Death, The Vamp and His Brother

by Lexxie Couper

  “There’s a book called Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis?”

  She pulled a face at him, exasperated. “Pay attention, lifeguard. In Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis, these words caught my attention—‘The Cure shall face the Disease on the shifting…” She stopped again, fixing Patrick with a hard stare.

  His jaw was bunched, so tight she swore she could hear his teeth cracking, his muscles coiled to snapping point.

  “What? What did I say, Patrick?” She stared at him, her heart hammering. Something she’d said had gotten to him. What? “Tell me.”

  He turned away, knuckles white.

  Fred scrambled to her knees before him, forcing him to look at her. “Tell me, Patrick.” She placed her hands on his fists. “Please?”

  A haunted expression flashed across his face, warping the stoic one he’d previously worn. He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if fighting an inner war.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, fists balling tighter under her fingers.

  “Patrick,” Fred murmured, moving closer to him. “Please?”

  “Tell me who the Disease is, Death. I know you know. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me who he is.”

  Fred shook her head, the fury in Patrick’s eyes almost scaring her. She’d never seen him so angry. She’d never seen anyone so angry. Ever. “I… He…” She licked her suddenly dry lips. By the Powers, why did she feel like the very air around her was alive? Like some force was pressing down on her?

  “Who is he, Death?”

  She squirmed, the unseen pressure on her body increasing.

  “Who is he?”

  She pulled in a shallow breath, genuine fear licking through her. This was not right. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Something was happening. Something she didn’t comprehend.

  She looked at Patrick and saw intense fire boiling in his eyes. “Patrick?” she said, but it came out a croak. By the Powers, what was he doing? How was he doing it? “Patrick? Please…stop…”

  Patrick’s eyes flared hotter. And then he blinked, cold horror flooding his face, and the pressure stopped. Immediately.

  Fred slumped, staring at him. Her body ached, as if only having narrowly avoided being crushed. She wet her lips with her tongue again, her pulse a rabid beat in her neck. By the Trilogy, what was he?

  Patrick stared back at her. Silent. Motionless. His eyes narrowed for a second and then a ragged breath burst passed his lips and he dropped his head between his arms. “Fuck,” he muttered again, his voice muffled by the bunched muscles of his shoulders.

  “Patrick?” Fred whispered, inching closer. Her heart still hammered, but from unease or concern she didn’t know. “Talk to me, please.”

  He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes normal again. Normal, but tormented and tortured and as angry as hell. “I know who the Cure is, Fred.” His statement fell from his lips in a flat monotone. “And I think I’ve met the Disease.”

  “What?”

  Fred didn’t think her heart could smash harder in her chest, but it did. She gaped at him, more than a little stunned.

  “Three years ago,” Patrick continued in that same monotone. “At work early one winter’s morning, I was watching the surf, freezing my arse off on the beach. I turned around and found a man staring at me. A man in a black suit. A man who didn’t throw a shadow.”

  Just like that, Fred’s spine exploded into a scalding itch. A man in a black suit. Her breath caught in her throat. Pestilence.

  Patrick’s fists shifted under her fingers and he swallowed, jaw still bunched tight. “He told me the Disease shall destroy the Cure and the end shall be begun, just before he killed a kid, an innocent kid I’d known since he was ten years old, right in front of me.”

  Fred tilted her head. Patrick had to be mistaken. Pestilence couldn’t transubstantiate from the Realm. Of the Four Horseman, only she could move about the world of man.

  It makes sense, Fred. You know Pestilence refers to himself as the Disease often. He considers it a title of importance.

  She frowned, her gaze fixed on Patrick’s face. And then gasped. If the Disease was Pestilence, then the Cure was…

  Patrick nodded. “Me.”

  Fred blinked. How did he know what she was thinking?

  Does it matter? You’ve just figured out who the key players are. Now you need to work out what the—

  Like a fist through glass, Pestilence’s “offer” of a partnership made over an eon ago came back to her. A partnership in greatness, he’d called it. A proposal to undo the very Fabric.

  She swallowed, incredulous shock leaving her numb. The First Horseman was attempting to fuck with the Order of Actuality. He had to be. What else did he mean by “the end”? What other interpretation was there. The end of man. Pestilence was trying to bring about the Apocalypse. On his own.

  She pressed her hand to her mouth, staring at Patrick, her skin prickling. How could she have been so stupid? Pestilence had told her his plan an eon ago and she’d laughed at him. How could she have not connected the dots?

  Because the dots didn’t involve an Australian lifeguard, Fred.

  A frown knotted her eyebrows. That was right. Why was Pestilence trying to destroy Patrick? Why, exactly, was Patrick Watkins referred to as the Cure?

  Why him?

  And how did ol’ sick and weedy know?

  The words of the random prophesy she’d found in Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis floated through her head. The Cure shall face the Disease on the shifting dunes and the end shall begin and the beginning shall end.

  Nothing in that mumbo jumbo told her who would be the victor.

  Or whether Patrick would survive the confrontation.

  The brother who cannot walk in the sun shall cast a shadow on the shifting grains of glass, and the shadow shall be of blood.

  The first Prophesy she’d found in the library, written by the last Fate herself, came back to her and her stomach twisted. Shadow shall be of blood. She looked at Patrick, studying her with a silent, unreadable gaze.

  Whose blood? Why would fang face cast a shadow of blood? Surely the sentence meant Pestilence would fail? Why would Steven cast a shadow of his brother’s blood?

  Suppressing a sigh, she ran her hands through her hair and chewed on her bottom lip, giving Patrick a worried look. By the Powers, what did she tell him?

  That strange flare danced in his green eyes again and he smiled, the action both lost and accepting. “Hit me with it.”

  Fred chewed on her lip again, and then jumped in with both feet. “The Disease is Pestilence. The First Horseman of the Apocalypse. He plans to ignore the Order of Actuality, the governing Fabric by which all existence is weaved, and bring about the end of mankind before it is meant to occur.”

  “Okay.”

  Just that one word. Not even a blink.

  Fred wanted to press her body to Patrick’s and hold him. But she hadn’t finished yet. She wet her lips one more time, and then continued. “Somehow he has garnered information that must have led him to you. He is the Disease and you are the Cure.” She paused, tracing her fingertips over the back of Patrick’s hands. “I think he believes if he removes you from the picture the Apocalypse shall begin.”

  Patrick looked at her, his face like rock, his expression stony. “So,” he said, after such a stretch of silence Fred had begun to fidget. “What you’re telling me is this guy believes I’m the only thing that can stop him wiping out mankind?”

  “Pestilence is a demon. An entity of the first order, not a ‘guy’, but yes.”

  “Can he be killed?”

  She shook her head. “Not even by me. The Horsemen are timeless. We have no beginning and no end.”

  “And he’s trying to kill me?”

  Not wanting to do so, Fred nodded. “Yes.”

  Patrick fell silent again. He looked past her, out the window again and Fred couldn’t help but wonder if he wished to be out on the waves. Away from the surreal night
mare he’d found himself in. Away from her.

  A sharp pain stabbed into her chest at the thought. She didn’t want him away from her. Not even an inch. Smoothing her palms up his arms, she willed him to look at her.

  He didn’t.

  “I won’t let him—”

  Patrick cut her off. “I’m not going to hide behind you, Death.” He returned his gaze to her face and Fred bit back a gasp at the deep lines etching his face. Tormented, angry lines. “I don’t care who you are, what you are. I’m not going to hide behind you. If this is what I am meant to do, if I’m meant to face Pestilence I will.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him to stop being a stupid, macho male. What came out instead was, “I don’t want to lose you.”

  The confession hung on the air between them. Her eyes widened, her pulse leapt away from her, and then she did the only thing she could do. The only thing she wanted to do.

  She leant forward and kissed him.

  Chapter Nine

  Ven took her from behind. His balls slapped against Amy’s cunt as he pumped into her, the bright mid-morning sunlight pouring over his naked chest and face, heating his flesh, making him sweat.

  It felt good. No longer fighting the lure of the creature he really was. It felt right. More than right.

  He rammed into her sodden sex, filling her again and again, his claws puncturing her hips, his growls puncturing the air.

  Amy moaned, laying face first over the back of her sofa, her hands scrambling for a grip on the piece of furniture’s faux suede. She begged him to stop. She begged for more. He did the latter, his demon growing stronger with every savage thrust, the monster he truly was in complete and utter control.

  Steven Owen Watkins no longer existed.

  He stared into the sunlight. Let its harsh rays burn indelible shadows on his retina.

  The sun. His enemy no more.

  The realization sent a charge of triumphant elation through him and he increased his speed, punching in Amy’s pussy with such power he could feel her pelvic bone smash against the root of his shaft. Hot pain stabbed into his groin and he threw back his head, roaring at the pleasure it brought to his body.

  The hunger in his gut, the craving for blood, grew wilder, more demanding with each penetration. He welcomed it. The gnawing ache of denied consumption turned the carnal rapture of his copulation with Amy to a dark bliss. It fed his demon and his demon thrived. This is what it was to be a vampire. Domination. Power. Possessing on all levels those weaker than he. First with his body and then with his mouth and teeth.

  “I’m coming, Ven!” Amy cried out, not for the first time in the last two hours. “Oh, fucking Jesus Christ, I’m coming!”

  A thin grin stretched Ven’s lips and he withdrew his cock from her cunt in a sudden jerk. “No you’re not, little girl.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair, holding her to the lounge. He pumped his erection in his free hand. “Not until I say you are.”

  Amy whimpered, shoving her arse backward, trying to turn her head to look at him. “God, please, Ven, please!”

  Her sobs lit a fire in Ven’s core. He closed his eyes, enjoying the bright light burning into his eyelids even as the sun’s shadow danced behind them. He’d made love in the sun before, many years ago, before his transformation, but he’d never realized its true beauty until now. The sun revealed all.

  It felt exquisite. Heat and fire and molten electricity all at once.

  His fangs grew longer still, piercing his bottom lip and his own blood trickled into his mouth, down his parched throat.

  His demon screamed with ravenous need, its starvation at breaking point. He had not fed from the vein of a human for over forty-eight hours. The agony twisting through his pleasure was overwhelming. A potent aphrodisiac he’d never imagined possible.

  Pumping at his cock in savage strokes, he opened his eyes again and stared at the sun through the window. Pleasure. Pain. Hunger. Fulfillment. He had it all. He needed nothing.

  White eyes flashed into his head. The white eyes of timeless power.

  Nothing except Death.

  A jolt of scalding want for the Fourth Horseman stabbed into his chest, straight into his unbeating heart and, before he could stop it, thick wads of cum burst from his cock. Arcing through the air to fall onto Amy’s smooth back.

  Ven stared at the splattered product of his pleasure. Watched, fascinated as it dribbled over her sweat-soaked shoulder blade. And still primal desire burned through him. For Death. The woman and the demon.

  “Fuck me, Ven. Please,” Amy begged, her voice raw and terrified.

  “What are you afraid of, little girl?” Ven growled, the ache and want in his core well on its way to devour any ability he still had for rational thought. Until he could claim the one he truly wanted, he would sate his hunger on the female before him. He tugged on her hair with one hand and plunged the middle finger of his other into her pussy. She bucked and pushed back into his hand, whimpering and sobbing even as she tried to grind her clit on his knuckle. “Tell me what you are afraid of and I will let you come.”

  Her sex squeezed his finger. “I’m scared of you, Ven!” she burst out, voice choked with fear. The very fear he could taste on the breath she exhaled and the perspiration slicking her skin. “I’m scared of you. Scared of what you are.” She sobbed. “Scared you won’t give me what I want.”

  Scalding rapture flooded Ven’s still-rigid cock. At the very second ice-cold insight flooded his heart.

  He was a monster. A depraved creature of depraved lust.

  What was he doing?

  What does it matter?

  Bitter pleasure and baleful power claimed him and he chuckled, the sound low and soulless.

  It was time to feed.

  He tightened his fist in her hair and jerked her backward, slamming her against his chest. “Are you ready, little girl?” he breathed in her ear, slipping his finger from her sex.

  She squirmed, shifting her legs further apart. “Yes.” Her answer was hardly more than a whisper.

  Ven smiled, saliva rolling down his fangs. “Of course you are.” He aligned the head of his cock with her spread folds, lowered his head to her neck and—

  The distinct scent of another vampire threaded into his nostrils.

  Male vampire.

  Fury erupted through him. Incinerating and absolute. She’d been with another vampire. Another vampire had taken what was only his to take. His demon screeched, and Ven yanked Amy harder to his chest.

  So be it. If she wanted to be a vampire’s food source, he would make her a vampire’s food source. He would feed on her blood until there was nothing left in her veins to take. He would drain her dry until she was an empty carcass to be thrown away with the trash.

  He opened his mouth. Touched his lips to Amy’s bowed neck.

  Tasted her fear and sweat with the tip of his tongue. Tasted the mark of the other vampire.

  His demon roared. Ready, eager, for the kill. The sweet, sweet kill.

  No.

  The shout tore through his head. Snapped him frozen.

  His shout. His voice. His human voice.

  Guilt and horror smashed into him. He staggered backward, staring at her. Watching her turn to face him, her big brown eyes wide with petrified confusion.

  Oh, Jesus. What had he just been about to do?

  “Ven?” She took a step toward him, naked body flushed with perspiration, musky desire wafting to him on the air.

  He shook his head, raising his hands as though to ward her off. “No.”

  She blinked, and in the space it took her eyelids to close, he spun about, snatched up his jeans and folded space.

  Fleeing.

  From her. From any living soul around him.

  The morning sun slammed into him as he sliced through the air. He propelled himself over Kings Cross, particles of existence without substance or form. The monster within him screamed, furious at its denied kill and long-overdue feed. Confusion twisted
in his consciousness, almost rivaling the agonizing hunger he felt. What was he doing?

  Where was he going?

  Patrick.

  His brother’s name flittered through the red haze of his torment but he forced the notion from his mind. He could not go near Patrick yet, no matter how desperate he longed for the sense of safety and familiarity his brother provided. He was too unstable. Too volatile. Too…

  Dangerous?

  Monstrous?

  Weak.

  The contemptuous thought filled him with self-loathing so sharp for a moment he felt himself ripping in two. Human. Demon. Both denied existence. Neither existing without the other.

  Jesus, what are you doing?

  The lashing of leaves and branches at his face and the strong smell of eucalyptus and seaweed on the air told him he’d reached his destination before he realized he was on the ground. He stumbled to a halt, nostrils flaring, and looked about his surroundings.

  An ancient gum tree towered over him, standing at the edge his favorite beach, an isolated crescent of pristine sand and perfect curling waves just south of Bondi Beach. Hidden at the base of a craggy cliff, it was impossible to get to by foot and known only by a handful of the most diehard surfers. So small it had never been charted on any map that Ven knew of, nor named by any town planner. He’d surfed here with Patrick most days when alive. He surfed here most nights since dying.

  A gentle offshore breeze blew against his face and he closed his eyes, letting its cool caress calm him.

  The beach. Almost his second home. Peaceful. A place where he knew what he was at heart. Just an Aussie bloke who loved to surf.

  Taking the comforting smell of the beach into his body, he opened his eyes, scanning the narrow strip and the waves beyond for signs of human life.

  None. He had it all to himself.

  “Thank the bloody Lord.”

  Watching a perfect set of waves crash over the beach’s shallow coral reef, Ven let himself smile. He felt more relaxed already. Less an evil fiend. Better. He felt better.

  Another breeze, this one a little stronger, a little colder, gusted past him and a surprised chuckle bubbled past his lips. ’Struth, he was naked. Where the hell were his jeans?