Dark Hunger (2 page)

His body tingled with arousal, the fierce need he had to hunt stirring primal instincts he couldn’t extinguish. He could almost smell the scent of her sex.

As if she sensed him watching her, she slowly turned, her gaze shifting through the crowd toward him.

His stomach clenched as their gazes locked. Shit.

It was
her
. CNN reporter Annabelle Armstrong. He’d watched her newsclips on TV, her do-gooder pieces on the homeless, her stories behind the stories.

A sliver of moonlight played across her face, her hair shimmering beneath the spilled light. He couldn’t tear himself away. Her big blue eyes were hypnotic. Her pale creamy skin, exotic. And her rosy lips made him ache for a sinful taste.

A taste he could never have.

Because she was a damn reporter. A beautiful one, but falcons were beautiful, too. Still, they were birds of prey.

A bead of sweat slid down his neck. Had she discovered who he was?

Had she come to Savannah to expose him?

Annabelle Armstrong’s gaze locked with Quinton Valtrez’s. Damn. She’d come here to find him but hadn’t expected to see him tonight. Not in the midst of a party in town.

And she certainly hadn’t expected his penetrating gaze to rattle her. Or make her tingle with desire.

“Annabelle, are you listening?” Roland, her boss from CNN, barked over the phone. “Do you think you can get this story?”

“Yes,” she said into her cell phone. “If Valtrez is this Ghost assassin working for some secret government unit, I’ll find out.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, well aware that the man hadn’t moved since he’d spotted her. That his cold eyes and tightly set mouth screamed of danger. That every bone in her body warned her to run.

To forget this story—or she might end up dead.

“Annabelle?” her boss shouted.

“Yes, Roland, I’ll do whatever I have to do to find out the truth.”

She snapped the phone shut, smoothed down her skirt, and desperately struggled for a playful, flirty smile.

Quinton Valtrez was devastatingly and darkly handsome. Bigger than she’d imagined. His features were chiseled in stone, and his five o’clock shadow painted his bronzed stoic jaw with a hint of menace.

Her body tingled. Still, he was just a man.

And she was damn well tired of being at the bottom of the food chain at the station. Of being assigned human-interest pieces instead of the big stories.

She’d do whatever was necessary to get the scoop this time.

Even if it meant cozying up to a killer.

Suddenly a loud explosion rent the air, and the outer deck of the party ship exploded. Annabelle stumbled, the earth trembling below her feet as flames shot into the air. Wood and fiberglass shattered and spewed across the sidewalk as bodies collapsed into the burning rubble.

Quinton threw himself over Annabelle Armstrong, his heart hammering. What in the hell was happening? Were they under a terrorist attack?

And why in the hell had he tried to save her?

Pure instinct
, he thought quickly.

A bloody arm landed beside them, its charred fingers reaching toward him as if begging for help.

Then a vulture swooped down and snapped up the arm, crunching it between its jagged teeth. A sinister look lit the bird’s beady eyes, and in that split second, Quinton could have sworn the vulture smiled.

The rumble of the blazing fire continued as heat pelted him, and Annabelle’s soft body trembled beneath his.

In the midst of the chaos and acrid odors of charred flesh and burning wood, the horrific scent of evil splintered the air.

He had to do something.

He lifted his head slightly. “Are you okay?” he growled.

She moved slightly as if to push him off. “Yes, I think so.”

Forcing himself onto his hands and knees, he stood, studying her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice strained as she looked around at the mad chaos and dead bodies floating in the river.

Panicked screams jerked him into action. He dashed toward the burning ship, leaving Annabelle alone.

He needed to sniff out this killer. As he ran, he sent a text to his contact at Homeland Security to alert them of the attack.

The Death Angel flapped his black wings and bowed his bald head to Zion, paying umbrage to the new leader of the underworld. His belly was swollen from his recent meal, yet he still craved more tasty carrion.

The human bones and meat were especially delicious. The vulture-raven hybrid that was his demonic form for eternity had at first been punishment at its worst, but over the past century, he had embraced the predator’s needs and urges, and now savored the agility of the bird’s keen eyesight, flight patterns, and sharp talons.

Demons, shape-shifters, werecreatures, vampires, fallen angels, and other soldiers of Satan gathered in the underground cave of black rock lit by fiery torches.

Zion entered, his black cape billowing around his demonic form, his orange eyes lighting up the darkness. The mortals would run in terror if they saw him now, complete with sharp fangs like claws, the devil’s horns, flaming red scales, and cloven feet.

“The death toll?” Zion asked.

“In the hundreds.”

Striking on All Hallows’ Eve, the night of the dead, had been genius. All the Death Angel had to do was slide past the Twilight Guards, those with powers who guarded the portal between the mortals and demons, then he’d crossed into the mortals’ world. Thousands of other demons had unleashed themselves tonight, their screeches unrecognizable to the humans but calling out to the others to announce their presence. The pagan holiday had also afforded him the opportunity to possess a human’s body and walk among the masses unnoticed—the one he had chosen would serve him well.

And now that same one lay in a sleep-induced state awaiting his return. The bastard had been an easy mark, had been too weak to fight, his soul already black.

The Death Angel’s power allowed him to crawl into the feeble minds of the weak on earth, put their minds to sleep, then bend them to his will. One touch and they became marionettes dancing on his string.

“I commend you.” Zion’s fiery breath rippled out in pleasure. “When I said spread evil and create chaos, you embraced the challenge.”

The Death Angel flapped his wings with pride.

“And my sons?” Zion asked.

“The Seer found one of the twins, Quinton. He lives in the place they call Savannah, Georgia. This attack should capture the demonborn’s attention.”

Zion’s red eyes flared, shooting sparks of crisp yellow flames across the black rock in jagged lightning-bolt-like lines. “Quinton should be easy. He has succumbed to his destiny already by choosing to be a killer.”

The Death Angel refrained from comment. That was true, although technically the Dark Lord targeted only sinners.

But the fact that Quinton had no regrets, felt no remorse over his kills, worked in their favor and would ultimately be his downfall.

Unfortunately, the Dark Lord’s cause also kept the balance of good and evil alive within him.

That balance had to be destroyed.

The Dark Lord had a weakness for that reporter. They could use her to trap him.

She would also bring attention to the Death Angel’s victories with the mortals, keep a tally of the dead and create pain and misery with her stories.

He’d use her until she became dispensable, then he’d dispose of her. He might even be able to twist Quinton to the point that he killed the woman.

That would definitely earn Quinton his place in the kingdom of evil.

A shudder of horror rippled through Annabelle as another vulture shattered the human bone and ripped off the flesh with its knifelike teeth, blood dripping. Where had all the vultures come from? There were dozens, swarming like gnats around the bodies.

Only vultures usually ate dead animals. She’d never heard of them feasting on humans.

And there were so many dead now…

Had anyone on the boat survived?

Tears blurred her vision, the images of flying body parts and terrified, dying innocents flashing before her.

Heat from the explosion seared her skin, lighting the heavens in a mountainous blaze of red, orange, and yellow. Smoke swirled and blanketed the sidewalk, clogging her throat and eyes. Sirens soon wailed and screeched toward the scene.

“Help me!” someone cried.

“Where’s my little girl?”

“I can’t move!”

The terrified screams and panicked shouts forced her back to the present.

She was alive, and people needed help. She had to do something…

A little girl lay crying beneath the bench near her, and she knelt and examined her for injuries. “Are you all right?” Annabelle asked.

“I lost my mommy,” the child cried out.

“Come here, sweetheart. I’ll help you find her.” Annabelle held out her arms, and the trembling little girl climbed into them.

A man pushed past her, frantic and hobbling on a shattered leg, and hysterical teenagers raced by, too. Then she spotted a brown-haired woman staggering and searching the masses. “My baby… Jodie…”

The child in Annabelle’s arms waved her arms. “Mommy!”

Clutching the little girl to her, Annabelle ran toward the woman just as she spotted them and stumbled forward.

“Oh, my baby, my baby,” the woman cried. Mother and daughter sobbed, clinging to each other as they reunited. Annabelle smiled, grateful they were okay, then skimmed the lawn for others who needed help.

An elderly woman with gray hair dropped to her hands and knees, then pulled a man’s head into her lap. “Herbert’s not breathing,” she yelled. “Somebody, please help us!”

Suddenly rescue workers and police stormed through, and Annabelle waved a paramedic over to the couple.

The next few hours she vacillated between being a reporter and snapping photos of the scene and helping the injured or lost. She’d seen footage of the war zones in the Middle East and photos of bombings and mass casualties.

But Savannah wasn’t a war zone—the injured and dead here weren’t armed soldiers prepared for attack.

Civilians had ventured out for a fun night with their families, to celebrate the holiday with garish spooky costumes and gather candy, in total trust.

Her heart clenching, she snapped a photo of the river, which normally radiated beauty and peace but now looked like a scene from a horror movie, red with blood and death. Next to the body of a woman bobbed a rag doll, tattered and covered in grime, lost to its owner, probably a child who’d loved it as a friend.

A middle-aged man sat hunched and crying over his unconscious wife while the medics worked on her. Others searched frantically for their loved ones in the chaotic mess, women clutching children to their chests as police began to question the crowd for clues as to what had happened.

Charred and mangled limbs and bodies lay scattered in the murky grayness. Flames still ate at the boat as more emergency and police vehicles rushed onto the scene. Rescue workers and medical personnel transported bodies of the dead and the maimed while onlookers watched in stunned shock.