Dark Destiny (Principatus) (28 page)

A twist of cold apprehension knotted in Ven’s gut and he narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t just the silence of her apartment that put him on edge, it was a taint to the air. Like something malevolent had been there.

Something malevolent
has
been here, Steven. You. Remember what you did to her last time you were here? Remember what you almost did to her?

Ven’s throat grew tight and he suppressed a growl, moving from the kitchen into the living room. He ran a slow gaze over the space, noting it was in the exact same state it had been that morning. “Amy?”

His call fell flat in the silent room.

A ripple of unease shot up his back and he felt his demon stir. No, it
wasn’t
his demon, not like he knew it at least. It felt…different.

Crossing the living room, he pushed open the door to Amy’s bedroom. Empty.

And why wouldn’t it be. It’s what, four o’clock in the afternoon. She’s probably at work.

Ven curled his fists. He stepped into the room and crossed to its one small cupboard on the sidewall. The hollow ache of starvation he’d had in his gut for the last forty-eight hours was growing stronger. He needed to feed. Soon. The moment he found Amy he’d beg her forgiveness for his previous unforgivable behavior, on his knees if he had to, and hope to the Trilogy she would understand how desperate he was. How close he was to becoming weak. He would make it up to her, any way she wanted him to—shit, he’d even take her shopping—but if he didn’t feed soon…

He yanked open the cupboard and another twist of cold apprehension knotted in his gut. Amy wasn’t at work. Not unless she decided to leave all her equipment at home. He looked at her camera bag and laptop, throat getting tighter by the second. Unless she’d discovered a way to photograph children and babies without a camera, he was pretty certain she hadn’t gone to work today.

Fuck.

He turned about, studying the room and its immaculately made bed and spotless side tables. Nothing out of place.

Again, the ripple of unease traveled up his spine. Again, the sense of something malicious on the air tainted his breath.

Fuck.

He strode from the room, the sound of the carpet pile crushed under his feet, the feel of the still air on his face almost making him scream. Damn it, what was the point of having hypersensitive senses if they couldn’t tell him where one defenseless female was?

Scanning the living room one last time for anything he may have missed—not a thing—he shoved opened the bathroom door.

The stench of blood and piss smashed into him like a wave.

Amy’s blood and piss.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

And tasted vampire. The same vampire he’d detected on Amy’s neck that morning.

The entity inside him roared. Fierce and angry and purposeful.

Shutting out its rage,
and
his raging hunger, Ven studied the room. He needed to be calm, focused. Turning into bat boy wasn’t going to save Amy. Not until he found her, at least.

The room seemed as spotless and pristine as the rest of the apartment. Except…a small smear of bright red blood on the white floor tiles beneath the vanity mirror caught his attention. A little further away, about the length of Amy’s torso, was a puddle of urine. A few wavy strands of blonde hair lay scattered on the floor, the microscopic white nub of follicle root still attached to the ends of each one.

Ven ground his teeth, the image of those strands, along with about one hundred thousand others cascading down Amy’s naked back flooding into his mind all too easily. His fingers had been buried in those strands a little less than ten hours ago.

He wiped at his mouth with his hand, his fangs digging into his top lip as he did so. “Shit.”

Dropping into a crouch, he touched his fingers to the smear of blood and he lifted his hand to his nose.

The distinct scent of the other vampire threaded into his nostrils, played over his preternaturally developed olfactory bulb. It filtered through the hypersensitive cells; traveled over the olfactory nerves until, with barely a moment of time passing, he recognized the source.

Raziel. The lowlife scum vampire who frequented The Pleasure Pussy and fed from the hookers and tourists too stupid not to linger near dark alleys. The vampire who always seemed to turn up wherever Ven was, even once at the cliff beach.

Cold anger and guilt rolled through him. If he’d not been so freaked out this morning, if he’d not fled Amy like a rabid dog with its tail between its legs, he would have recognized the bastard’s scent and done something about it. Like tear the lowlife dickhead a new arse-hole before ramming a piano leg through his chest. Or better still, a cricket bat.

He bit back a growl, silencing the enraged entity within his core.

Christ, what did he do? The bastard had Amy and it was all his bloody fault.

Does he have her, or has he fed from her? Drained her of life and dumped her body somewhere? Worse still, has he turned her?

Ven ground his teeth. He didn’t like the possible answers to
any
of those questions.

Okay, then how about this one? How did Raziel get here during daylight? How did he survive the sun?

Jesus, maybe he wasn’t so unique after all? Frustration and worry fighting with his guilt and anger, he pulled in a long breath—and for the first time since entering the bathroom detected the faint taste of burnt flesh on the air.

He took another breath, a deeper breath, narrowing his senses onto the telltale odor. The taste and smell of barbequed white meat flowed into his nose and a cold grin pulled at his lips. The lowlife dickhead got singed pretty bad getting his skinny, pale arse over here. Pretty bad indeed.

Ven’s lips curled away from his teeth. “Good.”

Straightening to his feet, he ran his gaze over the small bathroom, searching for anything that would tell him something. Apart from the blood smear, urine, strands of hair and Raziel stench, there was nothing.

Letting out a harsh sigh, Ven dropped his head into his hands and raked his nails through his hair, scratching lines of hot pain in his scalp. Bloody hell. How was he going to find Amy? How was he going to save her?

If there is anything left to save.

He drove his nails into his scalp. “Shut up.”

Closing his eyes, he forced the calmness to flow through his body again. He needed to get to Amy. Wherever she was, he needed to find her. If Raziel was with her, all the better.

Drawing the sweet, innocent scent of Amy’s blood into his lungs, he formed an image of her in his mind. Concentrated.

And opened his eyes in hell.

Or something close to it.

“Aaah, Steven Owen Watkins.”

He spun about, his stare locking immediately on the skinny man in the black suit he’d met at the beach. Pestilence grinned down at him from a throne made of bones, the hideous piece of furniture raised on a dais illuminated by what appeared to a thousand flickering candles.

“You’ve caused me quite a few problems over the years, Steven.” Pestilence gave him a stern shake of the head, his grin stretching wider. “More than one attempt to end your brother’s existence has been foiled by you.”

Ven raised his eyebrows. “Foiled?” He snorted, folding his arms across his chest, keeping the rage boiling through him under tenuous control. The entity inside him, the force that had replaced his demon radiated furious purpose, but what that purpose was, Ven still could not fathom. “Foiled? You sure you want to go with foiled? Surely thwarted is a better word in this context. I mean, if I
have
prevented you from killing my kid brother all these years you’d have to be feeling pretty bloody frustrated by now. And really, the word foiled is just so melodramatic.” He shook his head, scanning the room as he did so from the corners of his eyes, tasting the air for any sign of Amy.

Maybe…

He uncrossed his arms and shoved them into the pockets of his jeans, baring his fangs at Pestilence in a cold smile. “Sounds to me like you just weren’t good enough.”

The man’s eyes bulged. He leapt from his throne, lunging at Ven in a blur of screaming rage. But Ven was faster. He met Pestilence halfway, sinking his claws into the demon’s skinny neck and shoulders, driving him backward. Backward. Back into the depraved piece of furniture. Ramming him against the bone seat with driving force.

“You made a mistake trying to kill my brother,” he growled into Pestilence’s pain-contorted face, grinding his bony shoulders into the throne’s backrest. “And now I’m going to—”

“Ven.”

Amy’s terrified scream punched through Ven’s ice-cold fury. He froze, staring into Pestilence’s suddenly smug face.

“Foiled again, Steven?” Pestilence laughed, the sound high and haughty. “Or should that be thwarted?” With barely a shift in his subjugated position, he planted his palms on Ven’s chest and pushed.

Ven was flung backward, arching through the air before crashing to the floor on his shoulder. He slid across the granite floor at a wild, out-of-control speed, coming to rest at two pairs of feet. One pair booted, one pair bare.

“Ven,” Amy cried again, the overpowering stench of her fear and blood pouring into his nose.

“If it isn’t the surfboard-riding vampire.” Raziel chuckled. “You smell hungry.”

He raised his leg and smashed his booted heel down into Ven’s chest.

Absolute agony erupted through Ven. He snatched out at Raziel’s ankle, hooking his growing claws into the vampire’s leg through course denim and tough leather. “I’m going to tear you apart,” he ground out, struggling to escape Raziel’s brutal stomp.

But with every ounce of energy he expelled, the monstrous hunger he’d denied for too long grew stronger. He writhed under Raziel’s boot, drawing on the entity within to come to the surface, to consume him and destroy the vampire who’d brought Amy to this hellish place. The only thing that consumed him however, was his hunger. Sucking him of his strength, of the entity’s strength. Draining him. Draining them both.

A wave of sick giddiness rolled over him and he let out an enraged roar, the sound weak even to his own ears. Forcing his starving body to obey—
come on, damn it
—he sank his claws harder into Raziel’s ankle, fighting another crushing wave of lightheadedness. “Let…Amy…”

The vampire laughed, his clawed fingers closing tighter around Amy’s throat. Her blood oozed between his fingers, and as Ven looked up at him through a smoky curtain of grey starvation, he dropped his head to her neck, extended his long tongue from between his thin lips and licked the bright red liquid from his knuckles. “It seems we have something in common, doesn’t it.” His eyes flared violent yellow. “Thanks for neglecting her, by the way. If you hadn’t missed a feed or two, she never would have gone looking for another vamp to sate her appetites.” He flashed a smile at Ven, Amy’s blood painting his lips and gums bright red.

Ven stared at him from the floor, his hunger devouring him from the inside. He struggled with Raziel’s pining hold one more time, trying to escape the booted foot grinding into his breastbone, but to no avail. His stare rolled to Amy and he moaned, the sight of her fear sucking what little strength there was left in him.
Oh, Jesus, baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…

“You see, Steven,” Pestilence said, arising from his throne. “You are correct. I
did
make the mistake of trying to kill your brother all these years.” He crossed the distance between them and lowered himself into a crouch beside Ven, studying him with glowing eyes. “What I
should
have done is exactly what I did today.” He grabbed Ven’s chin, increasing the pressure of his grip until Ven’s jaws began to separate. “Bring the older brother to me so the younger brother will follow.” He smiled, tracing Ven’s parted lips with cold fingertips. “Simple really. Use the Cure’s weakness against him.”

His smile grew wider and, eyes glowing a sick yellow light, he plunged his fingers into Ven’s mouth.

Chapter Thirteen

Patrick sat in the armchair, his face stunned. He kept opening his mouth, as if knowing he should say something, but not having a clue what that something should be.

He stared at Fred, hands hanging between his knees, eyes wide, and shook his head. “No.”

She frowned at him. “What do you mean, no?”

He shook his head again. “I can’t be…Ven can’t be…” He held out his hands to her, as if the claim she’d just made rested on his palms and she could just take it away. “Our parents were not… Shit, I don’t even think we were baptized. I went
surfing
most Sundays.” He dropped his hands and shook his head one more time. “No.”

“Blood doesn’t lie, Patrick.”

He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again.

Fred bit back a sigh. His unspoken response had floated through her mind like so many other times, but this time she’d not only heard the words of his thought—
But you might
—she’d felt the confused torment behind them. He still didn’t trust her. Not enough to believe her without hesitation, at least. She didn’t blame him for being angry. What she’d laid on his shoulders was huge, bigger than huge, gigantic, gargantuan, but she needed him to deal with it and move on. Quickly. Her spine was itching so badly she was beginning to feel like a flea-ridden mutt.