Kingdom of the Wicked (Kingdom of the Wicked, #1)(61)

And I was allowing it.

I regained my senses and stepped away.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve lied to me, witch.”

It really stoked his anger, too. I smiled demurely. “Maybe you should tell me more about the curse. I’d like to know more about that part.”

“Fine. You want to know the bloody details? The curse—”

“Signore, is . . . should I return in a little while?” A man somewhere between thirty and forty stood a few feet away, wringing a letter in his hands. “Your brother said—”

From one breath to the next Wrath had the messenger up against the wall, his forearm pressed hard against the man’s windpipe. Blood dripped from the messenger’s nose onto his tunic and the demon closed his eyes as if in utter rapture.

“Hello, Francesco. Pardon my rudeness, but I hear you’ve been selling my secrets. If we were in the Walled City, you’d already be dead. Consider this a favor.”

I stood there, frozen. Half in shock, half in horror. Wrath had exploded in violence faster than it took me to suck in a startled breath.

“Did I ever tell you the scent of blood drives me into a near frenzy, witch? Your kind believes we crave the taste of it, but princes of Hell don’t usually drink blood. It’s power we’re intoxicated by. The more I allow someone to bleed, the more power I hold over their life.”

I blinked. I could barely form a coherent thought. I forgot, through our bantering, who Wrath really was. I imagined I was seeing only a small fraction of what he could do.

He leaned harder into the human whose face was now a deep purple. If Wrath pushed any harder, the man was going to die. I made to step forward, then stopped.

“I crave power more than money, or blood, or lust. And there’s no greater power than choice. I’d lie for it. Steal, cheat, maim, and murder. If I could, I’d sell my soul again for it, witch.”

“Sell your . . .” I shook my head. Demons were soulless creatures.

Wrath opened his eyes and turned to me, his irises glowed bright gold in the dark. There wasn’t anything human in them, and I realized he’d been keeping this part of himself under lock and key. Some claimed the Wicked were angels before they committed unforgivable sins, and were cast out of heaven. Now I understood how those stories started—Wrath’s gaze blazed with heavenly fire. He was wrathful justice: pure, swift, and completely unforgiving.

Ignoring my growing fear, I turned over his admission, and understood what he was really saying; he was offering me a choice. I had the power to walk away from what he was about to do. Or I could choose to stay and take part in it.

I thought of my sister’s ravaged body, and the other witches who’d died just as brutally because this man shared information about the messages he carried. Wrath said he was going to scare the messenger to find out who he’d been selling secrets to. His sudden burst of violence shouldn’t have surprised me. I nodded, almost imperceptibly, but the demon understood.

Wrath faced the messenger again. “Who paid you to open my letter, Francesco?”

The man’s attention shot to me, searching for assistance. Wrath looked me over slowly again, waiting. Francesco made his choice. Now it was time to make mine.

“The prince asked you a simple question, Francesco. I’ll repeat it once for your benefit and then I’ll let him ask his way. And I’m sure you already know that won’t be pleasant.” I injected a ruthless charm into my tone like Wrath’s, and the man flinched. “Who paid you to open his letter?”

Wrath kept staring at me. And even though his expression hadn’t shifted in the slightest, I swore I almost sensed . . . approval. My stomach tightened and I fought the urge to be sick. If I’d done the right thing, I didn’t think I’d feel so ill.

Francesco gurgled and scratched at the arm still pressed against his windpipe, his nails snagging on the demon’s cuff. I hoped Wrath wouldn’t strangle him to death before we got our answers.

The demon prince must have suddenly eased up on the pressure because Francesco gulped air like a fish yanked from the water. “Would you feel more comfortable talking with my blade at your throat?”

Francesco’s golden skin blanched, but I noticed his hands fisting at his sides. Wrath was using his powers, and the messenger was getting mad. His chest rapidly rose and fell. “Do what you want, but I won’t tell you a thing, demon pig.”

“Really?” Wrath smiled, a flash of teeth that seemed to put Francesco on the verge of pissing himself despite his newfound rage. “Let’s test that out, mortal. Who do you work for?”

“God.” The man spit in the demon’s face, and the glob slowly dripped to the ground. Wrath’s blade was under the man’s chin in an instant, the tip pressed hard enough for blood to slide along the metal. It looked like it took all of his willpower to not shove the dagger through the human and into the stone he leaned against, severing his spinal cord. Shadows seemed to pulse from Wrath. For a second, I wasn’t sure if the demon of war would end him right there.

“Apologies, Francesco. But my patience is growing thin. Your actions sent four women to their deaths. Do not think I will not send you to yours just as brutally.”

“Go ahead and kill me. I won’t tell you anything.” Francesco’s head cracked against the wall when Wrath slammed him back. Blood dribbled from the human’s mouth as he laughed, delighting in the violence. He smiled, teeth stained red with blood. “I hope you all rot in Hell.”