by Rita Herron
“Is that so?” He took a step toward her, his breath bathing her face as his gaze pinned her.
She slid back into the corner of the sofa and shivered. God help her.
He was going to kill her.
Quinton narrowed his eyes, trying to probe Annabelle Armstrong’s mind to see how much she knew about him. In spite of her gutsy attitude, she was terrified of him. Thought he was a hard-edged killer. And maybe a demon.
But sexy…
That realization momentarily threw him off guard.
Made his cock twitch and his blood run hot.
Even in danger the night before, he remembered what it had felt like to have her sinful body beneath his.
But, hell, she’d broken into his damn house.
Where had she gotten her information?
She couldn’t have found anything concrete here. He was a professional. He left no evidence, no paper trail, nothing that could link him to any of the terrorists or their deaths.
Except for that damn demon book…
Which had nothing to do with his job.
Just his personal life.
“You know, lady, if you really think I’m a killer or a monster, you must be pretty damn stupid to break into my house.”
His fingers tightened around her wrist, and he clenched his jaw as she paled. He had to scare her off. “Either that or you have a death wish.”
She winced but jutted up her chin, those cobalt-blue eyes boring into his. “No, I don’t. But I want the truth. I know you’re an assassin. I have photos of three of your kills.” She hesitated. “So I don’t understand why you ran around saving people last night.”
He cursed. “You wanted me to stand by and let innocent people die?”
“No, of course not.” She hesitated, confusion marring her face. “Just tell me one thing, Quinton. Do you ever regret what you do, that you kill for a living?”
How could he regret killing bad guys? But he didn’t acknowledge her question, and he refused to admit to anything, no matter how much proof she thought she had.
“Photos can be misleading.” He squeezed her wrist harder. He’d use his gift against her. Climb in her head and figure out how to keep her from exposing him.
Her memories became his—her mother had died recently. Her father had abandoned her. She was trying to make it in a man’s dog-eat-dog world.
“You think you have something to prove,” he said in a gruff voice. “And you’d jeopardize your life to do it. That’s not very smart, Annabelle.”
She stiffened. “I just want the truth. I saw what you did last night,” she said in a strained voice.
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You moved a beam off of that man without touching it,” she whispered. “You did it with your mind.”
He threw his head back and laughed sarcastically. “You must have hit your head. You were obviously seeing things.”
Her mouth tightened. “I didn’t hit my head.”
Her gaze latched onto his, the sultry look in her eyes daring him to argue.
“Then you’re delusional.”
A crooked smile curved her mouth as her gaze swung sideways to note the demon book. “That’s not what your book says. Which one are you? One of the demons? A Dark Lord or a Soul Collector?”
He smirked. “Like you said, they’re childhood stories. Not real.” He released her abruptly. “Get out,” he snapped. “And stay out of my life or you’ll be sorry.”
She heaved a breath and strode toward the door, tugging her shoulder bag over her arm. It suddenly hit him that she probably had a recorder.
He caught her before she could leave, jerked the bag from her and rummaged through it.
Cold rage shot through him as his fingers slid around the small metal recorder. She flinched, trying to mask her fear as he ripped out the tape.
She glared at him, then snatched up her bag. “You’re not going to scare me off, Quinton.”
He gripped his hands into fists, the darkness inside him tearing at his calm veneer, and he barely held himself in check.
Something in his eyes must have frightened her because she suddenly hurried toward the door.
Damn, the woman had brains and guts. But she was too close to the truth for comfort.
Instinct told him to kill her now, but rationale warned him to wait. He watched her as she sprinted down the drive and onto the road. She must have parked her car on another street, the reason he hadn’t seen it when he’d arrived.
He rubbed his head, contemplating how she could have gotten her information. The only person who knew his identity was his handler. And he would never divulge the truth. He’d be a dead man if he did.
So who had sent her those photos and given her his name?
His training kicked in and he swept the cabin in search of a bug, then checked his phone as well. Thankfully the search turned up nothing, so he punched in his contact number, then left the coded message for his handler to call him back.
Had someone discovered he was the Ghost? If so, what had the person hoped to accomplish by telling Annabelle?
His home phone trilled, and he checked the caller ID box—a Tennessee number. And the name Valtrez.
What the hell?
He didn’t have any family…
His heart racing, he snatched up the handset. “Yes?”
“Quinton Valtrez?” a deep voice asked.
“Yes, this is Quinton Valtrez. Who is this?”
“My name is Vincent,” the deep voice said. “I’m your older brother.”
Chapter Five
Quinton clenched his jaw. Was this some kind of joke? Or a trap?
“I don’t have a brother,” he ground out. “In fact, I don’t have any family at all.”
“That’s not true.” The man cleared his throat. “I know this comes as a shock, but I was a toddler when you were born, and our mother sent you away. I only recently found out about you myself.”
Quinton didn’t believe him. This had to be a setup. Maybe the man who’d sent the tip about him to Annabelle was behind this.
“I want to meet you, then I’ll explain everything,” Vincent said gruffly.
Quinton checked his watch. He’d already had one visitor too many in his place. “I’ll come to you. Tell me where you are.” And he’d be ready and armed, prepared this time.
“Eerie, Tennessee,” Vincent said. “It’s in the Smoky Mountains.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow.” He jotted down the address, then hung up, his suspicions mounting. If he’d had a brother, the monks would have told him. But they’d sworn he had no family.
No, he was an island unto himself. And he didn’t intend to let anyone invade his territory.
So who was this man? One of the demons the monks had warned him about?
He would find out. And if this man had fed Annabelle Armstrong information about him, or if he was a demon, Quinton would kill him.
His pulse pounding, he strode to his bedroom, retrieved a duffel bag from the closet, and tossed in some jeans and shirts. Then he stripped and showered, but he was too wired to sleep. He’d trained his body long ago to do without, and now the adrenaline racing through his veins from his encounter with Annabelle and that bizarre phone call kept the questions ticking in his head.
His cell phone rang again, and he checked the number—his handler, Keller.
“Valtrez, good work on number 343.”
For security purposes, they always referred to the targets by number, not name.
“No problem.”
“What’s going on?” Keller asked.
Quinton explained about Annabelle’s visit. “How the fuck did she find out who I am?”
“I don’t know,” Keller said, his voice edgy with concern.
“You haven’t had any security breaches?” Quinton asked.
“Absolutely not. If I had, I would have alerted you.”
“Maybe you should check your contacts,” Qu
inton said. “Someone has leaked information to her, and I want his name.”
“Right. I’m on it.”
“I’ve got another problem, too. I received a strange call from a man who claimed to be my brother.”
The roar of an engine, then a loud whirring sound cut into the background, and he realized Keller must be catching a chopper. Always on the go.
He started to ask where but bit back the question, knowing the answer would be cryptic. Information was dispensed on a need-to-know basis.
“This man called himself Vincent. It has to be a trap.” Quinton scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going to Tennessee tomorrow to check him out.”
“I’ll see what I can find out about him, if it’s a fake name or if Vincent Valtrez exists,” Keller said. “Be careful.”
“Don’t worry,” Quinton said, the ice back in his veins. “If it’s a trap, he won’t walk away alive.”
When he met the man tomorrow, he’d probe his mind. Find out his real agenda. And if he posed a danger or a threat, he’d dispose of him just as he did his usual marks.
Then once again the Ghost would be safe. That is, unless Annabelle Armstrong decided to talk.
No… she wouldn’t. He’d do whatever was necessary to keep her quiet.
Annabelle shivered as she drove to the bed-and-breakfast, an antebellum mansion that was supposedly haunted by the spirit of a war-torn lover.
According to the legend, the woman had stayed behind to wait on the man she loved, but he had betrayed her and never returned home. Guests often claimed they heard her sobs at night as she roamed restlessly through the attic, and some said on a foggy night you could see the silhouette of her face pressed against the attic’s oval window.
Annabelle scoffed at the story. The woman should have known not to trust the man. Annabelle’s own father had taught her that lesson well when he’d deserted her.
She gripped the steering wheel of her VW tighter. She’d been convinced that she could handle a confrontation with Quinton because he had saved her life.
Then he’d threatened to take it.
She’d never met anyone like him. Cold. A loner. A man with secrets.
A man who intrigued her because he both aroused her with his dark sensuality and terrified her with the fury simmering in his brooding, intense gaze.
She wanted to know more about him.
Damn her curious nature, her thirst to unveil the facts and find the story behind the story.
Because if Quinton had killed those suspected terrorists, he was an assassin. And if demons existed, if he was a demon…
God, she would be crazy to go up against him.
What was she thinking?
She parked in front of the B and B and climbed out, searching the shadows as she rushed up the oyster-shell walkway, then inside. The house was eerily quiet, the wooden steps creaking as she climbed to the second floor. The whisper of the wind echoing off the ocean whistled through the eaves of the empty hallway. A cold chill crawled along her nerve endings, the soft sound of someone crying floating to her from the attic.
The woman’s ghost…
She’d never stayed in a haunted place, but the prospect had fascinated her when she’d first arrived. Now, the thought unnerved her.
Hand trembling, she jammed the key into the lock and opened the door. The second-floor rooms had been built in a square surrounding a garden area below, each with French doors and a wrought-iron patio overlooking the garden. A faint stream of moonlight streaked the room, the window sheers flapping from the heat vent below.
Her foot hit something, though, and she glanced down. A plain manila envelope lay on the braided rug in the entryway. Someone must have slipped it under her door while she was out.
Nerves gathered, catching in her throat as she picked the envelope up and flipped it over in search of a name or return address, but as she expected it was blank. Forcing air into her lungs, she flipped the clasp open, biting back a gasp at the sight of the photo.
A dead man, shot once in the temple, lay on a sea of white bricks with bloodred rose petals surrounding him, his house behind him in shambles and flames from an obvious explosion.
She recognized the man immediately—Carim Vigontol, a well-known suspected terrorist who had escaped the law on technicalities.
Now he was dead.
Was Quinton Valtrez responsible, or was her information incorrect?
A second photo was inside the envelope, and her heart hammered as she pulled it out. The scene in the picture wrenched her heart all over again—the bombing on Halloween.
Suddenly her phone vibrated at her belt, indicating she had a message. She flipped it open, and her heart lurched as she read it:
Like the fireworks? Stay tuned. More on the way.
NOVEMBER 2, ALL SOULS’ DAY
Quinton steered the Range Rover around the Tennessee mountain roads, his Glock weighing heavy against his chest where he’d stowed it inside his shoulder holster.
He had no idea what he was going to encounter, but he had to be ready for anything.
Gigantic trees and sharp ridges climbed and rolled, the bare branches swaying with the force of the fall wind, reminding him of the Tennessee mountains where the monks had told him he’d grown up. He’d heard tales of the Black Forest and the strange, inhuman creatures that lived within the dark woods, the serpents and screaming vines that ate humans, the place where no life existed, only shadows, darkness.
The stories of evil and sin thriving across the land, of the Twilight Guards, who guarded the realm between the mortal and demonic worlds, of the Soul Collectors, who preyed on the weak to steal their souls for Satan, the werecreatures and monsters who lived in the shadows, the Night Stalkers, who could shape-shift into demons or humans at will, the legends of the Sacred Places and the Wasteland for Lost Souls…
He had been terrified as a kid.
Because he’d seen into the monks’ minds and known the stories were true.
With his gift, he didn’t doubt there were others among him who possessed supernatural powers, both good and bad.
But he had learned to channel his fear of demons because they’d never shown themselves to him. Then he’d escaped the mountains and tales, only to come face-to-face with human monsters.
Those he could fight.
Yet the monks had predicted that the demons would come in time. That he must train and focus so he could fight his enemies.
Was this the time?
He maneuvered the narrow, winding road, the stiff peaks and ridges swallowing him in their folds as he neared the address Vincent had given him.
The log cabin sat at the top of the ridge, its back deck jutting over the cliff, offering a breathtaking but terrifying view of the miles of rugged terrain stretching below with its dangers and unforgiving rock.
He visually assessed the isolated area. If Vincent intended to kill him, he could easily dump his body into the forest and let the animals feed on his remains, and no one would be the wiser.
He patted the Glock inside his jacket, checked his backup pistol and the knife strapped to his ankle, then climbed out, adjusting his shades as his eyes were sometimes supersensitive to light, a product of being locked in the dark for long periods of time as a child.
He scanned the periphery of the log cabin, his senses kicking in. A vulture soared above as if waiting on death to strike.
The scent of the forest engulfed him, the trees, the animals, the stench of blood and death. The sound of scampering squirrels foraging for food, the growl of a mountain lion in search of prey, the flap of a hawk’s wings against the frigid air. A rattlesnake hissed in the distance, followed by the undeniable screech of one animal attacking another.
Memories of his days of isolation in the monastery and the mountains returned, along with his sniper training, and he steadied his breathing. Calm. Cool. Detached.
Trust no one. Suspect everyone.
The front door opened and he squared his shoulders,
automatically moving one hand over the weapon inside his bomber jacket, bracing himself for attack.
The man who walked out was an inch taller than him, and Quinton was a big man. Vincent had black hair and eyes… eyes just like his own. Black. Cold. Emotionless.
Quinton forced a mental connection, but for a moment, his telepathy hit a brick wall. Then he saw darkness and pain. A soul struggling with inner demons just as he did himself. And an endless, bottomless pit beckoning him to plunge into its abyss.
Was this man a demon?
Then a woman appeared by the man’s side. Small, with long, curly russet-colored hair and a heart-shaped face. An expression akin to surprise flitted in her eyes, and then she smiled.
He mentally sifted through her thoughts, read relief that he had come. A deep love for the dark man by her side.
Then a sudden screech of lost souls screaming in her head.
He swallowed, adopting his expressionless mask although his pulse clamored at the horrific cries.
We shouldn’t have died.
A monster killed us.
There’s another demon in our midst.
Her gaze met his, the same pain and suffering reflected in her eyes. Finally the voices fell silent as if she’d shushed them in her head.
He studied her intently. She must be a medium.
“Welcome to our home, Quinton.” She nudged the man beside her, who was staring at Quinton, sizing him up. “Vincent, aren’t you going to invite your brother inside? It’s cold out, and he’s come a long way.”
Vincent strode toward Quinton, his movements as precise and controlled as Quinton’s. In spite of his skepticism and distrust, Quinton’s heart thundered in his chest.
His physical resemblance to this man was uncanny.
“Vincent Valtrez,” the man said as he extended his hand. “This is my wife, Clarissa. Come inside now. We have to talk.”
His voice was more a command than an invitation, and Quinton hesitated before he shook his hand. But the gesture opened a doorway into the man’s mind, and Quinton bit back a smile.
