CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ANNABELLE STRUGGLED TO maintain a calm facade during the entire journey to the main office. The three of them pounded up a winding flight of stairs and through the smoky haze of the VIP lounge. She managed to hold her head high, even when people stopped what they were doing—having sex, snorting coke, torquing veins—to glare at her and Zacharel. Demons had to be resting on their shoulders, as Zacharel had said, but she couldn’t see them.
When at last their trio stepped inside a seeming paradise, her struggle for composure jumped to the next level. Everything looked so normal, yet deep down she knew it was oh, so wrong. The room was spacious, with white walls and a white shag carpet interspersed with black, creating hypnotizing squares. Bookshelves lined the wall behind a desk shaped like a half-moon. A chandelier hung overhead, positioned in the center of a three-tiered ceiling.
Nice, right? But behind the desk sat a beautiful golden-haired man in his mid-thirties, the high back of his leather chair rising several inches above his head, Dr. Evil style. He was far too thin, like, sickly thin, but his pose was all about the casual, his elbows resting on the chair arms, his fingers steepled over his mouth. Still, he couldn’t hide his air of cruelty.
Who was he? The last line of security before they reached the demon?
His eyes were a darker shade of blue than Annabelle’s own, and dulled, his lashes brown yet tipped in gold. The shadow of a beard scruffed his jaw. He wore a navy blue pinstriped suit and smelled of money, musk and pungent alcohol.
The two armed guards behind him wore muscle tanks and leather pants, their expressions expectant. No doubt they were the type to shoot first and ask questions later.
The beautiful blond girl from the club, the one Annabelle had stabbed, plopped into a couch beside the door, mumbling about the best ways to torture pesky humans as she patched herself up.
“Hello, Burden,” Zacharel said.
Burden. This was Burden? The demon-possessed man who had ordered all those other demons to attack her inside the institution? I shouldn’t have wasted my last two knives on the girl.
Dr. Evil’s smile became all the more welcoming—and all the more sinister.
“Ah, Zacharel,” Burden said. “I’m so pleased you received my invitation.”
“I will see Jamila now,” her angel replied, pleasantries clearly over.
“Your manners…for shame.” Burden’s voice was all satisfaction and potent desires. “Business first? How rude. May we offer you a drink? A whore? A hit?”
Silence.
“No? And what about you, my dear?” His navy gaze moved to Annabelle, slithered over her body and mentally removed her clothing. “Would you like anything?”
Zacharel stiffened as she said, “I’d love something. For starters, I’ll take your head on the floor, detached from your body. After that, we can talk about my next demand.” So he’d told her to keep her mouth shut and her hands to herself while they were here and she had failed at both. So what?
You’re already a target. Do not make yourself more of one, he’d said.
That would have been great advice…when dealing with anyone but a demon. She could not come off as weak. Demons pounced on weakness, exploiting it. But she would rein herself in from now, she vowed. Zacharel had a plan; she knew he did. He and the other three angels had stood in front of each other, silent, for half an hour, their facial expressions changing every few minutes. Somehow, someway, they had been communicating with each other. Not that anyone had explained anything to her when they’d finished.
Burden’s chuckle echoed through the office, cold and slick. “Your thirst for blood does my heart proud, Annabelle. But I wonder…are you hiding any more weapons?” Another once-over ensued. “Oh, yes, I think you are.”
She wasn’t, but so wished she was.