Dark Hunger (21 page)

*   *   *

When they arrived at the cemetery, mourners had lit candles to hold a vigil as Reverend Narius finished his sermon.

Quinton brushed his hand over a tombstone, had a vision of someone putting flowers on the grave, and jerked his hand free.

Nothing helpful there.

Annabelle sniffed beside him, and Quinton steeled himself to the stark look of grief on her face.

The damn woman felt too much. Probed too much. Was getting into his head and making him wish he hadn’t lost his soul a long time ago.

“We’ve come together today to say good-bye to these young people whose lives were lost so tragically to violence and evil,” Reverend Narius said. “At these times, we ask ourselves why.

“But we need to ask ourselves if we’re right with God, if there are sins we need to atone for. If we’re ready to turn our souls over and follow the righteous path so that we may reunite with our loved ones on the other side.”

Quinton searched the faces of the attendees, noting the way Narius’s followers hung on his every calculated word. Narius struck when the people were grief-stricken, preying on them, sinking his claws into their minds when they were the most vulnerable emotionally.

A perfect plan.

The fall wind swirled dead leaves across the parched grass, the scent of despair and fear heavy as mourners clung to one another and began to file out. Some lingered to speak to the reverend, to drop flowers on the graves interspersed across the cemetery, and to console one another.

Quinton imagined the spirits lingering in shock, wondered if demons haunted the graveyard now.

Finally, the crowd dwindled as night stole the last vestiges of light, and he and Annabelle approached Narius.

Quinton held back, knowing the reverend would probably welcome the publicity Annabelle could give him, and probing his mind to determine if he might be a demon in disguise.

Annabelle pasted on a smooth, charming smile. One Quinton had seen on TV but not one she’d graced him with.

“Reverend, my name is Annabelle Armstrong, CNN News.”

His too-polished face lit up with a grin. “Yes, I recognize you from TV. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Quinton identified himself, and the reverend gave him a wary look.

“Such a tragedy,” Reverend Narius said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” He straightened his tie. “Did you want a photo, Miss Armstrong? Or did you take some of the service?”

“I’m not after a photo.”

“You spoke to the homeless shelters in both Savannah and Charleston,” Quinton cut in. “What do you know about the bombers, Warren Ames and B. J. Rutherford?”

The age lines around the reverend’s mouth stretched with his frown, making him look older than he appeared on TV. “I see and speak to hundreds when I visit each town,” he said. “Nothing about either one rings a bell.”

Annabelle removed two photos from her purse. “This is Mr. Ames. And here’s a picture of B. J. Rutherford. They were both veterans.”

“Many of the men I meet are,” Reverend Narius said. “And many are suffering from illness—mental, physical, spiritual. I do what I can.”

Quinton studied Narius. “We think these men might have been hypnotized or brainwashed as part of a larger plan.”

Narius pursed his lips. “Brainwashing? That sounds preposterous.”

“It could be possible with drugs,” Annabelle said.

Reverend Narius narrowed his eyes. “Or maybe there’s another reason. Perhaps the devil got to them.”

“You know the devil personally?” Quinton asked.

Reverend Narius clutched his Bible. “I recognize him at work.”

Quinton grunted. “We all know cults have brainwashed people before,” Quinton said. “There are documented cases of suicide pacts that prove it.”

Reverend Narius jerked his gaze toward Quinton. “That may be true. And if that is the case with the bombings, I’ll pray for the lost souls.” The wind ruffled his lacquered hair, and he patted the strands back in place, then started walking, his movements stilted. “I need to go now. I have a flight to catch.”

“Where are you off to now?” Annabelle called.

He gave her an odd look. “To New Orleans. I heard that the vultures have descended on the town. I want to be there in case there’s trouble.”

Quinton twisted his mouth sideways. “You’re expecting there to be?”

“We all know the meaning of those vultures,” Narius said.

And then he was gone.

“What do you think about the reverend?” Annabelle asked as they settled back into the SUV.

Quinton grunted. “The jury is still out.”

She nodded. “I’d hate to accuse an innocent person, especially a well-known preacher, of murder. But I don’t trust him.”

“Neither do I.”

She gripped her bag, the silence ominous as he drove toward the airport. Her head began to throb again, and she reached inside her bag for painkillers, then popped two from the bottle and swallowed them dry.

“You want to rest tonight, then fly out in the morning?” he asked.

“No. Let’s go. Time is running out.”

He nodded, then punched in the number for the airlines to book them a flight.

Two hours later, they boarded the last flight of the night. Quinton gripped the seat edge, his body wound tight. But there was nothing he could do at the moment but try to get some rest. He couldn’t have sex with Annabelle.

Well, he could, but he didn’t want a quickie in the bathroom stall. He wanted long and slow and languid. Hell, he wanted fast and furious and wild.

This dark, endless hunger was driving him insane.

Annabelle glanced up at him as if she’d read his mind, and his mouth thinned. He didn’t like what she was doing to him.

Didn’t like that he was worried the demon might be after her now.

“You should rest,” she said softly.

“So should you.” He picked up her hand and pressed it against his cheek. The sound of his beard stubble raking across her tender skin sent his senses into overdrive, and he leaned his head sideways, pressed his lips into her palm, and kissed her hand.

Surprise flashed in her eyes at the tender gesture. Then a shuttered look crossed her face, and she turned away and pulled her hand to her lap.

Needing the physical contact, he clasped her hand back in his. Her gaze dropped to the bulge in his jeans and desire flickered in her eyes. But wariness quickly stomped it.

“You are wicked,” she said.
But I want you anyway.

Suddenly a vision filled his head. Annabelle tied up, a demon breathing down her neck.

He shuddered, tightening his grip. His heart pounded as he blinked her back into focus. He had to stop this demon before he hurt Annabelle.

“I’m dangerous to you,” he said.

“I know.” She closed her eyes, but she didn’t pull her hand away, and he held it to his chest, savoring the contact.

That was one vision he wouldn’t allow to come true.

Forcing himself to reserve his energy for the battle they faced, he finally fell asleep. But the darkness sucked at him, clawed at him with a choking grip, and no matter how much he fought, it won.

He was entombed in it.

Trapped in the underworld with monsters and demons, huge hulking dark shadows, twisted inhuman creatures, shape-shifters and vampires and serpents hissing at his feet, ready to strike.

Then his father appeared, a reincarnation of Satan.

“Kill for me and we’ll rule the world,” his father ordered. “Follow your destiny, succumb to the darkness, and you will walk by my side as a fearless commander.”

The vulture screeched and flapped his black wings, a blazing fire lit the cave, and his father waved his hands and breathed fire from his fingertips.

Then he spotted Annabelle. His father had tied her to a post and strapped a bomb to her.

Quinton jerked awake, sweating and hating what he was—a demon. Hated that he couldn’t have a normal life or a woman by his side.

Because being with him would get anyone he loved killed.

Apprehension rippled through the air as Quinton drove them toward downtown New Orleans. For a moment on the plane, Annabelle had felt a connection with him, as if he might actually care for her.

But when she’d awakened, he’d had a fierce look on his face and had shut down. Would she ever see the real man beneath that tough facade?

A vulture soared above them as if following them, and she switched her attention back to the job at hand. They were here to stop a bomber, not for her to become more involved with Quinton.

The French Quarter stretched ahead with its ancient culture, detailed ironwork, and impressive architecture. Colorful flags and banners announced the Swamp Festival and a smaller jazz festival, welcoming guests.

Vultures were perched everywhere—on light posts, awnings, the tops of buildings, window flowerboxes—and the aboveground cemeteries were swarming with the vile-looking creatures.

The screaming sounds that erupted from the black-winged predators as they swooped and soared above Bourbon Street terrorizing people made her break into a cold sweat.

Quinton pulled into a hotel parking lot in town, and they went inside. “Adjoining rooms,” Quinton said matter-of-factly.

She ignored the clerk’s curious look, then followed him to the elevator in silence. As soon as they entered the second-floor suite Quinton stalked inside and opened the door connecting the two rooms.

She folded her arms, watching him, remembering the cameras he’d installed in the hotel in Charleston. His gaze met hers, intense, sultry, suggestive—as if he remembered as well. It took every ounce of her courage not to blush.

Instead, she lifted her suitcase to put it on the foldout luggage rack, but he took it from her. Odd, a killer who possessed a sliver of chivalry.

“You look exhausted,” he said. “Do you need to rest a while?”

“No.”

He nodded, but instead of retreating to his room, he stepped closer, his gaze raking over her, his scent drawing her into his seductive web.

She arched a brow. “No cameras this time?”

A wicked grin lit his face. “I don’t need them now. I have a permanent picture in my mind.” He lifted a strand of her hair between his fingers. “One I won’t forget.”

Anger flared inside, but her body tingled with desire at his gruff tone. So he had liked what he’d seen.

She forced a breath through her lungs. “Nothing is going to happen between us, Quinton.”

“If you say so,” he said in a gruff voice, although he stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb so tenderly that her heart squeezed, and she had to struggle not to succumb to his alluring power.

He glanced at the open bathroom door, his tone low and husky. “I’m sure you’re still sore. You might need some help in there.”

A nervous laugh bubbled in her throat. Yet her nipples budded with excitement at the thought of him touching her. “I’ll manage,” she said softly.

She backed toward the door, knowing she had to escape before she relented and kissed him again.

One more kiss and she wouldn’t stop. She’d let him have her completely.

But giving him her heart would be foolish. She had to protect herself, or he would destroy her.

Quinton retreated to the other bedroom, his body rock-hard and aching. He might be half demon, but his human side had surfaced, and he let her go.

He’d have to bide his time. But he would have her, and she would love it. And he’d have her more than once.

But not now.

He stripped and jumped into the shower, letting the cold water calm his raging libido and revive him.

After scrubbing himself, he rinsed off, then stood naked in front of the mirror, wondering what Annabelle would say about the numerous scars on his body. Had she noticed them when she’d watched him through the camera?

Knife wounds crisscrossed his back, a deep scar from a gunshot wound marred his right thigh, and burn and whip marks reddened the flesh on his back and chest.