by Rita Herron
Zion would ensure they never died out. And one day they would rid the world of the humans.
Chapter Sixteen
Quinton had learned long ago to do without sleep. When he lived with the monks he used to lie on the cot, alone in the darkness and fighting his fears of the monsters and demons. Determined to banish the memory of the encounters he’d had.
Once the demon Mephguour had taken him. He hadn’t slept for the entire six days he’d been held captive. Although he had reddish skin, Mephguour had appeared in human form. Dressed in one of the monk’s earth garbs, he had led Quinton into a trap. Mephguour had been summoned by a dark sorcerer to lure Quinton to the army of the undead warriors.
But Quinton had meditated as the monks had taught him, had called upon his chi, and for the first time had unleashed his power and vanquished the demon.
He cursed as he paced the room.
Now he was more afraid of his growing feelings for Annabelle Armstrong than he was of the demons.
Death would come. It was the natural order. As long as he had no one to care about, no one attached to him or whom he was attached to, the end didn’t matter.
Dammit. If she was a casualty for the cause, he’d deal with it. He always had before.
He’d been an island unto himself, and he liked it that way.
Now… now he had a brother he’d met but didn’t know and another he didn’t even remember. Yet curiosity and something deeper, maybe the blood connection, made him want to give Vincent a chance.
But how could he and Vincent ever have a normal relationship when they were demonborn?
When he’d never be able to trust Vincent completely because their father and the dark side might win him over at any minute?
Although Vincent was his brother and he couldn’t screw him over—he had to help him.
Next door, footsteps sounded and the bathroom door squeaked open. He stiffened. Annabelle was awake. He’d heard her tossing and turning during the past few hours and knew she hadn’t rested well.
Not even after their sexual interlude.
A smile broadened his face. Hell, he would have liked it far better if he’d actually been inside her, fucking her senseless, until he obliterated thoughts of any other man’s touch from her mind.
He’d barely resisted storming into the room and giving her what she’d fantasized about—his cock inside her, hammering away, filling her with himself until she’d ache for him again.
He’d ordered a big pot of coffee to the room, so he poured her a cup, then knocked and entered without waiting on a response. If she thought she would thwart him now, after last night, she was wrong.
He would have her.
It was only a matter of time.
She shoved a mass of tangled hair from her face, and yanked at her gown, which had fallen off one shoulder, giving him a glimpse of her cleavage.
“I didn’t say you could come in,” she said irritably.
He chuckled. “I know, but I brought coffee.” He crossed the room to her and waved the cup beneath her nose.
She grabbed it greedily. “I feel like I got run over by a Mack truck,” she said as she took a sip.
“You look sexy as hell.”
She glared at him. “Don’t start.”
He threw his head back and laughed, really laughed. God, when had he last done that?
Ever?
No.
His life had been full of pain, torture, death, and preparing for the battle he now faced.
“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” he asked anyway.
She bit her lip. “You are cruel.”
“No, it’s cruel that you denied us being together.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her cheek. “You know I’m going to have you,” he said simply.
She gave him a sardonic smile with an eyebrow lift thrown in. “Maybe I’ll have you.”
He stretched his arms wide, offering himself up. “Do as you will.”
She rolled her eyes but broke down and laughed. “You are incorrigible, egotistical, and—”
“Sexy as hell?”
She shook her head. “The devil in disguise.”
He sobered slightly at that barb. His father was a spawn of Satan. He couldn’t deny that.
As if he’d already gotten too close and she realized she’d let down her guard, her expression tightened. “Have you heard anything from the police or FBI?”
“No.”
“I was thinking,” she said, and he smiled as her eyes brightened.
Did she have to be so damn smart?
“That we should check online communities for support groups for PTS sufferers. With cyber crime, it would be an easy source for a predator to find victims.”
“Good point.” Were demons computer-savvy?
Maybe in human form.
He snapped his fingers. “Let’s get to work.”
“I need a quick shower,” she said and headed to the bathroom.
He arched a brow. “Need some help?”
She slammed the door in his face with a resounding no. He laughed again, but his mouth watered. He knew what lay beneath that satin gown.
And the sound of her moans was imprinted in his brain.
Before they parted ways, he would feel her writhing in his hands and calling his name while they both fed their hungers.
Annabelle quickly showered, trying to banish fantasies of Quinton from her mind. She had a job to do, and they both needed to focus.
She flipped on the TV set, but the news of the devastation the night before filled the screen.
Would there be another attack? And where would it be this time?
She checked her phone but had no messages. Damn. She wanted the killer to contact her again, to give her a clue as to how to find him.
But he was obviously enjoying taunting her, making her wait and wonder…
She hurriedly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, certain the look would deter any more sexual innuendos from Quinton.
Quinton had ordered food for them, and she realized she was starving. Her head felt clearer now, and although she was still slightly stiff, coffee and a sandwich worked wonders.
“There are several online support groups for PTS sufferers,” Quinton said. “Trouble will be finding the identities of the posters. Most use screen names for anonymity.” He sipped his coffee, then unpocketed his phone. “I’ll call Homeland and see if they can put a tech on it.”
Annabelle nodded, then began to skim the posts herself. He was right.
Several referred to a Dr. G. who had visited local hospitals to lead groups. Was that Dr. Gryphon?
He still hadn’t returned her call, so she tried the number again, but once more received his voice mail. This time she left a message claiming that her father was a PTS sufferer and that she was seeking help for him.
Quinton was watching her when she hung up. “Is it true?” Quinton asked. “You father is suffering from PTS?”
She shook her head. “No, but something happened to him when my mother died. As I told you, the day of the funeral, he just walked away and never came home.”
He nodded but didn’t comment, then stepped into the other room to make his phone call. She made a quick call to the social worker she’d met in Savannah and learned that both Reverend Narius and Dr. Gryphon had met with some of their residents.
She googled the reverend’s name and browsed through his Web site until she located his schedule.
He had been traveling across the country, preaching in different cities, appearing on local television spots and at churches and revivals. He was supposed to be in New Orleans next.
Was it possible that he wasn’t saving souls but ending lives instead?
So far, he was their only connection to the two bombers. And there had to be a connection.
Her cell phone vibrated from the desk, and she checked the number. Dr. Gryphon.
She quickly connected the call.
“I’m interested in your work with PTS sufferers. My father is suffering from the disorder.” She explained about her mother’s death, then fabricated that her father had been questioned in her death. “The police believe that he snapped. That something that day triggered a flashback, and that he thought she was the enemy.”
“And you don’t believe that’s possible?” Dr. Gryphon asked.
Annabelle hesitated. “I don’t know. He had… episodes. Flashbacks. He’d become disoriented and behaved strangely, but he’d never been violent before. And he loved my mother.”
“Mental disease or trauma can change a person,” he said. “Sometimes the mind just shuts down, and the person isn’t even aware of their actions. During a flashback, the person becomes immersed in the moment, actually living out the scenario again. What do you think triggered the flashback this time?”
“I don’t know,” Annabelle said. “I wish I did.”
“So how can I help you?”
“Tell me about your treatment program. Maybe I can convince him to join.”
“Treatment is on an individual basis, although we do have support groups. Meeting with others who understand can be very encouraging.”
“How about hypnosis? Drug therapy?”
“Yes, sometimes. Again, it depends on the patient. I’d have to meet with your father individually to assess his condition, then formulate a plan of treatment.”
“Let me ask you another question,” Annabelle said. “Do you think it’s possible for an individual to exert mind control over another person?”
Dr. Gryphon sighed. “You’re talking about brainwashing techniques?”
“Yes.”
“The military has used them. Of course they don’t talk about it. Why? Do you think your father was a victim of a brainwashing technique or torture?”
Annabelle hesitated over confiding her theory. But she wanted his reaction. “I’m investigating the recent bombings, Doctor. So far, the two suicide bombers were both homeless men. The first suffered from PTS, the second, I’m still waiting to find out. But I’m trying to make a connection, possibly explain their motives.”
“Maybe someone paid them or offered to pay their families,” Dr. Gryphon suggested.
“It’s possible, I suppose.”
Quinton appeared and passed her a slip of paper with a message on it: “Both Warren Ames and the latest suicide bomber, B. J. Rutherford, participated in online support chats where Dr. Gryphon posted.”
Her stomach knotted. “By the way, Dr. Gryphon, I just learned that both bombers participated in online chats with you.”
A tense second passed. “Just what are you implying, Miss Armstrong?”
“I’m just making an observation. Do you remember conversing with them?”
“I believe this conversation is over.” The phone went dead in her ear.
“What did he say?” Quinton asked.
“He hung up on me.” Her phone vibrated again, and she checked it. Another text message.
She swallowed hard as she read it:
Midnight tomorrow. Another city. Watch them die.
The stench of decomposing flesh and blood in the morgue swirled like an aphrodisiac around Dr. Sam Wynn. He inhaled, using his gloved hand to pick a piece of metal from a man’s mangled eyeball.
This was the man who’d bombed the Charleston coliseum.
He’d already matched DNA, skin and tissue samples, and pieced a few tiny parts of the man back together. Not enough for a coffin but just enough to make an ID. He’d also recovered a piece of bomb material from the man’s finger, and the lab had discovered a swatch of his coat with powder burns from the bomb on the fabric.
He could now confirm the authorities’ suspicions, that the man they’d seen in the security cameras was this man, B. J. Rutherford.
He picked up the phone to report the match. Then he had more bodies to identify. More bones and flesh and blood. More erotic smells and mangled faces.
More wide eyes staring at him in death.
With a smile, he plucked a piece of splintered bone from the man’s ribs to add to his wall of bones.
THE UNDERWORLD
Zion itched to go aboveground to earth, enter the mortal realm himself, and seek out his sons. As much as he enjoyed the power of doling out orders and having his minions do the dirty work for him, the urge to wreak his own brand of havoc and justice gripped him.
Profoundly blissful memories of torturing Vincent, of taking a woman savagely into his bed, resurfaced, taunting him that with his rising, he was no longer chained in hell.
That he could travel in both worlds now and visit the earth in human form.
He had not yet done so because ruling his kingdom had occupied his full attention. The swearing in of the demons, the hundreds of new souls the Collectors had brought to him that had to be assigned to their places in the underworld, their duties and punishments metered out.
But one day soon he would travel through the portal to claim what belonged to him and reap the sweet taste of mortal flesh.
For a brief second, his earthly wife’s image flashed in his head, the memory of her lithe body beneath his making him hard and achy. And reminding him of what he’d once had before the darkness consumed him.
But he could have no regrets.
He was born to be a leader, and he had taken his rightful place just as his father had ordained.
Firelight slashed yellow and orange lines across the black rock. He strode to the Seer’s side and looked into the burning embers, wishing he could see through her eyes. White glassy eyes that saw things no human could.
Eyes with the foresight of the vulture.
“Tell me what you see,” he commanded.
Her red cape billowed around her as she waved a hand across the top of the flames, allowing him a glimpse into her visions.
“The Death Angel claimed another victory in the town the mortals call Charleston. The Soul Collectors are celebrating, although there are many souls still lingering,” the Seer said. “Their spirits float above the town in limbo, while others guard the humans and battle the Soul Collectors.”
Zion roared his disgust. More angels. Hell! Evil had to win and outnumber them.
“And my sons? I want to see them.”
She blinked, her white eyes wide as she nodded. With another wave of her nimble black hand and a chant from ancient times, the image of his oldest son, Vincent, glowed in the flames.
He had tried to turn Vincent so many times, but he had the strength of… Satan. And that damn woman he’d mated with fucked him daily and kept his darkness in check.
Now Vincent was at a place where they stored blood vials. Some of the vials had been stolen. The vials containing his son’s blood were among them.
Zion grinned. One of his minions had taken the blood to serve him. The minion would follow Zion’s commands and use the blood to create more demons and spread evil.
She waved her fingers again, and an image of the twins his wife had given away and hidden from him appeared, an image from long ago but one that incited his wrath. Two infants, almost identical. Both with powers that needed developing.
Then he saw one of them, Quinton, as an adult, with a blonde-haired angel of a woman.
His sons were all meant to follow him one day, as all the Valtrez men had been destined to be leaders of the dark forces.
He should never have been deprived of them. And this woman, Annabelle Armstrong, was destroying Quinton’s urge to follow his destiny.
Rage shot through Zion, rallying his temper, and he roared his fury across the black cave, making the walls tremble and sending tremors through the ground to rock the earth.
His sons’ bodies, like his own, carried an insatiable hunger for a woman’s flesh that needed to be fed daily.
“She is his soul mate,” the Seer said. “But he has not had her yet.”
> Zion cursed, disappointed and relieved at the same time. If Quinton wanted the woman, why hadn’t he had her? Because his dark side was weakening in her presence?
Yet knowing he hadn’t tasted her flesh gave them time to turn him.
“She must be eliminated,” Zion roared. He stalked to his throne and summoned the Death Angel. “She’s searching for her father. Use him to destroy the bond between her and my son.”
The Death Angel nodded, flapped his wings, and soared toward the portal to earth to do as Zion commanded.
Chapter Seventeen
Quinton read the text and cursed. “Fuck. I’m sick of being led around like a puppet on a string.”
Annabelle’s face paled. “Where do you think they’ll strike next?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll phone Homeland and alert them to the fact that you received another message.”
She clenched the phone with trembling fingers. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that I received another warning after speaking to Dr. Gryphon?”
“It is suspicious. I’ll have one of our agents check him out.”
Annabelle paced to the window and stared out. Quinton started to phone the agency but decided to call Vincent first. He hesitated, remembering Father Robard’s comment—he didn’t believe that Vincent had turned yet.
Would Quinton be able to tell if he had?
He shoved a hand through his hair, debating. What choice did he have? He certainly hadn’t stopped this demon on his own.
Vincent answered on the third ring. “Special Agent Valtrez.”
“It’s Quinton. I’m in Charleston.”
“I saw the news,” Vincent said. “You almost caught him.”
“Almost was too fucking late.” He wiped a drop of sweat from his brow. “And it’s not over. Annabelle just received another text. Midnight tomorrow he strikes again.”
“Any idea where?”
“No, not yet. I was hoping that Clarissa might have some insight.”
Vincent sighed. “I’m afraid her gift doesn’t work that way. She doesn’t see the future, only the spirits in distress. And she’s having a hard time now.”