Dark Destiny (Principatus) (2 page)

Patrick bit back a curse. He didn’t have time for this. The drowning man didn’t have time. Ignoring the fracas—Grub and Hollywood would have to handle it on their own—he scanned the choppy waves, feeling the rip’s undercurrent pulling at his legs with menacing force. Backpacker’s Express was aptly named. It sucked you out to sea. Fast. If he didn’t find the blonde man soon, he wouldn’t. Not until his body turned up on nearby Bronte Beach, bloated and gray and nibbled on by fish.

He wasn’t going to let that happen.

Cutting through the waves, he searched the water, tuning out everything but his gut. Nothing existed. No sound. No smell. Just the cool water splashing against his board and body and the tight itch in the pit of his stomach directing his search. The inexplicable instinct he never questioned that helped him save those beyond saving time and again. The enigmatic, uncanny intuition that repeatedly led him to those sinking into the ocean’s cool embrace.

That strange, tight itch in his gut, he paddled his board south.

The water grew black beneath him. Deep. Cold.

He moved slowly, the
thump thump thump
of his heart a soundless tattoo in his chest, a silent beat keeping time with his progress, charting his search. The water sucked at his arms with each stroke he took, the rip reaching for them, hungry and demanding and greedy. He denied the powerful undertow, refusing to be taken in its hold as he stared into the ocean.

Searching. Searching.

His heart slowed, his breath slowed, his existence shrank until it was just him, his board and the merciless sea around him. Knowing death waited on his shoulder, salivating. Knowing life depended on his instincts. A life waning. Fading.

Heart almost slowed to complete stillness, he searched for the drowning man.

And found him.

Plunging his right arm into the ocean, Patrick grabbed a fistful of blonde hair and pulled, a grunt bursting past his lips as the man’s considerable weight snapped at his shoulder muscles. “Gotcha.”

Counterbalancing himself against the violent jolt, he hauled the limp body further from the sea, changing his grip until he had the older, unconscious man lying facedown across the front of his board. “Get ’em in,” he ordered Grub, nodding toward the still-panicking but at the same time gawking Japanese tourists bobbing in the swell to his left. “And give ’em a lecture.”

Shifting his position to accommodate the motionless man’s bulk, he began to propel his board back to the beach. His job was far from done and time pressed harder on him. He may have pulled the bloke from a wet grave, but the old guy wasn’t breathing. Until his lungs were cleared of water, he belonged to death.

Not for long.

Patrick powered through the surf, ignoring the burn in his shoulders and lungs. A distant part of his mind heard Grub and Hollywood barking at the Japanese tourists. An even more distant part noted Hollywood sounded right and royally pissed off, but his main focus was the beach. Bluey waited there, defibrillator and oxi-boot ready.

When it came to saving a life, Patrick never conceded to death. No matter how long an individual had been underwater.

“
Move it, move it, move it!”
Bluey’s roar reached Patrick before he even made it to the sand. Swimmers, sunbathers and gawkers alike fell out of the way, mouths agape, eyes wide as the other man barged through the crowd, orange-red hair gleaming in the ruthless sun, face furious, arms cutting a path through the melee. He met Patrick in the shallows, scooping the still lifeless swimmer up from Patrick’s board to fling one limp arm around his shoulder. “Got ’im.”

Patrick wrapped the man’s other arm around his shoulder and, heart hammering, gut tight, half-dragged, half-carried him from the surf.

The moment they passed the waterline, they dumped him onto his back, the crowd gathering around them, gasping as one as the man’s limp body hit the sand.

Before the displaced grains could settle, Patrick dropped to his knees. He didn’t have time to wait for Bluey to pass him a facemask. The
man
didn’t have time to wait. Blood roaring in his ears, he tilted the bloke’s head back, pinched his nose shut and covered the slack, blue-tinged lips with his mouth.

One. Two. Three.
He transferred his breath into the man’s lungs, watching his chest rise with each exhalation.

Turning his head, he listened for any sound of inhalation. Nothing.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing.

One. Two. Three.

Again, nothing.

Rising up onto his knees, Patrick placed his palm heels to the centre of the man’s chest, left over right, and pressed. Again. Again. Again.

“He’s not comin’ back, Wato.”

Bluey’s low rumble lifted Patrick’s head. He glared at his second in charge, continuing to compress the motionless man’s sternum. “Yes, he is.”

Returning his stare to the man’s pale, flaccid face, he counted off fifty compressions before clamping his mouth over the blue-tinged lips again.

One. Two. Three.

Nothing.

One. Two. Three.

Nothing.

A hand closed over Patrick’s shoulder. “He was under too long, mate.”

Patrick lifted his head, returning his hands to the man’s sternum as he fixed Bluey with a level look. “Get the paddles ready.”

Bluey released a long sigh and turned away, reaching for the defibrillator.

Patrick pressed his hands into the man’s chest. Again. Again. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he ground out, staring hard into the lifeless face. “I’m not gonna let you.”

He pinched the salt-crusted nose and covered the slack mouth with his, forcing breath into the man’s lungs.

One. Two. Three.

One. Two. Three.

Nothing.

“No,” Patrick snarled. He rose higher onto his knees and pressed the heels of his palms to the man’s chest. “I’m.”
Press
. “Not.”
Press
. “Going.”
Press
. “To.”
Press
. “Let.”
Press
. “You.”

He dropped his head and forced breath into the man again.

One. Two. Three.

One. Two. Three.

Nothing. Still nothing.

“It’s enough, Wato.” Bluey’s voice sounded far away. “He’s gone.”

“He’s
not
fucking gone
.
” Patrick jerked his head up, glaring at his second in charge. “Give me the paddles.”

Bluey looked back at him, pale blue eyes calm, face expressionless. “You’re frying dead meat, mate. You know that.”

“No!”

He smashed his palm heels to the man’s sternum, compressing his chest in rapid succession.

A hideous, wet
glurk
burst from the man’s throat, followed immediately by a gush of hot water and sour bile from his mouth.

“Yes, you fucking bastard,” Patrick growled, ignoring the gasps and cries around him as he continued to stimulate the man’s heart in steady, forceful blows. “Spit it out. You can’t breathe with half of Bondi in your lungs. Get rid of it.”

Another
glurk
, this one less wet, less fluidy. More water erupted from the man’s mouth, spurting this time from his nose as well. A groan slipped from his lips, weak and raw, the sound almost lost in the sudden cheers from the crowd. Eyelids fluttering, arms twitching, the man rolled his head, a shudder wracking through his body before he slumped still again.

Patrick’s heart stopped for a second. Shit. He was losing him. Again. “Give me the paddles.”

Face expressionless, eyes worried, Bluey held out the defib paddles. Patrick snatched them from him, the violent action eliciting another gasp from the crowd.

“Charge ’em,” he ground out, staring at the motionless man’s face. A high-pitched whine cut the thick tension as Bluey charged the defibrillator.

“Charged.”

“Clear.” He pressed the gel-smeared paddles to the man’s unmoving chest.

Two-hundred joules shot through flesh, muscle, bone and tissue. Two-hundred joules of electric life.

The man bucked, spine bowing, fingers splaying wide.

Mouth dry, Patrick stabbed his fingertips against the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

He shook his head. Still nothing.

“C’mon!” Patrick shouted, giving the man’s fleshy shoulders a hard shake. “I’ve got you this far. Fight, damn it.”

A movement to his left—slight and almost imperceptible—flickered in his peripheral vision. Long legs. Blue denim. Black stiletto boots. A cold breeze blew against his cheek. A hot tightness squeezed his heart. He felt—

“He’s breathing!” Bluey yelled, slapping Patrick’s back. “Fair dinkum, mate. You’ve done it again! He’s breathing!”

Patrick snapped his stare to the once-motionless man’s face, unable to control a powerful surge of elation at the sight of two—albeit unfocussed—brown eyes squinting up at him.

“Wh…wh…what happened?”

The man’s voice was barely more than a rasp, but to Patrick it sounded like a pure song. He grinned. “You tried to drink half the ocean, mate.”

The man coughed, a scratchy, wheezy hiccup. “That…was a bit…stupid…of me.” Closing his eyes, he pulled a ragged breath, another cough choking the shaky intake before he could finish.

“Take it easy, mate,” Patrick cautioned, pressing his fingers to the man’s neck again. His pulse was weak but steady. “The paramedics are on the way. Where’s your stuff? Towel, car keys, clothes—”

“No, no.” The man shook his head, struggling to sit up. His brown eyes flicked around the crowd, almost nervous. “No ambulance. I’m okay.”

Bluey squatted down beside Patrick and placed his hand firmly on the man’s chest. “Mate, you were dead. Wato here brought you back to life. You need to go to the hospital.”

“No. I’m fine. I’m—”

Another coughing fit claimed the man and he dropped backward, lying flat.

“The ambos are here,” Grub murmured, popping his head over Patrick’s shoulder to nod at the approaching paramedics running across the sand.

Fingers still pressed to the man’s strengthening pulse, Patrick shot the paramedics a quick look. Relief coursed through him. Thank bloody God. Maybe they could talk some sense into the—

A woman leant over his shoulder, slim and dressed in snug blue jeans, a New York Yankees baseball cap shrouding her face in shadows. A chill rippled up Patrick’s spine and his palms prickled, as if he’d suddenly plunged them into a wasp nest. He felt her gaze skim over his face from behind large, black sunglasses before she extended her arm with absolute confidence and stroked long, slender fingers over the man’s fleshy chest.

Absolute terror flooded the man’s face, turning his sunburnt skin a sick vomit-orange. His brown eyes bulged. He stared up at the woman, soundless words bubbling from his mouth. His pulse rate tripled. Quadrupled.

And stopped.

Dead.

“What the?” Patrick frowned, ramming his fingers harder to the man’s neck.

Nothing.

He jolted to his feet, turning to glare at the woman in the baseball cap.

But she wasn’t there. In fact, there wasn’t a sign of her on the beach at all.

As if she’d never been there in the first place.

Gut twisting, palm itching, Patrick’s frown deepened. Where was she? What the hell was going on?

Fred walked away from the lifeguard, the stiletto heels of her boots not even remotely sinking into the soft white sand. The coastal breeze caressed her face and arms and she pulled in a long breath, enjoying its heat even as the blazing midday sun sucked the moisture from the flesh of the humans—oblivious to her existence—around her. Summer in Australia. Hot. Hotter. Hottest. She was glad she’d ditched the stifling cloak.

Adjusting the sunglasses on her face, she sidestepped a teenage couple making out on a beach towel, casting them a detached yet curious look. He would live for another sixty-five years before dying in a car accident, she would die in five years of advanced skin cancer. Fred
tsked
, noting the gleaming oil smeared over the girl’s bare flesh. As if humans didn’t have enough to deal with in their short time, they had to go and seek her out any chance they could, all in the name of beauty.

She shook her head, following the waterline away from the commotion still unfolding behind her. The paramedics would not revive the drowned man, no matter how skilled or tenacious they were. All she’d left them was an empty skin-wrapped lump of meat and bones.

The icy tingle in the pit of her belly she experienced after every claiming whispered through her, feeding her magic. It nourished her power, sated the demon within. Today however, it also felt wrong. Not because the soul she’d removed from the mortal coil—Richard Michael Peabody—was a closet pedophile who deserved to die. That very morning he’d raped—for the tenth time—his six-year-old niece while his twin sister attended a doctor’s appointment. Fred felt no remorse for Peabody. The human male deserved to have his life extinguished. He most
definitely
deserved the eternal damnation awaiting him. When it came to mortal monsters like Peabody, Fred enjoyed her job. But today, even with the tingle in her core and the sure knowledge of just punishment about to be met, she felt conflicted.