Dark Destiny (Principatus) (26 page)

“Gentlemen.” Fred’s voice jerked him from his self-contempt and he looked at her, noticing her eyes were once again their original glacier blue. “Welcome to the Realm.”

“Great,” Ven growled. “Bloody fantastic. Just where I wanted to be. Who does your decorating?”

The surly venom in his brother’s snarl made Patrick blink. He turned, finding Ven had dropped into one of two leather armchairs positioned before an open fireplace, arms crossed, human once again.

Armchairs? Fireplace? He frowned and let his attention finally move to his surroundings.

The room was small, almost cosy, with polished wooden lamp tables on which sat squat, bronze lamps. Floor-to-ceiling shelves on three of the walls, stuffed full with books of all sizes and thickness, and a massive open fireplace made from what looked like black granite dominated the wall before him. A fire blazed in its guts, the flames licking the air in undisturbed tongues of heat, casting a warm yellow glow over the room and its comfortable pieces of furniture—and the silently snarling vampire hulking in one of said pieces.

“What’s the point of bringing us here, Death?” Ven thumped his heels onto the low table sitting in front of the two armchairs, his expression grumpy. “Not satisfied with doing my brother in the real world anymore?”

“The real world?” Patrick turned his stare from his brother to Fred. “The Realm? Where are we?”

“The place between the void and the final destination,” Ven answered, studying his feet—which Patrick realized, were bare. “The home of the Order.”

He frowned. “Of Actuality?”

Ven shook his head. “The Order of the Agents.”

“How do you know that?”

Fred’s demand swung both their heads in her direction. She was staring at Ven, the same intense light in her eyes he’d seen before she’d done whatever it was she did to bring them all here. An intense light that said she had discovered something terrible. Or incredible. “Tell me how long you’ve known about the Realm, Steven. And the Order of the Agents.”

Patrick turned back to his brother.

Ven shrugged, but the firm set in his jaw and the stubborn look in his eye, a look Patrick had seen more than once, told him the shrug was a lie. “What’s going on, Steven? The Agents of what?”

“Something has happened to your brother, Patrick. Something…” Fred stopped, and again that incredulous expression flashed across her face.

Ven snapped to his feet, fixing Fred with a hard stare. “What
has
happened to me, Death? Come on, you know all the answers. How come I
do
know all this shit about the Agents of the Order, and the Powers and the Realm and the Void now? One minute the sum total knowledge I have in my head is what I learnt growing up, the next, after my run in with the bloke in the black suit and his squid-faced friend, I’m a walking, talking encyclo-bloody-pedia on all things fucked-up and paranormal. How come I now know exactly what a seraph is? What a cherub is? Who Abaddon is and why it’s best not to let him catch you unawares? Tell me that. Tell me what’s going on and I’ll—”

Fred cut him short. “I need to test my theory.”

Ven’s eyebrows knotted for a brief moment and then his jaw clenched. “And how do you do that, exactly?”

Fred’s tongue darted out to wet her lips, a hesitant, almost nervous action that made Patrick’s throat squeeze tight. Why did he get a bad feeling about this?

“Your blood. I need to taste your blood.”

Ven vamped out. Instantly. Completely. He hissed, his fingers—longer than normal and tipped with thick claws—wrapped around Fred’s throat and he jerked her from the floor.

“Steven!” Patrick shouted, lunging at his brother.

“No one is tasting my blood,” Ven growled, his eyes burning with a wild yellow light.

“It won’t—” Fred began, but Ven threw her across the small room before she could finish.

She arced through the space. And the space shifted.

The room shimmered and before Fred hit the wall, the wall wasn’t there.

She twisted midair and landed feet first on the floor, her face set as she strode back toward him, the room reforming around her with each step she took. “The other choice is I kill your brother,” she stated, matter-of-fact.

It felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Patrick gaped at her. Did she just say what he thought she said?

“You won’t kill your lover, Death.” Ven clenched his fist, glaring at her. “Pardon the cliché, but I’ve seen the way you look at him. What does it mean to the world that the Grim Reaper is in love?”

Fred’s eyes hardened. “On imminent death, the soul releases everything into the Void. The person’s life flashes before their eyes, as such. But to me, I see it all. Their life. Their past. Their entire connection to the mortal coil. If I kill Patrick…”

Ven shook his head. “No.”

“Then let me taste your blood.”

Ven shook his head again. “The last time one of your kind tasted my blood, I became a fucking monster.”

His voice cracked, though from anger or something far more wrenching, Patrick could not tell.

Oh, Jesus, Ven.

Patrick’s heart thumped and he closed his eyes, the realization of what his brother had been through, what he’d suffered since they’d been attacked that night outside the pub all those years ago really sinking in for the first time—the torment and torture and sacrifice.

He’d died protecting Patrick. His neck had been torn open, his blood had gushed from his body, draining from his veins in thick, red rivers and yet he’d never been allowed the release death brought.

Gut churning, Patrick stepped between Fred and Ven, and gave Fred a level look. “No.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “I need to know this, Patrick.”

“Because it changes the balance of power in my upcoming confrontation with Pestilence? Or because you hate not knowing the answers? Because you hate being confused?”

The second the words passed his lips, Patrick knew they were the wrong ones. Fred’s eyes turned white. Iridescent white. But it mattered not. He wouldn’t let her do what she wanted to do to his brother. Even if it meant he, Patrick, went into battle against the First Horseman with nothing but a cricket bat and bad sarcasm.

“Patrick,” Fred began, but he shook his head.

“No, Death.”

She turned her white, glowing eyes to Ven. “I need to know, Steven. You should have died when I touched you eighteen years ago. I severed your life thread. No one survives that. You should never have transformed into a vampire. I need to know why. If you’ve become what I think you’ve become, I need to know how.”

Patrick felt his brother shift behind his back. He turned, seeing confusion, fear and anger swimming in his eyes. And surrender? “No, Steven.” He shook his head, giving him a dry smile. “Not this. I won’t let her do this to you.”

Ven looked at him, his every muscle coiled, his vampire’s face tormented. “Pat…”

“It’s not important, Ven,” Patrick said. “Unless you say it is.”

A shudder passed through Ven’s body and his human façade, so like Patrick’s their parents complained often it was eerie, stood in the room again. His gaze slid to Fred, his throat moving up and down as he swallowed.

“She won’t kill me, Ven.” Patrick gave his brother a broad grin, ignoring the sound of Fred moving behind him. Talk about being caught in the middle. “She’s all bluff.”

“Hey!”

Fred’s indignant shout made him grin wider.

Ven narrowed his eyes on Fred, the promise of lots of pain in their green depths, before he turned them back on Patrick. “I’ve had enough of this,” he muttered. “I’m hungry. I’m going to Amy’s. Call me when the Reaper’s finished with the dramatics.”

He flicked his stare to Fred again and disappeared.

“Holy
shit
!”

Fred’s shout made Patrick jump. He spun about, finding her standing with her mouth open and her eyes—once more pale, pale blue—wide.

“Did you do that? Did you make him go away?”

She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. But Ven shouldn’t have been able to do it, either.”

He frowned, wanting nothing more than to drag his hands through his hair and let out a roar of frustration. Just when he thought he had a handle on what was going on, his brother goes and stuns the hell out of his guide and tutor to all things otherworldly. “I guess that means you really
are
going to need to kill me now, aren’t you? There’s no way you can let something as inexplicable as
that
pass without needing to find out the answer. I can almost see you wanting to scratch your nonexistent tail.”

She blinked, and for a split second Patrick saw her wavering with indecision. But then she let out a sharp sigh, shook her head and took the one step left between them to take his fingers in hers. “I’m not going to kill you, Patrick. I was never going to kill you.
Almost
kill you, maybe, but kill you? No.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh,
almost
kill me. Well, that makes all the difference.”

Fred’s low chuckle set his pulse into heated flight and he scowled. Once again, the woman was affecting him in ways she shouldn’t. He should be worried about his big brother and his disappearing act. Instead he was getting turned on by a laugh. “Don’t worry, lifeguard.” She arched her own eyebrow back at him. “Something tells me even if I tried, it would be impossible to sever your life thread.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because Ven transubstantiating himself from the Realm shouldn’t be possible. That he did so answers at least one question I had before bringing you here.”

“And that is?”

“I’m one hundred percent certain your brother has become a second-order demon.”

Patrick frowned. “How did Ven become a second-order demon? And why? Does this have anything to do with me?”

She pulled a face. “I don’t know. But I think I have an idea.”

Patrick pulled his own face. “So, we’re back to square one.”

A small smile, both nervous and hesitant, played with the corners of Fred’s mouth. “Back to testing my theory? Yes.”

“But you said you needed to taste Ven’s blood.” He looked around the room pointedly. “Bit tricky when he’s not here.”

There was a short pause as Fred studied him, and Patrick’s gut twisted. “I said I needed to taste Ven’s blood. I didn’t say
only
Ven’s blood. You’re brothers. The answer lies in both your veins.”

Patrick’s heart smashed against his breastbone. He stared down at her, the twist in his gut turning into a full-blown knot.

“It won’t hurt.”

He let out a short, sharp grunt. “That’s not the problem.”

Fred studied him, puzzled uncertainty on her face. “Then what… Ahhh.” She nodded, as if finally seeing the hidden 3-D shape in the image of nonsensical colors. “I’m not going to turn you into a vampire, Patrick,” she said. “That ability is beyond my power. I’m Death, not a bloodsucker and only vampires can sire vampires.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes, but before he could response—exactly how, he didn’t know—she continued.

“What I said about the soul releasing its secrets to the Void on imminent death is true. I see it all. Their entire thread in the Weave. Where they came from, right back to their first ancestor. By the same token, I can taste it all, for want of a better way to explain it, in a living human’s blood. In fact, the results are quicker. I would have suggested your blood first, but I was…” A soft blush tinged her cheeks and she looked away for a quick moment. “I was a bit concerned about how I would react.”

“How you would react?”

The blush in her cheeks grew hotter. “I’m not a vampire, Patrick, but I am a demon. If you make me horny with just a look, imagine what the taste of your blood could do to me.”

Patrick studied her, unsure what to say. Or think.

“But it’s okay,” she hurried on, her gaze holding his. “And all I need is one small taste. Honest.”

Gut clenched, chest tight, he closed his eyes. Ah, Jesus, when had his life become so surreal?

“The moment you were born, Patrick Watkins,” Fred murmured. “And I’m trying to find out why. Trust me.”

Opening his eyes, he gazed down into her face. Releasing a sigh, feeling more than a little nervous, he nodded.

Fred’s eyes shimmered to white. “Just one taste, Patrick. I promise. All I need to do is touch my tongue to your vein.”

Her stare held him frozen. Mouth dry, pulse crazy, he watched her slowly lift his right hand level with her chest. She caressed his inner wrist with infinite care, her fingertips trailing over the sensitive flesh protecting his median antebrachial vein, the main source of oxygen-rich blood coming straight from his heart. Her warm breath feathered the delicate epidermal layer and he swallowed at the desert in his throat.

A ripple of tight heat rolled through him. He licked his parched lips with his dry tongue, unable to move.

She looked up at him, confident calm radiating from her. “This will be quick,” she whispered.

God, does it have to be?

The dark, seductive thought floated through Patrick’s hazy mind. He pulled in a swift breath, the sudden realization he was aroused, painfully, completely aroused slamming him in the chest. And still he couldn’t move.