Another round of laughter interrupted her. The shaking started up again, more intense than before. Her mind whirled with possibilities. She’d asked for a change of clothes and gotten this. She’d asked for a new weapon and gotten that. Dread became a noose around her neck. She’d asked for wings and would get…what?
When the laughter at last quieted and the shaking stilled, a sharp pain lanced up her spine. But that was it. A pain there and gone, and for a long while, nothing else happened. She began to relax.
“Cloud,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind about the clothes, the weapon and the wings. Okay?”
“Sorry, naughty girl, but I’m not the cloud—and there can be no take backs. Just give it a moment. You might like it.”
As if on cue, warmth burgeoned between her shoulder blades. At first, it was actually comforting. But that warmth heated…and heated…until it was blistering, surely crackling with actual flames.
“Stop this,” she demanded. “Whatever you’re doing, stop.”
Hotter and hotter…sweat beading over her skin, breath emerging shallow and fast. But okay. She could handle this. She could— The flesh between her shoulder blades ripped open and blood gushed down her back, something sharp slicing through muscle.
Her knees gave out, and she collapsed. “Stop! Please.”
“Why would I stop now? I’ve been waiting for you, knew you would return.”
The voice came from across the room this time, and she managed to lift her head enough to see a grinning demon step from the oozing black wall. Not the cloud, after all.
Stay clam. Don’t let him feed off your emotions.
Fighting the pain, dizzy, she lumbered to her feet and grabbed the pitchfork. “How’d you…hide from…Zacharel?”
“Your angel is not all-powerful, and he cannot see all things. I followed the cloud after our attack, and laid siege.” The creature was tall, though thin, with scales as smooth and shiny as black ice. His eyes were red, not the pretty ruby of so many of his brethren, but edged with rust. “The cloud is now mine. Mine to control…to pervert however I wish.”
“A cloud…can’t give a human…wings.”
“Well, you are more than human, aren’t you, naughty girl? You belong to a demon.”
Calm…“I belong to myself.” Drawing on every ounce of strength in her being, she jabbed the tip of the pitchfork at him.
He hunched his body and twisted out of the way, rendering her attack ineffective. Flashing his too-sharp teeth, he said, “No need to play rough. I’m not going to hurt you…much.”
Again she jabbed the pitchfork at him. This time he wasn’t fast enough. Contact. The prongs sank deep into his thighbone, the long handle vibrating from the force. Only, he was not the one to scream and drop to his knees as agony overwhelmed him. She was. The muscles in her leg…torn to shreds, surely.
His chuckle rebounded from the walls. “Do you really think I’m stupid enough to give you a weapon that could harm me?”
“Yes,” she gasped out. “I really do.”
He took no insult. “The beauty of the pitchfork is that the one who wields it feels the injuries it causes. Tell me if this hurts.” He jerked the prongs from his thigh.
Another scream left her, a black mist fogging her line of vision. Not because of her thigh—though yeah, that was beyond awful—but because of her chest. Whenever she received an injury somewhere else, razors seemed to scrape at the burn there, as if Zacharel had just poured his water down her throat.
“Well?” the demon asked.
“Endured…worse.”
“If only I was not forbidden to taste you.” He closed the distance between them and crouched in front of her, his vile scent overwhelming her senses. “My master has Zacharel’s other female, did you know that?” He opened his palm, revealing a curling lock of dark hair. “The pretty angel.”
“He has what remains of her body, you mean.”
“No. She lives.”
“You lie.”
“Do I? Can you really take that chance?”