A moment passed.
Their bodies began to shrivel up like mummies as the virus devoured them from the inside out in a desperate bid to continue living. Dr. Melanie Lipton had told Lisette this virus behaved like no other on the planet, and the proof lay—disintegrating on the ground—before her.
She glanced around to ensure no humans loitered nearby.
“Don’t do it,” she counseled herself softly as a compulsion grew within her.
Yet again, the words didn’t stop her.
Sighing, she looked up and searched the rooftops around her, waiting to see if a dark, winged figure would separate itself from the shadows.
It didn’t.
“You knew he wouldn’t be there,” she muttered with disgust, and bent to retrieve the bowie knives.
“Who wouldn’t?” a deep voice queried softly.
Gasping, she straightened and spun around. “You.”
Just as she had imagined a thousand times, a tall figure emerged from the darkness and slowly approached her. Damned near seven feet tall, he towered over her five-foot six-inch form. Dark leather pants. No shirt. Just a leanly muscled form bereft of hair except for the raven tresses that adorned his head and fell beneath his shoulders.
Behind him spread beautiful wings that would span twelve or fourteen feet when fully extended. Nearly translucent, the feathers that graced them were the same tan as his skin at the wings’ base and darkened to black at their tips. Her fingers curled as she remembered touching them. Just once. So soft. Like the hair on a newborn baby’s head.
“Zach,” she breathed. The last time she had seen him he had saved her life.
Stopping several feet away, he closed his eyes for a moment. “You remember my name.”
“Of course I do,” she said, heart racing. “It’s only been four months.”
His eyes opened, so dark a brown they were nearly black. “Is that how long it’s been? Four months?”
She nodded.
“Who were you looking for?” he asked.
“You,” she admitted, though she knew she shouldn’t.
A month ago, when curiosity and no recent sightings had driven her to ask about this intriguing, yet formidable immortal, Seth had not reacted well. Face dark with rage, he had instructed her to forget Zach and to stay away from him.
Zach tilted his head to one side. “Why?”
“I . . .” Can’t stop thinking about you. “I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
Was that moisture forming on his forehead? Even immortals her age could regulate their body’s temperature without thinking about it. Though the night was unusually warm, his body should be cool.
“For what?” he asked again.
She swallowed hard, wishing now she had thought of another answer. This man possessed almost as much power as Seth. Pissing him off probably wasn’t a very good idea.
He glanced to the side, as though he heard something she couldn’t. “I don’t have much time,” he murmured, and returned his attention to her.
“I wanted to apologize because . . . I think I said something that made Seth angry at you.”
His eyes flashed golden. “What?”
Thunder rumbled overhead, drawing her wary gaze. “After we fought Donald’s mercenaries that last time, I asked Seth why he didn’t just do what you did when you came to my rescue and kill all of our enemies with a thought instead of letting us risk our existence in battle with them.” She shook her head. “The question seemed to anger him.” An understatement. “But that anger seemed to be directed at . . . you.”
A shadow formed on Zach’s chest.
No. Not a shadow. A large bruise. Another darkened the area around one eye.
“I thought . . .”
A long gash, like that cut by a whip, streaked across his chest, parting the bruise.
What the hell?
Her gaze darted all around them, seeking but finding no assailant. “I thought,” she stuttered, “that might be why I haven’t seen you around.” More gashes opened on his flesh as he stared at her, his handsome face expressionless. “I thought Seth might have told you to stay away.” An ugly abrasion formed on his temple. Blood trailed down to the edge of his strong jaw and drip, drip, dripped onto his broad shoulder. She took a step forward. “Zach, what’s happening to you?”#p#分页标题#e#
In what seemed like seconds, bleeding lash marks striped his arms, shoulders, chest, and abdomen. His jaw clenched as, beneath her horrified gaze, bones in his wings began to break.
Swearing, she raced to his side, swords raised to combat . . . whoever the hell was doing this to him.
Feathers fluttered to the ground at his feet as he staggered. Those still attached to his wings began to glisten with crimson liquid as wound after wound appeared.