Dark Destiny (Principatus) (20 page)

The thing had caught his eye in Famine’s bedroom earlier that day, its young body quivering with excitement as it stalked its siblings, its blue eyes wide with determination and purpose. He’d taken it right from under the Third Horseman’s pointed, turned-up nose, tucking it under his arm as she’d stared at herself in the mirror, complaining of the excessive weight she’d supposedly put on around her skin-and-bone hips.

Sitting on his throne now, Pestilence considered the kitten’s fine bone structure under its downy white fur. How fragile. How extremely breakable. And yet, its teeth were already needle-point sharp and capable of piercing skin with just the slightest pressure from its jaws. His smile grew wider and he stroked the kitten’s back. Deceptive. Misleading. Just like him.

He raised his head, fixing the bloodsucker standing before him with a level look. “Tell me more.”

The vampire shuffled his designer-boot-clad feet on the marble floor, cocking one eyebrow in a smug show of confidence. Pestilence wanted to curl his lip at the demon’s conceit. He’d seen the vampire’s ilk before—human-world miscreants thinking they were the Powers’ gift to the demon race because Hollywood dedicated so much time to their pathetic existence. Still,
this
vampire was, it had to be said, finally proving to be useful.

“The human female is ripe,” the bloodsucker answered. “Desperate for what I can give her. After tonight she will give me anything I ask.”

Pestilence leaned forward on his throne, earning himself a sudden acupuncture session from the disturbed kitten’s claws. “Hush,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to the white fluff ball for a second and scratching its chin. “Go back to sleep.”

He returned his attention to the cocky vampire, narrowing his eyes. “And what exactly are you going to ask for?”

“The key you seek.”

“Pray tell?” Pestilence murmured, stroking the kitten with languid calm while studying the vampire with an unwavering gaze, “what key is that?”

The vampire grinned, an entirely hideous expression in Pestilence’s opinion. “The key to Patrick Watkins’ demise.”

Cold hope rushed through Pestilence’s body but he kept his face indifferent, his body relaxed and loose. After all this time, could it be true? Could the bloodsucker really deliver what he promised?

“Do not think to fool me, Raziel,” he warned with an offhanded tone, adjusting the sleeping kitten on his lap. For something so small, it was quite heavy. “Or you will find yourself drowning in cockroaches with a very sick taste in your mouth.”

The vampire visibly blanched, his already pale skin bleaching paler at the veiled threat. “I’m not trying to fool you, sire,” he gushed, fidgeting on the spot. “The female will deliver exactly what I ask and I will deliver him to you.”

Pestilence studied the bloodsucker, letting his lips curl into a small smile. Raziel had been his eyes and ears in the human-dwelling demon world for over two decades, with the sole purpose of finding a weakness to the lifeguard’s seemingly impenetrable protection. He raised his eyebrows, daring to dream it was all coming to fruition. “As asked?” he said. “As promised?”

Raziel nodded, extended fangs glinting in the flickering candlelight. “Patrick Watkins’ brother will be in your possession by sunup tomorrow, sire. I can assure you.” He grinned, cockiness coming back tenfold. “As asked. As promised.”

With a great show of elation, Pestilence drew the kitten closer to his stomach and smiled. Steven Watkins. The brother who should have died eighteen years ago. Finally removed from the picture.

Things were looking up.

A chuckle sounded deep in his chest and he lifted the kitten up to his face, rubbing its tiny cold nose to his.

Good.

Very good.

Chapter Eight

Okay, first things first. She’d never felt this way before. Ever. Not even with her Roman general with the hawkish nose and eloquent turn of phrase. What did that mean?

Lying on her back, the warm hardness of Patrick’s body pressed to her belly, his legs threaded through hers in the most wonderfully intimate way, Fred studied the ceiling of his living room.

The warm afterglow of her five or so orgasms still licked through her veins, still flushed her perspiration-wet skin. What Patrick Watkins could do with his dick left her mouth dry and her pussy saturated and throbbing and so damn hungry for more. What he could do with his tongue, his teeth, his fingers.

A shiver of dirty delight rippled through her at the memory and she grinned, wriggling a little underneath him. The soft carpet caressed her naked butt cheeks in ways plush pile was never meant to and she wriggled again, letting her body consume the surreal pleasure. She chuckled silently, smoothing her palms over Patrick’s relaxed shoulders. How could the man make her come so many times and still leave her so horny that carpet made her hot and squirmy?

“Do you mind?” a low grumble sounded from the vicinity of Patrick’s head—somewhere near her armpit—and a delicious little thrill shot through her chest and into her breasts. “I’m quite comfortable here and you’ve suddenly turned into a jumping castle.”

Rolling to his side, he slid onto the floor and settled himself beside her body, resting his head on his elbow to give her a decidedly cheeky grin. “I guess this means I can’t say I’ve never fucked around with Death anymore, can I?”

Fred cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not unless you want me to kick you.”

He chuckled, smoothing his hand along the flat plane of her belly up to the curve of her ribcage, his knuckles grazing the underswell of her breasts. The soft contact sent a little shiver of delight through Fred and she let her eyelids close. “Hmmm. That feels nice.”

She opened her eyes again and gave him a wide smile. Only to find him studying her with an ambiguous expression on his face.

“I guess I probably should have asked you this a couple of hours ago,” Patrick said, his hand still on her ribs, his eyes serious, “in light of what we’ve just been doing, but what’s going on with you and my brother?”

Fred’s stomach knotted. An image of Ven immediately flashed into her head and she swallowed down a sudden lump in her throat. What
was
going on between her and fang face? She released a sigh, a small frown pulling at her eyebrows. “His demon calls to mine. Powerfully, in fact.”

Patrick looked at her, his expression never changing. If it weren’t for the slight tensing in his muscles, Fred could almost believe he hadn’t heard what she’d just confessed. A long moment passed. “Am
I
a demon?” he asked, “Is that why we did what we just did? Is that why I can’t stop thinking about you? Why within ten minutes of finding you in my bedroom in the middle of the night, I wanted nothing more than to bury myself in your sex and make love to you?”

His words made Fred’s heart hammer like a sledgehammer. She’d never been told something like that, especially not in such an open, completely matter-of-fact way. Her mouth went dry, the soles of her feet tingled…and the base of her spine itched. Really itched. “No,” she answered, shaking her head as she rolled onto her side, her belly and hips pressed to his. “You are not a demon. I would know if you were.” She paused, letting her gaze roam his handsome, troubled face. “You are something else.”

“What?”

She shook here head again, wishing with every molecule of her existence she could give him an answer. “I still don’t know.”

A low growl rumbled in Patrick’s chest and he rolled onto his back, breaking the intimate contact to stare at the ceiling. Sunlight dappled the room, streaming in through the open window and Fred could see him tracking the dust motes dancing on the air, his jaw clenched, his breath even and deliberately paced. She placed her hand on his chest, wanting to feel the beat of his heart under her palm, and swallowed as she felt him flinch slightly at her touch.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Patrick. No matter what Steven thinks, no matter what I am, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He didn’t answer her, just watched the dust motes. Fred studied his profile, the warm euphoric buzz from their incredible lovemaking taunting her. She wanted to be wrapped in his arms now, but it seemed he’d shut her out.

She chewed on her bottom lip. By the Powers, what did she do now? What should she do?

“Why did you come here, Fred?” Patrick turned his head to face her, that strangely ambiguous expression on his face again. “Because I can’t believe it was just to make love to me.”

Pulling in a slow breath, Fred considered her answer. What did she tell him? And how much of it would he believe?

Tell him everything, Fred. Whatever
this
is, you know you don’t want it to end now. Tell him everything. Give him a reason to trust you.

“I have this…early-warning alarm,” she said, keeping her hand on his chest, unwilling to break contact with his warmth. “When something is going down that impacts the Realm—that’s my home—my spine itches. Well, to be exact, my tail itches. I don’t exist in my demon form, ever,” she hastened to add, “Not since about five million years ago that is, but that form and my tail along with it still exists in a plane beyond this realm.” She paused, waiting for Patrick to say something. He didn’t. “The second I stood in your bedroom, the very moment I saw you asleep on your bed, my spine itched. That told me you were more than just a hot guy I’d spied on the beach.” She uttered a short, almost dry laugh and rolled her eyes. “And to think I’d just popped into your room to have a perv.”

She looked back to him, waiting for a response. All she got was that same expression.

He’s not making this easy, Fred.

He doesn’t have to. You’re just about to change everything he knows.

“Anyways, ignoring the…desire…I immediately felt for you, the itch in my spine made me nervous. I hate being nervous. I also hate being confused, and I have to tell you, Patrick, since you and your toothy brother entered the scene, I’ve been confused.” She chewed on her bottom lip again, the image of Steven floating through her head at his name. “More than confused. And then Steven found me in the strip joint and we…” she faded to a halt, clearing her throat. “We parted ways, and I’d just returned to the Realm to try and find out what in all the levels of hell was going on, when you called me.”

Patrick turned to look at her. “I never called you, Fred.”

Red heat flushed into Fred’s cheeks as the memory of the moment came back to her. “I heard your voice. Well, your thoughts. I don’t know how that is even possible, but I did. I heard your thoughts and knew immediately where you were and what you were feeling—which was pretty angry, I have to say. Angry and, on a different level, scared.” She shrugged, trying to pretend to be calm when all she wanted to do was show him just how badly the whole thing had affected her. She should not have been able to hear his thoughts in the Realm. She shouldn’t be able to hear his thoughts, full stop. But whatever he was, she seemed to have locked on to him. A connection beyond her understanding. More confusion, more questions to be answered.

“I tuned myself into where you were—and again, I don’t know or understand how that can be so—and arrived at the beach in time to see you destroy the
nikor
. No weapons. No help. Just you and the aqueous demon and then a billion grains of disconnected sand.”

She paused. Not because she wanted Patrick to say something, but because she needed to contemplate what she’d just confessed. She was the Fourth Horseman. She was Death. The ultimate end. She shouldn’t be connected to
anything
.

Looking at Patrick, she suppressed the urge to fidget. What was he thinking?

Aargh! Now would be a good time for one of these impossible psychic connections, don’t you think, Fred?

He stared at her, the heat from his body seeping into hers, his unique male scent—earth and sand and summer wind—permeating each breath she took. Tension twisted through her muscles. She clenched her jaw, her pulse growing quicker.

By the Powers, say something, damn it!

“You were in a strip joint?”

The question took her completely by surprise. She burst out laughing, the sound both shocked and exasperated, and wacked her fist against his chest.

“Hey!” He pulled himself into a loose ball, protecting his body with his arms and legs.

Shaking her head, Fred went to slap him again, targeting his naked butt cheek suddenly and wonderfully exposed to her by his defensive position.

Before her hand could connect with his flesh, Patrick moved. His body unfurled, his fingers curling around her wrists to stay her arms, his legs pinning hers to the floor with gentle speed.

She gasped, a sizzling bolt of liquid heat stabbing straight into her sex. Her nipples pinched tight, the pit of her belly tensed. She licked her lips, watching him rise above her slightly, his green eyes holding hers.

They stared at each other for a still moment. Fred could feel the tension in Patrick’s body. She held her breath, wanting him to lower his head and kiss her. Wanting him to not. She needed to tell him the rest before they got lost in each other again. She
had
to tell him the rest. But she needed to feel him moving inside her sex as well. Damn, she needed to feel him claim her as his own. Maybe more so.

Oh, Fred…this is so dangerous.

Patrick’s Adam’s apple worked up and down in a series of rapid jumps before, ever so slowly, he released her wrists and moved away from her, nostrils flaring. “There’s more, isn’t there,” he said, pulling himself into a sitting position and resting his elbows on his bent knees. Barely restrained desire radiated from him in hot waves, as did edgy irritation. “You didn’t come here to tell me just that. You know something else.”