Dark Hunger (34 page)

As he drove back to the hotel to pick up his things and book a flight home to Savannah, he phoned Vincent and explained the confrontation, and that he’d destroyed the demon. Unfortunately Vincent had no more leads on the stolen blood.

The air seemed fresher this morning, the sun bleeding through the gray skies, yet an ache enveloped him. As he let himself into his cabin, the silence felt suffocating.

He was alone again. Just as he’d always liked it.

Exhausted, he fell into bed and slept like the dead for most of the day, then decided the only way to get Annabelle out of his system was to move on.

Fuck another woman.

But when he punched in Fancy’s number, his hand shook. All he could think about was Annabelle. Hell, he felt… guilty—as if he was cheating on her.

He didn’t want that kind of guilt.

When he needed a lay, any ripe, warm, willing woman could accommodate him. Her name or face didn’t matter.

At least it never had before.

He cursed, dropped the phone, threw on jogging clothes, and ran for miles. Remembering the punishing physical routines the monks and the military had put him through, he hoped the physical torture would purge the images of him and Annabelle together from his mind. Of Annabelle’s erotic body and tongue against his flesh.

Loving him…

Yes, he’d told Annabelle the sex hadn’t changed anything between them.

But dammit, he’d lied. Sleeping with her
had
changed everything. It had changed
him
.

Done something to the dark need inside him. Softened him. Resurrected his humanity.

Annabelle made him want things he’d never had—like love and family. A woman who’d stand by him no matter what. One who wouldn’t throw him away as his mother had.

He tried to deny that
pain
from long ago, just as he had denied the
pain
of being tortured and left alone as a child.

Caring only brought suffering, and he didn’t want that anguish. The very reason he couldn’t have a relationship with Annabelle.

He had to stay away from her to protect himself.

But most of all, to protect her.

Zion roared his displeasure, the underworld shaking with the force of his wrath.

The Death Angel had failed to win Quinton.

Did he have to do everything himself?

The Seer waved a black clawlike hand, and Zion strode toward her, his scales itching and flaming hot with his ire. “What?”

“Your son Dante. I have found him.”

The anger rolling through Zion couldn’t be tempered, but excitement stirred in his demonic mind. “And?”

“He is well versed in his powers as a firestarter.”

She flashed a vision of a post with a woman’s body dangling from it, her hair singed, flames dancing around her in the ghostly night as a man watched the flames grow closer to her bare feet.

So sweet. Just as his own wife’s death had been.

Screams tore from the woman and the flames shot higher. Then he saw his son. Dante looked more like him than the other two sons.

Pride swelled in Zion’s chest.

Dante would come to his side, and together they would rule the world.

Quinton had waited for two long weeks, wondering what Annabelle would report on CNN. Wondering if she’d expose him.

He had meditated and prayed that the demons and his father had accepted that he didn’t care for her and they’d leave her alone.

He poured himself a scotch and stared at the television screen, soaking up every detail of her beautiful face. Her physical bruises had faded, but had the mental scars from being tortured healed?

“I’m Annabelle Armstrong, reporting from CNN,” Annabelle said into the camera. “The FBI has now concluded its investigation of the recent Savannah and Charleston bombings and determined that a forensic specialist, Dr. Sam Wynn, was responsible for orchestrating the mass suicide bombings. Apparently Dr. Wynn suffered from Asperger’s syndrome, a highly functioning form of autism, often characterized by superior intelligence with an inability to connect to other humans.” She paused. “Unfortunately, Dr. Wynn preyed on the homeless, especially those suffering from PTS, by using drugs to hypnotize them into committing violent acts.

“Agents found collections of bones Dr. Sam Wynn had kept as souvenirs from his victims on walls in several of his temporary residences.”

Her tone grew low, controlled, although a slight tremor twinged her voice when she continued.

“It is a matter of record that my father was one of Dr. Wynn’s victims and almost carried out a suicide bombing in New Orleans. He is now recovering and undergoing treatment for trauma.

“A team of private investigators working in conjunction with FBI special agent Vincent Valtrez and Homeland Security agent Quinton Valtrez traced Dr. Wynn to a shanty in the bayou in New Orleans, but in Wynn’s attempt to escape, the gators killed him.

“While the events of the past few days were certainly tragic, heroes have emerged from all walks of life. Rescue workers, paramedics, police officers, and others in law enforcement rushed to save individuals. Also, countless citizens selflessly stopped in to help. I’ll be bringing you stories of some of these silent unsung heroes in human-interest pieces over the next few weeks.

“Some may question how these innocent people so easily became Dr. Wynn’s victims. We’ll discuss this more in a special report to come, but for now I think it’s safe to say that the events of the last couple of weeks have sent a clear message that we need to take better care of our elderly and our veterans, for they are true heroes themselves, if not of wars, then of life.”

She thanked everyone, then the screen switched to the local weather forecast.

Quinton exhaled in relief as she finished. So she hadn’t reported the entire story, how the Death Angel, working in the human form of Dr. Sam Wynn, had met his end.

To protect him or because she thought no one would believe her?

He stood and paced his den, feeling caged and antsy, then opened the sliding glass doors. Outside the wind roared, the waves crashed, the tides changing as they would forever do.

He heard the soft whine of the sea serpent demon carried on the salty air, and he cursed.

The demons were all around him.

And that was the reason he could never see Annabelle again.

Fatigue weighed on Annabelle as she finished the report. She’d gone seeking one story but found so much more.

The ordeal had made her realize that the hard-hitting stories were at heart about the people involved, that she
wanted
to showcase those individuals who had helped others for no reason other than that they still had their souls.

“Good job,” Roland said. “You’ve definitely earned a solid reputation now.”

A bittersweet feeling filled Annabelle. She’d thought a career was what she wanted, would fulfill her. But she’d never felt more alone in her life.

Images of Quinton still haunted her.

She’d never imagined that when she got the scoop on the real story behind the man, that story would open her eyes to an ugly world of demons she’d never known existed.

Or that she’d fall in love with him. The man… and the demon.

Weary and glad the story had aired, she caught the Marta train to her midtown Atlanta loft, let herself in, then kicked off her shoes and checked the message machine.

One call. Not Quinton.

The nurse at the hospital. “Miss Armstrong. I’m calling about your father. He’s becoming more responsive and asking for you now. I hope you’ll come to visit.”

She smiled and hugged her arms around herself, grateful to know that even though they had a long road to travel, he was on his way back.

A headache pulsed behind her eyes so she stretched out on the bed to take a nap before she went to the rehab center.

She closed her eyes, wondering if Quinton had seen her story. Unwillingly, other memories flooded her mind. Memories of him watching her undress. Touching her. Kissing her.

Making love to her.

She suddenly sat up, her pulse pounding. She’d wanted to uncover the story behind the killer and she had. Only Quinton wasn’t coldhearted. He cared about innocents. That concern drove him to be an assassin, to kill bad guys, terrorists, and… demons.

And he had protected her at every turn. Had fought a demon to save her.

He’d even offered to trade himself, to walk with his father, to keep her alive.

Wasn’t that love?

She paced for an hour, wondering what to do. She loved Quinton, but was she afraid of what he was?

Part of her wanted to go to him and declare her love, demand that he admit he loved her, too.

But what if she was wrong?

He hadn’t asked her to stay. Hadn’t admitted feeling anything for her other than lust.

No, she had to stay away from him to protect herself and her father. She’d just gotten him back. She couldn’t lose him again.

Exhausted, she lay back down, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. Still her dreams were filled with fantasies of the man she couldn’t have.

But an hour later, she jerked awake. A noise had startled her. Something at the window, a scraping sound. The wind—or was someone trying to break in?

She jerked up, searching the shadows, then inhaled the scent of a man. Sweat. Skin. Raw animal.

Smoke.

The intruder’s breath rattled in the quiet.

She started to scream, but a large hand clamped down over her mouth, and a hulking figure loomed over her.

“Be quiet.” The man’s brusque tone sent a chill down her spine.

Terror sucked at her nerve endings, and she struggled against his hold, but he pressed his knee into her chest and slid his free hand around her throat.

“Fighting me is useless, Miss Armstrong.”

She searched his eyes in the dim shadows of the room, thought they looked familiar, and for a moment thought she was looking at Quinton. Had he succumbed to the darkness he’d claimed lived inside him? Had a demon possessed him?

But a sliver of light sliced across the man’s face and she realized it wasn’t Quinton. This man’s hair was wiry, short and spiked, and he was older, at least by twenty years.

A deadly evil radiated from his eyes.

“I’m going to move my hand,” he said in a gritty voice, “but if you scream, I’ll break your fucking neck. Understand?”

She nodded, and he slowly moved his hand an inch, testing her. “Who are you?” she rasped. “What do you want?”

He gripped her jaw so hard she expected to hear bones crunching. “Zion. We’re going to see my son.”

She nodded, desperately choking back her fear as he clamped steely fingers around her wrist and dragged her off the bed.

Quinton ran for miles and miles, the wind beating his chest and sand swirling around his feet, the waves crashing and rolling out to sea. Night had set in again, the sky a deep purple streaked with shadows of seagulls circling the sky.

No matter how far he ran, nothing could alleviate the anxiety in his body or the loneliness in his soul.