by Rita Herron
He inched slowly through the narrow passageways, glancing quickly at names etched in marble. There were also unmarked tombs. He wondered who they held as he listened for Annabelle’s voice.
For her cry for help.
Bones and chicken feathers were piled at the foot of Marie Laveau’s crypt. Some kind of voodoo offering, he assumed. Small x’s had been scratched on the tomb. The monks had mentioned that believers knocked three times when leaving their offering in order to make a special request or invoke a voodoo spell.
The vulture probably lived on the offerings made in the dead of night. Quinton froze as a shadowy mass—an apparition—floated between the crypts.
Marie Laveau? Or was it Shayla Larue?
Loose stones scattered beneath his boots, cutting into the grisly silence as he turned through the labyrinth of graves, searching. The wind tossed the scent of decay, then smoke as if flesh was being charred.
His chest clenched. Annabelle?
Suddenly he heard her thoughts, her fear, the terror in her pleas for him to save her.
“Help me, Quinton…”
“I’m coming, baby. Where are you?”
The apparition shimmered ahead, long black dreadlocks, silver eyes glowing in the night, the wisp of magic. Shayla Larue.
She was leading him toward Annabelle.
He quickened his pace, the scent of burned flesh growing stronger as he approached a tomb, then Annabelle’s scream of pain wrenched the air, and he ran toward it and yanked at the closed entrance.
The stone door weighed a ton, but adrenaline churned inside him and rage fueled his power as he tugged the heavy door open and stepped inside.
Annabelle was lying limp on a stone slab, her body convulsing in pain as Wynn splayed his talons against her temple.
* * *
Annabelle had to fight; she couldn’t die here in this crypt.
She felt Quinton’s strength, his anger, the force of his powerful presence reach out to her and bolster her courage.
But where was Dr. Wynn?
Voices swirled around her. Some madman issuing an ultimatum to Quinton—follow his father or Annabelle would die.
Outside, the hideous screech of vultures rent the night, one pecking viciously at the crypt, trying to claw its way in. Anxious to taste her.
Another fiery blaze shot through her head, and she jerked in agony, screaming for the burning torture to stop.
“Release her now,” Quinton shouted. “And I’m yours.”
Zion watched through the Seer’s visions as his son Quinton stood inside the crypt.
Quinton had come to save the woman.
The Death Angel turned and watched the Dark Lord enter, then he sent another jolt of fiery pain slicing through the woman’s head.
“She will belong to the otherworld soon. Already she has lost consciousness. With it goes her will to live,” the Death Angel murmured. “She has mere seconds left until she succumbs to death.”
“No, she’s stronger than that,” his son bellowed. “And so am I.”
Zion smiled, enjoying the battle.
The Death Angel began to morph into the vulture, shedding his human skin. “You want to save her?” the Death Angel asked.
Quinton nodded. “Yes.”
“Then you must walk with your father.”
Zion waited, his breath erupting in fiery spurts in anticipation of the victory ahead.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Quinton couldn’t let Annabelle die.
Not the woman he loved.
The amulet pulsed inside his pocket, and Quinton probed Wynn’s mind. The bastard had been the one who sent her the text messages all along.
Had used her because he knew that Quinton was connected to her.
Then he’d trapped Annabelle into meeting him by telling her that her father was dead. The fun, after all, was in watching the target squirm in pain before the kill.
Quinton understood that greed and thirst.
“Yes, I had to get your attention,” the demon said. “Torture is such sweet pleasure.”
Quinton understood torture, could endure any pain. Except the pain of watching this demon hurt Annabelle.
A burning, mind-numbing sensation seared Quinton’s skull. The demon’s power—he was trying to destroy Quinton’s free will.
Quinton fisted his hands. He had to fight back. Use his own power to stop the demon and rescue Annabelle from the demon’s force.
Wynn’s transformation into the vulture was almost complete. His bald head gleamed in the dark, feathers covered his hands, and his talons jutted out from his fingers, sharp spikes digging into Annabelle’s skull.
Quinton slid his hand into his pocket, withdrew the amulet, and gripped it in his palm. The angel wings glowed, burning fiery hot, reminding him that he was part good inside, that good also held strength.
Use your power. The whispered words echoed from the cavernous tomb—his mother’s voice emerging from the heavens.
A sob echoed in the air as the vulture lifted his talons from Annabelle’s head. She suddenly opened her eyes, but they looked foggy, tormented with pain and terror.
Rage shot through Quinton, along with every dark craving he’d ever possessed. The need for revenge, for blood, for the vulture to experience the same kind of agony he’d inflicted upon Annabelle and his other victims.
Driven by the need to kill, he focused his energy on the vulture, tapping into Wynn’s mind and twisting it to his own vengeful hungers. Using his hands, he threw him away from Annabelle. The vulture-man’s body slammed into the concrete wall with such force that the ground trembled.
Burn. The man needed to burn; his demonic brain should fry, as had the brains of the innocent homeless people he’d inflicted so much pain upon.
Suddenly the vulture’s head reddened as fire seeped into his brain matter. The scent of seared flesh, skin, and feathers, of rotting insides and death, engulfed the room, and the Death Angel—Wynn’s body with the bald head of the vulture—shook. Then a shrill inhuman scream pierced the air.
Quinton continued channeling his powerful energy into vanquishing the demon until the vulture’s feathers singed and flew off him, swirling around the darkness and falling to the cement like black ashes.
Wynn cradled his head and fell to his knees, his body quaking as his mind gave way to emptiness and the fire that scorched his brain consumed him from the inside out. His eyes bulged, blood vessels rupturing, the whites exploding, brain matter flowing out. Then he collapsed into the dirt and concrete and his body jerked once and then exploded.
Outside, the vultures screeched as if protesting their leader’s demise, a reminder that death and evil lived on.
But Quinton had extinguished this Death Angel.
At least until another one was named.
His head started to throb, his energy draining as he rushed to Annabelle. She trembled with horror as he lifted her in his arms and carried her outside. One vulture, then another, swooped into the crypt to feast on Wynn. Blood dripped from the vultures’ mouths and talons as they sank their teeth into the demon’s flesh.
Quinton wrapped Annabelle tighter in his arms, shielding her from the attacking vultures that swarmed and pecked at them as he raced toward the car. Using what he had left of his mental force, he sent the ugly black birds flying against the ground and into the sides of the tombs, fending them off until he reached his SUV and tucked Annabelle safely inside. She lay limp, fading into unconsciousness, her pallor chalky as if close to death.
He had to get her to the hospital. Had to make sure she lived.
If she died, he’d travel to hell and back to get his revenge.
* * *
Annabelle roused from a restless sleep, her head aching, her vision blurring. The first strains of daylight slashed through the blinds, and the scent of antiseptic and the drone of hospital machinery surrounded her.
Nightmares of the night before crashed back, robbing her breath, and she clenched the she
ets, searching for the monster who’d attacked her. He had looked half human, half like a… vulture.
Had she been hallucinating, or was what she had seen real? A demon as Quinton had said?
And how long had she been here?
She searched the room and found Quinton sitting in the chair in the corner, a hulking mass of strength, his black eyes boring into hers, his jaw set in a hard line. “What… happened?” she whispered.
“You don’t remember?”
“I’m not sure if what I remember was real.” She massaged her temple. “Dr. Wynn… he was evil. He looked like a vulture.”
His breath hissed out. “That was real.”
Her head spun with questions. How was it possible?
Quinton had told her that supernatural forces were threatening the city. That he had powers and could read minds. And he’d shown her the book of demons.
He’d tried to warn her, but she hadn’t believed him.
“You killed him,” she said.
“He deserved to die. He was behind all the deaths these past few days.”
Annabelle’s chest ached. “And my father’s.”
He rose and moved to her, then stroked her hair. “Your father isn’t dead, Annabelle. He’s alive.”
“What?” A tear slid down her cheek. “Dr. Andradre called and said he passed.”
He wiped away the tear with the pad of his thumb. Wynn was the one who called, pretending to be Andradre. “It was a trap to lure you to the morgue.”
She nodded, the pieces falling into place.
“In fact, your father is doing better,” Quinton said. “I also saw Dr. Gryphon’s work, and he’s on the level. You may want to ask him to help your father.”
His expression turned closed as if he was withdrawing from her again, yet the savage need in his eyes drew her as it had in the beginning.
“Thank you for saving me again,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Don’t thank me,” he said in a harsh voice. “You wouldn’t have been in danger if not for me. It was my father who sent the demon after you. And he’ll come after me again.”
She licked her parched lips. She didn’t know how to respond to his comment because she sensed it was true.
Memories of the last few hours haunted her. She was terrified of what she’d witnessed. Of what he was, and the threat in his eyes. But the fact that she’d seen this demon, that he’d used mind control and turned her father into a killer, proved demons were real.
And being with Quinton meant becoming entrenched in this terrifying world forever.
Besides, he didn’t love her. He’d claimed the sex meant nothing to him.
More tears threatened, but she blinked them back. She wouldn’t beg. And she wouldn’t admit that the sex had meant everything to her.
She’d let him go, and she’d move on with her life without him.
He never should have stayed at the hospital. But Quinton hadn’t been able to drag himself away from Annabelle’s side. Not when he’d feared that the demon might have caused her irreparable harm or brain damage.
Not when Annabelle’s death would have been his fault.
Dammit. He preferred the old Quinton, the one unencumbered by guilt and self-recrimination, by worry and fear.
He almost reached for her, but he knew she would be safer if he left, that another demon would come one day. Maybe his father next time, as his premonition had shown.
Resigned to his fate, he walked out the door and forced himself not to look back.
For the first time in his life, he understood what his mother had gone through. How much she had loved him, and how much it must have hurt her to give up her children to keep them safe.
As he drove back to the hotel to pick up his things and book a flight home to Savannah, he phoned Vincent and explained the confrontation, and that he’d destroyed the demon. Unfortunately Vincent had no more leads on the stolen blood.
The air seemed fresher this morning, the sun bleeding through the gray skies, yet an ache enveloped him. As he let himself into his cabin, the silence felt suffocating.
He was alone again. Just as he’d always liked it.
Exhausted, he fell into bed and slept like the dead for most of the day, then decided the only way to get Annabelle out of his system was to move on.
Fuck another woman.
But when he punched in Fancy’s number, his hand shook. All he could think about was Annabelle. Hell, he felt… guilty—as if he was cheating on her.
He didn’t want that kind of guilt.
When he needed a lay, any ripe, warm, willing woman could accommodate him. Her name or face didn’t matter.
At least it never had before.
He cursed, dropped the phone, threw on jogging clothes, and ran for miles. Remembering the punishing physical routines the monks and the military had put him through, he hoped the physical torture would purge the images of him and Annabelle together from his mind. Of Annabelle’s erotic body and tongue against his flesh.
Loving him…
Yes, he’d told Annabelle the sex hadn’t changed anything between them.
But dammit, he’d lied. Sleeping with her had changed everything. It had changed him.
Done something to the dark need inside him. Softened him. Resurrected his humanity.
Annabelle made him want things he’d never had—like love and family. A woman who’d stand by him no matter what. One who wouldn’t throw him away as his mother had.
He tried to deny that pain from long ago, just as he had denied the pain of being tortured and left alone as a child.
Caring only brought suffering, and he didn’t want that anguish. The very reason he couldn’t have a relationship with Annabelle.
He had to stay away from her to protect himself.
But most of all, to protect her.
Zion roared his displeasure, the underworld shaking with the force of his wrath.
The Death Angel had failed to win Quinton.
Did he have to do everything himself?
The Seer waved a black clawlike hand, and Zion strode toward her, his scales itching and flaming hot with his ire. “What?”
“Your son Dante. I have found him.”
The anger rolling through Zion couldn’t be tempered, but excitement stirred in his demonic mind. “And?”
“He is well versed in his powers as a firestarter.”
She flashed a vision of a post with a woman’s body dangling from it, her hair singed, flames dancing around her in the ghostly night as a man watched the flames grow closer to her bare feet.
So sweet. Just as his own wife’s death had been.
Screams tore from the woman and the flames shot higher. Then he saw his son. Dante looked more like him than the other two sons.
Pride swelled in Zion’s chest.
Dante would come to his side, and together they would rule the world.
Chapter Twenty-eight
TWO WEEKS LATER
Quinton had waited for two long weeks, wondering what Annabelle would report on CNN. Wondering if she’d expose him.
He had meditated and prayed that the demons and his father had accepted that he didn’t care for her and they’d leave her alone.
He poured himself a scotch and stared at the television screen, soaking up every detail of her beautiful face. Her physical bruises had faded, but had the mental scars from being tortured healed?
“I’m Annabelle Armstrong, reporting from CNN,” Annabelle said into the camera. “The FBI has now concluded its investigation of the recent Savannah and Charleston bombings and determined that a forensic specialist, Dr. Sam Wynn, was responsible for orchestrating the mass suicide bombings. Apparently Dr. Wynn suffered from Asperger’s syndrome, a highly functioning form of autism, often characterized by superior intelligence with an inability to connect to other humans.” She paused. “Unfortunately, Dr. Wynn preyed on the homeless, especially those suffering from PTS, by using drugs to hypnotize them into committing viole
nt acts.
“Agents found collections of bones Dr. Sam Wynn had kept as souvenirs from his victims on walls in several of his temporary residences.”
Her tone grew low, controlled, although a slight tremor twinged her voice when she continued.
“It is a matter of record that my father was one of Dr. Wynn’s victims and almost carried out a suicide bombing in New Orleans. He is now recovering and undergoing treatment for trauma.
“A team of private investigators working in conjunction with FBI special agent Vincent Valtrez and Homeland Security agent Quinton Valtrez traced Dr. Wynn to a shanty in the bayou in New Orleans, but in Wynn’s attempt to escape, the gators killed him.
“While the events of the past few days were certainly tragic, heroes have emerged from all walks of life. Rescue workers, paramedics, police officers, and others in law enforcement rushed to save individuals. Also, countless citizens selflessly stopped in to help. I’ll be bringing you stories of some of these silent unsung heroes in human-interest pieces over the next few weeks.
“Some may question how these innocent people so easily became Dr. Wynn’s victims. We’ll discuss this more in a special report to come, but for now I think it’s safe to say that the events of the last couple of weeks have sent a clear message that we need to take better care of our elderly and our veterans, for they are true heroes themselves, if not of wars, then of life.”
She thanked everyone, then the screen switched to the local weather forecast.
Quinton exhaled in relief as she finished. So she hadn’t reported the entire story, how the Death Angel, working in the human form of Dr. Sam Wynn, had met his end.
To protect him or because she thought no one would believe her?
He stood and paced his den, feeling caged and antsy, then opened the sliding glass doors. Outside the wind roared, the waves crashed, the tides changing as they would forever do.
He heard the soft whine of the sea serpent demon carried on the salty air, and he cursed.
The demons were all around him.
And that was the reason he could never see Annabelle again.
