Dark Hunger (8 page)

“No, but we should see if we can trace the message.”

He made a grunting sound. “I guess you’re right. Although I just got word that Dr. Wynn, a forensic specialist the Feds brought in from DC, ID’d the man they thought was the suicide bomber as Warren Ames. Some locals who survived witnessed an old man in a green corduroy jacket set it off. Seems he was homeless, had been sleeping in the graveyards. Says here he lost an arm during his stint in the service and suffered from posttraumatic stress syndrome. Police are trying to locate his family members or friends for questioning.” He heaved a breath as if the explanation exhausted him. “So it doesn’t sound like a terrorist cell.”

She shivered. “Why would a homeless man kill himself and others?”

He gave her an impatient look. “He was probably mentally ill or had a substance abuse problem.”

“But how would he get the parts or have the knowledge to build a bomb?”

Crawley consulted the fax on his desk. “He was a veteran. Probably learned how to make a bomb in the military. And if not, anyone can read about it on the danged Internet these days.”

Annabelle pursed her lips, thinking. “If he’s homeless, he wouldn’t have access to the Internet.”

He made another sound in his throat. “Right. And he’s dead, so he couldn’t have sent you a text.”

Annabelle frowned. “But someone else could have put him up to it. And they might be planning another attack.” She gestured to the phone, determined that he listen. “Do you want more deaths on your conscience?”

He sighed, then reluctantly picked up the phone. But another thought struck her. If Quinton worked for the government taking out terrorists, maybe he already had information about the bomber.

The man scared her, but she’d find him and make him talk to her. More lives might be lost if she didn’t.

Quinton didn’t need Vincent, didn’t want anyone needing him. He liked his life just fine.

No ties.

No one to answer to or worry about being used as a means to get to him.

No one to distract him as Annabelle had that night in Savannah.

“This is bullshit,” Quinton said. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“You don’t,” Vincent said in a deadly calm voice. “Just as I’m not sure I can trust you. For all I know, you may already have given in to your dark side.”

Quinton tensed. Vincent knew that he struggled with the darkness? Was he a mind reader as well?

“Please, listen to him,” Clarissa said softly. “Your mother wanted Vincent to find you. You need each other to fight the evil threatening the world.”

Vincent refilled Quinton’s glass as well as his own, then turned, his penetrating gaze boring into Quinton’s. “Our father was a spawn of Satan, our mother an Angel of Light, of goodness.” Vincent unrolled his right palm to reveal a scar, the imprint of an angel’s wings. Then Clarissa removed an amulet from around her neck—an angel’s wings with a bloodstone set in the heart of the angel.

“This amulet belonged to our mother,” Vincent said. “I took it after her death. She told me that she also left one with you when she gave you away.”

Quinton’s head churned. He did have one—it was pewter with a clear quartz stone.

“The amulet is for protection,” Vincent said. “My bloodstone stands for courage. Your stone stands for the mind, clairvoyance, because you have that gift.”

So he had done his homework.

“The amulet proves that we’re tied together and symbolizes the fact that we have Mother’s blood as well as our father’s.” Vincent unbuttoned his shirt and angled himself to reveal the back of his right shoulder. “Just as this serpent birthmark means we’re brothers, that we’re demonborn.”

The symbol of the serpent eating its tail… The monks claimed the birthmark represented the universe and how it destroyed and re-created itself in the cycle of life and death.

Vincent sighed. “Of course, we’ll want to test your blood to verify that we’re actually related.”

Quinton nodded. “And if I don’t agree?”

“You will,” Vincent said.

Clarissa smiled gently. “You have to know the truth about your past to understand your destiny.”

Quinton’s patience snapped like a thin rubber band. “Just cut the cryptic shit and get on with it. You said our father was evil. What do you mean by that?”

“He was brutal, abusive, and cruel. He took his temper out on me and turned on Mother toward the end,” Vincent said sharply. “When I was ten, he tortured her and burned her at the stake, because he allowed his dark side to possess him completely.”

“His dark side?” A side Quinton knew well, one the monks had referred to and warned him about.

Vincent cleared his throat. “Yes, he was a Dark Lord.” He paused and sipped his scotch. “Just as you and I are.”

Quinton remained stone still, refusing to react.

“But Father allowed his evil side to triumph over good.” Vincent blew out a breath. “It’s a constant battle for me, as I assume it is for you.”

Quinton’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to admit anything to this man. Had kept his secrets too long. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do,” Vincent said, a hint of a sinister smile gracing his lips. “You’re a sniper. You kill for a living because you have a hunger for blood; you crave the kill.”

Suspicions reared their head. “Did you tell CNN reporter Annabelle Armstrong about me?”

Vincent frowned. “Hell, no. I refused her request for an interview. Why do you ask?”

“Because she came to Savannah and said an anonymous source fed her intel about what I do.”

Vincent cursed. “And she wants to expose you?”

He gave a clipped nod.

“Our secret can’t be made public, Quinton. Imagine the panic that would occur if we announced that dangerous demons are entering the mortal realm.”

He was right. Complete terror would prevail.

“Our father has risen in power now,” Vincent continued. “Those killings started when it was announced that Zion was being named the new leader of the underworld. The upheaval and destruction will continue until we stop him.”

“Our father is the leader of the underworld?” Quinton asked.

“Yes. And one of his worshippers is responsible for the deaths in Savannah.” Vincent spread the photos of the Savannah ship bombing in front of Quinton. “See that gray cast, the shadows?”

Quinton nodded. He’d noticed it the night of the bombing. “I assume it’s some sort of an illusion from the smoke.”

Vincent shook his head. “Those are spirits, the Soul Collectors, who converged to steal souls while the dead were still in shock over their demise.”

“Come with me, Quinton,” Clarissa said. “There’s something you need to see. Then you might believe that Vincent is telling the truth.”

Quinton probed her thoughts and read sincerity, not subterfuge. So he followed her and Vincent up the stairs to a small attic with sloped ceilings. For a brief second, his claustrophobia resurfaced, the memories of being locked in the closetlike rooms at the monastery, the nightmares of his imprisonment underground when he’d been beaten savagely—the heat, the stench, the rats and bugs nibbling at him…

Clarissa closed the curtains, bathing the room in darkness, then knelt and lit a circle of candles on the hardwood floor. The scents of lavender, rosemary, vanilla, and other spices filled the air as the candles fluttered to life.

He scrutinized her as she closed her eyes and chanted,

To the present

From the past

Bring this spirit

To speak at last.

Suddenly cool air swirled around him, adding the aroma of otherworldly creatures to the mix. The curtains fluttered, and a shimmering mass of golden sparkles lit the darkness, first floating randomly, then gelling into the silhouette of a woman. A warm glow replaced the chill, and a peacefulness settled over the room.

“It’s our mother, the Angel of Light,” Vincent said quietly.

He stared at the shimmering creature in shock. She was beautiful. Long golden hair flowed around her white-gold silhouette, her face almost translucent, soft, lovely.

“Quinton, I’m glad Vincent found you. Your brother brought you here because it’s time you all know about one another.” She turned to Vincent. “Where’s Dante?”

“Who is Dante?” Quinton asked.

The Angel hesitated. “Your twin. You were separated to keep you safer.”

“I have people looking for him now,” Vincent said.

Anger mounted inside Quinton, born from years of bitterness toward her for abandoning him. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to act like you care about me now?”

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” the Angel said. “But I gave you up to protect you, son. To keep you safe from your father and the demons. Each of you has powers. Vincent has the power in his hands to make things explode. You, Quinton, are telepathic. And you can make things move with your mind.”

Quinton tensed.

“You have goodness in you, Quinton, as Vincent does, but you fight that inner evil every day. It’s going to grow more difficult to resist now that your father, Zion, is in control, because he will play upon your weaknesses.” She paused. “He’s issued orders that the three of you must be turned and brought to him. And he’ll do anything to win you over. There’s a demon after you now. The Death Angel—you may have seen him in his demonic form. The Death Angel appears as a vulture or a raven.”

Quinton fisted his hands, his heart hammering in his chest. Fuck. He’d seen the vulture at the bombing in Savannah, then others had swarmed. And he’d spotted another one above Vincent’s house. “Let’s say for a minute that I do believe you. What then? Do I go around and kill vultures?”

“No. The Death Angel has the power to possess the body of a human. Find him in that form, and you can kill him more easily. You must use your power to destroy him.”

The Death Angel watched the Valtrez brothers through the window as they met for the first time.

The devastation and death he’d already wrought made him lift his head in regal glory. So many bodies to devour, so much blood and maimed flesh.

So delicious.

He licked his feathers, cleaning blood and juices from the strands, already anticipating his next feast.

The men could not stop him. Death was inevitable.

Unless they caught him in human form…

But he was too cunning and fast. Could shift into and out of demonic form in the bat of an eye.

A tasty morsel of flesh rolled down his throat, and he savored its succulent flavor, wishing he could taste the decaying flesh of Zion’s sons.

He might one day.

If he couldn’t turn them, then he would take their lives.

The Seer had prophesied that if the Angel’s plans failed, Quinton would join with the woman, and she would strengthen his noble side.

He would stop the Dark Lord before that happened. And he’d use the woman to lure Quinton into his hungry hands.

Annabelle sighed into the phone. The detective had finally connected her with another agent from Homeland Security. “So you weren’t able to trace where the message originated from?”