Dark Hunger

by Rita Herron

She wheezed a breath. “If you read his mind, then why did he do this?”

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “His mind was empty, as if it had been erased.”

  She pressed her hand to her chest. “Erased?”

  He nodded. “His only thought was that pulling that triggering mechanism was his mission. That he was supposed to kill the enemy.”

  “The enemy?” Her voice cracked. “But those were innocent people.”

  “I know. But I think our theory was right. Someone brainwashed him into thinking he was on a mission.” He started the car and followed the ambulance. Annabelle twisted her hands together, then wiped at her tears.

  Annabelle swallowed. “You said you saw the man behind the plan. Who was it?”

  He cut his eyes toward her. “I didn’t actually see his face, only a black cape billowing behind him.”

  She reached for him, wanting to shake him. “Why couldn’t you stop him with your mind?”

  He cleared his throat. “Because it was the Death Angel. He shape-shifted into a vulture and flew away before I could stop him.”

  Quinton’s head reeled with questions. Armstrong had almost killed Narius along with himself. So if Narius wasn’t responsible for the bombings and brainwashing, then whose body had the Death Angel possessed?

  Dr. Gryphon had also attended the event, but he hadn’t seen him when the chaos had erupted. Had he set the wheels in motion then stepped back to watch the explosion?

  Quinton scowled. They needed to know more about the man’s research.

  But why would a noted doctor want to kill masses of people?

  He’s possessed, Quinton reminded himself. This demon, the Death Angel, had the power to rob a person of their mind—and soul—and bend it to his will. It was the only explanation. And who better to use than a renowned, award-winning, charitable doctor no one would suspect?

  Annabelle wrapped her arms around her sides, as if holding herself together, and he frowned. He shouldn’t have spilled his guts back there. He should have lied.

  But this was personal to her. The potential bomber this time was her father, and he’d lost sight of that for a moment when her pain had suffused him.

  Dammit, he didn’t want to care about her.

  Desperation and grief shadowed Annabelle’s eyes. “You’re scaring me,” she finally said.

  His hand tightened around the steering wheel. Good. She should be scared.

  Of the demon and of him.

  Dammit. He wanted to hold her, though, assure her that he’d make everything all right.

  But he couldn’t make promises he might not be able to keep.

  He never should have had sex with her. Instead of sating him, it had only whetted his appetite.

  And had connected him to her on an emotional level.

  He had to break that connection; otherwise, how could he possibly do his job?

  The ambulance careened up to the emergency room entrance, and medics unloaded her father, then rushed him inside. Quinton swung the car around to a space in the emergency room parking lot, then the two of them rushed inside and hurried to the front nurse’s desk.

  “My father was just brought in,” Annabelle said, a tremor in her voice. “I’d like to be with him.”

  The security guard stepped in front of them. “I’m sorry, but Officer Carnes issued strict orders not to let anyone pass.”

  Quinton flashed his Homeland Security ID. “This man is a suspect and possible witness to the bombings in Savannah and Charleston. I need to question him.”

  The guard shook his head. “I have my orders.”

  “I can have them overridden,” Quinton said sharply. “This is a matter of national security.”

  The guard stiffened. “I’ll speak with the detective and inform him that you’re here.”

  “Please, just let us know when he’s conscious,” Annabelle said. “I’m his next of kin.”

  He nodded and Quinton gestured toward the waiting room. Instead of sitting, Annabelle paced the length of the room. A man with a camera hurried in and flashed a press badge at the receptionist’s desk. Quinton coaxed Annabelle into the corner.

  The guard firmly ordered the reporter to leave, but he glanced around as if searching for them. Quinton shielded Annabelle from sight.

  “I just can’t believe this is happening,” Annabelle whispered.

  He pulled her up against his chest and held her. “I’m sorry, Annabelle. But at least he’s alive.”

  She sighed against him. “My father… he used to be so gentle. He would never hurt a soul, not in his right mind.”

  Quinton stroked her back, trying to calm her. “He hurt you by walking out on you.”

  She nodded against his chest, her body trembling. “But he was depressed over losing my mother.”

  Quinton refused to let the man off that easily, just as he couldn’t let his mother off so easily for sending him to live with the monks. “It still doesn’t excuse him for abandoning his daughter.”

  “Why choose him?” Her voice broke. “Why send me warnings and then use my own father? Does this killer have something against me personally?”

  Quinton clenched his jaw, the truth dawning. No, It was because of him.

  The reason he would have to walk away from her when he vanquished this demon.

  If Vincent’s and Father Robard’s predictions were correct, more demons would follow. And they’d use anyone he cared about to get to him.

  The vulture picked the bones clean. But one lone, pitiful man did not fill his appetite. Not when he’d been expecting dozens of others.

  His fellow vultures squealed in anger and circled the sky over New Orleans, hungry, preying, seeking sustenance.

  Desperate to lick the blood juices, chomp on mangled flesh and charred skin.

  Even though the human meat was old and brittle, his belly swelled with pleasure, and his mouth watered for more.

  He would never get enough of death. Of the slaughter. Of circling the sky for the remains of animal and man. Of the feast that resulted as nature took its course and their bodies decomposed.

  Now that he’d tasted humans, the craving for their flesh consumed him.

  The Dark Lord had proven to be quite the adversary tonight. He’d even used his power against him.

  He tore another tendon from the body and chewed it greedily, although rage that he’d lost the battle made him sink his sharp teeth into bone until it cracked and splintered.

  The Dark Lord might have won a small victory tonight. But he would not win in the end.

  Annabelle’s ripe young body would taste so sweet and juicy.

  Seeing the tortured look on the Dark Lord’s face as he devoured her would be his ultimate offering to Zion. And would undoubtedly unleash the evil lurking within Quinton.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It was the longest night of Annabelle’s life.

  She and Quinton both checked at the nurse’s desk every few minutes for an update on her father, but the staff kept putting them off. Twice, reporters tried to trick their way inside, but Quinton and the guards kept them out.

  Quinton had gone to get them a cup of coffee when Reverend Narius showed up with Dr. Gryphon right behind him.

  “I will pray with you for your father’s soul if you like,” Reverend Narius asked.

  “Thank you, but I just want to be alone,” Annabelle said.

  “I understand.” The reverend clasped her hand. “I’ll be in the chapel if you need me or decide to join me.”

  “How is your father?” Dr. Gryphon asked.

  Annabelle studied him, searching for a sign that she should trust him.

  “I don’t know. The doctors won’t tell me anything.”

  He offered her a small smile. “Perhaps I can talk to him, evaluate him. Help him in some way.”

  Quinton appeared behind the doctor. “I don’t think Miss Armstrong wants your help,” he said gruffly.

  Dr. Gryphon pivoted and scowled at Quinton. �
��I am an expert in my field. It appears to me that Mr. Armstrong has slipped into a catatonic state due to some traumatic event in the past. Perhaps with therapy we can discover what drove him to contemplate suicide.”

  “We will get to the bottom of what happened,” Quinton said.

  Annabelle cleared her throat. “In your work with PTS and the online group, did either of the two other bombers mention suicide?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “And after we spoke, I reexamined the posts just to make sure I hadn’t missed any signs. But I saw nothing indicating suicidal thoughts. Depressed, yes. Irrational thoughts, yes. But not suicide.”

  “We’ll have our own psychologist from the Bureau evaluate those posts,” Quinton said. “We’ll also bring them in to evaluate Mr. Armstrong.”

  “His recovery could be the key to discovering who’s behind these bombings, correct?” Dr. Gryphon said.

  “Exactly.” Quinton narrowed his gaze at the doctor. “That’s the reason we need our own people to handle it, not you.”

  That and the fact that they suspected he might be involved, Annabelle thought.

  Then she remembered Quinton’s theory of demons. Could Dr. Gryphon possibly be more than he seemed?

  She’d witnessed Quinton’s power. Did the doctor have a power himself?

  Dr. Gryphon thrust his business card into her hand. “Very well. But please call me if you need me, Miss Armstrong. I very much want to help.”

  He left and Quinton gave her the coffee with a muttered curse. “I don’t trust him.”

  Annabelle massaged her temple. “I don’t know what to think.” Not about Dr. Gryphon or her father.

  Yet somehow she trusted Quinton now.

  They lapsed into an awkward silence, and Quinton excused himself to make some phone calls as she paced the waiting room.

  Finally her father’s doctor appeared. “My name is Dr. Andradre.” He extended his hand and Annabelle shook it.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “He’s stabilized, but nonresponsive. We want to run some tests, basic MRI, CAT scan, do a complete neurological workup, and have a psychologist evaluate him as well.”

  She nodded. “He is going to live, isn’t he?”

  “Everything indicates that. At least there are no visible physical injuries,” he said. “But as I mentioned, we need to run additional tests to see if there are underlying medical issues causing his condition.” He hesitated. “Can you give me his background? Was he taking any medications?”

  “Not that I know of,” Annabelle said. “But I haven’t seen him in months. My mother died, and he just walked out and never came back.”

  “So he suffered emotional trauma and depression,” Dr. Andradre said.

  “Yes. But I don’t know where he’s been these past few months or what he’s been doing.”

  “Before he left, did he exhibit signs of memory loss, confusion, dementia?”

  She shook her head. “No. You don’t understand. My father was a scientist, a smart man in his field, not violent at all.”

  “Hopefully we can help him.” He patted her shoulder. “But it may take time, Miss Armstrong.”

  She nodded. “My father was—is—a good man,” Annabelle said. “He would never hurt anyone. I don’t understand what drove him to do what he did tonight, but I think he may have been brainwashed.”

  His eyes narrowed as if he thought she might be demented. “Let’s run some tests and see what we find. I’ll keep you posted. And it’ll be a while before we complete them, so if you want to go home and get some rest, just leave a number where you can be reached and we’ll call you.”

  “Can I see him first?”

  Compassion glimmered in his eyes. “I’m afraid he may not know you.”

  “I don’t care,” Annabelle said. “I need to see him before I leave.”

  He nodded solemnly, then led her through a set of double doors and into a triage room. The policeman at the door gave her a condemning look, but she ignored him and went inside.

  The scent of antiseptic and alcohol filled her nostrils, the sounds of hospital machinery and voices whirring in the background. Quinton followed her, but he stood in the doorway as if to offer her some semblance of privacy.

  Her father lay in bed in a hospital gown, his face still gaunt and chalky. His hair had thinned and grayed since her mother’s death, she noticed now; he’d lost weight, and his skin was dry and cracked.

  She placed her hand over his, shivering at the feel of his ice-cold skin. “What happened to you, Dad? Where have you been? Why did you leave me?” Her voice choked. “You have to wake up, to get better so you can tell me who did this to you.”

  Grief and sadness welled inside her, but then she felt a tiny movement. His fingers inched around hers, and he squeezed her hand. It was only a small squeeze, barely discernible. But the movement gave her hope that her father was alive inside that shell.

  And that one day he would come back to her.

  Quinton popped two painkillers as he studied Annabelle and her father. He looked weak and frail, close to death. Even if Armstrong physically survived, would he be able to overcome the effects of the demon’s possession?

  While Dr. Gryphon had spoken with her, he’d probed the doctor’s mind. Gryphon had delved into mind control for a government experiment. He had served in the military in the Gulf War and understood the trauma of combat firsthand. He’d consulted on research regarding dementia and replacing cognitive thoughts and memories through a combination of drugs and hypnosis, and was also experimenting with repairing memory through stem cell replacement.

  In the military, the enemy had used brainwashing techniques on him. His own experience had prompted his obsession with that area of study.

  Were the bombers a product of his experimentation? Were they his subjects?

  Detective DeLang and Agent Horton met them in the waiting room.

  “How is he?” Detective DeLang asked Annabelle.

  “Still unconscious. But he did squeeze my hand slightly, so that’s a good sign.”

  Quinton hoped to hell the man recovered. So far, he was the only witness who could prove that the suicide bombers hadn’t been working of their own accord. If he could tell them who’d contacted him, how the mental suggestions had been planted in his head, Quinton could track down the perpetrator in human form and destroy him.

  Agent Horton turned to Quinton. “So you haven’t been able to question him?”

  “Not yet. But as soon as he regains consciousness, I will. The doctors and nurses have strict orders to contact me immediately.”

  “Tell us about your father,” Agent Horton said to Annabelle. “Did you know he was going to be at the charity event tonight?”

  “No, I had no idea.” She explained about her mother’s death and her father’s desertion. “I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Did he ever exhibit violent tendencies?” Detective DeLang asked.

  “Never.” Annabelle massaged her temple. “He was a scientist, studying genetics. He was kindhearted, a hard worker. For goodness’ sake, he didn’t even like to hunt; he’d never hurt a fly.”

  “Yet he nearly killed himself and hundreds of others tonight,” Agent Horton said.

  She frowned, unable to argue.

  “We found a connection between the first two bombers,” Quinton interjected. “Both suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome and had signed on to the same online support group.”

  “And Mr. Armstrong?” Horton asked.

  “He didn’t suffer from PTS,” Annabelle said. “In fact, he was never in the military.”

  “So what were these guys saying online?” Agent Horton asked. “Were they forming some kind of cultlike vigilante group to get revenge on the world because they thought people had abandoned them?”

  “Makes sense,” Detective DeLang agreed. “Veterans often feel like they aren’t appreciated, that they’re forgotten once they return home. Especially if they’ve lost loved ones
due to divorce, physical impairment, death, or if they’re financially struggling.”

  “But for a group of them to plan a terrorist attack,” Annabelle said. “That seems improbable.”

  “Sometimes when troubled people get together, they feed off each other’s anger and bitterness,” Agent Horton said.

  “The mob mentality,” Detective DeLang added with a worried frown.

  “How about other motives?” Agent Horton asked. “You said these men were homeless. Could someone have paid them off or offered to send money to their families if they carried out the bombing?”

  “So far, none of the men we’ve investigated had a history of violence. No big insurance policies or vendettas. Ames had no family,” Quinton said. “And as far as masterminding the three attacks, none of them had the resources or presence of mind to orchestrate an intricate plan such as this.”

  But they had been easy marks for a demon to possess because they already suffered from some sort of dementia, substance abuse, or disease.

  Quinton placed a hand at Annabelle’s back. “I’m going to take Annabelle back to the hotel to rest.”

  “Just don’t leave town, Miss Armstrong,” Agent McLaughlin said.

  Annabelle glared at him. “Don’t worry. I intend to stay and help my father. And somehow I’ll prove that someone else was behind what happened tonight.”

  Dr. Gryphon’s name jumped to the top of Quinton’s suspect list. In fact, some innocuous detail teased his brain, something from the monks’ teachings. Hadn’t old-world vultures descended from the griffin, the guardian of the mysteries of life and death?

  He gritted his teeth.

  Dammit. He couldn’t share his theories—the truth—with the police or the FBI. They would think he was insane.

  No, he had to figure out a way to work with them without divulging the truth. A way to stop this demon and explain what had happened.

  A way to save Annabelle so his premonition didn’t come true.

  A way to leave her when it was over…

  Exhaustion and a mixture of emotions left Annabelle drained as they exited the hospital and drove to the hotel.

  Early morning shadows flickered across the city, the statuesque architecture looking almost garish in the darkness. The scent of death, evil, and fear permeated the air as they passed one of the aboveground cemeteries, the local legends of ghosts and the swamp devil echoing around her. The sight of the vultures circling above the mausoleums in search of human food sent a chill up her spine. Their angry screeching added to the desolate hopelessness she felt.