He snapped his teeth at her. While he lacked fangs, he did not lack menace. “No touching.”
Kaia acted as if she hadn’t heard him and did exactly as she wanted. Typical of the Harpies. “Okay, wow. It is. What happened to her?”
“I’m not sure.” But I will find out, and I will fix it as promised. “Bedroom. Now. Please,” he added, hoping against hope that would work. With Harpies, you had a fifty-fifty chance of getting what you wanted—or dying.
“You better do it, B,” Kaia said with a sigh. “You know how Lysander gets all wussed-out when you so much as scrape a knee? Well, Zach here is worse with his little princess. Maybe ’cause she’s human and so inferior. Although I think we can scratch the word human from her list of descriptions.”
“She is not inferior,” he roared. “And she is human.”
Bianka studied him for several long, silent minutes. “You’re right, Kye. Zach is worse. So, all right, come on, angel. This way.” She skipped down a hallway.
He trailed after her, leaving a line of snow in his wake.
“Hey, Zach,” Kaia called. There was a pause, the sound of gushing liquid and then a few gulps. She must be drinking straight from the bottle. “You do realize you’ve got a headless demon strapped to your back, right?”
“Of course. I put him there.”
Bianka stopped and waved her hand through the baby-blue mist beside her, a doorway appearing.
Zacharel brushed past her and stepped inside.
A large bed waited in the center, perfect for warrior angels with above-average wingspans, and now perfect for humans with demon wings. He tenderly placed Annabelle on the mattress, smoothed the hair from her face and drew the covers over her body. “We won’t stay long. Demons sense her, wherever she is, and attack.”
“Kye and I just happen to be in need of a good fight. Stay as long as you want.”
That was the thing with the Harpies. They might irritate him, but they always had his back. Even better, they were amazingly skilled warriors. Still, tossing Bianka and Kaia into a dangerous situation—while they were drunk—was a guaranteed way of earning the ire of Lysander and every Lord of the Underworld.
“Thank you, but we’ll be gone within the hour.”
“Dude, you are so missing out on the best nunchuck skills ever, but whatever. I offered, and that’s all I can do—before I pretend you never spoke and do exactly what I want.” He heard footsteps, a grumbled “Save some wine for me, you hussy!” then only the rasp of Annabelle’s breathing.
He removed the demon from his back, the body flopping lifelessly to the floor. The disgusting creature must have opened the urn and touched what it contained inside, the essentia instantly absorbing into his skin.
Zacharel misted his hand, reached inside the creature’s chest and—yes, felt the warm flood of his brother’s essentia against his palm, the fizz of something more than blood, seeking him, wanting out of the demon’s shell.
For a moment, Zacharel was transported back to the night he’d done this to his brother. Just as before, he held tight, and when he pulled his hand free, something thick and clear coated his skin. Something…what was left of his brother. Will not react.
Before a single drop could absorb into his body, he commanded the cloud to produce an urn. He scraped the rim from fingertip to elbow, until every bead had fallen into the container. After sealing the lid, he shoved the urn into a hidden pocket of air. Angels and demons alike would be drawn to it, but he would never again make anyone else responsible for its safeguarding.