by Rita Herron
“Dig up everything you can find on a psychiatrist named Gryphon.”
“Sure. Just give me some time.”
Annabelle tapped on his arm and gestured toward the TV.
“Reports are coming in that vultures are now flooding New Orleans. In light of the sightings in Charleston and Savannah and the recent bombings, citizens are nervous.”
“Shit. Vincent,” Quinton muttered, “the vultures have moved to New Orleans. I’m on my way there now.”
“Keep in touch,” Vincent said, then hung up.
Annabelle hastily packed while Quinton phoned Homeland Security to alert them of the threat, throwing together his own duffel bag as they talked. When he hung up, Annabelle slung her computer bag over her shoulder.
“Reverend Narius is going to be in New Orleans tomorrow, but he’s still here tonight,” she said.
He grabbed his computer bag as well and gestured toward the door. “Then let’s pay him a visit before we head to New Orleans.”
* * *
When they arrived at the cemetery, mourners had lit candles to hold a vigil as Reverend Narius finished his sermon.
Quinton brushed his hand over a tombstone, had a vision of someone putting flowers on the grave, and jerked his hand free.
Nothing helpful there.
Annabelle sniffed beside him, and Quinton steeled himself to the stark look of grief on her face.
The damn woman felt too much. Probed too much. Was getting into his head and making him wish he hadn’t lost his soul a long time ago.
“We’ve come together today to say good-bye to these young people whose lives were lost so tragically to violence and evil,” Reverend Narius said. “At these times, we ask ourselves why.
“But we need to ask ourselves if we’re right with God, if there are sins we need to atone for. If we’re ready to turn our souls over and follow the righteous path so that we may reunite with our loved ones on the other side.”
Quinton searched the faces of the attendees, noting the way Narius’s followers hung on his every calculated word. Narius struck when the people were grief-stricken, preying on them, sinking his claws into their minds when they were the most vulnerable emotionally.
A perfect plan.
The fall wind swirled dead leaves across the parched grass, the scent of despair and fear heavy as mourners clung to one another and began to file out. Some lingered to speak to the reverend, to drop flowers on the graves interspersed across the cemetery, and to console one another.
Quinton imagined the spirits lingering in shock, wondered if demons haunted the graveyard now.
Finally, the crowd dwindled as night stole the last vestiges of light, and he and Annabelle approached Narius.
Quinton held back, knowing the reverend would probably welcome the publicity Annabelle could give him, and probing his mind to determine if he might be a demon in disguise.
Annabelle pasted on a smooth, charming smile. One Quinton had seen on TV but not one she’d graced him with.
“Reverend, my name is Annabelle Armstrong, CNN News.”
His too-polished face lit up with a grin. “Yes, I recognize you from TV. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Quinton identified himself, and the reverend gave him a wary look.
“Such a tragedy,” Reverend Narius said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” He straightened his tie. “Did you want a photo, Miss Armstrong? Or did you take some of the service?”
“I’m not after a photo.”
“You spoke to the homeless shelters in both Savannah and Charleston,” Quinton cut in. “What do you know about the bombers, Warren Ames and B. J. Rutherford?”
The age lines around the reverend’s mouth stretched with his frown, making him look older than he appeared on TV. “I see and speak to hundreds when I visit each town,” he said. “Nothing about either one rings a bell.”
Annabelle removed two photos from her purse. “This is Mr. Ames. And here’s a picture of B. J. Rutherford. They were both veterans.”
“Many of the men I meet are,” Reverend Narius said. “And many are suffering from illness—mental, physical, spiritual. I do what I can.”
Quinton studied Narius. “We think these men might have been hypnotized or brainwashed as part of a larger plan.”
Narius pursed his lips. “Brainwashing? That sounds preposterous.”
“It could be possible with drugs,” Annabelle said.
Reverend Narius narrowed his eyes. “Or maybe there’s another reason. Perhaps the devil got to them.”
“You know the devil personally?” Quinton asked.
Reverend Narius clutched his Bible. “I recognize him at work.”
Quinton grunted. “We all know cults have brainwashed people before,” Quinton said. “There are documented cases of suicide pacts that prove it.”
Reverend Narius jerked his gaze toward Quinton. “That may be true. And if that is the case with the bombings, I’ll pray for the lost souls.” The wind ruffled his lacquered hair, and he patted the strands back in place, then started walking, his movements stilted. “I need to go now. I have a flight to catch.”
“Where are you off to now?” Annabelle called.
He gave her an odd look. “To New Orleans. I heard that the vultures have descended on the town. I want to be there in case there’s trouble.”
Quinton twisted his mouth sideways. “You’re expecting there to be?”
“We all know the meaning of those vultures,” Narius said.
And then he was gone.
“What do you think about the reverend?” Annabelle asked as they settled back into the SUV.
Quinton grunted. “The jury is still out.”
She nodded. “I’d hate to accuse an innocent person, especially a well-known preacher, of murder. But I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I.”
She gripped her bag, the silence ominous as he drove toward the airport. Her head began to throb again, and she reached inside her bag for painkillers, then popped two from the bottle and swallowed them dry.
“You want to rest tonight, then fly out in the morning?” he asked.
“No. Let’s go. Time is running out.”
He nodded, then punched in the number for the airlines to book them a flight.
Two hours later, they boarded the last flight of the night. Quinton gripped the seat edge, his body wound tight. But there was nothing he could do at the moment but try to get some rest. He couldn’t have sex with Annabelle.
Well, he could, but he didn’t want a quickie in the bathroom stall. He wanted long and slow and languid. Hell, he wanted fast and furious and wild.
This dark, endless hunger was driving him insane.
Annabelle glanced up at him as if she’d read his mind, and his mouth thinned. He didn’t like what she was doing to him.
Didn’t like that he was worried the demon might be after her now.
“You should rest,” she said softly.
“So should you.” He picked up her hand and pressed it against his cheek. The sound of his beard stubble raking across her tender skin sent his senses into overdrive, and he leaned his head sideways, pressed his lips into her palm, and kissed her hand.
Surprise flashed in her eyes at the tender gesture. Then a shuttered look crossed her face, and she turned away and pulled her hand to her lap.
Needing the physical contact, he clasped her hand back in his. Her gaze dropped to the bulge in his jeans and desire flickered in her eyes. But wariness quickly stomped it.
“You are wicked,” she said. But I want you anyway.
Suddenly a vision filled his head. Annabelle tied up, a demon breathing down her neck.
He shuddered, tightening his grip. His heart pounded as he blinked her back into focus. He had to stop this demon before he hurt Annabelle.
“I’m dangerous to you,” he said.
“I know.” She closed her eyes, but she didn’t pull her hand away, and he held it to his chest, savor
ing the contact.
That was one vision he wouldn’t allow to come true.
Forcing himself to reserve his energy for the battle they faced, he finally fell asleep. But the darkness sucked at him, clawed at him with a choking grip, and no matter how much he fought, it won.
He was entombed in it.
Trapped in the underworld with monsters and demons, huge hulking dark shadows, twisted inhuman creatures, shape-shifters and vampires and serpents hissing at his feet, ready to strike.
Then his father appeared, a reincarnation of Satan.
“Kill for me and we’ll rule the world,” his father ordered. “Follow your destiny, succumb to the darkness, and you will walk by my side as a fearless commander.”
The vulture screeched and flapped his black wings, a blazing fire lit the cave, and his father waved his hands and breathed fire from his fingertips.
Then he spotted Annabelle. His father had tied her to a post and strapped a bomb to her.
Quinton jerked awake, sweating and hating what he was—a demon. Hated that he couldn’t have a normal life or a woman by his side.
Because being with him would get anyone he loved killed.
Apprehension rippled through the air as Quinton drove them toward downtown New Orleans. For a moment on the plane, Annabelle had felt a connection with him, as if he might actually care for her.
But when she’d awakened, he’d had a fierce look on his face and had shut down. Would she ever see the real man beneath that tough facade?
A vulture soared above them as if following them, and she switched her attention back to the job at hand. They were here to stop a bomber, not for her to become more involved with Quinton.
The French Quarter stretched ahead with its ancient culture, detailed ironwork, and impressive architecture. Colorful flags and banners announced the Swamp Festival and a smaller jazz festival, welcoming guests.
Vultures were perched everywhere—on light posts, awnings, the tops of buildings, window flowerboxes—and the aboveground cemeteries were swarming with the vile-looking creatures.
The screaming sounds that erupted from the black-winged predators as they swooped and soared above Bourbon Street terrorizing people made her break into a cold sweat.
Quinton pulled into a hotel parking lot in town, and they went inside. “Adjoining rooms,” Quinton said matter-of-factly.
She ignored the clerk’s curious look, then followed him to the elevator in silence. As soon as they entered the second-floor suite Quinton stalked inside and opened the door connecting the two rooms.
She folded her arms, watching him, remembering the cameras he’d installed in the hotel in Charleston. His gaze met hers, intense, sultry, suggestive—as if he remembered as well. It took every ounce of her courage not to blush.
Instead, she lifted her suitcase to put it on the foldout luggage rack, but he took it from her. Odd, a killer who possessed a sliver of chivalry.
“You look exhausted,” he said. “Do you need to rest a while?”
“No.”
He nodded, but instead of retreating to his room, he stepped closer, his gaze raking over her, his scent drawing her into his seductive web.
She arched a brow. “No cameras this time?”
A wicked grin lit his face. “I don’t need them now. I have a permanent picture in my mind.” He lifted a strand of her hair between his fingers. “One I won’t forget.”
Anger flared inside, but her body tingled with desire at his gruff tone. So he had liked what he’d seen.
She forced a breath through her lungs. “Nothing is going to happen between us, Quinton.”
“If you say so,” he said in a gruff voice, although he stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb so tenderly that her heart squeezed, and she had to struggle not to succumb to his alluring power.
He glanced at the open bathroom door, his tone low and husky. “I’m sure you’re still sore. You might need some help in there.”
A nervous laugh bubbled in her throat. Yet her nipples budded with excitement at the thought of him touching her. “I’ll manage,” she said softly.
She backed toward the door, knowing she had to escape before she relented and kissed him again.
One more kiss and she wouldn’t stop. She’d let him have her completely.
But giving him her heart would be foolish. She had to protect herself, or he would destroy her.
Chapter Eighteen
Quinton retreated to the other bedroom, his body rock-hard and aching. He might be half demon, but his human side had surfaced, and he let her go.
He’d have to bide his time. But he would have her, and she would love it. And he’d have her more than once.
But not now.
He stripped and jumped into the shower, letting the cold water calm his raging libido and revive him.
After scrubbing himself, he rinsed off, then stood naked in front of the mirror, wondering what Annabelle would say about the numerous scars on his body. Had she noticed them when she’d watched him through the camera?
Knife wounds crisscrossed his back, a deep scar from a gunshot wound marred his right thigh, and burn and whip marks reddened the flesh on his back and chest.
The angel amulet seemed ironic against his scars; the serpent-shaped birthmark on his upper shoulder mocked him, reminding him of the endless evil running through his blood. The profound emptiness that he’d lived with for so long. The cold reality that he wasn’t completely human.
Maybe he should make love to her in the dark.
Make love?
He choked on the thought. He’d never made love to a woman. So why had he thought that now? Making love implied feelings, emotions. He didn’t indulge in anything more than carnal pleasure.
Not even with Annabelle.
Body riddled with anxiety, he grabbed a shirt and tugged it on, then boxers and jeans, socks and boots, then unpacked his computer and set it up on the desk and removed the book Deadly Demons.
He flipped through the pages, studying the sketches of All Hallows’ Eve along with the history of the holiday and read the description he’d written based on the monks’ teachings:
All Hallows’ Eve began as a pre-Christian Celtic festival of the dead. The Celtic calendar divided the year into four holidays. November 1 marked the beginning of winter and signaled the ending and beginning of an eternal cycle. At that time the festival was called Samhain (sah-ween) and was the biggest holiday of the year.
The Celtics believed that the souls of those who had died during the year traveled into the otherworld on Samhain. Later, Christian missionaries tried to change the Celtics’ religious practices.
Thinking the Celtics’ version of religion pagan, the Christians branded the holiday as evil, associating it with the devil. Although people continued to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve, they began to set out food to propitiate the evil spirits.
“Quinton?”
He was so lost in the legend that he hadn’t heard Annabelle approach, didn’t realize she was standing behind him looking over his shoulder. Not a good sign.
His instincts were off.
Letting that happen again could get them killed.
“What is that?” she asked, gesturing toward the book. Then her eyes flickered with the realization of what he’d been reading. “You think this killer is some kind of supernatural creature?”
He shifted. “Are you still looking for a story?”
“That and the truth,” Annabelle said.
He flipped the book closed. “You don’t want to know what I think.”
“Yes, I do. You believe in the supernatural, in those demons in that book?”
“There are dark evil forces at work here, ones you couldn’t even imagine.”
Her gaze met his, and he knew he’d frightened her. Good. She should be scared.
Because this demon wanted to spread death. And if he was contacting Annabelle, then she was on his wish list.
“What about you?” he asked. �
�Do you believe in them?”
She hesitated. “I believe that years ago people spoke of demons, but that usually those people were mentally ill. Other demon legends were created to explain things they didn’t have answers for, but that science does.”
He gave a clipped nod. “So you don’t believe in angels or God either?”
She folded her arms. “I have faith,” she said. “And yes, I believe in God.”
“Then you have to believe in demons.” He shifted slightly. “The Death Angel is here now,” Quinton said. “The vultures are his sign.”
Alarm darkened her eyes. “You really are scaring me now.”
“You can walk away if you want. I won’t blame you.” He stroked her arm. “In fact, it would be safer for you if you did.”
She shook her head. “No way. I came for a story, and I’m not running away from it.”
He lifted his hand and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “No matter where it takes you?”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “No matter where it takes me.”
He dropped the strand of hair and gritted his teeth. “Then you have to stick by me. It’s the only way I can protect you.”
She raised her chin. “I can take care of myself.”
His sardonic chuckle bounced off the walls. “Not against a demon.” He grabbed his wallet and phone, strapped on his weapon, and pulled on his jacket.
Then he leaned over and whispered against her ear. “And I don’t want to lose your pretty ass before I get to sink myself into it at least one time.”
Annabelle wished to hell Quinton would stop toying with her. Taunting her one minute with his sexuality. With comments and tawdry looks that triggered wild and wicked fantasies in her head.
Then withdrawing the next, as if she were a snake that had bitten him.
What in the world was wrong with her?
This intense attraction was just an adrenaline rush caused from the danger they were involved in.
Determined to ignore the sexual chemistry between them, she remained silent as they drove to the police station. The downtown area seemed eerily deserted for New Orleans at lunchtime, a ghost of a city compared to the usual hubbub of tourists and locals venturing through the narrow streets and marketplaces.
