“I don’t know. It’s dying, perhaps.” The demons that attacked must have poisoned it somehow. “My bedroom. Show me.”
His bed appeared, as did his nightstand. He reached inside the pocket of air and withdrew— Relief nearly buckled his knees. The urn was safe.
“Follow me to the temple, and remain within my sight,” he commanded the cloud. “Guard her, give her anything she requests, and when I return, I will end your suffering.” A pang inside his chest. Of remorse? This home had been his only…friend for a very long time.
Annabelle clutched at his robe. “Let me help you.”
He hardened his heart against her; he had to. “You have no wings, and carrying you will hinder me.”
“But surely I can—”
“You are helping me by staying here and protecting my greatest treasure.”
“Bedroom furniture?” she asked drily.
“Inside that urn is all that I have left of my brother.” Before she could ask questions he wasn’t prepared to answer, he meshed his lips against hers, his tongue plumbing the depths of her warm, wet mouth, stealing a last taste before the coming battle.
By the time he lifted his head, he wanted only to stay with her. But from the very beginning he’d known the temptation for more was the danger of her. He caressed a fingertip along her cheekbone, whispered, “Perhaps the urn isn’t my greatest treasure,” and left her.
*
ANNABELLE’S FIRST THOUGHT: Did he just imply what I think he just implied?
Her second: The little woman stays home, while the big strong tough guy goes to war.
Would their relationship always work this way?
She studied the urn she was to protect. Clear liquid swirled inside, thicker than the Water of Life, with violet beads glittering throughout. Angel ashes?
Whatever it was, she would protect the stuff, as she’d been asked to do, and hopefully her debt to Zacharel would be paid. He had reunited her with her brother, convinced Brax of the truth, and though the relationship was anything but smooth, it was no longer hate-filled, either. The possibility for more, for better, was there.
To the urn, she said, “I need a change of clothes and a cool, new weapon. Also, wings would be nice.” The last was said on a wistful sigh. “Your brother has done a marvelous job of protecting me and providing for me, but I’d love to show him I can protect and provide for myself, too, you know.”
“Very well,” said an eerie, laughing voice—one that did not come from the urn. A second later, the cloud shook so violently, she had to grip a bedpost to remain standing.
“What’s going on? Who’s there?” No one had appeared; she was still alone.
The moment the shaking stopped, she looked around to assess the damage. Everything appeared the same—until she looked down at herself. Her T-shirt and jeans had been replaced by… What the heck? A sexy devil costume?
She now wore a short red dress, with patches of material cut out of the waist, just like Driana’s, the hem stopping just below the curve of her butt. A padded forked tail uncurled to her feet. Five-inch stilettos encased her feet. Red fishnets stretched to midthigh, garters hooking them to…matching red panties. Great. Also, her blades were gone.
“Is this supposed to be funny?” she demanded. “You better tell me who you are and where you are. Now.”
More laughter, more shaking, and then a rusty pitchfork with glass shards hooked to each of the prongs appeared on top of the bed. “Can’t forget the rest of what you wanted.”
Her weapon, she realized, the one she’d requested. Wait. Was the cloud able to speak now? “What am I supposed to do with—”