When at last she quieted, tears sliding down her pitted cheeks, the putrid scent of her rot fading, Zacharel said calmly, “I have decided to be benevolent and give you one last chance. Why did you remain outside the institution this night?”
There was the barest of pauses before she offered faintly, “Wasssn’t…my time…to enter.” Her words were punctuated by gasps of residual pain.
“According to whom?”
A longer pause as she considered what more Zacharel could do to her. In the end, she decided an evasion was not worth it. “Burden.”
Burden. A demon who had once been second in command to the high lord of Greed, and widely regarded as one of hell’s fiercer warriors. Currently he was without a master.
Was he the one who had marked Annabelle? “Where is Burden right now?”
“Don’t…know.”
He detected no lie this time, either. “How did Burden contact you?”
“Disseassse too busssy…with humansss… I had to align myself…with sssomeone. Burden wasss…the mossst powerful…of my optionsss.”
“What were his orders?”
“What do you…think…they were?”
He nodded to Thane.
Thane twisted the knife.
The minion grunted through the renewed pain. “We were…to have fun…with a human female. The one currently…ssscenting your…robe.”
“Why?”
“Did…not ask. Did…not care.”
Truth. “You have earned your death, minion. She’s all yours,” he told his soldiers.
Thane removed the blade, and she sagged against her bonds. A second later, five fiery swords appeared, and in the next blink of time, the minion was missing her head and all her limbs. Demons liked fire, yes, and could withstand the flames. But the fires in hell were fires of damnation. The soldiers’ swords possessed the fire of justice, and that the demons could not withstand.
His warriors held the tips of their swords against each piece of the minion, until flesh and bone caught flame, charred to ash and swirled away in a sudden breeze.
Zacharel had the answers he’d sought. The question now was what to do with them.
CHAPTER FIVE
SO MUCH FOR ENJOYING her change of scenery, Annabelle thought.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She had. At first.
After she had devoured all her favorite foods, her stomach so full she could have burst, she had showered, feeling cleaner than she had in four years. If only she’d felt cleaner than ever, but no. There was a film of dirt under her skin, in her blood, that she had been unable to wipe away.
Wah, wah, whatever. No whining. Not now. She dressed in the tank and soft flowing pants she had requested. Then she stood there. Just stood there, exhaustion completely overwhelming her. She asked the cloud—the cloud!—for a bed. A king-size monstrosity with gorgeous silk sheets appeared, and she crawled on top gratefully. But…she was unable to sleep, too afraid of being vulnerable, too worried about the nightmares that would plague her—too caught up in thoughts of Zacharel.
Where had he gone? Who was he with? What was he doing?
Why did it matter to her?
By morning, little aches and pains in her body made their presence known and she forgot all about her curiosity. Soon after that, she began to shiver and sweat from withdrawal. So many years of continuous drug use and now, quitting cold…probably not the wisest course of action. And yes, she could have asked the cloud for a sedative, but she resisted the idea with every fiber of her being. Never would she do to herself what the doctors had done to her.
The second day, she vomited over and over again, until there was nothing left inside her stomach except—surely—glass shards and rusty nails. And maybe a herd of stampeding buffalo.
The third day, she returned to the trembling and the sweating, so weak she could barely lift her head or even open her eyes.