by Rita Herron
Annabelle Armstrong’s face materialized, taunting him. He’d wanted to fuck her senseless for months.
But having her was not an option.
A frisson of unease traipsed up his spine. Keeping his identity secret was imperative.
If she tried to expose him, he wouldn’t fuck her. He’d have to kill her.
Where was Quinton Valtrez?
Annabelle rubbed the back of her neck, massaging the tension knotting her shoulders as she walked through the now desolate Savannah streets toward the B and B where she’d rented a room. Even twenty-four hours later, the acrid smell of smoke, charred grass, booze, shock, and fear permeated the streets, the lack of crowds a definite sign that tourists and locals alike were terrified of another strike. Only a few curious and brave souls ventured out, some morbid seekers snapping photos of the area roped off as the crime scene.
The cleanup crew still hadn’t had time to remove all the debris; the shattered pumpkins, pieces of Halloween decorations, tattered paper ghosts and strands of spiderwebs, and bloody plastic and cardboard tombstones looked even more garish in the aftermath of the violence.
She’d looked for Quinton today as she’d scouted the town, conducting interviews and meeting with the police. She’d even driven out to his cabin, but he was no place to be found.
She wanted him to explain how he’d moved that beam without touching it. Wanted to know more about the killer who’d rushed around saving lives.
She hunched her shoulders beneath her coat as the fall wind rustled the bare trees and tangled her hair around her face. The gnarled branches of the ancient live oaks cast snakelike shadows across the sidewalk with their sweeping webs of stringy brown moss.
Weary, Annabelle hurried into the bed-and-breakfast, then pulled out the files she’d gathered so far on the Valtrez men.
She scrolled through the notes she’d taken a few weeks ago when she’d done a follow-up story on the serial killer in Eerie, Tennessee, then clicked on her recorder.
“Deputy Bluster of Eerie, Tennessee, confirmed that the serial killer used women’s fears to track and capture them. People in town also hinted that something supernatural was going on in Eerie. Many recounted spooky legends of monsters who live in the place they call the Black Forest. According to locals, Special Agent Vincent Valtrez grew up in the area, and was the only person to ever go inside the forest and survive.”
She paused and took a deep breath, then continued.
“Agent Valtrez was also the FBI agent who tracked down the killer. A local medium named Clarissa King helped solve the case through communication with the dead victims. But Vincent and Clarissa refused to talk to me or be interviewed.
“On my way out of town, I stopped near the edge of the Black Forest and met an old man who rented out cabins on the mountain. He claimed that demons and monsters lived in the Black Forest, and that the only way Vincent survived was because he was part demon himself. The man even claimed that Vincent came from a family spawned by the devil.
“That he had the power to make things explode with his hands.”
She shook her head, disbelieving that myths and legends still thrived in the Tennessee hills, that people ran scared of them.
Then again, she was a reporter, and yet she’d wondered if she’d really seen Quinton move that beam with his mind.
She clicked on the mike again. “My interest was piqued, so I did further research and discovered that Vincent has a brother in the military. This led me to my current project, Quinton Valtrez.”
She clicked off the mike and stared at the photos of three different terrorists Quinton had supposedly eliminated.
Back to the mike. “Getting information on Quinton has been nearly impossible, but I finally found a soldier who talked. He admitted that Quinton was a trained sniper.
“He also stated that he thought Quinton possessed some kind of mind power that went beyond explanation.
“I am currently investigating this matter and must find details to prove it.”
She clicked off the mike and massaged her temple. Was the old man in Eerie right? Were Vincent and Quinton demons?
She stood and stretched with a groan. She was a by-the-book kind of girl, saw the world in black and white. Did she really believe demons existed?
No, of course not.
She glanced at the clock. It was only midnight. Maybe she’d drive out to Quinton’s cabin again. He had to come home sometime.
And if he wasn’t home, she’d sneak into his house and find some information for her story.
Dr. Jerome Gryphon combed the rows of beds in the hospital ward, checking on the subjects, who mumbled incoherently and begged him for help.
Their ramblings relayed a hodgepodge of broken memories and traumatic events from times past.
Most had already lost their minds to the cruelties of the aging process, just as their feeble bones and weak limbs had robbed them of agility and speed.
Perfect targets for a predator.
And the perfect fodder for his experiments.
“Please, help me,” the old man cried.
“I will,” he said gently.
He touched the old man’s forehead, his wrinkled skin like sandpaper, and thought of his own father so long ago, of the way his rangy body and mind had disintegrated over time until there had been nothing left but knotted bones and the empty shell of a half human.
Bitterness left an acid taste in his mouth. Memories of being dragged from one ratty cardboard box to another for shelter. Of digging for food from garbage cans, sleeping on the ground with his empty belly growling. His ears ringing with strangers’ nasty taunts.
Those bitter memories had shaped him into the man he’d become.
A doctor who intended to do something about it. His research would aid many in the future.
“Just relax, my friend,” he said quietly, soothing the man with his calm voice. “You will only feel a tiny pin-prick of pain, then relief will come shortly.”
Chapter Four
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA: NOVEMBER 1, LATE EVENING
Finally, Quinton was going to get laid.
His body twitched with arousal as the voluptuous bleached blonde slid her clothes to the floor, then sank onto the chair in front of him and spread her legs. He’d arrived back in Savannah in the early morning hours, rented a cheap hotel room—he never brought women to his house—showered, and called Fancy.
Her friend was on her way.
She licked lips painted a bold shimmering red, a reminder of the red roses and blood dotting the target’s white brick, and he moaned, his body coiled with heat.
“I’m here to please,” she said in a seductive voice.
Her tits bounced as she gyrated around him, dancing so he could watch her sultry moves, and she shook her ass in front of his face until he could barely keep his hands glued to the damn chair.
Then she strutted in front of him, teasing him as she brushed her breasts across his face. Her dark nipples puckered and begged for his mouth, and he drew one in and bit the tip, then suckled her until his cock throbbed inside his jeans.
The door swung open. “Hey, let’s get this party started.” Her friend strutted in, throwing off clothes as she sashayed toward him, her straight brown hair spilling over her pale back.
Fancy stroked her pink clit, parting her legs so he could see her fingers moving over her heat. His tongue thrust out, hungering for a taste.
But she shook her head, denying him as she would over and over again. Until he ordered her to do as he said.
Her friend moved behind her and began to knead Fancy’s breasts, the two of them dancing together like lovers as they titillated each other with fingers and tongues.
He wanted part of the action. To taste and be tasted by them.
But they forced him to wait while they pleasured each other and then wiped their cum on his lips. He groaned, his control slipping as his orgasm teetered near the surface.
“Now,” he finally ordere
d, his patience snapping as dark thoughts churned in his brain. Thoughts of punishing them.
Thoughts he had to extinguish to thwart the animal inside him from being unleashed on innocent humans.
“You are horny, aren’t you, you bad boy?” Fancy teased.
He groaned and Fancy laughed like a vixen, then fell to her knees and sucked his cock into her mouth. He closed his eyes and imagined Annabelle Armstrong going down on him, her tongue on his hot skin.
Fancy’s friend straddled him, rubbing her clit on his face. Fancy deep-throated him at the same time, and his fantasies of Annabelle sent him over the edge. With a guttural groan he came, his body shuddering as she pulled away and let him spray her breasts.
Relief poured through him, his mind a sieve of evil thoughts. Excitement came from pain. Death triggered pleasure beyond relief.
The past few months, a voice had intruded in his head. An evil voice that called his name as if searching for him, as if it had splintered the earth to rise from the grave.
The monks had warned him when he was a child that one day demons would find him, that they’d try to trap him.
That was the reason they’d sent him to that training camp.
The reason he’d been isolated. Taught to rely on his chi, to hone his skills, to recognize the evil.
And to kill. He enjoyed the kill, maybe too much.
The memory of the vultures the night of the Savannah bombing flashed into his head. More death was on its way. A new dark force walked the earth, one more terrifying and deadly than any he’d encountered to date.
One that wasn’t human.
“You’re done.” He pushed the women off him, stood and yanked on his jeans, then tossed cash onto the table and stormed into the chilly night.
Cramming his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he climbed in his Land Rover and drove toward Tybee Island, the one place where he found peace and quiet.
And a reprieve from the evil.
Yet as he crossed the bridge to the island, fear crawled along his spine. He checked the perimeter of the secluded house, the dark stretches of beach beyond, closed his eyes and inhaled the wind and marsh.
Danger lurked nearby. So close.
Had the demons found him?
Annabelle paused to look around, her nerves on edge as she used her hairpin to break into his house. She was surprised at his lack of security. It was almost as if he thought he had nothing to hide.
The door squeaked open and she inched inside, tiptoeing as she waved her flashlight around the room. Simple basic furniture, all black and chrome—cold, just like the man.
A black lacquered desk occupied the corner, but there was no TV or sound system, only built-in shelves against the wall housing books. The den opened to a small kitchen and a bedroom sat to the left, but it was empty except for a mattress on the floor. His place seemed minimalistic, as if he didn’t want any comforts.
She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly, but she’d hoped maybe he kept some kind of journal or file on his kills.
And what else? Perhaps evidence that he might be a demon or have supernatural power?
She still couldn’t believe it. Although she could have sworn he’d moved that beam…
She zeroed in on his computer, sat down at the desk and flipped it on, rifling through the contents of the top drawer. A stack of mail drew her eye, and she glanced through it. Typical bills. Curious, she opened the latest bank statement, expecting to find a huge advance for services rendered. She found a few thousand dollars, nothing suspicious.
She spent the next few minutes searching his computer and desk, hunting for hidden files, a calendar, anything to point to his work. Zilch. Frustrated, she stood and went to the bookshelf, surprised to find books on spirituality mingled with others on martial arts and maps of various places all over the world. Then she noticed a leather-bound book wedged behind a work on meditation.
Her interest piqued, she pulled it out and frowned at the handwritten words.
Deadly Demons.
Her pulse clamored as she flipped through the book. Sketches of supernatural creatures, demons, monsters, and pagan gods filled the yellowed pages.
Perspiration dotted her forehead as she studied the drawing of the Death Angel, an ominous, sinister-looking black shadow that could appear as a vulture, a crow, or a raven.
Just like the vulture she’d seen last night after the explosion.
Another page detailed purgatory and the levels of hell. The punishments for evil that matched the sins, punishments that were horrific.
Then a drawing of the Soul Collectors. She frowned as she read the notations:
The Soul Collectors barter and buy souls off the street by offering immortality to those near death or recently deceased.
Some of the undead become vampires and zombies. Others shift into animal forms—werewolves, werecats, and other werecreatures.
On All Hallows’ Eve, a portal is opened that allows demons and Soul Collectors to enter the Earth and ravage the innocents.
Anxiety knotted her insides as she flipped to a sketch of Pan, the god of fear, a hulking black shadow with orange eyes.
One touch and he knows your worst fear, then he uses it to kill you.
Her mind spun with questions. Why did Quinton have this book?
She flipped to another page and read about the Dark Lords, the spawn of Satan and an Angel of Light. Men who possessed superhuman powers.
Suddenly a noise startled her. The faint sound of wooden boards squeaking.
Damn. She quickly shut off the flashlight.
Quinton Valtrez had returned.
If he was a killer as she suspected, he wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in her head. All he had to do was cart her body out to the ocean, and no one would ever know.
And if he was a demon or a Dark Lord?
Her heart tripped in panic.
No, she didn’t believe in demons. Still, Quinton Valtrez was dangerous. She felt along the desk edge for a weapon and grabbed the letter opener as she eyed the sliding glass door. Clenching the letter opener in one hand and the book of demons in the other, she raced to escape.
But Quinton moved at lightning speed, jumped her from behind and slammed her against the wall, pinning her with his body. His knee jabbed into her lower back so painfully she gasped, and he karate-chopped her hand, making her release the letter opener. Pain shot through her wrist, and her legs buckled.
Then the cold barrel of a gun raked across her cheek.
Her heart hammered against her breastbone as she choked on a cry of pure terror. “Please… don’t hurt me.”
His hot breath bathed her neck as he tightened his grip. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
A sob escaped her. “I… wanted to talk to you.”
“So you broke into my house and went through my things?”
“No…”
He wrenched her arm behind her back, twisting it so hard she whimpered and braced herself for the sound of bones shattering.
“Don’t lie to me,” he growled in a menacing tone. “Who are you, and what the fuck do you want with me?”
A tear slid down her cheek. “Please… you’re hurting me…”
“If you don’t tell me the truth, I’m going to do a lot worse.”
She shuddered, growing nauseous from the pain. “All right, just let me go, and… and I’ll explain.”
He dragged her from the wall to the sofa and threw her down onto the edge. Her vision blurred as her head snapped back. Outside, the wind roared and the waves crashed against the shore; thunder clapped above. The sound of her own heartbeat drowned them all out, though, her mind scrambling for a feasible lie.
He flipped on the lamp, the dim light streaking the room in sharp yellow lines that slashed the walls, dust moats floating in the light.
With a grunt, he pressed the gun into her chest as he towered over her, a hulking shadow dressed in all black—black leather jacket, black T-shirt, black
jeans—his black eyes making him look even more intimidating.
She rubbed at her arm, which throbbed from his punishing grip. What had she been thinking?
She was an amateur, had been a fool to break in.
But if she’d found something concrete, she would have had the story of her life. She’d finally win the respect she wanted and prove she could do hard-core stories.
“I’m waiting,” he said in a lethal tone. “Who are you?”
“Annabelle Armstrong,” she said.
His voice was just as husky and dark as the rest of him. She’d never seen a man with such raw intensity. His shaggy hair added to his renegade look, the raven locks shimmering in the light. His nose had been broken at least once, and a razorlike scar stretched from his ear down his neck into the top of his T-shirt.
God, he was sexy.
He closed in on her again, rammed his broad face in front of hers, eyes gleaming with coldness. “Go on. You’ve got five seconds before you become shark bait.”
Her breath rushed out, but she met his steely gaze with as much courage as she could muster. “You know who I am, Quinton.”
“An intruder, that’s what I know.”
“Then maybe you should call the police,” she said in challenge. “Or are you afraid they’ll find out who you are?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he hissed.
She inhaled against the pain in her wrist and arm. If he was going to kill her, she wanted the truth first. “Why? Because you’re a cold-blooded killer? Some kind of monster or demon?”
His gaze fell to the book she’d dropped in her haste to escape, and his eyes turned that same strange glittering silver they had the night before.
“You believe in demons?” he asked with an ominous eyebrow raise.
“No, I deal in cold, hard facts, blacks and whites. Demons are mythical legends people made up to explain the unexplainable.” Her voice cracked, but she forged on, determined not to let him intimidate her. “History and research have shown that people who might have once been deemed possessed or demonic were in reality suffering from a mental illness such as schizophrenia, or another disease, such as syphilis.”
