He peered at her with growing horror. “What kind of monster are you? Wait. I remember. You’re the Butcher of Colorado.”
Zacharel was at the other bed, backhanding Brax and nearly dislocating his jaw before Annabelle could blink. “Your woman was demon possessed and tried to kill your sister. Annabelle was protecting herself.”
A fresh bout of tears streaked down Brax’s cheeks. “N-no. I refuse to b-believe that. She couldn’t have been demon possessed, she just couldn’t! She hasn’t been herself lately, but…but…” The force of his sobs had him curling into himself. And finally, blessedly, the ring of truth struck his core and he accepted what Zacharel had said. “I’m…sorry, Annabelle. If she had been herself, she would never have tried to hurt you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said as Zacharel returned to her side.
“Are you okay?” Brax asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. She hoped. She ached, oh, did she ache, her muscles throbbing, her bones creaking, but she kept her features relaxed. “I’ve healed from worse, right, Zacharel?”
The angel nodded. “I’ll make sure you heal this time, too.” Jaw clenched, he withdrew a clear vial from the air. The Water of Life. “Open.”
“No, I—”
With one hand under her neck, lifting her head, and the other tipping the vial back, he ensured a droplet hit her tongue before she could finish her protest. Cool, crisp, the clean flavor slid down her throat, into her stomach, and torpedoed through the rest of her. As new cells were created, as muscle and tissue wove back together, her pain magnified, chill replaced by heat.
But then, a few minutes later—an eternity, surely—strength replaced her weakness, and most of the pain dulled, leaving her in a breathless heap atop the bed.
No, not true. Her pain hadn’t dulled but had simply relocated. Her chest, just above her heart, began to burn, burn unbearably, and only getting worse.
“What’s wrong with her now?” Brax asked.
A frowning Zacharel ignored him, saying to Annabelle, “You are still hurting?”
“Yes.” She rubbed at her chest, reminded herself to breathe in, breathe out and concentrate on something besides her body. But that was easier said than done, because oh, no, no, no, she felt as if she were actually on fire from the inside out. “Help,” she squeaked.
Strong hands pinned her arms against the mattress before smoothing over her chest. Zacharel rubbed gentle circles at first, creating friction, then increased the fervency of his strokes. “Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.”
“Trying.”
“In. Out. In. Go get some ice,” he shouted.
“Can’t.”
“Not you. You continue breathing. Out. In. Good girl.”
She must have blacked out at some point, because the next thing she knew, she lay in a cool puddle of water, her chest on the road to normal. She was able to breathe easily and without prompting.
“Better?”
“Yes, thank you, but listen up.” She ran her fingers over her sternum, the skin frozen and wet. “I don’t want any more of that water. I would have eventually healed from the gunshot on my own, and I can’t tolerate that burning again.”
“Your pain has now eased completely. I do not consider that a waste.”
“Well, you aren’t the one who just got back from hell.”
“You are alive, aren’t you?”
She blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re arguing with me now?”
“What should I be doing?”
“Fawning, you turd.”
He flashed the quickest of grins. “Chalk it up to a rookie mistake.” He pulled a T-shirt out of the air, and helped her dress. He motioned to her brother. “Tell her what you told me.”
Her gaze strayed to Brax. He watched her and Zacharel with horror, as if only then realizing how close they were. His shivers had slowed, at least. “You healed.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
“Tell her.” A harsh command that would meet with harsh reprisal if ignored a second time.
“After you tell me why you didn’t heal Driana.”