Dark Hunger

by Rita Herron

  Vincent was just as distrustful of him as he was of the man.

  Then, in a flash of darkness, he heard a war raging in the man’s head. Vincent thinking about making things explode with his hands. Killing animals.

  Grief as he’d watched his mother die. Then Vincent as a boy driving a stake into a man’s heart.

  No, not a man, a black shapeless beast.

  One that was back now to spread his evil.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Dr. Sam Wynn smiled as he watched the blood drain from the corpse. So much blood. Steel pans were filled with the thick rich substance, the smell vile and coppery.

  Adrenaline churned through his bloodstream. The autopsy was a fascinating process. First the Y incision to open the body cavity. Then the saws and scalpels.

  Next the process of removing the organs. One by one. Weighing them. Holding them in his hands.

  He smiled as he contemplated watching the fluids gush and stream from the lifeless body. He could feel the warm liquids seep through his fingertips as he dug inside the internal cavities. Could hear the bones shattering as he sawed his way through cartilage and tissue.

  Ah, those lovely bones…

  Brittle, filled with marrow, with the blood of a life that no longer existed.

  Science was his calling. Slicing bodies to study the cause of death, his playing field.

  Now he had so many decimated bodies to study. The ones from the mass bombing intrigued him. Flesh had literally been ripped from bones, muscle and tissue exposed. An arm here, a leg there, a headless body.

  Like a puzzle, he’d spread the pieces out, labeled each one, run tests, and pieced them together to make the bodies whole again. Although for some it was too late to be put back together. The poor bastards.

  But he would do what he could for them. Attach a name to them so families could be notified.

  He pulled on his protective goggles, then narrowed his eyes as he spotted the jagged teeth marks etched into the woman’s femur. Like needle marks in a junkie’s arm, but these were jagged in places, more brutal.

  The markings of a bird’s talons.

  He grabbed his camera and snapped a photo. He had to add this bone to his collection.

  After all, no one would ever miss it.

  Chapter Six

  Quinton entered the log cabin, wary, alert for a trap.

  On the surface, the small cabin looked homey, with soft leather couches, braided rugs, a wedding photo on a pine sofa table, a crocheted afghan in blue and red, and a fire roaring in the stone fireplace. A shepherd mix stood up and growled then moved to Clarissa’s side as if to protect her.

  Before Clarissa or Vincent could quiet the dog, Quinton squatted down and held out his hand, soothing the animal’s fears with a silent command.

  Clarissa’s eyes widened as if impressed, but Vincent simply studied him with narrowed eyes. Quinton tried to tap into Vincent’s mind again, but suddenly a wall slid up, shutting him out.

  “His name is Wulf,” Clarissa said. “Let me take your coat.”

  She reached for his jacket, and Vincent strode to the bar in the corner and poured two drinks. Scotch, an expensive brand that Quinton often purchased himself.

  He accepted the highball glass, their gazes locking.

  “You’re going to need that,” Vincent said.

  “What I need is answers,” Quinton said. “And the truth about who you are and what I’m doing here.”

  Vincent gestured toward the sofa but Quinton shook his head. He moved to the fireplace and claimed the wing chair facing the door and window, his training kicking in. He never placed his back to the door, never in the line of attack.

  “You were in the military,” Vincent said. “And now you work with Homeland Security.”

  Quinton gave a clipped nod, then took a small sip of the scotch and let it slide down his throat, warming him as he assessed Vincent. “And you?”

  “FBI.” Vincent produced his identification, then handed him a folder.

  Vincent said nothing else, simply waited while Quinton examined the file. Detailed notes and photos of past cases Vincent had worked on for the government filled the folder. His heart hammered at the most recent story—the serial killer who’d stalked and killed several women in Eerie.

  Annabelle Armstrong had done a story on the case, although she hadn’t mentioned anyone by the name of Vincent Valtrez.

  He glanced up at Vincent. The files looked legit and would be easy to check. “I heard about that serial killer case,” he said, “but a deputy named Bluster solved it. Your name wasn’t mentioned.”

  “I don’t like the press.”

  Quinton chewed the inside of his cheek. “So you work for the FBI,” Quinton said. “That’s how you found me.” Meaning his cover was definitely blown, and the Ghost unit might have to be disbanded for safety’s sake. He wasn’t their only agent.

  Vincent nodded. “Trust me, your cover is safe. I didn’t call you about that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Like I said, we’re brothers.”

  Quinton forced his voice to be calm. “What makes you think that?”

  Vincent’s gaze remained steady. “My… our mother told me.”

  Quinton drained the scotch, set the glass on the table with a thud, and stood. “Now I know you’re lying. My mother is dead.”

  “I know,” Vincent said in a low voice. “But Clarissa is a medium, and she spoke with her from the grave.”

  Quinton hesitated, then pivoted to study Clarissa. So he had read her mind correctly—there had been lost spirits crying out in her head.

  Could she have communicated with his mother? And if so, was this man telling the truth—did he have a brother he’d never known about?

  Annabelle’s hands shook as she entered the police station. She had to report the text message. Although she wished the messenger had given her more information to go on.

  She’d tried to send a reply, but it bounced back. Apparently no address from the sender could be located.

  A twenty-something blonde receptionist smiled at her as she stepped up to her desk. “How can I help you?”

  “I need to speak to a detective.”

  “Just a sec.”

  She punched an intercom button, relayed the request, and five minutes later, a husky man in a baggy suit and flashy tie appeared through a steel door. He was scowling, his balding head shiny beneath the fluorescent lights.

  “Detective Crawley, ma’am.” His head bobbed slightly. “You asked to speak to a detective?”

  “Yes,” she said, then introduced herself. “I’m Annabelle Armstrong, CNN News.”

  His bushy eyebrows rose. “Oh, yeah, I recognize you from TV. You come for a story about the bombing?”

  “Actually, I was here on vacation and happened to be on River Street at the time of the explosion.” She gestured toward the back. “Can we talk?”

  He shifted awkwardly, then led her through the door to a small interrogation room with a metal table and chairs. “Coffee?”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  He poured them each a cup, then straddled the chair across from her. “We already had a press conference, and I covered everything we have so far.”

  She placed a photo of Quinton on the table. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Detective Crawley nodded. “Yeah, Quinton Valtrez. He works for Homeland Security. He found bomb parts in the explosion and pointed them out to our CSI.”

  So he was working with the police. Interesting.

  She laid the photo of Vigontol on the desk next. “How about this man? Do you know who he is?”

  He narrowed his eyes at the dead man’s picture. “No. Should I?”

  “He was a suspected terrorist.”

  “You think he had something to do with the bombing?”

  “I’m not certain, but it’s possible.”

  “You know where he is?”

  She produced the second photo, the one of Vigontol lyin
g in a pool of blood. “Dead. As of last night.”

  His gaze lifted slowly to hers. “You know who killed him?”

  “Again, I can’t say until I have proof.”

  He grunted. “Well, if he was responsible for all those people’s deaths, then I say he got what he deserved.”

  So he believed in meting out justice like Quinton. Annabelle clenched her teeth. “There’s something else.” She removed her PDA. “I received a disturbing text message that you should see.”

  He unfolded reading glasses from his pocket, put them on, then read the small screen with a frown. “Who sent it?”

  “I don’t know,” Annabelle said with a hint of frustration in her voice. “That’s why I’m here. We need to try and trace it.”

  He pulled at his chin. “Don’t you think it’s probably just a prank?”

  She rolled her shoulders. “That’s possible. But what if it’s not?”

  “Why send it to you?”

  “Because I’m a reporter,” she said, “and he’s seeking attention. He wants his five minutes of fame.”

  He frowned. “It doesn’t say when or where the next one will strike, does it?”

  “No, but we should see if we can trace the message.”

  He made a grunting sound. “I guess you’re right. Although I just got word that Dr. Wynn, a forensic specialist the Feds brought in from DC, ID’d the man they thought was the suicide bomber as Warren Ames. Some locals who survived witnessed an old man in a green corduroy jacket set it off. Seems he was homeless, had been sleeping in the graveyards. Says here he lost an arm during his stint in the service and suffered from posttraumatic stress syndrome. Police are trying to locate his family members or friends for questioning.” He heaved a breath as if the explanation exhausted him. “So it doesn’t sound like a terrorist cell.”

  She shivered. “Why would a homeless man kill himself and others?”

  He gave her an impatient look. “He was probably mentally ill or had a substance abuse problem.”

  “But how would he get the parts or have the knowledge to build a bomb?”

  Crawley consulted the fax on his desk. “He was a veteran. Probably learned how to make a bomb in the military. And if not, anyone can read about it on the danged Internet these days.”

  Annabelle pursed her lips, thinking. “If he’s homeless, he wouldn’t have access to the Internet.”

  He made another sound in his throat. “Right. And he’s dead, so he couldn’t have sent you a text.”

  Annabelle frowned. “But someone else could have put him up to it. And they might be planning another attack.” She gestured to the phone, determined that he listen. “Do you want more deaths on your conscience?”

  He sighed, then reluctantly picked up the phone. But another thought struck her. If Quinton worked for the government taking out terrorists, maybe he already had information about the bomber.

  The man scared her, but she’d find him and make him talk to her. More lives might be lost if she didn’t.

  Quinton didn’t need Vincent, didn’t want anyone needing him. He liked his life just fine.

  No ties.

  No one to answer to or worry about being used as a means to get to him.

  No one to distract him as Annabelle had that night in Savannah.

  “This is bullshit,” Quinton said. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

  “You don’t,” Vincent said in a deadly calm voice. “Just as I’m not sure I can trust you. For all I know, you may already have given in to your dark side.”

  Quinton tensed. Vincent knew that he struggled with the darkness? Was he a mind reader as well?

  “Please, listen to him,” Clarissa said softly. “Your mother wanted Vincent to find you. You need each other to fight the evil threatening the world.”

  Vincent refilled Quinton’s glass as well as his own, then turned, his penetrating gaze boring into Quinton’s. “Our father was a spawn of Satan, our mother an Angel of Light, of goodness.” Vincent unrolled his right palm to reveal a scar, the imprint of an angel’s wings. Then Clarissa removed an amulet from around her neck—an angel’s wings with a bloodstone set in the heart of the angel.

  “This amulet belonged to our mother,” Vincent said. “I took it after her death. She told me that she also left one with you when she gave you away.”

  Quinton’s head churned. He did have one—it was pewter with a clear quartz stone.

  “The amulet is for protection,” Vincent said. “My bloodstone stands for courage. Your stone stands for the mind, clairvoyance, because you have that gift.”

  So he had done his homework.

  “The amulet proves that we’re tied together and symbolizes the fact that we have Mother’s blood as well as our father’s.” Vincent unbuttoned his shirt and angled himself to reveal the back of his right shoulder. “Just as this serpent birthmark means we’re brothers, that we’re demonborn.”

  The symbol of the serpent eating its tail… The monks claimed the birthmark represented the universe and how it destroyed and re-created itself in the cycle of life and death.

  Vincent sighed. “Of course, we’ll want to test your blood to verify that we’re actually related.”

  Quinton nodded. “And if I don’t agree?”

  “You will,” Vincent said.

  Clarissa smiled gently. “You have to know the truth about your past to understand your destiny.”

  Quinton’s patience snapped like a thin rubber band. “Just cut the cryptic shit and get on with it. You said our father was evil. What do you mean by that?”

  “He was brutal, abusive, and cruel. He took his temper out on me and turned on Mother toward the end,” Vincent said sharply. “When I was ten, he tortured her and burned her at the stake, because he allowed his dark side to possess him completely.”

  “His dark side?” A side Quinton knew well, one the monks had referred to and warned him about.

  Vincent cleared his throat. “Yes, he was a Dark Lord.” He paused and sipped his scotch. “Just as you and I are.”

  Quinton remained stone still, refusing to react.

  “But Father allowed his evil side to triumph over good.” Vincent blew out a breath. “It’s a constant battle for me, as I assume it is for you.”

  Quinton’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to admit anything to this man. Had kept his secrets too long. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do,” Vincent said, a hint of a sinister smile gracing his lips. “You’re a sniper. You kill for a living because you have a hunger for blood; you crave the kill.”

  Suspicions reared their head. “Did you tell CNN reporter Annabelle Armstrong about me?”

  Vincent frowned. “Hell, no. I refused her request for an interview. Why do you ask?”

  “Because she came to Savannah and said an anonymous source fed her intel about what I do.”

  Vincent cursed. “And she wants to expose you?”

  He gave a clipped nod.

  “Our secret can’t be made public, Quinton. Imagine the panic that would occur if we announced that dangerous demons are entering the mortal realm.”

  He was right. Complete terror would prevail.

  “Our father has risen in power now,” Vincent continued. “Those killings started when it was announced that Zion was being named the new leader of the underworld. The upheaval and destruction will continue until we stop him.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Our father is the leader of the underworld?” Quinton asked.

  “Yes. And one of his worshippers is responsible for the deaths in Savannah.” Vincent spread the photos of the Savannah ship bombing in front of Quinton. “See that gray cast, the shadows?”

  Quinton nodded. He’d noticed it the night of the bombing. “I assume it’s some sort of an illusion from the smoke.”

  Vincent shook his head. “Those are spirits, the Soul Collectors, who converged to steal souls while the dead were still in shock over their demise.”<
br />
  “Come with me, Quinton,” Clarissa said. “There’s something you need to see. Then you might believe that Vincent is telling the truth.”

  Quinton probed her thoughts and read sincerity, not subterfuge. So he followed her and Vincent up the stairs to a small attic with sloped ceilings. For a brief second, his claustrophobia resurfaced, the memories of being locked in the closetlike rooms at the monastery, the nightmares of his imprisonment underground when he’d been beaten savagely—the heat, the stench, the rats and bugs nibbling at him…

  Clarissa closed the curtains, bathing the room in darkness, then knelt and lit a circle of candles on the hardwood floor. The scents of lavender, rosemary, vanilla, and other spices filled the air as the candles fluttered to life.

  He scrutinized her as she closed her eyes and chanted,

  To the present

  From the past

  Bring this spirit

  To speak at last.

  Suddenly cool air swirled around him, adding the aroma of otherworldly creatures to the mix. The curtains fluttered, and a shimmering mass of golden sparkles lit the darkness, first floating randomly, then gelling into the silhouette of a woman. A warm glow replaced the chill, and a peacefulness settled over the room.

  “It’s our mother, the Angel of Light,” Vincent said quietly.

  He stared at the shimmering creature in shock. She was beautiful. Long golden hair flowed around her white-gold silhouette, her face almost translucent, soft, lovely.

  “Quinton, I’m glad Vincent found you. Your brother brought you here because it’s time you all know about one another.” She turned to Vincent. “Where’s Dante?”

  “Who is Dante?” Quinton asked.

  The Angel hesitated. “Your twin. You were separated to keep you safer.”

  “I have people looking for him now,” Vincent said.

  Anger mounted inside Quinton, born from years of bitterness toward her for abandoning him. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to act like you care about me now?”

  “I don’t blame you for being angry,” the Angel said. “But I gave you up to protect you, son. To keep you safe from your father and the demons. Each of you has powers. Vincent has the power in his hands to make things explode. You, Quinton, are telepathic. And you can make things move with your mind.”