The creature roared, the deafening screech of triumph punching at Patrick’s ears. Yet even as he fought franticly with his traitorous feet, even as he grabbed at the thing’s arms, he knew the sound was only in his head.
Claws of sand tore at his chest, his hip, ripping into his flesh. The creature lowered its face to his, sand blasting his cheeks and forehead as it screeched again. It sank its talons deeper into his body and began to pull.
Fuck! It’s trying to tear me in two!
A surge of raw fury ripped through him. He glared up into the face of the sand monster, into the sunken pits of its eyes. “Fuck you, you bastard,” he growled, curling his fingers into its dense, writhing arms. “The beach is closed.”
An image exploded in his head—the creature detonating into a billion grains of sand, each one scattering through the air on a furious gust of wind. He drew on the power of that image. Let it fill his entire being, the way he let the feel of the surf fill him when he searched for a missing swimmer.
Cold calm flooded through him. Turned his fury to icy resolve.
He gazed at the creature, pictured his fist stabbing into its mammoth chest, saw it exploding into a feeble, pathetic puff of individual sand grains. Saw each and every one of those grains scatter to the winds.
He stared at the creature…
And lashed out with his mind.
A piercing wail burst from the thing’s mouth. It reeled back, arms flailing, mouth gaping in obvious pain. A violent shudder wracked through its impossible body before, in the space of a heartbeat, it shattered, each grain of its formation whipping away on a sudden coastal gust.
Gone. Just like that.
Patrick dropped to his knees, sucking in breath after breath, his whole body on fire. Trickles of blood painted crimson lines over his skin, blending with his sweat. He stared at the ground, struggling to breathe. Jesus. Had that really happened? Had he really just fought a friggen’ sand monster?
“How the hell did you do that?”
The shocked male voice snapped Patrick’s head up. Throat tight, blood roaring, he gazed at his brother standing on the sand beside the patrol tower. Directly in the bright dawn sunlight.
With Death standing right beside him.
Fred gaped at Patrick, not entirely convinced she’d actually seen what her eyes told her she had. Had he just destroyed a nikor? Had he? And if he had, with what?
All about him, swirling about on the suddenly violent wind, were the remains of the aqueous demon, the tiny particles of sand and even tinier particles of seawater scattering in the turbulent air. Aqueous demons were impossible to kill in the water and damn nigh impossible to kill on land. As long as they were close to their dwelling they were almost invulnerable. Yet she’d just witnessed Patrick Watkins decimate one with…what? She returned her stare to him, her heart hammering so hard she felt sure it was trying to escape her body.
She’d heard his furious snarl in her mind the second she’d arrived back in the Realm, her sex still squirming with unexpected pleasure from Ven’s savage kiss, her head still spinning with confused conflict. She’d had time to notice her reflection in her mirror—to note the troubled white glow in her eyes and the swollen bruising on her lips—and then, bam! Patrick’s voice had roared through her head, sharp with rage and fear. Fuck. It’s trying to tear me in two!
Instantly and without thought, she’d locked her very existence onto his location and transubstantiated, arriving in the world of man just in time to see him destroy the aqueous demon with nothing but a stare.
That can’t be, Fred. No one can destroy a third-order sub-demon without a weapon. Even if it is a water demon on land.
She watched him study the minute particles of the annihilated nikor whirling through the air around him, his expression revealing nothing. He gazed at the floating grains of sand before, with a silent groan, he collapsed to his knees, head hung low.
A fierce, intense wave of concern crashed through Fred, an utterly alien emotion she’d never experienced before. She frowned. Concern? For a human?
But he’s not human, is he Fred? He can’t be. Not if he can destroy a sub-demon with…with…
With what? His mind?
She didn’t care. Patrick, whoever, whatever Patrick was, was hurt. He needed help. He needed care and she wanted to be the one to give it to him. Wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything in her infinite existence. There were questions to be asked, but she would ask them later. Starting with—
“How the hell did you do that?”
The sound of Ven’s shout smacked into Fred with almost as much force as Patrick’s earlier roar and she jumped, spinning to her left to stare at the man standing but a few feet away from her. Or should that be vampire standing but a few feet away from her? A vampire fully exposed to the new day’s streaming solar rays.
The dawn sun painted him in a warm golden glow and for the first time, illuminated by natural daylight, she noticed the strawberry-blonde accent to his shaggy hair, the faint smattering of light brown freckles across his hawkish nose.
And then the obvious hit her and her mouth fell open. He wasn’t burning to a screaming, vaporized crisp.
He was a vampire. He was standing in the sun. How could he not be burning to a screaming, vaporized crisp?
Like an explosion of fire ants, her tailbone erupted in a violent itch, the very same ominous itch that forewarned trouble in the Realm, and she choked back a gasp. Well, almost choked back a gasp. A soft hiccup of breath sounded in the back of her throat, barely audible even to her ears, but it was enough to make Ven spin in her direction.
He vamped out instantly, the beautiful dawn light illuminating his demonic features in stark, unavoidable detail. “You!” he snarled, and if she hadn’t been a creature of myth herself, Fred would’ve missed the instant coiling of finely honed, paranormal muscles as he prepared to lunge at her.
But she didn’t miss it. And neither did his brother.
“Steven!” Patrick yelled. “Stop it!”
The vampire seemed to freeze, his stare—locked on her with deadly, menacing intent—flaring bright red for a split moment, before he turned back to Patrick, his human façade flowing over his features once again.
Fred studied his profile, and then swung her gaze back to Patrick. A groan of dismayed realization vibrated up her throat and bit back a curse. Her sex remembered all too easily the erotic electricity of Ven’s demon-tainted kiss, but her heart, her very core, throbbed with a smoldering heat she could not name nor fathom whenever she thought of his brother.
Oh, no. This can’t be happening.
“What are you doing here, Fred?”
Patrick’s deceptively calm voice made her jump.
She looked at him, mouth drier than the sixth level of hell. “Umm.”
He cocked an eyebrow, his eyes green mirrors that revealed nothing. “Umm?” Blood still trickled over his sculpted body, tiny rivulets that reminded her with harsh reality he’d just fought and beaten a nikor.
“I heard you,” she blurted out. Her answer made her flush and she ground her teeth, frustrated and embarrassed. Damn it, once again, he was making her flush like a schoolgirl.
“You what?” Ven snarled.
Fred swung a quick look at the vampire before turning back to Patrick. “I heard you. In trouble.” Her cheeks grew hotter. “So I came.”
“Why?”
“A very good question, brother,” Ven growled. “Especially since she’d just spent a considerable amount of effort trying to keep me where I was.”
Fred started. “What?” Did he really think she’d been trying to distract him while an aqueous demon attacked his brother? “Wait just a damn minute. I’m not the bad guy here, okay?” She jabbed a finger at Ven. “You shouldn’t be standing out in the sun without turning into a char-grilled drumstick, extra crispy, and you—” she turned her scowl on Patrick, wishing to the Powers her heart would stop squeezing whenever she looked at him, “—just pulverize
d a nikor, a third-order sub-demon, to dust with no weapon I can determine.” She crossed her arms across her chest, giving them both a long glare. “So don’t be making out I’m the only one here with answers to cough up.”
The same puzzled frown pulled at Patrick and Ven’s foreheads, and Fred would have burst out laughing at the almost comical sight if she wasn’t so pissed off. With them and her stupid, stupid libido and stupid, stupid heart. Usually her emotions and sex drive were in perfect sync. It had never been otherwise, despite an eon of lovers, both demon and human. What was she now doing wanting both of them? She didn’t need this. Not with her tailbone itching so goddamn violently.
“How did you destroy that beastie, brother?” Ven asked, his earlier concern returning to his eyes. “Cause the Reaper’s correct. I didn’t see you wielding a gun or a sword or even a bloody big broom and yet the sandy bastard is no more.”
“How come you haven’t turned to a pile of dust, Steven?” Patrick shot back, clearly not interested in answering. “And what do you mean, she’d just spent a considerable amount of effort trying to keep you where you were?” He narrowed his eyes. “Where were you exactly, and what kind of effort?”
Fred flicked her gaze from one brother to the other. Uh oh, she didn’t like where this was going. “Listen.” She stepped between them, holding her arms out to the side. “Far be it for me to interfere with a family squabble, but the beach at daybreak is not the place to discuss this. I’ve claimed more than one soul jogging along the sand at this time of day, I know how busy this place is going to get any moment now, and quite frankly, we’re already starting to draw a crowd.”
She let her gaze slide to the few early-morning risers walking or jogging past them, their expressions curious, almost troubled. Uncomfortable. They’d only be seeing two men arguing—she was not visible to anyone except Ven and Patrick—but it was enough to make her edgy. There was something much larger than she first thought going on here, something that made the battle of Jericho seem like a schoolyard fight, and for some reason, she felt like a sitting duck. Like she was being played.
Someone had sent a nikor after Patrick. And there were only a few entities capable of doing so. Four, in fact. And she sure as shit knew she hadn’t sent it.
Fred curled her hands into tight fists by her side.
Pestilence.
Shooting the crowd, the ocean and the rising sun a harried look, she turned to Patrick. “I’m sorry, but we’ve got to get out of here.”
Steady, indecipherable green eyes studied her. Weighed her up. She waited, knowing she couldn’t rush this. She still had no idea who Patrick was, no idea why Steven could withstand daylight, but she knew one thing, the answers to those questions would decide their very fate.
She wasn’t the Fourth Horseman, the ultimate bringer of the Apocalypse, because she looked good in black.
When she needed to, she could kick serious first-order demon ass.
“Patrick,” she spoke his name, and a ripple of scalding tension warmed the pit of her belly. “Come with me. Now.”
“Hey!”
Ven’s indignant growl made her turn her head and she grinned at the vampire, sensing his demon rise close to the surface of his control in protective agitation. “You too, fang face.”
He bared his perfectly human, perfectly perfect teeth at her, but she was already turning back to Patrick. It all came down to Patrick. Whatever it was, it started and ended with the lifeguard.
She needed him on her side. Until she figured out whose side he really was on.
“Patrick?” she said again.
He studied her, impenetrable eyes never wavering from her face, and then shook his head. Once. “No.”
She bit back a growl of frustration. Damn it, that wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. Suppressing the urge to just snare him in her hold and transubstantiate him back to the Realm, she took a step toward him, fixing him with a level stare. “Patrick. Please.”
His jaw clenched, but before he could refuse her again, she took another step toward him. “Please.” She reached for his hand. “Come with—”
Something pushed her backward. Something she couldn’t see but felt with no problems at all. Something hard. Something strong.
“I said no.” Patrick’s angry voice punched into her, an echo of the unseen force shoving her chest. She stumbled, her boot heels sinking in the beach’s soft sand, her arms pinwheeling to keep her balance. By the Powers, what was pushing her?
Her gaze snapped to Patrick’s face and she gasped.
He was glaring at her, his expression both angry and lost at once. But it wasn’t his expression that shocked her. It was his eyes. Normally a light green, they now burned a dark, dark emerald. So dark they almost appeared black.
Her spine erupted in a violent itch, making her cry out with pain and, yes, fear. What was going on? Without thought, she snatched out for Patrick with her mind, locking him in an inescapable psychokinetic hold. Whether he wanted to or not, she needed answers. It seemed Pestilence wanted him removed from existence for reasons she didn’t know and that made her uneasy. She needed to get him back to the—
She went flying backward in a wild, abrupt arc. Struck in the chest again by the same invisible blow.
Her ass smacked the sand first, followed by her palms, elbows and the back of her head. Her teeth snapped shut, sinking into the tip of her tongue and a galaxy of black stars exploded before her eyes.
What the?
Incredulous fury shot through her. She surged to her feet, uncaring of the humans hovering around them. How dare he? How dare—
Patrick was gone. Walking toward the car park. Away from her.
“Hey?” She locked her stare on him. What the hell? How could he be walking anywhere, let alone away from her? “Hey!”
She took a step forward, ready to run after him, prepared to tackle him to the ground if she must, when, in a sudden blur of color, Ven stood directly in her path, eyes glowing yellow.
“You heard him, Reaper.” He gave her a cold, menacing grin, the tips of his fangs glinting in the sunlight. “Now, fuck off.”
Without waiting to see her reaction, he turned on his heel and followed after Patrick, his tall, lean frame relaxed and, she had no doubt at all, completely ready to tear her apart. “Oh, and one more thing,” he threw over his shoulder, not deigning to look at her as he moved with fluid ease across the uneven sand. “Stay the fuck away from my brother.”
Fred stared after him, after them both, her tailbone itching, her heart pounding. She watched Ven take two blurring steps, defying space and speed until he fell into place beside Patrick. Watched the two men—so alike from behind she would have had difficulty telling them apart if it wasn’t for Patrick’s naked torso and sun-kissed skin—move through the car park until they were blocked from her sight by a garbage truck.
She stood still, the early morning sun heating her cheeks, the weight of everything that had just transpired stealing her breath. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of going after them. She could overcome Ven easily enough, even if he could survive sunlight…well, she assumed she could, and as for Patrick…
The thought faded away. And Patrick what? She’d just witnessed him destroy a nikor with the Powers knows what, he’d shoved her halfway across the beach without lifting a finger, let alone a fist and her attempt to hold him with her mind had failed miserably. Something entirely impossible. No one could escape the grasp of Death, no matter who or what they were. No one.
And yet, Patrick Watkins just did.
Beyond frustrated, she huffed into her fringe. Answers. She needed answers, and standing here, gaping after two annoying, irritating, stubborn and unfortunately sexy-assed brothers wasn’t getting them.
With a sharp sigh, she dragged her fingers through her hair and transubstantiated.
Straight into the Realm’s library.
The room, one of many all the entities and first-order demons could access at will, glowed with wa
rm light. The squat table lamps positioned on either side of two large leather armchairs illuminated the wall-to-wall bookshelves and open fireplace.
She dropped into one of the chairs and kicked off her boots. A small trickle of sand spilled from each one onto the rug beneath her feet and a wry smile pulled at her lips. Even in the Realm she couldn’t escape the Australian lifeguard.
Hah. Escape him? That was the last thing on her mind.
An unexpected image of Patrick—wet from the surf, muscles coiled and pumped with blood—filled her mind and her belly tightened. Damn it, she needed to focus on the situation, not how sexy the Australian lifeguard looked. How was she to discover what was going on if she kept daydreaming about him?
Without invitation, Patrick’s brother popped into her head as well, sardonic expression making her sex constrict, pointed fangs making her palms prickle.
She dropped her head into her hands and groaned. She was in trouble. Big trouble and it was all the damn Watkins brothers’ fault. How dare they be so damn sexy and mysterious and…and…
Grinding her teeth, refusing to admit to herself just how irrational and childish that last thought was, she conjured the first book from the top shelf and opened it.
It seemed Pestilence wanted Patrick Watkins out of the picture for some reason, but why? Hopefully the answer could be found in one of the books in this room.
Scanning the pages of The First Horseman and the Case for Human Eradication, a heavy, pompous and ancient tome, she blew at her fringe in disgust. Nothing. Its author, a second-order seraphim, had been infatuated with Pestilence’s power over man’s health, livestock and crops, and had spent far too many pages babbling on about why man should be made to suffer. Apart from clichéd ideas and tired rhetoric however, it offered nothing. No mention of Patrick, Steven, a vampire who could withstand daylight, hell, not even a passing reference to Australia or the beach.
She conjured another, this one with the delightfully antiquated title, How the Horsemen Shall Punish Man. Honestly, why half the Realm’s population hadn’t kept with the program and realized the idea of the Apocalypse had been benched eons ago was beyond her.
Death, The Vamp and His Brother Page 9
