Dark Hunger (13 page)

“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.”

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.

“We’ll get on it,” Chief Tarrington said. “I’ll try to pinpoint possible locations where the bomber might attack.”

“Anything on the terrorist-cell side?” Quinton asked.

“Nothing so far. But all our operatives are working with the CIA and FBI trying to locate the source. Meanwhile, meet with the locals and let them know you’re on the job.”

“Copy that.” Quinton hung up, worry gnawing at him. So far, they’d found no connection to a terrorist group. And they might not.

Not if they were dealing with a demon.

Annabelle sighed and rested her head back against the seat. The bruise on her forehead made the thirst for revenge tap at the brink of his control.

He imagined finding the man responsible for putting Annabelle in the hospital and for cruelly taking so many lives. He’d tie him down and beat him until blood poured from his nose and mouth. Then he’d torture him as he himself had been tortured before. He’d strip him naked, make him lie in his blood, make him taste it, make him beg to be released.

The corner of his mouth tilted upward. He could hear the man’s screams and curses, the screech of his voice begging for mercy. A mercy that wouldn’t come, not at Quinton’s hands.

Nightmares haunted Annabelle. Her car exploding. A faceless madman chasing her.

A man clothed in black about to kill her. A demon… Quinton.

No, she didn’t believe in demons…

She struggled through the bleak memories to a time when she was safe, when nothing could harm her and her future was anything she wanted it to be.

She was five years old, sitting by a blazing fire, happily playing with the new train set Santa had brought her, the twinkling white Christmas lights dancing along the caboose. Her father rose from his chair, then knelt on the floor beside her and grinned. “That train will take you any place you want to go, Annabelle. All you have to do is dream.”

Her mother, who’d been relaxing in the big overstuffed chair sipping tea, joined them. “Where do you want to go, sweetie?”

“All over the world.” She’d jumped up and grabbed the camera her parents had given her and snapped a picture of them. “And I want you to go with me.”

Her father had clasped her mother’s hand and kissed it. “We’ll always be a family,” her mother said.

“Sandwich!” Annabelle said with a laugh. It was her favorite game. She squeezed between her parents while they hugged, pretending they were two slices of bread and she was the bologna, and they all laughed.

She jerked awake, a well of sadness engulfing her as reality crashed back. It wasn’t real. Her parents were gone. She’d been dreaming.

Then she inhaled a masculine scent, the raw primal one that had been driving her crazy the last few days, and she glanced at Quinton.

God, the man was mysterious. Still, he intrigued her and stirred wicked fantasies in her mind.

At the same time, he terrified her.

His steely gaze met hers, and she swiped at the tears, embarrassed at her display of emotion.

“Nightmares?” he asked.

She nodded. “I was thinking about my father.”

“Where is he?” Quinton asked.

“I don’t know.” Annabelle sighed. “My mother died about six months ago. The night of the funeral, he disappeared. I haven’t heard from him since.”

“He hasn’t contacted you at all?”

She twisted her hands in her lap. “No.”

Quinton lapsed into a sullen silence as she turned to look out the window.

“What about your family?” she asked.

He gave her a sharp look. “I don’t have family.”

“What about your brother, Vincent?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Get some rest, Annabelle. We’ll be in Charleston soon, and it’s going to be a long day.”

She twisted her hands together, disturbed at the way he’d cut her off. Quinton was one person she couldn’t trust.

So why did she feel drawn to him?

It didn’t matter. She had to guard her emotions and protect herself against him. His avoidance told her more than he realized. And she would find the story behind him before this was over.

But he was right. Her head was throbbing and when they got to Charleston, they had work to do. It was already early morning.

Midnight was only hours away. They had to stop this bomber before more lives were lost.

Quinton momentarily tapped into Annabelle’s thoughts. She didn’t trust him. And she’d vowed to guard herself against him.

Smart thinking. She
shouldn’t
trust him.

But she wanted him, found him desirable.

Hmm… interesting.
He could use that attraction to his advantage.

Wind whipped the trees into a frenzy, scattering dead leaves across the grass and sidewalk in a flurry of red, orange, yellow, and brown as they neared Charleston.

He swiped a hand over his neck, then turned to study her. Her blonde hair lay in waves against the seat, her bruises more pronounced in the early morning sunlight. Everything about her was light to his darkness, her blonde hair to his black, her ivory skin to his bronzed.

Her soul to his lack of one.

For once in his life, he wanted to soothe someone’s pain, not inflict it.

He had to stop this bomber today. The sooner they discovered who’d orchestrated the attacks, the sooner he’d be free from Annabelle’s spell.

Because he would never be free from the darkness that ate at his soul.

And when he killed again, he didn’t want her around to interfere, or to endanger her because of it.

Or to make him question his actions.

He pulled into a hotel on the northern side, went inside and reserved adjoining rooms, and quickly installed cameras in the room where Annabelle would stay so he could watch her every move.

He didn’t trust that she wouldn’t pass on her story or suspicions. Besides, he needed to see if anyone approached or tried to attack her.

When he returned to the car, he nudged her awake. “I got us a room. Let’s go inside, rest a bit, and clean up before we talk to the police.”

She nodded sleepily, her mouth pinching as she climbed out. But again, she didn’t complain. She tried to grab her suitcase, but he yanked it from her and carried their bags inside. As soon as she crawled into the bed, Quinton called his chief to let him know he was in town.

“I’ll meet you at the local police station,” Chief Tarrington said. “Then we’ll try to narrow down target areas.”

Quinton agreed then hung up. He only hoped they found the location in time.

Although Annabelle could have slept for days, the short nap and shower revived her. She and Quinton grabbed coffee and doughnuts on the way to the police station, where a burly bald man named Detective Barbaris met them.

An FBI agent named McLaughlin joined the team in the conference room, along with a man whom Quinton introduced as Chief Tarrington, his boss from HS.

“What do we have to go on?” Detective Barbaris asked.

Quinton spoke up. “Miss Armstrong received a text warning of an impending attack tonight at midnight.”

The detective frowned. “And you know this is for real?”

Quinton exchanged a look with Annabelle, then nodded.

“Why do you think it will occur here?” Detective Barbaris asked.

“It’s really a hunch,” Quinton said, earning him an odd look from the chief, “The vultures gathered in Savannah before the attack. We have to follow every possible lead and take precautions. You don’t want a repeat of Savannah, do you?” Quinton’s steely voice drove home the point. “To be accused of negligence or the press to reveal that you were warned but did nothing?”

The detective shifted and rubbed at the top of his shiny head. “Of course not.”

“Let’s take a look at a map of the city,” the chief said.

The detective nodded, then rolled down a wall map that they all began to scrutinize.

“Charleston is one of the most historic cities in the States,” Barbaris said. “Although it’s a fairly small city, a walking one, the Battery could be a target. There’s also over a hundred restaurants, carriage tours, the shopping district, Market Hall, the churches, the famous houses…”

Frustration lined Barbaris’s face. “Without knowing where this person is going to attack, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Since the bomber chose the waterfront area in Savannah, perhaps that’s where he’ll attack here,” Agent McLaughlin suggested.

“It’s possible,” the chief said. “But maybe too predictable.”

“Any special activities planned tonight in the town?” Quinton asked. “A parade? Political function? Celebration?”

“It is Saturday night,” Detective Barbaris said. “The downtown will be alive with activity. That is, if those damn vultures don’t scare people away.”

Annabelle booted up her computer and googled a list of the city’s events.

“Maybe you should consider shutting down the town,” one of the local officers suggested.

“We can’t ask business owners to do that,” Detective Barbaris said. “We’re talking about their livelihood.”