Raziel nodded, extended fangs glinting in the flickering candlelight. “Patrick Watkins’ brother will be in your possession by sunup tomorrow, sire. I can assure you.” He grinned, cockiness coming back tenfold. “As asked. As promised.”
With a great show of elation, Pestilence drew the kitten closer to his stomach and smiled. Steven Watkins. The brother who should have died eighteen years ago. Finally removed from the picture.
Things were looking up.
A chuckle sounded deep in his chest and he lifted the kitten up to his face, rubbing its tiny cold nose to his.
Good.
Very good.
Chapter Eight
Okay, first things first. She’d never felt this way before. Ever. Not even with her Roman general with the hawkish nose and eloquent turn of phrase. What did that mean?
Lying on her back, the warm hardness of Patrick’s body pressed to her belly, his legs threaded through hers in the most wonderfully intimate way, Fred studied the ceiling of his living room.
The warm afterglow of her five or so orgasms still licked through her veins, still flushed her perspiration-wet skin. What Patrick Watkins could do with his dick left her mouth dry and her pussy saturated and throbbing and so damn hungry for more. What he could do with his tongue, his teeth, his fingers.
A shiver of dirty delight rippled through her at the memory and she grinned, wriggling a little underneath him. The soft carpet caressed her naked butt cheeks in ways plush pile was never meant to and she wriggled again, letting her body consume the surreal pleasure. She chuckled silently, smoothing her palms over Patrick’s relaxed shoulders. How could the man make her come so many times and still leave her so horny that carpet made her hot and squirmy?
“Do you mind?” a low grumble sounded from the vicinity of Patrick’s head—somewhere near her armpit—and a delicious little thrill shot through her chest and into her breasts. “I’m quite comfortable here and you’ve suddenly turned into a jumping castle.”
Rolling to his side, he slid onto the floor and settled himself beside her body, resting his head on his elbow to give her a decidedly cheeky grin. “I guess this means I can’t say I’ve never fucked around with Death anymore, can I?”
Fred cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not unless you want me to kick you.”
He chuckled, smoothing his hand along the flat plane of her belly up to the curve of her ribcage, his knuckles grazing the underswell of her breasts. The soft contact sent a little shiver of delight through Fred and she let her eyelids close. “Hmmm. That feels nice.”
She opened her eyes again and gave him a wide smile. Only to find him studying her with an ambiguous expression on his face.
“I guess I probably should have asked you this a couple of hours ago,” Patrick said, his hand still on her ribs, his eyes serious, “in light of what we’ve just been doing, but what’s going on with you and my brother?”
Fred’s stomach knotted. An image of Ven immediately flashed into her head and she swallowed down a sudden lump in her throat. What was going on between her and fang face? She released a sigh, a small frown pulling at her eyebrows. “His demon calls to mine. Powerfully, in fact.”
Patrick looked at her, his expression never changing. If it weren’t for the slight tensing in his muscles, Fred could almost believe he hadn’t heard what she’d just confessed. A long moment passed. “Am I a demon?” he asked, “Is that why we did what we just did? Is that why I can’t stop thinking about you? Why within ten minutes of finding you in my bedroom in the middle of the night, I wanted nothing more than to bury myself in your sex and make love to you?”
His words made Fred’s heart hammer like a sledgehammer. She’d never been told something like that, especially not in such an open, completely matter-of-fact way. Her mouth went dry, the soles of her feet tingled…and the base of her spine itched. Really itched. “No,” she answered, shaking her head as she rolled onto her side, her belly and hips pressed to his. “You are not a demon. I would know if you were.” She paused, letting her gaze roam his handsome, troubled face. “You are something else.”
“What?”
She shook here head again, wishing with every molecule of her existence she could give him an answer. “I still don’t know.”
A low growl rumbled in Patrick’s chest and he rolled onto his back, breaking the intimate contact to stare at the ceiling. Sunlight dappled the room, streaming in through the open window and Fred could see him tracking the dust motes dancing on the air, his jaw clenched, his breath even and deliberately paced. She placed her hand on his chest, wanting to feel the beat of his heart under her palm, and swallowed as she felt him flinch slightly at her touch.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Patrick. No matter what Steven thinks, no matter what I am, I’m not going to hurt you.”
He didn’t answer her, just watched the dust motes. Fred studied his profile, the warm euphoric buzz from their incredible lovemaking taunting her. She wanted to be wrapped in his arms now, but it seemed he’d shut her out.
She chewed on her bottom lip. By the Powers, what did she do now? What should she do?
“Why did you come here, Fred?” Patrick turned his head to face her, that strangely ambiguous expression on his face again. “Because I can’t believe it was just to make love to me.”
Pulling in a slow breath, Fred considered her answer. What did she tell him? And how much of it would he believe?
Tell him everything, Fred. Whatever this is, you know you don’t want it to end now. Tell him everything. Give him a reason to trust you.
“I have this…early-warning alarm,” she said, keeping her hand on his chest, unwilling to break contact with his warmth. “When something is going down that impacts the Realm—that’s my home—my spine itches. Well, to be exact, my tail itches. I don’t exist in my demon form, ever,” she hastened to add, “Not since about five million years ago that is, but that form and my tail along with it still exists in a plane beyond this realm.” She paused, waiting for Patrick to say something. He didn’t. “The second I stood in your bedroom, the very moment I saw you asleep on your bed, my spine itched. That told me you were more than just a hot guy I’d spied on the beach.” She uttered a short, almost dry laugh and rolled her eyes. “And to think I’d just popped into your room to have a perv.”
She looked back to him, waiting for a response. All she got was that same expression.
He’s not making this easy, Fred.
He doesn’t have to. You’re just about to change everything he knows.
“Anyways, ignoring the…desire…I immediately felt for you, the itch in my spine made me nervous. I hate being nervous. I also hate being confused, and I have to tell you, Patrick, since you and your toothy brother entered the scene, I’ve been confused.” She chewed on her bottom lip again, the image of Steven floating through her head at his name. “More than confused. And then Steven found me in the strip joint and we…” she faded to a halt, clearing her throat. “We parted ways, and I’d just returned to the Realm to try and find out what in all the levels of hell was going on, when you called me.”
Patrick turned to look at her. “I never called you, Fred.”
Red heat flushed into Fred’s cheeks as the memory of the moment came back to her. “I heard your voice. Well, your thoughts. I don’t know how that is even possible, but I did. I heard your thoughts and knew immediately where you were and what you were feeling—which was pretty angry, I have to say. Angry and, on a different level, scared.” She shrugged, trying to pretend to be calm when all she wanted to do was show him just how badly the whole thing had affected her. She should not have been able to hear his thoughts in the Realm. She shouldn’t be able to hear his thoughts, full stop. But whatever he was, she seemed to have locked on to him. A connection beyond her understanding. More confusion, more questions to be answered.
“I tuned myself into where you were—and again, I don’t know or understand how that can be so—and arrived at the beach in t
ime to see you destroy the nikor. No weapons. No help. Just you and the aqueous demon and then a billion grains of disconnected sand.”
She paused. Not because she wanted Patrick to say something, but because she needed to contemplate what she’d just confessed. She was the Fourth Horseman. She was Death. The ultimate end. She shouldn’t be connected to anything.
Looking at Patrick, she suppressed the urge to fidget. What was he thinking?
Aargh! Now would be a good time for one of these impossible psychic connections, don’t you think, Fred?
He stared at her, the heat from his body seeping into hers, his unique male scent—earth and sand and summer wind—permeating each breath she took. Tension twisted through her muscles. She clenched her jaw, her pulse growing quicker.
By the Powers, say something, damn it!
“You were in a strip joint?”
The question took her completely by surprise. She burst out laughing, the sound both shocked and exasperated, and wacked her fist against his chest.
“Hey!” He pulled himself into a loose ball, protecting his body with his arms and legs.
Shaking her head, Fred went to slap him again, targeting his naked butt cheek suddenly and wonderfully exposed to her by his defensive position.
Before her hand could connect with his flesh, Patrick moved. His body unfurled, his fingers curling around her wrists to stay her arms, his legs pinning hers to the floor with gentle speed.
She gasped, a sizzling bolt of liquid heat stabbing straight into her sex. Her nipples pinched tight, the pit of her belly tensed. She licked her lips, watching him rise above her slightly, his green eyes holding hers.
They stared at each other for a still moment. Fred could feel the tension in Patrick’s body. She held her breath, wanting him to lower his head and kiss her. Wanting him to not. She needed to tell him the rest before they got lost in each other again. She had to tell him the rest. But she needed to feel him moving inside her sex as well. Damn, she needed to feel him claim her as his own. Maybe more so.
Oh, Fred…this is so dangerous.
Patrick’s Adam’s apple worked up and down in a series of rapid jumps before, ever so slowly, he released her wrists and moved away from her, nostrils flaring. “There’s more, isn’t there,” he said, pulling himself into a sitting position and resting his elbows on his bent knees. Barely restrained desire radiated from him in hot waves, as did edgy irritation. “You didn’t come here to tell me just that. You know something else.”
Her body burning with denied pleasure, her chest tightening with anticipated apprehension, Fred released a sigh. She positioned herself beside him, back against the sofa, knees tucked under her chin. There were two ways she could proceed—cautiously, edging into what she’d found back in the Realm’s library, or bluntly. No bullshit, no tiptoeing about.
A rush of annoyance heated her blood and she held back a muttered curse. She’d never been like this before. Indecisive. Hesitant. She felt like a dithering old lady.
Just do it, Fred. Don’t muck about. Just tell him.
“You’ve been written about in the Prophesies.”
The moment the words passed her lips she wished she could take them back. Patrick would want a no-nonsense explanation, but she didn’t need to scare him off with such a surreal statement. Even she got freaked out from time to time knowing there were entities who foresaw her actions eons in advance.
She shot him a quick look and dismay rippled through her. He hadn’t reacted. That frustrating ambiguous expression once again turned his face into an unreadable mask.
“What I mean is,” she continued, less aggressive, “I think you have been.”
He raised one eyebrow. “So I’m famous?”
Fred laughed, an uncomfortable sound that made her cringe. What was wrong with her? Anyone would think she was in…
The thought trailed away, leaving a lump in her throat and a numb tingle in her lips. She closed her eyes, suppressing the urge to groan.
By the Powers, no. Not that. Please, not now. Not until…
“Fred?”
She started at her name. Giving herself a mental slap, she turned back to Patrick, covering her nakedness in a pair of denim cut-offs and a black tank top as she did so. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to tell him what the future may or may not hold for him undressed. Silly, she knew, but there all the same.
Maybe it’s because you’re—
Shut up!
Patrick cocked an eyebrow, possibly at the sudden appearance of clothing on her body, possibly at the strange expression she knew she wore. He said nothing however, reaching behind him without breaking eye contact to snare his boxers. He tugged them on and, despite the churning apprehension eating away at her, Fred couldn’t help but admire the lean, bronzed strength of his legs and the thick, long strength of his—
Patrick cleared his throat and Fred jumped, heat flooding her checks again. She snapped her attention to his face, giving herself another mental slap. Focus, Fred. “Umm…” She desperately tried to remember the last thing Patrick had said. So, I’m famous? “Well, possibly,” she finally answered, trying to will away her embarrassed blush, “Although the reference is so obscure I could be reading it all wrong.”
An ambiguous light flickered in Patrick’s eyes. “Let’s hear it.”
“The first quote I found is about fang face.” She frowned. “I think. The brother who cannot walk in the sun shall cast a shadow on the shifting grains of glass, and the shadow shall be of blood.”
Patrick didn’t say anything.
“I’m assuming the shifting grains of glass refer to the beach, being that sand is used to make glass. I’m guessing the brother who cannot walk in the sun refers to Steven being a vampire who is impervious to daylight.” She paused again. “But…”
“But you’re not sure whose blood the shadow will be of?” Patrick finished, voice level. He looked at her for a long moment before that same ambiguous light shimmered in the depths of his eyes. “Or are you?”
Fred turned away from him, not really sure how to answer. He already had a pretty good idea of where the conversation was heading. She could see it in the tension in his face, feel it in the tension of his muscles. She watched the day stream into the room through the window, noting the changing shadows on the floor and walls. It must be almost midday by now. She’d been with Patrick for almost three hours—the longest she’d ever stayed in one human’s company her entire existence.
And you’re in no hurry to leave, are you.
Tugging her legs closer to her chest, she turned back to him.
“C’mon, Death.” Patrick’s grin was wry. “You can do it.”
Mouth dry, chest heavy, she let out a sigh. “I don’t know.”
His laugh was a wry as his grin. “What’s the rest?”
She didn’t answer him. She didn’t want to.
You have to, Fred. You need to prepare him for what is to come. Whatever that is.
Swallowing, she dug her nails into her knees and pressed her back harder to the sofa, welcoming the pain the pressure caused on her spine. “In a book called Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis…” She stopped. Patrick was chuckling softly.
“There’s a book called Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis?”
She pulled a face at him, exasperated. “Pay attention, lifeguard. In Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis, these words caught my attention—‘The Cure shall face the Disease on the shifting…” She stopped again, fixing Patrick with a hard stare.
His jaw was bunched, so tight she swore she could hear his teeth cracking, his muscles coiled to snapping point.
“What? What did I say, Patrick?” She stared at him, her heart hammering. Something she’d said had gotten to him. What? “Tell me.”
He turned away, knuckles white.
Fred scrambled to her knees before him, forcing him to look at her. “Tell me, Patrick.” She placed her hands on his fists. “Please?”
A haunted expression flashed across his face, warping the stoic one he’d previously worn. He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if fighting an inner war.
“Fuck,” he muttered, fists balling tighter under her fingers.
“Patrick,” Fred murmured, moving closer to him. “Please?”
“Tell me who the Disease is, Death. I know you know. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me who he is.”
Fred shook her head, the fury in Patrick’s eyes almost scaring her. She’d never seen him so angry. She’d never seen anyone so angry. Ever. “I… He…” She licked her suddenly dry lips. By the Powers, why did she feel like the very air around her was alive? Like some force was pressing down on her?
“Who is he, Death?”
She squirmed, the unseen pressure on her body increasing.
“Who is he?”
She pulled in a shallow breath, genuine fear licking through her. This was not right. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Something was happening. Something she didn’t comprehend.
She looked at Patrick and saw intense fire boiling in his eyes. “Patrick?” she said, but it came out a croak. By the Powers, what was he doing? How was he doing it? “Patrick? Please…stop…”
Patrick’s eyes flared hotter. And then he blinked, cold horror flooding his face, and the pressure stopped. Immediately.
Fred slumped, staring at him. Her body ached, as if only having narrowly avoided being crushed. She wet her lips with her tongue again, her pulse a rabid beat in her neck. By the Trilogy, what was he?
Patrick stared back at her. Silent. Motionless. His eyes narrowed for a second and then a ragged breath burst passed his lips and he dropped his head between his arms. “Fuck,” he muttered again, his voice muffled by the bunched muscles of his shoulders.
“Patrick?” Fred whispered, inching closer. Her heart still hammered, but from unease or concern she didn’t know. “Talk to me, please.”
He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes normal again. Normal, but tormented and tortured and as angry as hell. “I know who the Cure is, Fred.” His statement fell from his lips in a flat monotone. “And I think I’ve met the Disease.”
Dark Destiny (Principatus) Page 15
