by Rita Herron
A man with eyebrows so thick and black they looked like bird feathers stood in the shadows of the entryway, wearing a long black duster. His eyes were close together, narrowed and beady in his oddly shaped face, the top of his head bald with a long black ponytail trailing down his back.
B.J. frowned. Who was this guy? He didn’t look homeless, not with that gold watch on his arm.
“What do you want, mister?”
The man smiled, revealing a row of jagged teeth, then pressed a feathered hand to B.J.’s temple. B.J. tried to jerk back, but sharp talons sank into his skull and unbearable pain splintered through his head. Shaking with the force of it, he sank to the ground and screamed in terror.
“Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop the pain.”
The shadow laughed in answer.
Laughter bubbled from the Death Angel’s throat and echoed around him as he literally fried the man’s mind, stealing his thoughts and his dreams, turning his brain into a blank slate to accept the commands that he would issue.
With a sweep of his wings, he sailed outside into the dark evening, leaving the old man to rest until his body woke from the trauma. Then the man would do as he commanded because Satan owned him.
More deaths for the Angel tonight. More lost souls for the Soul Collectors to offer Zion.
More bodies to be cleaned of flesh.
He soared upward and perched on a phone line, then licked his talons, his hunger mounting as his eyes zeroed in on the Charleston market.
Tomorrow night, another big one. Midnight.
It was many hours away. But he could wait.
The feast would be worth it.
Chapter Ten
Quinton’s heart pounded as he jumped from his Land Rover and ran toward Annabelle. The few people on the street screamed and raced away in panic as smoke and the scent of burning metal and rubber clogged the air.
Through the chaos, the roar of a siren, and his own curses, the screech of vultures reverberated in his ears, a horrific noise like mocking laughter.
Annabelle lay facedown on the sidewalk, blood trickling from her head, her body limp. He quickly placed two fingers to her neck to check for a pulse but felt nothing.
Fear shot through him.
Dammit, was she dead or alive? And who had done this?
Did this bombing have to do with the demons who’d invaded the earth on All Hallows’ Eve? Were they after him or Annabelle?
And if they were after her, why?
Unless somehow they’d tapped into his head and realized he’d connected to her.
Shit. His heart practically stopped. Was that possible?
If he could read minds, maybe the demons could, too…
He leaned over and listened, waiting, praying for a breath.
But she wasn’t breathing.
Hell, he should let her die. Her death would solve his problems with the Ghost unit.
But sweat beaded on his skin. Her tempting mouth made him physically ache. The innocent stubbornness in her face roused protective instincts that he had never known he possessed. And memories of her naked body sparked a pure primal thirst that couldn’t be quenched if she died.
He tilted her head back, checked her air passage, and began CPR. The moment his mouth closed over hers and he gave her a breath, a bolt of warmth spread through him, another foreign feeling he didn’t recognize or want.
Yet the heat spurned him on, and he pressed his hands to her chest and pumped rhythmically.
“Come on, Annabelle,” he muttered. “You’re too tough to die.”
Around him, chaos descended. Sirens roared. The fire blazed. Some people fled while others raced to watch the horror. A camera flashed, catching him in the light, and he cursed at it, wanting to throw the onlooker against the concrete wall. But he had to hear Annabelle breathe first.
Finally the blessed sound came. The moment where her throat convulsed. Her chest heaved. She fought to return to life. For the first time in his life, instead of his blood churning from the kill, it raced from the exhilaration of saving a life.
A totally foreign feeling.
She choked and coughed, then her eyes fluttered open, and he heaved a sigh of relief. But the scene around him suddenly burst into life.
“What happened?” Annabelle asked, blinking as if to focus, her face wan and pale.
“Your car exploded.”
Oblivious to anything but listening to the sound of her voice and the rasp of her breathing, he barely realized the firefighters careening onto the scene to extinguish the car fire, that the paramedics and police had arrived.
An officer appeared with Detective Crawley behind him. “Valtrez?” Detective Crawley said in surprise. “What happened here?”
He stood and stepped aside with the detective as the medic team rushed up and began to examine Annabelle.
A little old woman fanned smoke from her face. “Detective, this man saved the woman’s life. He’s a hero.”
Quinton threw up a hand to ward off any more accolades. If she knew he’d been sent to kill Annabelle, the police would be handcuffing him right now.
“Someone obviously bombed Miss Armstrong’s car,” he said to the detective. “She’d called me and asked me to meet her so I was here.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s alive, but she’ll probably have a hell of a headache.”
“Did you see anyone near her car before or after the explosion?”
Just a vulture, but he couldn’t very well share his suspicions. “Afraid not.”
The big man glanced back at Annabelle. “Looks like someone didn’t want her asking questions. Maybe that text she received was real after all.”
Quinton nodded. “Obviously someone wants her attention.” Unless this bomb was one the Ghost team had planted?
With the recent violence in town, an explosion would provide the perfect smoke screen.
But he’d been so focused on watching Annabelle and lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t thought to check her car.
A major mistake.
One he couldn’t repeat, or both of them would end up dead.
Annabelle opened and closed her eyes, battling the resounding throbbing in her head and ringing in her ears. She was so disoriented. Dizzy. Terrified.
What had happened?
She’d left the room to meet Quinton. Then suddenly bright lights and noise. Fire. Shattering glass. Metal pelting her.
And she’d hit the ground.
Then darkness.
Quinton’s words finally registered. Someone had planted a bomb in her car…
She blinked against the smoky haze around her. Heard someone say he was a paramedic. That the police were there.
“Possible head trauma,” one of the medics shouted.
“Mild lacerations. Start an IV drip!”
A sharp jab as a needle pricked her arm. The IV. Fluids dripped and burned as they flowed into her veins. A stinging pain in her head and arm followed. Her chest felt heavy. Her limbs numb.
The past few minutes flashed back. She had seen the bright light, beckoning, calling her name. Promising peace. Her mother’s face floating in the light, her eyes glowing with unshed tears. “Go back, darlin’… It’s not your time.”
Her father… She searched for his face but didn’t see him. Did that mean he was alive?
She’d had to come back and find him. But a sudden rampage of darkness had swallowed her, and another voice had called to her. A sinister but enticing voice that had offered her immortality in exchange for her soul.
The black monsterlike image had terrified her, and she’d run back toward the light.
Then a masculine voice had penetrated her mind. A voice that sounded gruff. Worried.
Then she’d felt soft lips on hers. A breath inside her chest.
And the will to survive had become stronger than anything she’d ever experienced in her life.
She’d fought her way through the tunnel of darkness a
nd climbed from the depths.
Quinton had saved her life again. Where was he now?
“Quinton?” she whispered.
A female voice spoke instead. “Ma’am, we’re going to transport you to the hospital. You probably have a concussion, but you’re going to be all right.”
She coughed, her throat raw. “Where’s the man who saved me?”
“The police are questioning him now.”
She nodded feebly.
Had Quinton seen the person who’d tried to kill her?
Quinton let his hands dangle by his sides, adopting a calm, detached expression as Detective Crawley called for a crime scene unit and ordered another officer to rope off the area to keep the spectators away.
He followed Detective Crawley to the ambulance.
“How is she?” Detective Crawley asked the medic.
A twenty-something blond man stepped to the doorway of the ambulance. Quinton looked past him and saw Annabelle on the stretcher, with an IV attached.
“She should be all right,” the medic said. “She sustained some lacerations, and she probably has a concussion, but she’s conscious. The doctors will run tests when we get her to the hospital.”
“Can I talk to her for a minute?” Detective Crawley asked.
The medic nodded, then the detective climbed up into the ambulance. “Miss Armstrong?”
Annabelle moaned but mumbled, “Yes.”
“Ma’am, did you see anyone by your car who looked suspicious?”
Quinton held a steady breathing pattern, wondering if she’d reveal what she knew about him. She could have him arrested now and get her story.
“No,” she whispered.
Crawley cleared his throat. “Any more odd text messages?”
Her strained cough resounded through the ambulance interior. “No.”
“How about enemies? Someone you pissed off from another story.”
She hesitated for a brief second. “Not that I know of.”
He grunted. “If you think of anything, let me know.” He glanced at Quinton. “And don’t leave town without letting me know.”
Quinton nodded curtly. He waited to follow the ambulance to the hospital, dialing Keller as he went.
Keller answered on the third ring. “Is it done?”
“Dammit, Keller, did you send someone else to kill Annabelle?”
A tense pause. “We thought you might be too involved.”
“Well, I’m not. But she’s a public figure. We can’t kill her. That would only bring attention from the cops.”
“But what if she exposes us?”
“Trust me. I’ll find another way to keep her quiet.”
He let the implication stand and Keller laughed. “You cocky bastard, you. Good luck. And if it doesn’t work…”
“It will,” he said quietly. “She wants me.”
And he wanted her.
But she’d almost died tonight right in front of him. And that had scared the hell out of him.
The next few hours in the ER passed in a hazy blur for Annabelle. The doctors examined and treated the small cuts and abrasions on her hands, arms, and knees, then she was wheeled to another area for X-rays and a CAT scan.
Thankfully, all the tests came back clean, although her head throbbed relentlessly. The doctor insisted she stay overnight for observation.
Finally, they allowed her some painkillers, and she closed her eyes and dozed but jerked awake a few minutes later with the image of her car bursting into flames haunting her. If she’d gotten inside it a minute earlier, she would be in a million pieces, splattered all over the sidewalk like the glass and metal from her car.
The detective had asked if she had any enemies…
She definitely did. Quinton. He was a hit man. He’d called her and asked her to meet him. Had he set that bomb?
No. He’d saved her.
She glanced around the room then and saw him sitting in the corner in the dark, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his gaze pinning her to the bed. He looked angry as hell.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You nearly got blown up, and you’re asking me what’s wrong?”
She tried to sit up, then winced. “I figured you wanted me dead.”
His frown deepened, and she saw the truth in his eyes. “Oh, my God. You did. You tried to kill me, didn’t you?”
His lips thinned, but he glanced away. “I didn’t plant that bomb or set off that explosive.”
She twisted the sheets between her fingers, reading between the lines. Finally she summoned the courage to ask. “Is there a hit out on me?”
His gaze swung back to hers, steady, detached, unemotional. “I called it off,” he said simply.
Shock rolled through her. “Then you were sent to kill me?”
He stared at her but didn’t respond, and a shudder coursed through her, leaving her feeling naked and vulnerable.
“Why didn’t you finish the job?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know. The monks’ teachings.” He stood and walked toward her, their gazes locking, heat rippling between them. He almost reached out to touch her but pulled back. “I have a code. I kill bad guys.” He shrugged. “You’re nosy and a pain in the ass, but you don’t fit into that category.”
She’d studied serial killers, had read the profiles. They had troubled pasts, had been abused, suffered from medical or psychiatric disorders that drove them to violence.
She wanted to learn more about him, and his past. How he could be so cold one minute and tender the next?
Her phone buzzed from her purse on the side table, and she scrambled to reach it. Quinton handed it to her, a frown on his face.
Then she flipped it open and read the message:
Midnight tomorrow. A different city.
More to die.
Quinton jammed his hands into his pockets. He’d thought he’d made peace with the monks’ teachings and with his path in life.
But Annabelle’s questions bothered him.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “He’s going to strike again.”
He grabbed the phone from her and his blood turned to ice as he read the message.
Then suddenly a premonition swept over him, and the room faded as he envisioned the future event.
Another bomb. Dozens of people running and screaming. Another old man lying dead, one who held the same odor as the homeless man in Savannah. He struggled to make out details of the scene—where was it?
Suddenly the vision ended as abruptly as it had come upon him.
He jerked his gaze to Annabelle’s. “Do you have any idea who sent this?”
She shook her head, then swung her legs to the side of the bed as if she was going to get up. “No, but I received one after the first bombing. The message said there would be more.”
He cursed and paced to the window, then stared out at the night sky. A bloodred moon hung heavy, the inky darkness endless.
“Did the message say anything else?” he asked.
“No. I took it to Detective Crawley, and an agent named Keller from Homeland Security tried to locate the sender, but it appeared to be a throwaway phone and he couldn’t trace it.”
The same thing Keller had told him.
She touched his arm, turning him to face her. “Quinton, do you know where the bomber might strike next?”
He struggled to think, to pinpoint something from his premonition that might help, but came up empty. Then the answer hit him. “Charleston.”
“Why do you think that?”
“The vultures,” he said in a dark tone. “They’re swarming the town.” He pulled away from her and headed to the door. “I have to go there. Figure out where he’ll attack next.”
“I’m going with you.” Annabelle reached for her clothes in the bag on the side table, but he shook his head.
“No, you have a concussion. You need to rest.”
“I’m not staying here,” she said emphatically. �
��Whoever is behind this is sending me messages. I have to follow up. It’s my story.”
She threw off the hospital gown, mindless that she was wearing only her underwear, and began to dress. He swallowed at the sight of her voluptuous body, fisting his hands by his sides to keep from going to her.
“You’d risk your fucking life for a story?”
“I want to stop this guy,” Annabelle said. “And I’m good at what I do, Quinton. I can help.” She buttoned her blouse, then her skirt. “Now, either take me with you or I’ll go alone.”
Chapter Eleven
Quinton wanted to argue. To tie her down and force her to stay here, where she was safe.
Being with him would put her in more danger. If Vincent was right and he was like his father, his demonic side might try to take over one day. It had in the past, and his dark hungers ate at him.
At least that darkness had tried to control him for years. But he’d called upon his nochd and the monks’ teachings.
And now being around her was doing something bizarre to him.
He just needed to screw her and get her out of his system. Then he could focus.
But he didn’t have time for that either. Not if this bomber was going to strike again.
And in less than twenty-four hours.
“All right. But you won’t print anything about my work for the unit.”
She hedged, a war raging in her eyes. “Let’s stop this killer, and you’ll be the hero of my story.”
He barked a laugh. A demonborn hero—yeah, right.
But he didn’t have time to worry about what she’d report.
The clock was ticking. They had to figure out where this next strike would take place.
She winced slightly as they took the elevator and then battled the wind as they walked to his car. But she didn’t complain as she settled inside. He drove to his place first and threw together a bag, went to the B and B where she retrieved her things, and then hit the road toward Charleston.
On the way, he called Detective Crawley to inform him of his plans, then his contacts at Homeland Security to tell them about the message Annabelle had received.