Dark Destiny (Principatus) (21 page)

Her body burning with denied pleasure, her chest tightening with anticipated apprehension, Fred released a sigh. She positioned herself beside him, back against the sofa, knees tucked under her chin. There were two ways she could proceed—cautiously, edging into what she’d found back in the Realm’s library, or bluntly. No bullshit, no tiptoeing about.

A rush of annoyance heated her blood and she held back a muttered curse. She’d never been like this before. Indecisive. Hesitant. She felt like a dithering old lady.

Just do it, Fred. Don’t muck about. Just tell him.

“You’ve been written about in the Prophesies.”

The moment the words passed her lips she wished she could take them back. Patrick would want a no-nonsense explanation, but she didn’t need to scare him off with such a surreal statement. Even she got freaked out from time to time knowing there were entities who foresaw her actions eons in advance.

She shot him a quick look and dismay rippled through her. He hadn’t reacted. That frustrating ambiguous expression once again turned his face into an unreadable mask.

“What I mean is,” she continued, less aggressive, “I
think
you have been.”

He raised one eyebrow. “So I’m famous?”

Fred laughed, an uncomfortable sound that made her cringe. What was
wrong
with her? Anyone would think she was in…

The thought trailed away, leaving a lump in her throat and a numb tingle in her lips. She closed her eyes, suppressing the urge to groan.

By the Powers, no. Not
that
. Please, not now. Not until…

“Fred?”

She started at her name. Giving herself a mental slap, she turned back to Patrick, covering her nakedness in a pair of denim cut-offs and a black tank top as she did so. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to tell him what the future may or may not hold for him undressed. Silly, she knew, but there all the same.

Maybe it’s because you’re—

Shut up!

Patrick cocked an eyebrow, possibly at the sudden appearance of clothing on her body, possibly at the strange expression she knew she wore. He said nothing however, reaching behind him without breaking eye contact to snare his boxers. He tugged them on and, despite the churning apprehension eating away at her, Fred couldn’t help but admire the lean, bronzed strength of his legs and the thick, long strength of his—

Patrick cleared his throat and Fred jumped, heat flooding her checks again. She snapped her attention to his face, giving herself another mental slap.
Focus, Fred.
“Umm…” She desperately tried to remember the last thing Patrick had said.
So, I’m famous?
“Well, possibly,” she finally answered, trying to will away her embarrassed blush, “Although the reference is so obscure I could be reading it all wrong.”

An ambiguous light flickered in Patrick’s eyes. “Let’s hear it.”

“The first quote I found is about fang face.” She frowned. “I think.
The brother who cannot walk in the sun shall cast a shadow on the shifting grains of glass, and the shadow shall be of blood.
”

Patrick didn’t say anything.

“I’m assuming the shifting grains of glass refer to the beach, being that sand is used to make glass. I’m guessing the brother who cannot walk in the sun refers to Steven being a vampire who is impervious to daylight.” She paused again. “But…”

“But you’re not sure whose blood the shadow will be of?” Patrick finished, voice level. He looked at her for a long moment before that same ambiguous light shimmered in the depths of his eyes. “Or are you?”

Fred turned away from him, not really sure how to answer. He already had a pretty good idea of where the conversation was heading. She could see it in the tension in his face, feel it in the tension of his muscles. She watched the day stream into the room through the window, noting the changing shadows on the floor and walls. It must be almost midday by now. She’d been with Patrick for almost three hours—the longest she’d ever stayed in one human’s company her entire existence.

And you’re in no hurry to leave, are you.

Tugging her legs closer to her chest, she turned back to him.

“C’mon, Death.” Patrick’s grin was wry. “You can do it.”

Mouth dry, chest heavy, she let out a sigh. “I don’t know.”

His laugh was a wry as his grin. “What’s the rest?”

She didn’t answer him. She didn’t want to.

You have to, Fred. You need to prepare him for what is to come. Whatever that is.

Swallowing, she dug her nails into her knees and pressed her back harder to the sofa, welcoming the pain the pressure caused on her spine. “In a book called
Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis…”
She stopped. Patrick was chuckling softly.

“There’s a book called
Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis
?”

She pulled a face at him, exasperated. “Pay attention, lifeguard. In
Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis
, these words caught my attention—
‘The Cure shall face the Disease on the shifting
…” She stopped again, fixing Patrick with a hard stare.

His jaw was bunched, so tight she swore she could hear his teeth cracking, his muscles coiled to snapping point.

“What? What did I say, Patrick?” She stared at him, her heart hammering. Something she’d said had gotten to him. What? “Tell me.”

He turned away, knuckles white.

Fred scrambled to her knees before him, forcing him to look at her. “Tell me, Patrick.” She placed her hands on his fists. “Please?”

A haunted expression flashed across his face, warping the stoic one he’d previously worn. He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if fighting an inner war.

“Fuck,” he muttered, fists balling tighter under her fingers.

“Patrick,” Fred murmured, moving closer to him. “Please?”

“Tell me who the Disease is, Death. I know you know. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me who he is.”

Fred shook her head, the fury in Patrick’s eyes almost scaring her. She’d never seen him so angry. She’d never seen anyone so angry. Ever. “I… He…” She licked her suddenly dry lips. By the Powers, why did she feel like the very air around her was alive? Like some force was pressing down on her?

“Who is he, Death?”

She squirmed, the unseen pressure on her body increasing.

“Who is he?”

She pulled in a shallow breath, genuine fear licking through her. This was not right. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Something was happening. Something she didn’t comprehend.

She looked at Patrick and saw intense fire boiling in his eyes. “Patrick?” she said, but it came out a croak. By the Powers, what was he doing?
How
was he doing it? “Patrick? Please…stop…”

Patrick’s eyes flared hotter. And then he blinked, cold horror flooding his face, and the pressure stopped. Immediately.

Fred slumped, staring at him. Her body ached, as if only having narrowly avoided being crushed. She wet her lips with her tongue again, her pulse a rabid beat in her neck. By the Trilogy, what
was
he?

Patrick stared back at her. Silent. Motionless. His eyes narrowed for a second and then a ragged breath burst passed his lips and he dropped his head between his arms. “Fuck,” he muttered again, his voice muffled by the bunched muscles of his shoulders.

“Patrick?” Fred whispered, inching closer. Her heart still hammered, but from unease or concern she didn’t know. “Talk to me, please.”

He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes normal again. Normal, but tormented and tortured and as angry as hell. “I know who the Cure is, Fred.” His statement fell from his lips in a flat monotone. “And I think I’ve met the Disease.”

“What?”

Fred didn’t think her heart could smash harder in her chest, but it did. She gaped at him, more than a little stunned.

“Three years ago,” Patrick continued in that same monotone. “At work early one winter’s morning, I was watching the surf, freezing my arse off on the beach. I turned around and found a man staring at me. A man in a black suit. A man who didn’t throw a shadow.”

Just like that, Fred’s spine exploded into a scalding itch. A man in a black suit. Her breath caught in her throat. Pestilence.

Patrick’s fists shifted under her fingers and he swallowed, jaw still bunched tight. “He told me
the Disease shall destroy the Cure and the end shall be begun
, just before he killed a kid, an innocent kid I’d known since he was ten years old, right in front of me.”

Fred tilted her head. Patrick had to be mistaken. Pestilence couldn’t transubstantiate from the Realm. Of the Four Horseman, only she could move about the world of man.

It makes sense, Fred. You know Pestilence refers to himself as the Disease often. He considers it a title of importance.

She frowned, her gaze fixed on Patrick’s face. And then gasped. If the Disease was Pestilence, then the Cure was…

Patrick nodded. “Me.”

Fred blinked. How did he know what she was thinking?

Does it matter? You’ve just figured out who the key players are. Now you need to work out what the—

Like a fist through glass, Pestilence’s “offer” of a partnership made over an eon ago came back to her. A partnership in greatness, he’d called it. A proposal to undo the very Fabric.

She swallowed, incredulous shock leaving her numb. The First Horseman was attempting to fuck with the Order of Actuality. He had to be. What else did he mean by “the end”? What other interpretation was there. The end of man. Pestilence was trying to bring about the Apocalypse. On his own.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, staring at Patrick, her skin prickling. How could she have been so stupid? Pestilence had told her his plan an eon ago and she’d laughed at him. How could she have not connected the dots?

Because the dots didn’t involve an Australian lifeguard, Fred.

A frown knotted her eyebrows. That was right. Why was Pestilence trying to destroy Patrick? Why, exactly, was Patrick Watkins referred to as the Cure?

Why him?

And how did ol’ sick and weedy know?

The words of the random prophesy she’d found in
Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis
floated through her head.
The Cure shall face the Disease on the shifting dunes and the end shall begin and the beginning shall end.

Nothing in that mumbo jumbo told her who would be the victor.

Or whether Patrick would survive the confrontation.

The brother who cannot walk in the sun shall cast a shadow on the shifting grains of glass, and the shadow shall be of blood.

The first Prophesy she’d found in the library, written by the last Fate herself, came back to her and her stomach twisted.
Shadow shall be of blood.
She looked at Patrick, studying her with a silent, unreadable gaze.

Whose blood? Why would fang face cast a shadow of blood? Surely the sentence meant Pestilence would fail? Why would Steven cast a shadow of his brother’s blood?

Suppressing a sigh, she ran her hands through her hair and chewed on her bottom lip, giving Patrick a worried look. By the Powers, what did she tell him?

That strange flare danced in his green eyes again and he smiled, the action both lost and accepting. “Hit me with it.”

Fred chewed on her lip again, and then jumped in with both feet. “The Disease is Pestilence. The First Horseman of the Apocalypse. He plans to ignore the Order of Actuality, the governing Fabric by which all existence is weaved, and bring about the end of mankind before it is meant to occur.”

“Okay.”

Just that one word. Not even a blink.

Fred wanted to press her body to Patrick’s and hold him. But she hadn’t finished yet. She wet her lips one more time, and then continued. “Somehow he has garnered information that must have led him to you. He is the Disease and you are the Cure.” She paused, tracing her fingertips over the back of Patrick’s hands. “I think he believes if he removes you from the picture the Apocalypse shall begin.”

Patrick looked at her, his face like rock, his expression stony. “So,” he said, after such a stretch of silence Fred had begun to fidget. “What you’re telling me is this guy believes I’m the only thing that can stop him wiping out mankind?”

“Pestilence is a demon. An entity of the first order, not a ‘guy’, but yes.”

“Can he be killed?”

She shook her head. “Not even by me. The Horsemen are timeless. We have no beginning and no end.”

“And he’s trying to kill me?”

Not wanting to do so, Fred nodded. “Yes.”

Patrick fell silent again. He looked past her, out the window again and Fred couldn’t help but wonder if he wished to be out on the waves. Away from the surreal nightmare he’d found himself in. Away from her.

A sharp pain stabbed into her chest at the thought. She didn’t want him away from her. Not even an inch. Smoothing her palms up his arms, she willed him to look at her.

He didn’t.

“I won’t let him—”

Patrick cut her off. “I’m not going to hide behind you, Death.” He returned his gaze to her face and Fred bit back a gasp at the deep lines etching his face. Tormented, angry lines. “I don’t care who you are,
what
you are. I’m not going to hide behind you. If this is what I am meant to do, if I’m meant to face Pestilence I will.”