When it came to saving a life, Patrick never conceded to death. No matter how long an individual had been underwater.
“Move it, move it, move it!” Bluey’s roar reached Patrick before he even made it to the sand. Swimmers, sunbathers and gawkers alike fell out of the way, mouths agape, eyes wide as the other man barged through the crowd, orange-red hair gleaming in the ruthless sun, face furious, arms cutting a path through the melee. He met Patrick in the shallows, scooping the still lifeless swimmer up from Patrick’s board to fling one limp arm around his shoulder. “Got ’im.”
Patrick wrapped the man’s other arm around his shoulder and, heart hammering, gut tight, half-dragged, half-carried him from the surf.
The moment they passed the waterline, they dumped him onto his back, the crowd gathering around them, gasping as one as the man’s limp body hit the sand.
Before the displaced grains could settle, Patrick dropped to his knees. He didn’t have time to wait for Bluey to pass him a facemask. The man didn’t have time to wait. Blood roaring in his ears, he tilted the bloke’s head back, pinched his nose shut and covered the slack, blue-tinged lips with his mouth.
One. Two. Three. He transferred his breath into the man’s lungs, watching his chest rise with each exhalation.
Turning his head, he listened for any sound of inhalation. Nothing.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled, feeling for a pulse.
Nothing.
One. Two. Three.
Again, nothing.
Rising up onto his knees, Patrick placed his palm heels to the centre of the man’s chest, left over right, and pressed. Again. Again. Again.
“He’s not comin’ back, Wato.”
Bluey’s low rumble lifted Patrick’s head. He glared at his second in charge, continuing to compress the motionless man’s sternum. “Yes, he is.”
Returning his stare to the man’s pale, flaccid face, he counted off fifty compressions before clamping his mouth over the blue-tinged lips again.
One. Two. Three.
Nothing.
One. Two. Three.
Nothing.
A hand closed over Patrick’s shoulder. “He was under too long, mate.”
Patrick lifted his head, returning his hands to the man’s sternum as he fixed Bluey with a level look. “Get the paddles ready.”
Bluey released a long sigh and turned away, reaching for the defibrillator.
Patrick pressed his hands into the man’s chest. Again. Again. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he ground out, staring hard into the lifeless face. “I’m not gonna let you.”
He pinched the salt-crusted nose and covered the slack mouth with his, forcing breath into the man’s lungs.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
Nothing.
“No,” Patrick snarled. He rose higher onto his knees and pressed the heels of his palms to the man’s chest. “I’m.” Press. “Not.” Press. “Going.” Press. “To.” Press. “Let.” Press. “You.”
He dropped his head and forced breath into the man again.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
Nothing. Still nothing.
“It’s enough, Wato.” Bluey’s voice sounded far away. “He’s gone.”
“He’s not fucking gone.” Patrick jerked his head up, glaring at his second in charge. “Give me the paddles.”
Bluey looked back at him, pale blue eyes calm, face expressionless. “You’re frying dead meat, mate. You know that.”
“No!”
He smashed his palm heels to the man’s sternum, compressing his chest in rapid succession.
A hideous, wet glurk burst from the man’s throat, followed immediately by a gush of hot water and sour bile from his mouth.
“Yes, you fucking bastard,” Patrick growled, ignoring the gasps and cries around him as he continued to stimulate the man’s heart in steady, forceful blows. “Spit it out. You can’t breathe with half of Bondi in your lungs. Get rid of it.”
Another glurk, this one less wet, less fluidy. More water erupted from the man’s mouth, spurting this time from his nose as well. A groan slipped from his lips, weak and raw, the sound almost lost in the sudden cheers from the crowd. Eyelids fluttering, arms twitching, the man rolled his head, a shudder wracking through his body before he slumped still again.
Patrick’s heart stopped for a second. Shit. He was losing him. Again. “Give me the paddles.”
Face expressionless, eyes worried, Bluey held out the defib paddles. Patrick snatched them from him, the violent action eliciting another gasp from the crowd.
“Charge ’em,” he ground out, staring at the motionless man’s face. A high-pitched whine cut the thick tension as Bluey charged the defibrillator.
“Charged.”
“Clear.” He pressed the gel-smeared paddles to the man’s unmoving chest.
Two-hundred joules shot through flesh, muscle, bone and tissue. Two-hundred joules of electric life.
The man bucked, spine bowing, fingers splaying wide.
Mouth dry, Patrick stabbed his fingertips against the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
He shook his head. Still nothing.
“C’mon!” Patrick shouted, giving the man’s fleshy shoulders a hard shake. “I’ve got you this far. Fight, damn it.”
A movement to his left—slight and almost imperceptible—flickered in his peripheral vision. Long legs. Blue denim. Black stiletto boots. A cold breeze blew against his cheek. A hot tightness squeezed his heart. He felt—
“He’s breathing!” Bluey yelled, slapping Patrick’s back. “Fair dinkum, mate. You’ve done it again! He’s breathing!”
Patrick snapped his stare to the once-motionless man’s face, unable to control a powerful surge of elation at the sight of two—albeit unfocussed—brown eyes squinting up at him.
“Wh…wh…what happened?”
The man’s voice was barely more than a rasp, but to Patrick it sounded like a pure song. He grinned. “You tried to drink half the ocean, mate.”
The man coughed, a scratchy, wheezy hiccup. “That…was a bit…stupid…of me.” Closing his eyes, he pulled a ragged breath, another cough choking the shaky intake before he could finish.
“Take it easy, mate,” Patrick cautioned, pressing his fingers to the man’s neck again. His pulse was weak but steady. “The paramedics are on the way. Where’s your stuff? Towel, car keys, clothes—”
“No, no.” The man shook his head, struggling to sit up. His brown eyes flicked around the crowd, almost nervous. “No ambulance. I’m okay.”
Bluey squatted down beside Patrick and placed his hand firmly on the man’s chest. “Mate, you were dead. Wato here brought you back to life. You need to go to the hospital.”
“No. I’m fine. I’m—”
Another coughing fit claimed the man and he dropped backward, lying flat.
“The ambos are here,” Grub murmured, popping his head over Patrick’s shoulder to nod at the approaching paramedics running across the sand.
Fingers still pressed to the man’s strengthening pulse, Patrick shot the paramedics a quick look. Relief coursed through him. Thank bloody God. Maybe they could talk some sense into the—
A woman leant over his shoulder, slim and dressed in snug blue jeans, a New York Yankees baseball cap shrouding her face in shadows. A chill rippled up Patrick’s spine and his palms prickled, as if he’d suddenly plunged them into a wasp nest. He felt her gaze skim over his face from behind large, black sunglasses before she extended her arm with absolute confidence and stroked long, slender fingers over the man’s fleshy chest.
Absolute terror flooded the man’s face, turning his sunburnt skin a sick vomit-orange. His brown eyes bulged. He stared up at the woman, soundless words bubbling from his mouth. His pulse rate tripled. Quadrupled.
And stopped.
Dead.
“What the?” Patrick frowned, ramming his fingers harder to the man’s neck.
>
Nothing.
He jolted to his feet, turning to glare at the woman in the baseball cap.
But she wasn’t there. In fact, there wasn’t a sign of her on the beach at all.
As if she’d never been there in the first place.
Gut twisting, palm itching, Patrick’s frown deepened. Where was she? What the hell was going on?
***
Fred walked away from the lifeguard, the stiletto heels of her boots not even remotely sinking into the soft white sand. The coastal breeze caressed her face and arms and she pulled in a long breath, enjoying its heat even as the blazing midday sun sucked the moisture from the flesh of the humans—oblivious to her existence—around her. Summer in Australia. Hot. Hotter. Hottest. She was glad she’d ditched the stifling cloak.
Adjusting the sunglasses on her face, she sidestepped a teenage couple making out on a beach towel, casting them a detached yet curious look. He would live for another sixty-five years before dying in a car accident, she would die in five years of advanced skin cancer. Fred tsked, noting the gleaming oil smeared over the girl’s bare flesh. As if humans didn’t have enough to deal with in their short time, they had to go and seek her out any chance they could, all in the name of beauty.
She shook her head, following the waterline away from the commotion still unfolding behind her. The paramedics would not revive the drowned man, no matter how skilled or tenacious they were. All she’d left them was an empty skin-wrapped lump of meat and bones.
The icy tingle in the pit of her belly she experienced after every claiming whispered through her, feeding her magic. It nourished her power, sated the demon within. Today however, it also felt wrong. Not because the soul she’d removed from the mortal coil—Richard Michael Peabody—was a closet pedophile who deserved to die. That very morning he’d raped—for the tenth time—his six-year-old niece while his twin sister attended a doctor’s appointment. Fred felt no remorse for Peabody. The human male deserved to have his life extinguished. He most definitely deserved the eternal damnation awaiting him. When it came to mortal monsters like Peabody, Fred enjoyed her job. But today, even with the tingle in her core and the sure knowledge of just punishment about to be met, she felt conflicted.
Every soul she claimed, every life thread she severed she did with pride. Her purpose was ultimate. Life could not exist without Death. If she didn’t do what she did, humanity would pay the price. That didn’t mean however, that she was emotionless. She felt no pity for Peabody, really, who would? But she couldn’t help feel sorry for the lifeguard who’d tried so hard to save him.
She’d seen many EMOs at work, but none were as aggressively determined to thwart her work as the lifeguard. It was as though the very idea of losing Peabody assaulted him. Wounded him. Raw energy had poured from him in intoxicating waves as he’d fought to save the vile man’s life, almost as powerful and energizing as the sun above.
Uninvited, an image of the lifeguard filled Fred’s head and she pulled in a soft, appreciative breath. Now there was a tenacious son of a bitch. Not just tenacious, but damn fine to look at as well. Tall, lean and sinewy with smooth skin kissed bronze by the sun and shaggy blonde hair bleached golden by its solar rays. His eyes were a fierce, piercing green, his nose strong and hawkish, his lips totally kissable even when clenched together in stubborn denial.
A soft beat pulsed between Fred’s thighs and she took another swift breath, surprised at the reaction. It had been a long time since she’d been aroused by a mortal. The last—an arrogant but brilliant Roman general with a nose just like her lifeguard and a succinct way with words—had dumped her for a snooty Egyptian queen with an asp fetish.
She turned her mind back to the Australian, remembering the way he looked as he ran from the sea with water streaming over his lean, muscular body, the sun highlighting broad, strong shoulders, snug blue swimming shorts hugging narrow hips. It was a good memory. A potent memory.
The heat between Fred’s thighs pulsed again and, despite the warm breezes blowing across the ocean, her nipples pinched into tight peaks. Something about the lifeguard intrigued her. Not just his fierce battle to deny her, but something else. Something different.
She strode along the sand, a detached, professional part of her mind marking those around her for their time, and thought of Peabody’s failed rescue. Like the lifeguard, something about it had felt…what? Wrong? No, wrong wasn’t the correct word, especially to describe the lifeguard. Yummy. That was a good word to describe the lean Australian with the messy blonde hair. Sexy as sin another one. Well, another three, actually. Unusual however, was the word she was looking for to describe his rescue attempt.
But why?
What was it about the sequence of events?
The lifeguard works on the drowning man’s body, pounding against the man’s fleshy chest with his palms, the sun turning his smooth muscular back to a bronzed sheen. The subtle heat of the day kisses her arms and neck and cheeks as she watches him battle the inevitable. The sound of the pedophile’s perverted, weakening heartbeat vibrates through her core, feeding the familiar tingle in her gut as she prepares to sever his life thread… She leans over the lifeguard to touch Peabody and the salty bite of the lifeguard’s sweat threads into her being like mist. She turns her head, for some reason wanting to see his eyes, wanting see if they burn with the same fierce determination she feels radiating from him. She looks at him…and he looks at her, his soft breath fanning her face.
Fred froze, the sounds of the beach—seagulls screeching, swimmers splashing, people laughing—sucked away by stunned shock.
He looked at her.
He could see her.
That’s impossible, Fred. The living can’t see you until the very moment you claim them. Not unless you choose for them to do so and you sure as hell didn’t choose for this guy to see you today.
But he had seen her. He’d looked straight at her, and it was only now, with the post- claiming buzz fading to a soft tingle, that she realized it. He’d seen her.
How in all the levels of hell could he see you?
No, he couldn’t. The living didn’t see her. She prevented it. The Powers prevented it.
Wishful thinking? Maybe your starved libido is making you see things?
Before she could stop herself, she turned and gave the lifeguard a long, hard inspection from across the sand.
He sat beside Peabody’s inert body, head buried in his hands, broad shoulders slumped. She’d seen this very pose before. The position of a defeated human. But unlike others in this situation, anger radiated from the man. Anger. Not misery, or self-centered contemplation. Anger. Simmering, tangible anger.
Fred cocked an eyebrow, her sex squeezing in base appreciation. Who are you, Mr. Tall, Bronzed and Brooding?
Stare locked on the increasingly intriguing man, she tapped into the List of the Living threaded into her very existence, seeking the answer.
But all that surfaced from the never-ending database was a name and date of birth. Patrick Anthony Watkins. Born February 29th 1972.
Fred frowned. “That can’t be right. Where’s his date of death?”
From the moment of conception, the time and cause of death of every living creature with a soul was predetermined. The Order of Actuality demanded it. From the smallest baby to the leader of the free world, their lifespan was locked in a fixed time frame, imprinted on their very genetic fiber.
All, it seemed, except Patrick Watkins. Which made him a…
Fred narrowed her eyes, regarding him across the busy beach. The sun beat down on those around her, drawing moisture from their pores, turning the heavily populated strip of sand to a wavering shimmer of silver light and color, yet Patrick Watkins remained sharp in clarity. Just Patrick. Filling her vision and her core.
She studied him closely and then shook her head. Well, whatever he was he wasn’t a demon. He possessed a soul. She could feel its pure, spiritual presence pouring from him, even from this distance. A blazing whi
te essence of life and humanity so strong it made her blood sing and her skin tingle. Frowning, she tilted her head to the side, looking at him through the darkness of her sunglasses. It didn’t make sense. If he had a soul, he should have a date of death. So why was she drawing a complete blank?
And why, in the name of the Powers, was she so damned turned on? Did the man’s ambiguity have anything to do with it? Or was it just because he was smolderingly sexy?
Fred shook her head again. She needed answers. And another closer look.
Because you want answers, or because you want to check him out again?
The unbidden and way-too-close-to-the-bone thought made her sex constrict in a firm, warm pulse of eager anticipation. She couldn’t touch him, but she could look. She could look a lot. She could take her visual fill of him because the living could not see her. No matter what her foolish mind insisted it saw.
A tense pressure welled in her chest and, turning away from the sight of Patrick kneeling beside the empty pedophile’s body, she released a long, dragged out sigh.
It was a sad fact of her existence she could no longer ignore. She, Death, the Grim Reaper, El Muerte, Cronus, Azreal, the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, had become a Peeping freakin’ Tom.
Gritting her teeth, Fred stormed along the high-tide line, fighting like hell to ignore the damp tightness between her thighs. “Fantastic. Fucking fantastic.”
***
One hundred tall, thick candles materialized into spontaneous existence, illuminating the dark, cavernous room with a cold, flickering light. It washed the black stone walls pale yellow, throwing writhing shadows against the hard surface and casting a weak glow over the slim man in a black business suit where he stood before a massive, bone-framed mirror.
He studied the room—his room—in the reflection of the glass. It suited him. A room worthy of the First Horseman. An entity of the Highest Order could create whatever personal environment they desired within the Realm and his space was exactly how he desired it to be. A room of sick death and sick life. A room symbolizing his stature and premier position.
Death, The Vamp and His Brother Page 2