never smelled anything like it. Chocolate and coconut and cham-
pagne, and utterly mouthwatering.
 He is possessed by the demon of Promiscuity, Zacharel blurted out.
 What! No way.
 Yes way.
 Possessed, she echoed hollowly.
Good. She would never again gaze at Paris in such a longing manner. Petty of him? Maybe.
Did he care? No.  Most of the people here are demonically influenced, as I told you, but a few
are actually possessed. Burden employs them the demons, I mean, and pays them to tempt any
of the Black Veil s patrons who are not yet so evilly inclined.
Her fingers tightened around his, and he knew she hoped to take strength from him.  So what
are we supposed to do now?
 Now we wait.
Thankfully, they didn t have to wait long. A female parted the masses on the dance floor,
then slowly strolled toward Zacharel. One of the most beautiful women he d ever seen, she had
a silky fall of pale hair, skin a light dusting of rose and eyes as golden as the moonlight outside.
Large breasts were barely concealed in a red leather dress, patches of material cut from the
sides to reveal perfectly flared hips. The dress s hem stopped just below her bottom, making it
clear there were no panties to shield the apex of those mile-long legs.
Beautiful, yes. But also one of the demon possessed.
He could sense the human soul banging at the doors of her mind, desperate to escape the de-
mon s hold. It had been a recent possession, then. Within a few days, most likely.
She stopped in front of him, but her gaze focused squarely on Annabelle.  There s my sweet
little geisha. How I ve missed you.
 What did you just call me? Annabelle gasped out.
The human male, Fitzherbert, had said those exact words to her, Zacharel recalled. Sweet
little geisha. Zacharel did not believe in coincidences. The demon now possessing the woman in
front of her must once have possessed someone at the institution. Not Fitzherbert Zacharel
would have sensed it but someone who spent a great deal of time inside the building. A pa-
tient, most likely, which made sense. Minions who d created a stronghold inside a human mind
could convince their hosts to do almost anything. Burden would have wanted one with easy ac-
cess to Annabelle, watching, listening, probably even encouraging others to hurt her, then re-
porting back.
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, end-
ing 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.  Con-
trol your pet, angel.
 Unlike you, demon, I do not stoop to controlling humans. And if his Deity thought to re-
prove 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 chan-
delier 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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]