by Rita Herron
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Rita Herron
Excerpt from Forbidden Passion copyright © 2009 by Rita Herron All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: August 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-55200-4
Contents
“I’m here, Annabelle. It’s all right.”
Praise for Rita Herron and her previous book in this series, Insatiable Desire
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
ChapterTwenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
A Preview of Forbidden Passion
The Dish
“I’m here, Annabelle. It’s all right.”
Quinton touched her tattoo again, then soothed her with soft whispers.
She slowly opened her eyes and looked up at him, and he heard her thoughts as if she’d spoken them aloud.
She wanted him. A man who could kill coolly without blinking an eye, without an ounce of remorse, but a man who’d saved her life more than once now.
A man who made her feel more alive, more aroused, than she’d ever thought possible.
A threat to her—yes.
Would she have him?
She had to.
Quinton’s gaze locked onto hers, his hunger evident in the deep blackness of his eyes. Sensations rippled through her in erotic waves.
“You’re shivering,” he mumbled in a fierce tone.
“Because I want you.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re in shock. Let’s dry you off and put you to bed. I’m not a good guy. But I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
She licked her lips, desperate, her body crying out for him. “Why in the hell would you start doing the right thing now?”
Praise for Rita Herron and her
previous book in this series,
Insatiable Desire
“Experienced romance suspense author Herron… kicks off her new series with a bang.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rita Herron never fails to deliver a compelling story with memorable characters… Every scene is filled with emotion.”
—SingleTitles.com
“Deep, dark, and tragic, Insatiable Desire will pull you in from the first page… Out of all the demon romances I’ve read recently, Insatiable Desire is the most plausible and most enjoyable… Herron writes a spooky and formidable romance—few do it better. I recommend reading it—and I’ll definitely pick up future works from this gifted author.”
—NightsAndWeekends.com
“Herron is a good writer who pulled me right in. I had to keep reading.”
—JandysBooks.com
“An exciting dark horror thriller filled with characters who personify good and evil… exhilarating.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Herron casts a sinister dark cloud on the demon paranormal and it’s a delightful treat. With excellent dialogue and scene spinning, this book is a home run.”
—ParanormalRomanceWriters.com
“A twisted paranormal story that features some incredibly hot romance.”
—RomanceJunkiesReviews.com
“4½ Stars! With the gritty feel of a mystery and the elements of a paranormal romance, Insatiable Desire is a surprisingly unique start to a new trilogy, and I can’t wait for the next installment!”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“A good foray into the paranormal realm.”
—BellaOnline.com
Also by Rita Herron
Insatiable Desire
To DragonCon fans for welcoming a new series!
Hope you like book two in The Demonborn!
Acknowledgments
Thanks once again to my wonderful editor, Michele Bidelspach, for her great insight and for making this book stronger; to the art department at Grand Central Publishing for a fabulous cover; to my critique partners Stephanie Bond and Jennifer St. Giles for all their support and input; to my sister for her never-ending faith and encouragement; to my husband, who loves me even when I scare him with my thoughts; and to Raven Hart for the vultures!
Chapter One
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA: ALL HALLOWS’ EVE
Quinton Valtrez was a killer.
A loner. A man without a conscience. A man who roamed the world as a ghostly gun for hire.
He needed no one. Wanted no one to need him.
But it was All Hallows’ Eve, and dammit, he was going to get laid.
Still, the Glock inside his jacket rubbed against his chest, taunting him with the fact that he could never relax. That evil never died.
That it was his mission to stop it at all costs. Even if he didn’t survive.
And All Hallows’ Eve was the time when the veil between the world and the underworld was thinnest, when the spirit world could mingle with the humans and the ghosts of the dead came to life.
A buxom redhead in a pussycat costume smiled at him across the crowded Savannah street, and he put thoughts of the evildoers on hold as she glided toward him.
Even assassins deserved the night off.
“Hey, sexy,” she purred. “Where’s your costume?”
He cut her a sideways smile, letting his gaze dip to her ample cleavage. “I am in costume. I’m going as a nice guy.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Want to head over to the party boat?”
“Sure.” Despite the lust burning through his body, his heightened senses kicked in as he followed her through the dark, ghostlike alleys along River Street toward the lit-up ship.
The odors of refuse from the late-night partygoers—stale beer, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume—permeated the air, along with the pungent aromas of fried fish, shrimp, and oysters floating from the pubs.
Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he paused and scanned the crowd, searching for the source of his unease. Kids, teenagers, and adults swarmed the streets in costumes portraying both colorful cartoon characters and the dark and macabre—everything from witches, zombies, pirates, werecreatures, birds of prey, and goblins to demons.
Twinkling orange lights, jack-o’-lanterns carved with scary faces, skeletons, ghosts, spiderwebs, and cardboard tombstones decorated the storefronts, while the sounds of spooky music, ghostly clanging, hooting owls, and moaning
zombies added to the atmosphere.
Calling upon his chi, he focused on thumbing through the thoughts of various bystanders, searching for the evil one among them.
It was as natural as breathing, using his gift. He’d honed it when he’d lived with the monks. They’d taught him to access his inner being, drawing on nature and spirituality to strengthen his power. He’d expanded that power to a sharp tool in the military, searching and destroying the enemy on clandestine operations no one would ever admit existed.
His heart picked up its pace in recognition; he could feel the enemy, sense his presence. But an otherworldly sensation inundated the darkness of the enemy’s soul.
Was this the demon the monks had warned him about?
Narrowing his eyes, he zeroed in on a stooped old man in a ratty green corduroy coat, his wire-rimmed glasses held together with duct tape. A terrible screeching sound suddenly reverberated from the dark skies.
He glanced up, sweat beading his brow as he spotted a vulture soaring above—not a new-world vulture but an old-world one, black with strong feet and a craving for carrion. And like the raven, this creature’s bloodlust was for not only animal flesh but human meat as well.
Just like his own bloodlust.
A feeling of impending doom engulfed him as he connected with the vulture. The black bird was hovering above, ready to swoop down and gather the dead meat of an animal in its sharp talons and bury its bald head inside the carcass and feast on the remains.
Part vulture—part raven? Where had this creature come from?
He glanced through the crowd again, noticing a strange acidic odor emanating from the old homeless man in the green coat. Quinton pressed a finger to his temple, his head throbbing as he struggled to tap into the man’s thoughts. His frail body trembled in the stiff wind, his mind a blank slate as if it had been wiped clean, all thoughts erased.
The old man’s skin held a dull gray-black pallor, as if he’d already met death; his eyes were glassy and vacant, dazed, a shell of a human.
The redhead tugged at his elbow. “Aren’t you coming, sugar?”
But a different woman’s scent assaulted him. Delicious. Sultry. Enticing. “Go ahead, honey. I’ll catch up,” he murmured.
She raked her sharp nails down his arm. “All right, but don’t make me wait long. I promise I’ll destroy that nice-guy image of yours.”
He chuckled. As if he’d ever had one.
She pranced toward the ship, and the enticing scent of the other woman quickly obliterated the redhead’s cheap, flowery perfume.
Then his gaze fell upon the source.
Shiny, straight long blonde hair cascaded over slender shoulders. Intrigued, he forced his mind to drown out the sounds of the night. The party whistles and noisemakers prepared to ring in the celebration of the supernatural with witchcraft, séances, and pagan rituals that transcended time and worlds.
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.
