Dark Destiny (Principatus) (24 page)

Fred stared down at Patrick imprisoned between her thighs and pressed her legs harder to his hips. The sharp angle of his hipbones dug into her thighs, a drilling pain she shut from her mind. She needed Patrick to react. If she had to hurt him, then so be it.

What Pestilence planned to do to him was far worse.

He squirmed beneath her, his fingertips digging into her, his eyes flat. He still resisted moving her with his mind. She could see the dogged determination to shift her physically etched in his face. Along with a bleak contempt she knew was directed at himself.

Whatever Patrick was, he loathed it.

She needed him to embrace it. For his sake and the sake of mankind.

If he didn’t Pestilence would achieve the unthinkable.

She crushed his hips harder still, drawing perverse resolve from the unnatural light flickering in his angry glare. He was close. Even as he shoved at her hips with his hands, the force within him surged to the fore.

She hoped.

“What are you, weak?” she goaded, fighting his physical strength. It took all her considerable power to remain planted on his hips and groin. He was strong. Very strong. The muscles in his chest and shoulders bulged, growing ropey and hard before her eyes. At another time, such an undeniable display of his might and vigor would have made her sex constrict and her pulse leap away from her, but at this moment it infuriated her. He didn’t need to use his body.

He needed to use his—

Crushing heat gripped her arms. There was a split second where Fred
knew
she was about to be torn in two by inescapable, unseen hands and then, with a sudden invisible, brutal shove on her chest, belly and face, she flew backward. Flung across the room by nothing she could see.

She smashed into the wall, her teeth clicking shut, the breath forced out of her lungs in a loud
oof
, and fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.

“Fred!”

Patrick was on his knees before her, his hands on her bowed shoulders, his eyes flooded with horror before she had time to comprehend her new position or the dull red agony coursing through her body.

She grimaced, struggling into a semi-sitting position and gave him a wobbly grin. “Okay, that kinda went to plan.”

“Bloody hell, woman.” Patrick dropped back to his heels, his glare returning. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Fred pressed a hand to her shoulder and worked the joint a few times. Nope. Not dislocated. Just damn sore. “I was thinking to get you pissed off enough to do just what you did. Didn’t expect you to throw me into a wall, however.”

Patrick’s eyes widened and he stared at her, obviously at a loss for words.

She grinned, and then grimaced again. By the Powers, even her face hurt. “So what we need to do now is teach you how to control that. Manipulate it at will.”

Patrick shook his head. “I didn’t do anything, Fred.”

“Yes, you did.” She twisted a little, biting back a hiss of pain as she looked at the wall behind her. “And there’s a great big dent in the drywall to prove it.”

Patrick’s stare slid to the cracked indent, his nostrils flaring as he pulled in a quick breath.

“You know you did that, Patrick,” Fred said, moving—albeit, with considerable care—onto her knees to take his hands in hers. “In the exact same way you destroyed the
nikor
at the beach. In the same way you started to crush me earlier today when you were questioning me about Pestilence.”

“And what way is that?”

Fred shrugged, inching closer to him until their knees touched. “Telekinesis, I would think, but no form of telekinesis I know. Moving something with your mind is one thing, tearing things apart with it, like aqueous demons for example, is another thing all together.”

A look of disgust crossed Patrick’s face and he dragged his hands through his hair. “Damn, I feel like I’ve been thrown in the deep end here.”

“No you haven’t, Patrick.” Fred gazed into his eyes, wanting him to see her belief, her absolute conviction in him. That he was finally admitting he’d done it without looking like he wanted to kill someone was a step forward. Now she just needed him to burst into a sprint. “You may not have even realized it, but I’d wage a millennium of picking up Cerberus’s poo you’ve been using your…power, for want of a better word, your whole life.”

He chuckled at the extent of her bet, a wry sound that made her heart soar. He may have said he wouldn’t back away from this task laid at his feet earlier when his blood had run hot with rage, but now, calmer and more focused, she could hear the acceptance of his laugh. They were on their way. Thank the Powers.

Patrick’s forehead creased into a frown. “Question?”

Fred nodded, itching to begin. She had no idea of Pestilence’s time frame. He may be readying for his assault any second now.

“Why can’t
you
stop the Disease? Surely Death has more clout than a human?” A very cheeky smile pulled at his lips. “Even an Australian human?”

Releasing a sigh, Fred shook her head. “The Horsemen cannot interfere with each other’s purpose. We exist separately but as a holistic one. We cannot cancel each other out, nor stop the others’ action. The Order of Actuality will not allow an entity to directly impact on one of his or her designs. We, the Horsemen, are set into the Weave. We have our purpose and that purpose is paramount. Even someone as hideously horrible as Pestilence has a supreme place in the Weave. The Powers and the Trilogy would not have it any other way.”

Patrick pulled a face. “I figured that’s what you’d say.”

Fred laughed. Whatever Patrick was, whatever he was to become, he had the most unique ability to make her laugh. His sardonic, dry humor made her feel, of all things, warm and fuzzy inside.

That’s cause you’re in—

“What I
can
do,” she cut the thought short, not willing or able to deal with its implication now, “is prepare you.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “These Powers, this Trilogy…surely you can tell them what Pestilence is planning?”

“And tell them what? The Powers are not all benevolent, Patrick. The Realm is not the ‘heaven and hell’ assumed by human religion. There are those in the Powers who would gladly welcome the Apocalypse and the demise of man.” She let out a sharp sigh. “There are benevolent entities who would welcome it also.” Cocking an eyebrow, she gave Patrick a pointed look. “The human race has not been entirely well behaved during its time of rule. What you have done to the planet alone some deem worthy of decimation, let alone what you do to each other. There are many arguments already raging for the destruction of the Trilogy’s most favored, and I fear not as many voices calling for your support and salvation as there once was. If I were to announce what I think Pestilence is planning, and I must remind you, my theory is all still based on conjecture and the words of a missing seer and an author who preferred to remain anonymous, there is the distinct possibility some entities more powerful than I may decide to choose a side.” She frowned and shook her head. “We cannot risk that. Mankind cannot risk that. You are it. The Cure.”

Patrick blew out a harsh breath, and Fred thought sure she heard the word “fuck” vibrating on its expulsion.

“Now.” She rose to her feet and looked down at him. “Get off your ass and fling something against the wall again. I want to see if I can detect what you are doing. We need to make your ‘strikes’ as unexpected as possible.”

With a low grumble and a roll of his eyes, Patrick climbed to his feet. “I’m getting the definite feeling you’re a bossy bit of goods.” He brushed his palms on his thighs and scanned his living room. “God help me if I actually walk away from this thing alive,” he muttered, studying a particularly large armchair positioned in front of the small television. “How I’m going to handle being told what to do for the rest of my life is beyond me.”

A wicked, tight little thrill shot through Fred at his words. The rest of his life… The rest of his life with her. In Patrick’s mind, they were together.

Aren’t you thinking the same way?

An unexpected image of Steven popped into Fred’s head, taking her completely by surprise. She turned her head away, hiding her confused scowl from Patrick’s sight. Fang face’s demon
did
call to hers, did push buttons Patrick had yet to find. But she couldn’t think about that now. Things were tricky enough without the worry of an inconvenient love triangle getting in the road.

The sudden smashing of the television against the far wall made her jump and she spun about, gaping at Patrick who stood a few yards away.

He grinned, the expression both boyish and infinitely old. “Am I allowed to say that was fun?”

Unable to stop herself, Fred laughed. “I think you are.”

“Are you sure this is the kind of activity you want to be doing now?” Patrick wriggled his eyebrows at her. “I can think of other much more ‘hands-on’ training.”

The pit of Fred’s belly did a little flip-flop. She shoved her hands on her hips, cocking an eyebrow even as her sex throbbed with the thought of Patrick’s “hands on” attention. “What?” she said, just managing to keep her voice steady. “You want me to kick your butt around the room?”

He laughed and, without the slightest change in expression or the slightest tensing of his muscles, a cushion launched itself from the armchair now facing a blank wall and flew across the room, whacking Fred in the side of the head before she could blink.

She snatched it from her shoulder as it began to tumble to the ground, fixing Patrick with a glare. “Think you’re clever, don’t you.”

He didn’t say anything, but his eyebrows wriggled again.

A rolling wave of warm bliss traveled through Fred. From the top of her head all the way down to the tip of her metaphysical tail. She was happy. Patrick made her happy. Happier than she’d ever felt.

So, don’t just stand there grinning like a prize-grade moron. Get him ready to win. So you can feel like this forever.

The last word echoed through her soul and she clenched her fists, locking her focus on the still-grinning Patrick.

She threw herself at him, dissolving her form into a blurring dart of blackness. Slicing through the air as insubstantial as smoke and faster than light.

A wall of rock-hard ice smashed into her. Folded around her. She felt the air she’d just been defying crush down on her.

Too easy.

She didn’t know whose voice murmured in her head, hers or Patrick’s or some other entity. She didn’t want to ponder who may be observing the moment, but it ignited her demon. There was no time to treat Patrick with kid gloves.

With a flick of her metaphysical wrist, she shattered the force pushing down on her. Pestilence would not play fair, so neither would she.

In a shimmer of silver light, she snatched her scythe out of thin air and swung it at Patrick in a blurring arc.

His eyes snapped wide just as the head of its solid wooden staff struck him under the armpit. He careened sideways, his hip smashing into the edge of the sofa they’d only recently made love on, sending him tumbling to the floor in a flurry of arms and legs.

She destroyed the distance between them in a single leap, bare feet planting on the sofa’s ridge, her arms already swinging her scythe back in preparation to deliver another blow.

A fist she didn’t see smashed into her chin in an uppercut that detonated a galaxy of stars behind her eyes. She flipped backward, scythe falling from her hand, white pain ripping through her chin and jaw. Her feet thumped against the floor, spread wide, taking the shock from her landing just as Patrick leapt to his feet and fixed her with a wide grin from the other side of the sofa.

“This is what some would call dicing with Death.”

Fred grinned back. She could detect a steely tone in Patrick’s cheek. He was only just warming up. “This is what I call an arse whooping.”

He snorted. And, eyes erupting blazing fire, he “picked” her up and flung her across the room.

Her back and arse hit the armchair, and before she could propel herself out of it, invisible bands lashed around her wrists, her ankles, pinning her to the ridiculously comfortable piece of furniture.

She struggled against the unseen hold, her sex instantly wet and heavy with lust. Now was not the time to get horny.
Aaargh!

Pussy throbbing, pulse pounding, she shot Patrick a quick look.

He stalked towards her. There was no other way to describe the way he moved. Captor to captured prey.

Grinding her teeth, Fred strained against the force on her wrists to no avail. She couldn’t shift her hands from the chair’s armrests no matter what she did.

Flicking her stare to her fallen scythe on the floor beside the sofa, she willed it to her.

There was a ripple of disturbed air and the most iconic weapon of death whipped across the room—only to be snatched from its journey by Patrick as it shot by his head.

He continued to walk toward her, holding her scythe like he’d been born with it in his hand. Another impossibility connected to Patrick Watkins—no one but Death herself should be able to wield the device.

Eyes burning, he raised the instrument of death and leveled its razor-sharp tip to Fred’s eyes.