Dark Hunger (4 page)

But training kept him schooled and emotionless. The evil inside Vigontol had met its match in Quinton’s coldhearted, black side.

His hands were rock steady, his breathing low and steady as he inserted his earplugs. He had one shot before the man’s security came running.

He had to get it right.

All thoughts fled except for the kill as Quinton aimed the M24 and fired. The Bloody Mary fell to the patio, the glass shattering. Brain matter and blood splattered across the white brick as his target’s body spasmed and jerked, then slumped to the ground and went still.

Methodically, Quinton reached for the grenades to thwart the security as Vigontol’s hired guns shouted and scurried about in shocked panic.

Vigontol’s black cat darted onto the patio just before he tossed the first explosive. Mentally, Quinton connected with the animal, telepathed the feline a silent message to run into the sea of palms beyond. The cat perked up its ears, arched its back and hissed, then lurched away through the gardens to safety.

Quinton tossed one, then another grenade into the compound, brick and mortar and bodies exploding and shooting toward the heavens in a fiery blaze. Red rose petals fluttered through the air and rained down around Vigontol’s body like blood drops from the sky.

The thrill of the kill sluiced through Quinton as he loaded his weapon system, then turned and jogged toward the chopper he had waiting.

His job was done. All he needed now was to pound out his tension into the body of a willing woman.

Annabelle Armstrong’s face materialized, taunting him. He’d wanted to fuck her senseless for months.

But having her was not an option.

A frisson of unease traipsed up his spine. Keeping his identity secret was imperative.

If she tried to expose him, he wouldn’t fuck her. He’d have to kill her.

Where was Quinton Valtrez?

Annabelle rubbed the back of her neck, massaging the tension knotting her shoulders as she walked through the now desolate Savannah streets toward the B and B where she’d rented a room. Even twenty-four hours later, the acrid smell of smoke, charred grass, booze, shock, and fear permeated the streets, the lack of crowds a definite sign that tourists and locals alike were terrified of another strike. Only a few curious and brave souls ventured out, some morbid seekers snapping photos of the area roped off as the crime scene.

The cleanup crew still hadn’t had time to remove all the debris; the shattered pumpkins, pieces of Halloween decorations, tattered paper ghosts and strands of spiderwebs, and bloody plastic and cardboard tombstones looked even more garish in the aftermath of the violence.

She’d looked for Quinton today as she’d scouted the town, conducting interviews and meeting with the police. She’d even driven out to his cabin, but he was no place to be found.

She wanted him to explain how he’d moved that beam without touching it. Wanted to know more about the killer who’d rushed around saving lives.

She hunched her shoulders beneath her coat as the fall wind rustled the bare trees and tangled her hair around her face. The gnarled branches of the ancient live oaks cast snakelike shadows across the sidewalk with their sweeping webs of stringy brown moss.

Weary, Annabelle hurried into the bed-and-breakfast, then pulled out the files she’d gathered so far on the Valtrez men.

She scrolled through the notes she’d taken a few weeks ago when she’d done a follow-up story on the serial killer in Eerie, Tennessee, then clicked on her recorder.

“Deputy Bluster of Eerie, Tennessee, confirmed that the serial killer used women’s fears to track and capture them. People in town also hinted that something supernatural was going on in Eerie. Many recounted spooky legends of monsters who live in the place they call the Black Forest. According to locals, Special Agent Vincent Valtrez grew up in the area, and was the only person to ever go inside the forest and survive.”

She paused and took a deep breath, then continued.

“Agent Valtrez was also the FBI agent who tracked down the killer. A local medium named Clarissa King helped solve the case through communication with the dead victims. But Vincent and Clarissa refused to talk to me or be interviewed.

“On my way out of town, I stopped near the edge of the Black Forest and met an old man who rented out cabins on the mountain. He claimed that demons and monsters lived in the Black Forest, and that the only way Vincent survived was because he was part demon himself. The man even claimed that Vincent came from a family spawned by the devil.

“That he had the power to make things explode with his hands.”

She shook her head, disbelieving that myths and legends still thrived in the Tennessee hills, that people ran scared of them.

Then again, she was a reporter, and yet she’d wondered if she’d really seen Quinton move that beam with his mind.

She clicked on the mike again. “My interest was piqued, so I did further research and discovered that Vincent has a brother in the military. This led me to my current project, Quinton Valtrez.”

She clicked off the mike and stared at the photos of three different terrorists Quinton had supposedly eliminated.

Back to the mike. “Getting information on Quinton has been nearly impossible, but I finally found a soldier who talked. He admitted that Quinton was a trained sniper.

“He also stated that he thought Quinton possessed some kind of mind power that went beyond explanation.

“I am currently investigating this matter and must find details to prove it.”

She clicked off the mike and massaged her temple. Was the old man in Eerie right? Were Vincent and Quinton demons?

She stood and stretched with a groan. She was a by-the-book kind of girl, saw the world in black and white. Did she really believe demons existed?

No, of course not.

She glanced at the clock. It was only midnight. Maybe she’d drive out to Quinton’s cabin again. He had to come home sometime.

And if he wasn’t home, she’d sneak into his house and find some information for her story.

Dr. Jerome Gryphon combed the rows of beds in the hospital ward, checking on the subjects, who mumbled incoherently and begged him for help.

Their ramblings relayed a hodgepodge of broken memories and traumatic events from times past.

Most had already lost their minds to the cruelties of the aging process, just as their feeble bones and weak limbs had robbed them of agility and speed.

Perfect targets for a predator.

And the perfect fodder for his experiments.

“Please, help me,” the old man cried.

“I will,” he said gently.

He touched the old man’s forehead, his wrinkled skin like sandpaper, and thought of his own father so long ago, of the way his rangy body and mind had disintegrated over time until there had been nothing left but knotted bones and the empty shell of a half human.

Bitterness left an acid taste in his mouth. Memories of being dragged from one ratty cardboard box to another for shelter. Of digging for food from garbage cans, sleeping on the ground with his empty belly growling. His ears ringing with strangers’ nasty taunts.

Those bitter memories had shaped him into the man he’d become.

A doctor who intended to do something about it. His research would aid many in the future.

“Just relax, my friend,” he said quietly, soothing the man with his calm voice. “You will only feel a tiny pin-prick of pain, then relief will come shortly.”

Finally, Quinton was going to get laid.

His body twitched with arousal as the voluptuous bleached blonde slid her clothes to the floor, then sank onto the chair in front of him and spread her legs. He’d arrived back in Savannah in the early morning hours, rented a cheap hotel room—he never brought women to his house—showered, and called Fancy.

Her friend was on her way.

She licked lips painted a bold shimmering red, a reminder of the red roses and blood dotting the target’s white brick, and he moaned, his body coiled with heat.

“I’m here to please,” she said in a seductive voice.

Her tits bounced as she gyrated around him, dancing so he could watch her sultry moves, and she shook her ass in front of his face until he could barely keep his hands glued to the damn chair.

Then she strutted in front of him, teasing him as she brushed her breasts across his face. Her dark nipples puckered and begged for his mouth, and he drew one in and bit the tip, then suckled her until his cock throbbed inside his jeans.

The door swung open. “Hey, let’s get this party started.” Her friend strutted in, throwing off clothes as she sashayed toward him, her straight brown hair spilling over her pale back.

Fancy stroked her pink clit, parting her legs so he could see her fingers moving over her heat. His tongue thrust out, hungering for a taste.

But she shook her head, denying him as she would over and over again. Until he ordered her to do as he said.

Her friend moved behind her and began to knead Fancy’s breasts, the two of them dancing together like lovers as they titillated each other with fingers and tongues.

He wanted part of the action. To taste and be tasted by them.

But they forced him to wait while they pleasured each other and then wiped their cum on his lips. He groaned, his control slipping as his orgasm teetered near the surface.

“Now,” he finally ordered, his patience snapping as dark thoughts churned in his brain. Thoughts of punishing them.

Thoughts he had to extinguish to thwart the animal inside him from being unleashed on innocent humans.

“You are horny, aren’t you, you bad boy?” Fancy teased.

He groaned and Fancy laughed like a vixen, then fell to her knees and sucked his cock into her mouth. He closed his eyes and imagined Annabelle Armstrong going down on him, her tongue on his hot skin.

Fancy’s friend straddled him, rubbing her clit on his face. Fancy deep-throated him at the same time, and his fantasies of Annabelle sent him over the edge. With a guttural groan he came, his body shuddering as she pulled away and let him spray her breasts.

Relief poured through him, his mind a sieve of evil thoughts. Excitement came from pain. Death triggered pleasure beyond relief.