Dark Hunger

by Rita Herron

  “Trust me. I just came from her bed. The situation is under control.”

  A strangled gasp made him jerk around, and he went stone-still.

  Annabelle stood in the doorway, her hair tousled, her eyes blurry, her complexion ashen as she stared at him.

  Apparently she’d overheard everything.

  Part of him wanted to deny what he’d said.

  But the smart, rational trained agent in him told him not to. To let her think the worst.

  Because he had to let her go to protect her and her father, or the demon would come after them both again.

  Annabelle flinched as Quinton’s words echoed in her head.

  She’d known he had powers but had never really believed he was demonic. Or had she just buried her head in the sand because he’d seduced her?

  Hurt splintered through her. He had seduced her to keep her quiet.

  How could she have been such a fool?

  She’d chased him down for a story, but she’d gotten caught up in the danger, the messages from the bomber, and in… Quinton.

  In his tough facade. His masculinity. His raw sexual power.

  But he’d been playing her all along, just as he played his targets for a kill.

  God… He was the reason her father was in the hospital, in all this trouble.

  She wet her lips, determined not to reveal how much he’d hurt her. “Who was on the phone?”

  A detached look settled on his face. “Vincent. He called about the bombings.”

  She paused at the edge of the bed, searching his face for answers. For hope that this nightmare would end. “Does he have new information?”

  “He’s searching for connections between the cities targeted so far,” he said instead. “He’ll call if he finds something new.”

  “Tell me the truth, Quinton. Do you know who’s responsible?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I’ll find him.”

  “But it is a demon.”

  “I told you that, yes.”

  “And you’re part demon?”

  “You saw what I did with my mind and my hands.”

  “Yes, you climb into people’s minds and bend them to your will. That’s what you’ve been doing to me all along, isn’t it?”

  He hadn’t meant for her to hear his phone call. Hadn’t meant for her to know. Hadn’t meant to get involved because he wouldn’t stick around.

  “I am what I am,” he said instead of denying her accusation. “You came for a story. I told you from the beginning that I couldn’t let you print it.”

  She wanted to scream and cry and force him to admit that he cared.

  But he obviously didn’t.

  The way she’d tracked him down still disturbed him. “Just how did you find me, Annabelle?”

  She squared her shoulders. “What? You think a demon led me to you?”

  He shrugged. “If not, then who did?”

  “One of the guys who served with you in the military. He apparently had a beef with you.”

  He cursed. Probably Olander North. They’d never gotten along.

  “What did you do to him to make him hate you so much?” she asked.

  “I used my power against him,” he said bluntly. “But I let him live. That was my mistake.” He shoved the Deadly Demons book in front of her. “Take a hard look at these demons, Annabelle. Getting in bed with me puts you right in the middle of my world.”

  Apprehension crawled up her spine as she opened the book and contemplated his words, that she’d be in his world. A world of demons and danger.

  Detailed sketches of monsters filled the pages. Creatures that looked half human, animals that shape-shifted into people, a serpent who was the devil, werewolves and vampires, a sex siren, an incubus, the Death Angel, Soul Collectors, Shadowmen, guardians of the portal between the mortal world and the underground, vampires, witches and warlocks…

  And vultures.

  “I’ve seen this before,” she said, refusing to be intimidated.

  “But you haven’t really considered the consequences. Play with sharks and get bitten.”

  And play with demons and get killed.

  “I’m sorry for you,” she said. “Sorry that you’re incapable of loving anyone.”

  His eyes glittered darkly, dangerously, and he fisted his hands by his sides as if fighting for control.

  “You want to know the reason, I’ll tell you, Annabelle. My father was a spawn of Satan, my mother an Angel of Light. My father abused my brother and mother, and my mother sent me and my twin away to keep us safe. Then he killed her.”

  His heart hammered, but his voice remained calm, steady, devoid of any feeling. He’d never shared his past with anyone before, but she had a right to know.

  “The monks isolated me, locked me away for days and nights in the darkness, taught me how to control my dark urges, how to put them to use. Their spiritual lessons trained me to school my emotions. But that dark side lives in me, never doubt it.”

  She was holding her breath. “What kind of training?”

  “Spiritual enlightenment exercises,” he said. “They trained me to rely on my inner being, my chi, to relate to nature and call upon its forces to strengthen my power.”

  “I thought monks were spiritual beings, not demons.”

  “They are, but they knew what I would one day face. They put me through rigorous physical training. Torture, at least for a small child. Locked me in the darkness for days, forced me to meditate. To remain silent. Then threw me out into the wild to survive off the land or die.” He paused, hands knotted by his sides. “And the military taught me to kill. To be tough so I could one day fight the demons that would come for me.”

  “Did they ever come for you before?”

  Memories suffused him, ones he’d tried to banish from his mind, yet they were stored there permanently. “Twice. Once when I was four. You know the bogeyman that all kids are scared of?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, there really is such a thing. He takes children in their sleep.”

  Annabelle’s chest squeezed as she imagined the child he might have once been, and how someone had stolen that innocence from him.

  Yet he was what he was. And loving him hadn’t made any difference.

  Her lungs tightened. Did she love him? Had she allowed herself to fall for him?

  His throat muscles worked as he swallowed. “Another time I was held for days by a demon, but I escaped. And in the military, I was subjected to brainwashing exercises. Beatings. Drug experiments. Sensory deprivation torture.”

  No wonder he’d been so cold at times, then hot at others.

  But any tenderness had been an act. The art of seduction.

  All to keep her quiet.

  “So why are you telling me this now?”

  He chuckled. “Because you deserve the truth. But… no one will believe you if you print it. And Homeland Security has no knowledge of the Ghost team that I work for. They would never allow that kind of clandestine operation.”

  “Then why sleep with me? Just to keep me quiet?”

  That dark hungry look returned to his eyes, then a sinister smile followed. “Because I wanted you,” he said simply. “It didn’t mean anything, though, Annabelle. So don’t make out like it was more than it was.”

  “You really are a bastard,” she said.

  He nodded. “I know.”

  There was nothing else to say. She wouldn’t beg, argue, or confess that she loved him.

  “I’m going to concentrate on getting my father well.” She folded her arms across her chest, struggling to remain cool. “And I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  “I told you I’d protect you until I caught this demon, and I intend to.”

  “I don’t want or need your protection,” she said. “So stay away from me, Quinton. Now, I’m going to get some rest so I can visit my father later.”

  She gave him a glacial look, then turned and went into the other bedroom. But this t
ime she locked the door between the two rooms, and he didn’t follow.

  The monks gathered in the deep chambers of the stone monastery, cold air swirling around them as if death had just placed its icy finger on the room. Whispers of the evil roaming the world echoed from the hollow chambers, threatening taunts flowing through the walls, tapping incessantly as if they intended to rip away the stone and mortar and climb into the minds of the monks themselves.

  “Duna Florence, Duno Dain,” Father Robard said in greeting as his comrades and sisters and brothers began to file into the room, their robes flowing as they nodded. Their vows of silence had stretched on, the power of meditation and prayer their weapon against the demons knocking at their door.

  “Our protégé Quinton served us well, and the Death Angel failed at his latest attempt.”

  Silent murmurs of hope and thanks rumbled through the cavernous walls.

  “But Quinton didn’t vanquish the Death Angel,” Father Robard said. “Now he is enraged and wants Quinton. As does Zion. We must continue our prayer vigils day and night.”

  He stepped to the front of the common room, encased in darkness, and lit a candle then bowed his head. One by one his fellow monks strode forward and followed his actions.

  Yet the stone structure trembled, the earth shifting as the enemy shouted its attack call from below.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Quinton fought his gut instinct, which urged him to go after Annabelle. To apologize, ask for her forgiveness and admit that he did care.

  That yes, at first, he’d intended to seduce her to keep her quiet. Only somewhere along the way, things had changed, and he’d wanted her for himself.

  But caring was trouble.

  He couldn’t afford it.

  Still, he would protect her from this demon if he had to die doing it.

  So what was his next move?

  He had to think of this case as a mission. Scope out the target and take him out.

  Dammit, if he knew the target’s identity, he could do exactly that.

  He sat down at the computer and began to methodically outline what he knew so far. He drew a line to the suspects on his list. Reverend Narius—he’d pretty much ruled him out.

  Dr. Gryphon. He certainly fit the profile.

  He needed to find out exactly what he was up to. He found the business card he’d given Annabelle lying on the end table and dialed the man’s number.

  “Dr. Gryphon speaking.”

  “It’s Agent Valtrez. I talked to Miss Armstrong and she’s reconsidering your offer of help. Is there a clinic nearby where I could observe your work in progress?”

  Dr. Gryphon hesitated. “I can’t compromise my patients’ confidentiality.”

  “I understand. But if you want to help Mr. Armstrong, and clear yourself of any suspicion, you’ll give me a tour. Once you’ve been eliminated as a suspect, you might be able to assist us in finding the person behind these attacks.”

  A reluctant sigh. “All right. Meet me in an hour.”

  Quinton jotted down the address, then hung up and tried to call Shayla Larue to go with him. If she truly was a demon slayer, he could use her as backup.

  But she didn’t answer so he left a message.

  He started to knock on Annabelle’s door to tell her where he was going. But she’d said she was going to get some sleep, so he didn’t disturb her. If her father regained consciousness, the doctor would call him.

  Until then, he’d try to solve this case. Finding the Death Angel and destroying him was the only way to keep Annabelle safe.

  The sound of a tree branch slapping the window woke Annabelle a few hours later, hazy evening shadows streaking the room, the sun having faded.

  A vulture pecked at the window incessantly, the scratching giving her the creeps as memories of the night before assaulted her. The ballroom, her father’s gaunt lifeless eyes, the bomb.

  The near explosion that Quinton had stopped by using his power. Quinton holding her, comforting her, making love to her.

  Then the conversation she’d overheard. She’d been ready to accept that he was part demon, but he’d used sex to keep her from revealing his secret.

  He didn’t care about her at all.

  She rolled over, aching for him again, but the bed was empty. His masculine scent lingered on the pillows and the sheets.

  Sighing in frustration, she sat up and dropped her head into her hands, willing herself to forget.

  But reality crashed back with a vengeance. Her father was in the hospital, disoriented and confused.

  The reporters would already have outlined the story for the world to know. And they’d hound her for the truth.

  Her phone rang and she checked the number. Her boss, Roland. He was obviously wondering when he was going to get her story.

  She had no idea what to tell him, so she ignored the call. She couldn’t talk to him yet. Not until she decided how to handle the things she’d learned about Quinton.

  Maybe Roland would be satisfied with human-interest pieces on the victims. And she could offer some follow-up pieces on post-traumatic stress syndrome.

  Still, she had to find out who’d turned her father into a killer and clear his name.

  But if Quinton was right, and it was a demon, what would she report?

  Her phone trilled again, and she frowned, expecting it to be Roland, probably calling back to leave a caustic message. But the hospital’s number flashed on the display. Her palms began to sweat as she snatched up the phone and connected the call.

  “Annabelle Armstrong.”

  “Miss Armstrong, this is Dr. Andradre at the hospital. I hate to tell you this, but your father didn’t make it.”

  Annabelle’s stomach knotted as grief filled her. “What?”

  “I’m sorry. The medical examiner is going to do an autopsy, and we’ll notify you of the results.”

  No… She doubled over in grief. He couldn’t be dead. He’d squeezed her hand, sent her a message.

  She had to see him for herself. “I’ll be right there.”

  She disconnected the call and glanced at the closed doorway between her room and Quinton’s. She wanted to go to him, ask him to come with her.

  But he’d made a fool out of her, and she refused to beg for his help. She’d call a taxi and go on her own.

  She wanted to say good-bye to her father in private.

  Quinton studied Gryphon, his mind struggling to read the doctor’s thoughts.

  The research hospital where Dr. Gryphon was conducting his experiments wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d imagined hearing tortured cries and screams from the end of a corridor of dark hallways and locked doors. Instead, the facility appeared normal, quiet, a working medical environment staffed with professionals who would draw no suspicion.

  Or was it a cover?

  Gryphon settled his wiry frame back in the chair. “How are Miss Armstrong and her father doing?”

  “Naturally, she’s upset about her father. I phoned the hospital on the way over, and Mr. Armstrong’s condition hasn’t changed.”

  His brows furrowed together with his frown. “In cases like these, it’s hard to predict how long it will take for the patient to recover, or if he ever fully will.”

  Quinton tensed slightly. Was that a warning? “I’m sure Annabelle will see that he receives the best medical care available.”

  Gryphon’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward in his seat. “And you obviously don’t think that’s me. So why are you really here, Agent Valtrez?”

  “We know you conferred online with the first two bombers, who were homeless men. We have agents studying those posts to determine if they might have hinted at their plans.”

  “We’ve been over this, and I found no signs of suicidal thoughts or hidden agendas.” Gryphon drummed his fingers on the mahogany desk and sighed. “It’s a shame that some prey on the homeless and aging. That’s one reason I decided to focus on geriatrics and am working on treating memory disorder
s.”

  “You’re making progress?”

  He gestured toward several files on his desk, then his computer. “Some, but not as fast as I’d like. Medicine has helped increase our life span, but that fact also has its downside. Many elderly are left alone with no one to care for them. And more diseases result from the aging process, especially dementia and Alzheimer’s.” A self-deprecating smile tilted his lips. “Then again, you didn’t come for a sermon on my personal mission.”

  Quinton studied the nuances of his words, his expressions, his silent thoughts, but everything seemed… sincere.

  “It’s doubtful these homeless men created this plan on their own,” Quinton said. “Someone else masterminded the attacks.”

  Gryphon steepled his fingers. “Do you think a terrorist cell is behind the bombings?”

  “The FBI is investigating that theory. But I have another one.”

  “Care to share it?”

  Quinton shrugged. “I think someone may be drugging or hypnotizing these men, exerting mind control, if you will. I mentioned this to you before.”

  Gryphon frowned. “Yes, you did. And I suppose that’s possible.”

  “With your expertise and research experiments, have you conducted mind-control experiments?”

  A second passed, then a wary look flashed across Gryphon’s features. “Are you asking if I know of a drug that could make that possible, or if I’ve been experimenting with mind control?”

  “That is what you’re doing here, isn’t it?”

  Gryphon leaned back in his chair with a dismissive shrug. “I can give you a list of drugs that physicians use in therapy, ones that would assist in hypnosis, but I won’t acknowledge your implication with a response.” He quickly clicked a few keys on his computer, hit Print, then handed Quinton the list.

  “How about the names of other doctors you think might be conducting experiments with mind control?”

  “If I suspected any of my colleagues were doing anything inappropriate, Mr. Valtrez, I would report them to the police.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, please leave. I have patients to see.”

  “I came here to observe your work,” Quinton said. “You agreed to give me a tour of your facility.”