Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author
GENA SHOWALTER
The Darkest Passion
‘Showalter gives her fans another treat, sure to satisfy!’
—RT Book Reviews
The Darkest Whisper
‘If you like your paranormal dark and passionately flavoured, this is the series for you.’
—RT Book Reviews
The Darkest Pleasure
‘Showalter’s darkly dangerous Lords of the Underworld trilogy, with its tortured characters, comes to a very satisfactory conclusion… [her] compelling universe contains the possibility of more stories to be told.’
—RT Book Reviews
The Darkest Kiss
‘In this new chapter the Lords of the Underworld engage in a deadly dance. Anya is a fascinating blend of spunk, arrogance and vulnerability—a perfect match for the tormented Lucien.’
—RT Book Reviews
The Nymph King
‘A world of myth, mayhem and love under the sea!’
—J. R. Ward
Playing with Fire
‘Another sizzling page-turner… Gena Showalter delivers an utterly spell-binding story!’
—Kresley Cole
Wicked Nights
Gena Showalter
Angels of the Dark
Dear Reader,
I have been intrigued by the stone-cold angel Zacharel since the first moment he stepped on to the pages of my LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD series in The Darkest Secret. I mean, really. An immortal warrior who finds it easier to slay an enemy than to smile at a friend? Yeah, I had to know his secrets.
I also had to flip his entire world upside down, and oh, did I have fun doing it. He’s been put in charge of the biggest, baddest beings ever created—an army of angels about to be kicked out of the heavens forever. He’s met the first woman ever to kindle a fire his blood, and he’s in danger of losing his greatest treasure (and no, I’m not just talking about his virginity).
What better way to begin my new ANGELS OF THE DARK series?
Sacrifices will have to be made, and battles between good and evil will have to be fought. (Go, Team Good!) Zacharel has one chance to get this right. Just one—because it’s his last. If he fails, he will be stripped of everything that matters to him. His position, his power… and even his love.
I hope you enjoy this journey as much as I enjoyed writing it. After all, as you travel you’ll be in the arms of an exquisite winged warrior…
All the best,
Gena Showalter
To Jill Monroe,
for encouraging phone calls and e-mails, and the laughs!
(And I want it forever noted that you are listed first.)
To Sheila Fields and Betty Sanders,
for the friendship, the brainstorming, and the laughs!
To Joyce and Emmett Harrison, Leigh Heldermon,
and Sony Harrison, for the support, the love,
and the laughs! (Yes, I’m big on laughs.)
To Mickey Dowling and Anita Baldwin,
fantastic ladies I adore!
To Kresley Cole and Beth Kendrick—
a thousand thank-yous, ladies.
Actually that’s not enough. A million thank-yous, ladies!
And to Kathleen Oudit and Tara Scarcello, for seriously
knocking this one out of the park!
So gorgeous!
PROLOGUE
THE MORNING OF HER eighteenth birthday, Annabelle Miller woke from the most amazing dream feeling as if her eyes had been ripped out, dipped in acid and shoved back into their sockets. She became aware of the sensation gradually, her mind still fogged from sleep. When full awareness finally struck, her entire body tensed and bowed, a scream ripping free of her throat.
She pried her swollen eyelids apart, but… there was no dawning light. Only darkness greeted her.
The pain spread, riding the too-swift tides in her veins and threatening to burst through her skin. She rubbed at her face, even clawed, hoping to remove whatever was causing the problem, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. No bumps, no scratches. No… wait. There was something. A warm liquid now coated her hands.
Blood?
Another scream left her, followed by another and another, each like a serrated piece of glass scraping her throat raw. In seconds, panic chewed her up and spit her out. She was blind, bleeding—and dying?
The whine of hinges, the clack of high heels against the hardwood floor. “Annabelle? Are you all right?” A pause, then a hiss of breath. “Oh, baby, your eyes. What happened to your eyes? Rick! Rick! Hurry!”
A curse was followed by the pound of hard, fast footsteps. A second later, a horrified gasp filled her bedroom. “What happened to her face?” her father bellowed.
“I don’t know, I don’t know. She was like this when I came in.”
“Annabelle, sweetheart.” Her dad, now so tender and concerned. “Can you hear me? Can you tell me what happened to you?”
Annabelle tried to speak—Daddy, help me, please, help me—but the words became diamond hard and too jagged to swallow. And oh, dear heaven, the burn migrated to her chest, flames sparking every time her heart beat.
Strong arms slid under her, one at her shoulders, the other at her knees, and lifted her. The movement, temperate though
