Dark Hunger Page 2

  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.

  Chapter Two

  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.

  She had to focus. She’d come here tonight for a story, albeit Quinton Valtrez’s, but now she had a different one to cover.

  Yet as she approached the boat, she spotted Quinton on board. He paused next to a man who was trapped beneath a burning beam. She raised her camera to take a photo and snapped it quickly.

  Quinton tried to lift the beam, but it must have been too heavy and didn’t budge. Then he backed away, glanced around him as if searching for help or to see if anyone was watching. Slowly he fisted his hands and stared at the beam with his piercing eyes. His complexion seemed to take on a darker hue; his eyes turned glassy against the dark, then glittered with a strange silver glow.

  She gasped at the transformation—he didn’t look quite human at that moment, more like an animal about to attack.

  She raised her camera and snapped another photo just as he flicked one hand up and, without touching the beam, sent it flying off the screaming man.

  Annabelle blinked in shock, uncertain if what she’d seen was real.

  It was almost as if he’d moved the heavy beam with his mind. But that was impossible.

  Wasn’t it?

  Quinton helped the old man off to the side, glancing around to make certain no one had seen what he’d done. Dammit, he tried never to use his powers in public, but this was an emergency, and the man would have died in seconds had he not released him.

  “Thank you,” the man said with a cough as Quinton handed him over to a medic.

  He nodded, then raced through the fire at superhuman speed, stopping to help more injured escape the burning rubble and carrying strangers to safety.

  His senses remained alert, searching. He wanted to find the bomber. To know the source and reason behind this attack.

  He placed his hand on the stiff body of a man but felt no evil vibrating from the man’s soul, only the sickening sense of despair the man had felt just before he’d drawn his last breath.

  A medic raced up, two firemen on his tail, dragging hoses to extinguish the flames.

  “Move the bodies over there!” a suited man who looked like a cop shouted to him and a few other men who’d jumped in to help.

  “I’m a doctor,” a white-haired man said as he ran up. “Let’s start a triage area so we can prioritize the victims according to their injuries.”

  Another team of medics appeared, along with nurses and more medical staff and began to organize the recovery efforts. Policemen flooded the area, attempting to establish order in the chaos and prevent any further injuries.

  Quinton moved silently, like the Ghost he’d become, helping with the madness while still trying to sniff out the culprit.

  In a pile of rubble, he spotted fragments of what appeared to be the bomb, then examined them, his temper flaring as he noticed a tiny piece of green corduroy fabric clinging to one of the small wires.

  Though the remains of the body nearby looked less than human, he recognized the earlier distinct odor of the man amid the charred scent of his flesh.

  He had been right about the homeless man being evil.

  But what had caused him to turn into a suicide bomber?

  His body humming with fury, he called over an officer, introduced himself, then pointed out the evidence so they could send it to forensics. While the officer grabbed a CSI, Quinton unpocketed his cell phone and disappeared into the darkness. With his near photographic memory, he recognized the type of bomb parts used. He knew where they’d come from.

  In the periphery of his vision, he caught sight of Annabelle Armstrong helping an elderly lady to a gurney and turned away, finding safety within the sprawling branches of a live oak dripping in spidery Spanish moss.

  Then he punched in the number for his handler and explained what had happened.
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  “I want to know where he is,” Quinton said. “The bastard who sold these bomb parts is responsible for all these deaths. And he’s going down when I find him.”

  EERIE, TENNESSEE

  Vincent Valtrez clenched his jaw at the sight of the vulture perched on the edge of the windowsill. The bird of prey dipped its bald head and began to clean its feathers, licking pieces of carrion from its black wings. Then it lifted its beak and pierced Valtrez with its insidious eyes as if gloating over a victory.

  Legend had it that a vulture’s appearance meant death.

  He cursed as a sharp wind rattled the panes and made the tree branches scrape the glass. The arrival of All Hallows’ Eve had definitely brought in evil with a bang.

  Vincent closed his eyes to the horror of the news footage scrolling across the TV screen. Clarissa had warned him earlier that something horrible was about to happen.

  She had been right.

  And in Savannah, Georgia, the town where he’d just learned one of his brothers lived. Quinton. Another Dark Lord.

  Coincidence or not?

  He didn’t think so.

  God, he hadn’t even known he had brothers until recently. Until his dead mother had told him.

  According to his information, Quinton worked for Homeland Security.

  But he also belonged to a secret unit, one that the government would deny any knowledge of.

  Quinton was a cold-blooded assassin. A Ghost who killed for hire. He’d been a trained sniper in the military. And he had continued carrying out vigilante killings ever since.

  Quinton probably had no idea he even existed.

  He had to set up a meeting. But he’d have to be careful.

  His gaze veered to the seemingly endless footage of the dead. A ghostly gray mingled with the smoky haze, a gray he now recognized from his wife Clarissa’s insight as spirits, Soul Collectors, who’d descended upon the refuse of bodies to offer immortality to the lost souls who lingered in shock over their sudden demise.

  Was Zion responsible? Was his father rejoicing in the mass destruction and the number of soldiers he’d gained from the weak who traded their souls and joined him?

  Clarissa moved up behind him and slid her arms around his waist. She fed his soul with her goodness, kept his dark side at bay with her tender loving.

  Kept him satisfied in bed as he’d never expected.

  For he craved sex constantly. And she never failed him. He would never grow tired of having his hands on her breasts, her flesh against his, her heat milking his cock.

  “There are demons everywhere,” she said in a low voice. “They slipped through the portal last night. I heard the cries of the lost souls as they struggled over immortality.”

  He nodded, fear making him edgy. Painful emotions that he still had trouble dealing with bombarded him.

  Feelings he hadn’t wanted any more than he’d wanted to fall in love with Clarissa. But he had, dammit.

  Each night the black holes clawed at him. He heard the whisper of evil in the death-scented air, the footsteps of the demons clamoring to steal innocents, the screams of those who tried to escape but failed. The joyous cries of others as they broke through the gate barring their entrance to the mortal world to wreak destruction.

  “I’m going to contact Quinton.” He leaned forward with a sigh. “If he had something to do with those deaths…”

  She stroked the tension from his shoulders. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Vincent. Hear him out. Another demon might be responsible.”

  He nodded. “True. All the more reason he needs to know about our parents.”

  And their destiny.

  But if Quinton had lost himself to the dark side as their father had, blood wouldn’t matter.

  Vincent would have to destroy him.

  Chapter Three

  THE KEYS: NOVEMBER 1

  Sweat trickled down Quinton’s back as he aimed the M24 sniper rifle at his target, but he ignored the moisture as well as the insects buzzing around his mud-covered face.

  Years of honing his concentration paid off on a mission like this. Nothing could distract him from the kill. And he was primed and ready to take this man’s life.

  The target was Carim Vigontol, an American-born terrorist who had single-handedly supplied massive amounts of weapons to terrorist cells that were responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent men, women, and children.

  According to the latest intel in a phone call from his handler, Vigontol had provided the material for the Savannah bombings.

  Quinton stared at the son of a bitch with hatred.

  Dammit. He was partly responsible. If he hadn’t let Annabelle Armstrong distract him, he might have stopped the old man and saved lives.

  The images of the maimed and charred bodies congregated in his head, gnawing at his control and the rage eating his soul. The women and children shouldn’t have been murdered.

  And now, in the aftermath of their deaths, Vigontol was relaxing on a sunny, powdery beach feeding his slovenly, sick urges with expensive caviar, tequila, and women.

  It was Vigontol’s turn to feel pain. To taste the bullet as it sliced through his temple and exploded in his brain.

  Quinton had stalked his movements the past year, detailing his habits, his likes and dislikes, his schedule. He even knew what time of day the man took a crap. Vigontol liked rough sex with young girls. Drugs. And flowers, for God’s sake.

  A sarcastic laugh caught in Quinton’s parched throat. His target didn’t mind killing people, but he tended his roses as if they were his babies.

  His downfall—he thought he was safe.

  A slow smile slid onto Quinton’s face, and he gripped the M24 with ice-cold fingers itching to pull the trigger.

  Then the woman appeared. Through the sliding glass doors, the whore slithered into the living room, her double-D breasts spilling over scraps of red lace, the thigh-high stockings covering her legs inching up toward a crotch shaved clean. He’d seen her before. Beautiful. Alluring. A woman who’d feed a man’s every twisted fetish.

  She knew what Vigontol was and gave herself to him anyway. And she’d helped him smuggle the fucking guns into the States.

  Making her a child killer, too.

  Still, his body hardened as the man tore the lace bra from her breasts, then used a pocketknife to shred the stockings from her legs. With a slap of his hairy hand, he shoved her to her knees. Though Quinton couldn’t hear the target’s command, he knew what the man had told her to do.

  And she complied. She jerked his pants down and freed the man’s stubby dick, then her tongue flicked out and trailed across its engorged head.

  Quinton’s own cock twitched in his pants. Raw animal sex was something he understood.

  He especially liked to watch.

  Yet he didn’t let it distract him from tuning in to the sounds around him in case of a surprise attack. Security guards were, after all, everywhere. And armed heavily.

  The whore sucked and licked, squeezing her hand around Vigontol’s balls and teasing as she drew his cock deeper into her mouth.

  Finally she pumped him until Vigontol began to come, then she cradled his dick and let him spray her face with his sticky white juices. Smiling, she lapped him up, cleaning him from head to base.

  Finished, Vigontol pushed her aside, yanked up his pants, and poured himself a Bloody Mary.

  Quinton braced himself, knowing the time had come. The man might have chosen to hide out in the Keys, but Quinton had easily found him. It was, after all, what he’d been trained to do since he was a child.

  Track and kill.

  Vigontol moved from the inside of the cabana to the brick patio where he stood, drink in hand. He clipped a bloodred rose from one of his prized bushes and sniffed it as he walked toward the hammock. Clear blue water lapped slowly against the shore, the waning sun streaking the majestic gardens with orange and purple rays, the air stirring with the scent of lush green life.

  A beautif
ul day to die.

  Then Vigontol’s gaze shifted around the compound as if he sensed Quinton was in hiding, waiting to strike. His beady eyes paused on the very spot where Quinton had staked his sniper gear.

  Quinton’s extrasensory perception kicked in, bombarding him with sensations. The scent of the man’s fear swirled around him, vile and acrid in the heat. The sound of his target’s blood racing through his veins pounded in Quinton’s ears. The whisper of reality that Vigontol knew that he was about to taste death tickled Quinton’s conscience.

  But training kept him schooled and emotionless. The evil inside Vigontol had met its match in Quinton’s coldhearted, black side.

  His hands were rock steady, his breathing low and steady as he inserted his earplugs. He had one shot before the man’s security came running.

  He had to get it right.

  All thoughts fled except for the kill as Quinton aimed the M24 and fired. The Bloody Mary fell to the patio, the glass shattering. Brain matter and blood splattered across the white brick as his target’s body spasmed and jerked, then slumped to the ground and went still.

  Methodically, Quinton reached for the grenades to thwart the security as Vigontol’s hired guns shouted and scurried about in shocked panic.

  Vigontol’s black cat darted onto the patio just before he tossed the first explosive. Mentally, Quinton connected with the animal, telepathed the feline a silent message to run into the sea of palms beyond. The cat perked up its ears, arched its back and hissed, then lurched away through the gardens to safety.

  Quinton tossed one, then another grenade into the compound, brick and mortar and bodies exploding and shooting toward the heavens in a fiery blaze. Red rose petals fluttered through the air and rained down around Vigontol’s body like blood drops from the sky.

  The thrill of the kill sluiced through Quinton as he loaded his weapon system, then turned and jogged toward the chopper he had waiting.

  His job was done. All he needed now was to pound out his tension into the body of a willing woman.