Dark Hunger (22 page)

The angel amulet seemed ironic against his scars; the serpent-shaped birthmark on his upper shoulder mocked him, reminding him of the endless evil running through his blood. The profound emptiness that he’d lived with for so long. The cold reality that he wasn’t completely human.

Maybe he should make love to her in the dark.

Make love?

He choked on the thought. He’d never made love to a woman. So why had he thought that now? Making love implied feelings, emotions. He didn’t indulge in anything more than carnal pleasure.

Not even with Annabelle.

Body riddled with anxiety, he grabbed a shirt and tugged it on, then boxers and jeans, socks and boots, then unpacked his computer and set it up on the desk and removed the book
Deadly Demons.

He flipped through the pages, studying the sketches of All Hallows’ Eve along with the history of the holiday and read the description he’d written based on the monks’ teachings:

All Hallows’ Eve began as a pre-Christian Celtic festival of the dead. The Celtic calendar divided the year into four holidays. November 1 marked the beginning of winter and signaled the ending and beginning of an eternal cycle. At that time the festival was called Samhain (sah-ween) and was the biggest holiday of the year.

The Celtics believed that the souls of those who had died during the year traveled into the otherworld on Samhain. Later, Christian missionaries tried to change the Celtics’ religious practices.

Thinking the Celtics’ version of religion pagan, the Christians branded the holiday as evil, associating it with the devil. Although people continued to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve, they began to set out food to propitiate the evil spirits.

“Quinton?”

He was so lost in the legend that he hadn’t heard Annabelle approach, didn’t realize she was standing behind him looking over his shoulder. Not a good sign.

His instincts were off.

Letting that happen again could get them killed.

“What is that?” she asked, gesturing toward the book. Then her eyes flickered with the realization of what he’d been reading. “You think this killer is some kind of supernatural creature?”

He shifted. “Are you still looking for a story?”

“That and the truth,” Annabelle said.

He flipped the book closed. “You don’t want to know what I think.”

“Yes, I do. You believe in the supernatural, in those demons in that book?”

“There are dark evil forces at work here, ones you couldn’t even imagine.”

Her gaze met his, and he knew he’d frightened her. Good. She should be scared.

Because this demon wanted to spread death. And if he was contacting Annabelle, then she was on his wish list.

“What about you?” he asked. “Do you believe in them?”

She hesitated. “I believe that years ago people spoke of demons, but that usually those people were mentally ill. Other demon legends were created to explain things they didn’t have answers for, but that science does.”

He gave a clipped nod. “So you don’t believe in angels or God either?”

She folded her arms. “I have faith,” she said. “And yes, I believe in God.”

“Then you have to believe in demons.” He shifted slightly. “The Death Angel is here now,” Quinton said. “The vultures are his sign.”

Alarm darkened her eyes. “You really are scaring me now.”

“You can walk away if you want. I won’t blame you.” He stroked her arm. “In fact, it would be safer for you if you did.”

She shook her head. “No way. I came for a story, and I’m not running away from it.”

He lifted his hand and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “No matter where it takes you?”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “No matter where it takes me.”

He dropped the strand of hair and gritted his teeth. “Then you have to stick by me. It’s the only way I can protect you.”

She raised her chin. “I can take care of myself.”

His sardonic chuckle bounced off the walls. “Not against a demon.” He grabbed his wallet and phone, strapped on his weapon, and pulled on his jacket.

Then he leaned over and whispered against her ear. “And I don’t want to lose your pretty ass before I get to sink myself into it at least one time.”

Annabelle wished to hell Quinton would stop toying with her. Taunting her one minute with his sexuality. With comments and tawdry looks that triggered wild and wicked fantasies in her head.

Then withdrawing the next, as if she were a snake that had bitten him.

What in the world was wrong with her?

This intense attraction was just an adrenaline rush caused from the danger they were involved in.

Determined to ignore the sexual chemistry between them, she remained silent as they drove to the police station. The downtown area seemed eerily deserted for New Orleans at lunchtime, a ghost of a city compared to the usual hubbub of tourists and locals venturing through the narrow streets and marketplaces.

A stiff fall wind made Annabelle’s skirt swirl around her ankles as she climbed out and hoisted her bag, complete with notepad, recorder, and laptop, over one shoulder. More vultures soared above, and she headed toward the building at a brisk pace, Quinton following close behind. Begrudgingly, she found it comforting to know that he was close to her, watching her back.

Though she still hadn’t figured out the reason. He was a hired killer. Had practically admitted it to her face.

Yet he hadn’t killed her and had saved her life.

Because he wanted to get laid?

No, he had a code—he’d told her that, and she believed him.

Besides, he could have any woman he wanted. All he had to do was use his potent masculine charm.

He opened the door for her, and after they cleared security, a receptionist behind a screened glass greeted them.

Quinton flashed his ID and introduced them. “We’d like to speak to one of the detectives in charge.”

The heavyset woman scowled but drawled, “All right,” then punched a button and five minutes later, a tall, brown-haired man with a warm tan appeared and ushered them to a small interrogation room. “I’m Detective DeLang,” he said. “Miss Armstrong. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve seen you on TV.” He scowled as he turned to Quinton. “And you’re the Homeland Security Agent who called?”

“Yes. Quinton Valtrez.”

The detective stiffened and gestured for them to sit down. “What’s going on?”

Quinton cleared his throat. “We have reason to believe that your city is the next target of the suicide bomber.”

New Orleans, the city of the dead—and more death was on its way.

The devil had spoken to him and told him his plan.

The vultures had already converged, the hint of panic and smell of blood and mangled flesh hanging heavy in the moss-covered trees and backwaters of the marshy bayou.

Reverend Narius had arrived in the devil’s city to gather more worshippers and lost souls.

So many lost here, just as in Charleston.

New Orleans posed a challenge. When the deadly storms had struck, he’d swooped in and gained numerous souls for his cause. The vile humans with crime on their evil minds, the once-chaste women and men now wanton with their sinful lusts and greedy acts. They had prayed and he had come to their rescue.

But there were so many more who needed him.

And there would be mass devastation again.

Such trying times. Such humbled, pathetic weak minds.

He could already smell the murky odor of sin and debauchery just as he had after the hurricane when bodies had floated through the streets in the vile floodwaters.

Oh, he understood the sinner’s mind because he had sinned as well.

But thankfully, no one knew his secrets.

The detective called his men together, and Quinton explained that they’d come to help.

“We need to pinpoint possible target areas,” Quinton said.

The detective nodded, then pulled up information regarding all the functions scheduled that day and evening on his laptop.

A sense of helplessness nagged at Annabelle. How could they prevent more deaths if they had no idea who was behind them? Especially if Homeland Security and the Feds were stumped?

“The Swamp Festival is this weekend,” Detective DeLang said. “The bulk of the celebration is at the Audubon Zoo. There was a five-k run this morning to raise money for the zoo, along with a parade and an arts festival. And tonight the zoo and several bars in town are featuring blues and zydeco music.”

“Sounds like there will be a lot of people on the streets,” Annabelle said worriedly.

“It’s surprising that more people aren’t staying home because of the Savannah and Charleston crimes.” He shook his head. “Holy mother of God, haven’t the people of New Orleans suffered enough?”

“I know, it’s true,” Annabelle said. “That’s why we’re here.”

He turned to Quinton. “Do you have any concrete information to help us nail down where this bomber might attack?”

“I’m afraid not,” Quinton said. “Now, what other major events are in town?”

“Tonight? No ball games, thank God. But Reverend Narius draws a big crowd and will be at the festival, and tonight he’s speaking in town. There’s also a big fund-raiser planned for the local charities. And a jazz festival at Woldenberg Park.”

Quinton nodded. “Then we focus on those events. Beef up security all over town, and install cameras everywhere possible.”

Quinton and the detective outlined a plan, and while the detective briefed his men, Quinton coordinated with the governor, Homeland Security, and the FBI.

But worry knotted his neck as the plan was put into motion.

What if he was wrong?

What if a different city was the target?

Quinton clenched his jaw. He couldn’t second-guess himself. The vultures were a sign.

Tonight there would be another bombing—and more deaths if they didn’t figure out the target before midnight.

“Do you think we’re on the right track?” Annabelle asked.

Quinton gritted his teeth. “I hope so. We have to beat him this time.”

He scanned the area as they rushed to the car. Was the killer watching them?

Of course he was. He was playing a cat-and-mouse game, laughing at them as they moved from city to city chasing him.

“You think he’s here, don’t you?” Annabelle asked. “Do you feel it, Quinton? Is that part of your power?”

He ignored her question. “I’m not taking any chances, not until this demon is caught.” His jaw twitched as if he’d just realized his admission. “I mean, the person behind the bombs. After all, only a monster would destroy so many lives.”

“You do think it’s a demon?” she said.

“We’ve been over this before.” He cut her a sharp look. “But you can’t print that.”

Annabelle sighed wearily. “If I did, no one would believe me. I’m still having trouble believing in the possibility myself.”

He gave her a cold, dark look, pinning her to the seat. “You can’t see the wind, but you feel it.”

She reluctantly nodded. He was right. “You could give me proof.”