Dark Hunger (27 page)

Now she was part of it.

“Leave her alone,” Quinton growled at the reporter, then pulled her into the crook of his arms and ushered her through the crowd toward the rental car.

“I don’t understand.” Annabelle’s throat clogged as she climbed into the car and he joined her. “That’s my father and I don’t even recognize him. He used to give me piggyback rides, help me decorate the Christmas tree, taught me to ride a bike, and planted flowers in the backyard. And I saw him about to kill all these people. If you hadn’t stopped him…” She glanced up, searching his face. “How did you do that?”

He hesitated, his gaze dark. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go to the hospital.”

She grabbed his arm. “But I need to know.”

“I tapped into his mind,” he said in a low voice.

She wheezed a breath. “If you read his mind, then why did he do this?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “His mind was empty, as if it had been erased.”

She pressed her hand to her chest. “Erased?”

He nodded. “His only thought was that pulling that triggering mechanism was his mission. That he was supposed to kill the enemy.”

“The enemy?” Her voice cracked. “But those were innocent people.”

“I know. But I think our theory was right. Someone brainwashed him into thinking he was on a mission.” He started the car and followed the ambulance. Annabelle twisted her hands together, then wiped at her tears.

Annabelle swallowed. “You said you saw the man behind the plan. Who was it?”

He cut his eyes toward her. “I didn’t actually see his face, only a black cape billowing behind him.”

She reached for him, wanting to shake him. “Why couldn’t you stop
him
with your mind?”

He cleared his throat. “Because it was the Death Angel. He shape-shifted into a vulture and flew away before I could stop him.”

Quinton’s head reeled with questions. Armstrong had almost killed Narius along with himself. So if Narius wasn’t responsible for the bombings and brainwashing, then whose body had the Death Angel possessed?

Dr. Gryphon had also attended the event, but he hadn’t seen him when the chaos had erupted. Had he set the wheels in motion then stepped back to watch the explosion?

Quinton scowled. They needed to know more about the man’s research.

But why would a noted doctor want to kill masses of people?

He’s possessed
, Quinton reminded himself. This demon, the Death Angel, had the power to rob a person of their mind—and soul—and bend it to his will. It was the only explanation. And who better to use than a renowned, award-winning, charitable doctor no one would suspect?

Annabelle wrapped her arms around her sides, as if holding herself together, and he frowned. He shouldn’t have spilled his guts back there. He should have lied.

But this was personal to her. The potential bomber this time was her father, and he’d lost sight of that for a moment when her pain had suffused him.

Dammit, he didn’t want to care about her.

Desperation and grief shadowed Annabelle’s eyes. “You’re scaring me,” she finally said.

His hand tightened around the steering wheel. Good. She should be scared.

Of the demon and of him.

Dammit. He wanted to hold her, though, assure her that he’d make everything all right.

But he couldn’t make promises he might not be able to keep.

He never should have had sex with her. Instead of sating him, it had only whetted his appetite.

And had connected him to her on an emotional level.

He had to break that connection; otherwise, how could he possibly do his job?

The ambulance careened up to the emergency room entrance, and medics unloaded her father, then rushed him inside. Quinton swung the car around to a space in the emergency room parking lot, then the two of them rushed inside and hurried to the front nurse’s desk.

“My father was just brought in,” Annabelle said, a tremor in her voice. “I’d like to be with him.”

The security guard stepped in front of them. “I’m sorry, but Officer Carnes issued strict orders not to let anyone pass.”

Quinton flashed his Homeland Security ID. “This man is a suspect and possible witness to the bombings in Savannah and Charleston. I need to question him.”

The guard shook his head. “I have my orders.”

“I can have them overridden,” Quinton said sharply. “This is a matter of national security.”

The guard stiffened. “I’ll speak with the detective and inform him that you’re here.”

“Please, just let us know when he’s conscious,” Annabelle said. “I’m his next of kin.”

He nodded and Quinton gestured toward the waiting room. Instead of sitting, Annabelle paced the length of the room. A man with a camera hurried in and flashed a press badge at the receptionist’s desk. Quinton coaxed Annabelle into the corner.

The guard firmly ordered the reporter to leave, but he glanced around as if searching for them. Quinton shielded Annabelle from sight.

“I just can’t believe this is happening,” Annabelle whispered.

He pulled her up against his chest and held her. “I’m sorry, Annabelle. But at least he’s alive.”

She sighed against him. “My father… he used to be so gentle. He would never hurt a soul, not in his right mind.”

Quinton stroked her back, trying to calm her. “He hurt you by walking out on you.”

She nodded against his chest, her body trembling. “But he was depressed over losing my mother.”

Quinton refused to let the man off that easily, just as he couldn’t let his mother off so easily for sending him to live with the monks. “It still doesn’t excuse him for abandoning his daughter.”

“Why choose him?” Her voice broke. “Why send me warnings and then use my own father? Does this killer have something against me personally?”

Quinton clenched his jaw, the truth dawning. No, It was because of him.

The reason he would have to walk away from her when he vanquished this demon.

If Vincent’s and Father Robard’s predictions were correct, more demons would follow. And they’d use anyone he cared about to get to him.

The vulture picked the bones clean. But one lone, pitiful man did not fill his appetite. Not when he’d been expecting dozens of others.

His fellow vultures squealed in anger and circled the sky over New Orleans, hungry, preying, seeking sustenance.

Desperate to lick the blood juices, chomp on mangled flesh and charred skin.

Even though the human meat was old and brittle, his belly swelled with pleasure, and his mouth watered for more.

He would never get enough of death. Of the slaughter. Of circling the sky for the remains of animal and man. Of the feast that resulted as nature took its course and their bodies decomposed.

Now that he’d tasted humans, the craving for their flesh consumed him.

The Dark Lord had proven to be quite the adversary tonight. He’d even used his power against him.

He tore another tendon from the body and chewed it greedily, although rage that he’d lost the battle made him sink his sharp teeth into bone until it cracked and splintered.

The Dark Lord might have won a small victory tonight. But he would not win in the end.

Annabelle’s ripe young body would taste so sweet and juicy.

Seeing the tortured look on the Dark Lord’s face as he devoured her would be his ultimate offering to Zion. And would undoubtedly unleash the evil lurking within Quinton.

It was the longest night of Annabelle’s life.

She and Quinton both checked at the nurse’s desk every few minutes for an update on her father, but the staff kept putting them off. Twice, reporters tried to trick their way inside, but Quinton and the guards kept them out.

Quinton had gone to get them a cup of coffee when Reverend Narius showed up with Dr. Gryphon right behind him.

“I will pray with you for your father’s soul if you like,” Reverend Narius asked.

“Thank you, but I just want to be alone,” Annabelle said.

“I understand.” The reverend clasped her hand. “I’ll be in the chapel if you need me or decide to join me.”

“How is your father?” Dr. Gryphon asked.

Annabelle studied him, searching for a sign that she should trust him.

“I don’t know. The doctors won’t tell me anything.”

He offered her a small smile. “Perhaps I can talk to him, evaluate him. Help him in some way.”

Quinton appeared behind the doctor. “I don’t think Miss Armstrong wants your help,” he said gruffly.

Dr. Gryphon pivoted and scowled at Quinton. “I am an expert in my field. It appears to me that Mr. Armstrong has slipped into a catatonic state due to some traumatic event in the past. Perhaps with therapy we can discover what drove him to contemplate suicide.”

“We will get to the bottom of what happened,” Quinton said.

Annabelle cleared her throat. “In your work with PTS and the online group, did either of the two other bombers mention suicide?”

“No.” He shook his head. “And after we spoke, I reexamined the posts just to make sure I hadn’t missed any signs. But I saw nothing indicating suicidal thoughts. Depressed, yes. Irrational thoughts, yes. But not suicide.”

“We’ll have our own psychologist from the Bureau evaluate those posts,” Quinton said. “We’ll also bring them in to evaluate Mr. Armstrong.”

“His recovery could be the key to discovering who’s behind these bombings, correct?” Dr. Gryphon said.

“Exactly.” Quinton narrowed his gaze at the doctor. “That’s the reason we need our own people to handle it, not you.”

That and the fact that they suspected he might be involved, Annabelle thought.

Then she remembered Quinton’s theory of demons. Could Dr. Gryphon possibly be more than he seemed?

She’d witnessed Quinton’s power. Did the doctor have a power himself?

Dr. Gryphon thrust his business card into her hand. “Very well. But please call me if you need me, Miss Armstrong. I very much want to help.”

He left and Quinton gave her the coffee with a muttered curse. “I don’t trust him.”

Annabelle massaged her temple. “I don’t know what to think.” Not about Dr. Gryphon or her father.

Yet somehow she trusted Quinton now.

They lapsed into an awkward silence, and Quinton excused himself to make some phone calls as she paced the waiting room.

Finally her father’s doctor appeared. “My name is Dr. Andradre.” He extended his hand and Annabelle shook it.

“How is he?” she asked.

“He’s stabilized, but nonresponsive. We want to run some tests, basic MRI, CAT scan, do a complete neurological workup, and have a psychologist evaluate him as well.”

She nodded. “He is going to live, isn’t he?”

“Everything indicates that. At least there are no visible physical injuries,” he said. “But as I mentioned, we need to run additional tests to see if there are underlying medical issues causing his condition.” He hesitated. “Can you give me his background? Was he taking any medications?”

“Not that I know of,” Annabelle said. “But I haven’t seen him in months. My mother died, and he just walked out and never came back.”