Forbidden Passion (8 page)

She spun around to face her attacker, but nothing was there. Still, she felt the presence of a menacing spirit just as she had at the cemetery and wondered if the legends about the lost souls could possibly be true.

All her life she’d been looking for answers to what had happened to her family. To the reasons behind violent and criminal behavior. Searching for a medical or scientific reason.
    

Could there be another explanation—something super-natural and beyond medical reasoning?

No.
. .
she was a doctor. She believed in concrete evidence.

Still, the whisper of her mother’s voice warning her to run whirled around her…

Dante parked at his house, a modern structure sunk into the ground with solar windows and barricaded by the stone mountain surrounding him, a private lair that offered him protection from the elements and other demons.

As much as he hated leaving Marlena alone, finding Jordie’s killer was the ticket to her safety. He needed to go underground and see if the demon world living beneath the town in the tunnels was responsible.

Not that he would be welcome.

But he refused to let that deter him. If anything, he hoped to convince the factions to form a truce, to agree not to hunt from the locals; then the town could live in peace.

 
They had the past few years while Father Gio had been away. But Father Gio would never agree to a truce.

 
As usual, the tunnels reeked of cold, evil, debauchery, death.

But he grasped his control with a determined hand. He had a creed, and he was determined to live by it or he’d become the kind of monster he abhorred.

Senses alert, he wove through a maze of corridors searching, listening for clues of demon activity, but the nightstaikers seemed to have disappeared somewhere in the crevices.

Or perhaps they were out hunting, out to do harm.

A stone door marked the entrance to the underground bar where the demons gathered. He’d stumbled on it another time when he’d been combing the chambers, but be hadn’t been welcomed inside.

He didn’t give a damn if he was welcome now.

Smoke created a hazy glow in the stone-walled room as he entered. Two torches provided the only light, and he glanced at the back room where the demons gathered for poker—and planning—and noticed it was empty. Save for the vampire bartender, Drake Mortimer, and a vixen trolling for a fuck, the bar was empty.

Another night and he might have responded to the siren’s sultry look, but the only woman he wanted to sink his cock into was Marlena.

Dammit. The one woman he couldn’t have…

He strode to the bar, took a seat, and ordered a shot of whiskey. “Where is everyone tonight?” Dante asked.

Drake’s steely black hair gleamed against his pale white skin as he poured a shot glass full of bourbon and shoved it toward him. “I guess they sensed you might come. You have a way of clearing out the place, you know.”

Dante traced a finger around the rim of the shot glass. “You heard about the local girl’s murder?”

Drake’s eyes slanted downward. “Yeah,- but don’t try to pin that murder on me. I only feed from animals, and—” he indicated a plastic bag of blood, “—occasionally the bloodbank.”

Dante choked out a sarcastic laugh. “Any word down here about the killer?”

“No. But there’s been rumblings about the new leader of the underworld stirring up trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Black-Paw claims there’s a new wolf pack moving in and one of his own was injured. There’s also talk that the elements are gathering for something big. I don’t know what yet, but it could rival another Katrina or a tsunami.”

“No bloodletters or firestarters?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Has Father Gio returned to the area?”

A long hesitation, then Mortimer shrugged, ripped open the bag of blood with his teeth, and poured it into a mug. “It’s possible, but I have no clue where he’s set up camp.”

“If you hear anything let me know.”

Mortimer glared at him. “I’m not a snitch, Zertlav.”

Dante leaned into the man’s bleached-white face with a snarl. “You want to keep this bar, have a place for the peaceful demons to hang out, then you’ll do it, or I’ll shut you down and expose the lot of you.”

Mortimer hissed, his fangs slowly appearing. “You wouldn’t do that.”

Dante chuckled. “Damn right I would. Either those of us who want to exist in town form a truce not to feed from the locals or we become just as vile as the others.”

A young woman wearing a gauzy black skirt, a dark blouse, and a shawl slipped into the bar, halting the conversation.

Her face was angled sideways, her hair forming a curtain across her cheek. Slowly she lifted her chin, and Dante’s gaze zeroed in on the scarred flesh.

She had suffered third-degree burns. The scar was old, but the injury must have been extremely painful. Silently she walked toward him, then slid onto the barstool beside him with a coy smile.

His demon radar kicked in, and he sensed human blood flowed through her veins, yet the faint scent of something otherworldly radiated from her as well, as if she’d only recently come into her demonic side.

He’d never seen her here. How had she discovered the Dungeon?

“Hi,” she said in a tentative tone. “My name is Prudence.”

His lips curled into a half-smile. “Dante. What brought you here?”

She slid her hand to his thigh. “You.”

He arched a brow. “Me?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. Her hand moved across his leg, inching closer to his crotch, teasing him, triggering heat to flame inside him. “I followed you in the tunnels.”

Man, his radar was off if he’d let a damn woman slip up on him unnoticed.

“How about a night together?” she whispered. “I’ll do anything you want.”

He downed the shot of whiskey, sensing her desperation and hunger. Most men in town probably ignored her, or turned away in revulsion. Oddly, her scar didn’t bother him.

He had enough of his own: the ones on his back that he’d earned through punishment; the ones on various other parts of his body, battle scars; the ones on his hands and arm, the markings of each time he’d used his powers.

Did she know the clientele this bar catered to? Was she so lonely that she’d stoop to screwing anyone? Even a demon?

She rubbed her fingers across his waistband. “You can use those handcuffs on me.”

That image taunted him. But instead of her face, he saw Marlena’s. Sultry, erotic, beautiful Marlena.

The woman he wanted with a vengeance.

Hell, maybe indulging in a mindless fuck would relieve some tension and keep him from wanting her.

But the woman’s hand on his leg did nothing to arouse him the way Marlena’s simple touch on his arm did, and he stood with a curse and turned back to Mortimer.

“Remember what I said.”

Mortimer glared at him with his fangs bared, but Dante didn’t allow the vamp to faze him. He’d seen worse.

He’d almost been worse.

Nothing scared him now.

Except the thought of the demon attacking Marlena.

The nightmares plagued Marlena again. She tried to wake herself to escape them, but they trapped her inside the terrifying world of her childhood.

“Run,” her mother screamed. “Run!”

Marlena heard the hideous whish of monsters attacking, saw them swoop down with claws and fangs extended, and worked her little legs as fast as she could, darting through the trees. She had to escape. Had to get away or they would eat her alive.

But she stumbled over a tree stump and fell into the dirt. Her knee scraped a rock and pain sliced through her. Weeds chewed at her legs and a snake hissed from the dirt beside her.

Her mother screamed again, and her sister cried out in pain as the monster snatched her up and sank his sharp teeth into her. Blood spewed from her sister’s neck, and Marlena screamed in horror.

“Run!” her mother shouted, but the monster grabbed her and flung her against a rock, and she cried out.

Marlena sank her fingernails into the stone and tried to pull herself up, but terror immobilized her.

Then suddenly a teenage boy appeared out of nowhere, running like a streak of lightning.

She stared at him in shock, but he hauled her up, threw her over his shoulder, and began to run through the forest. One of the monsters chased her, his ugly head spitting something vile in a stream that made fire erupt behind them.

She buried her bead, shaking and crying. She wanted her mommy and her sister. She didn’t want to die…

Marlena jerked awake, her heart pounding. The house vibrated with the wind, floors and pipes creaking, windows rattling.

Perspiration soaked the bedclothes and her pajamas, and she threw off the bedding, stood, and shuffled to the den. She expected a storm to be raging outside, but when she slid the sheer curtain back from the window, the night was quiet. Still, the house trembled and vibrated, and the whisper of her mother’s voice echoed through the eaves.

“Run, Marlena. Run.”

Marlena choked back a cry as she felt a hand press against her back. Again, she turned and no one was there.

Or was there? Could her mother’s spirit still be lingering in the house? Was she trying to give her some kind of warning? Was she here protecting her, or was there an evil spirit inside the house trying to drive her insane?

Gerald Daumer rocked himself back and forth beneath the giant oak tree outside Marlena’s house, shivering as the cold engulfed him. He hated the cold.

A sob wrenched from deep inside him. He wanted to go home, but everyone was looking for him and would be watching his house. The doctors at that nuthouse. The cops.

The devil.

No, the devil had, followed him here, had climbed inside his head and wouldn’t go away. Just like he’d been inside Marlena’s house earlier. In the attic.

Go inside to Marlena. She left you in that crazy place. Make her pay for abandoning you.

He covered his ears, pressing his hands tighter over them to silence the voices. They wanted him to do ugly things.

To hurt Marlena.

It’s her fault you’re like this. You have to kill her.

“No!” He beat at his head, over and over and over. “Leave me alone! I don’t want to be evil.”

But images suddenly bombarded him. Images of his hands tying Marlena to a tree. Lighting a match. Watching the flames ignite.

The bark of the tree caught ablaze, the crisp wood popping as it sizzled and burned, the erotic yellow and orange colors skipping up toward Marlena’s feet.

The beauty of it mesmerized him.

Her screams pierced the night, the scent of burning wood and flesh swirling around him in a mind-numbing rush. Then the flames caught her hair and body, and the devil’s voice finally quieted.

The next morning, Marlena tried to banish the thought of her nightmares and the fact that a killer had given her Jordie McEnroe’s ring as she drew blood from the last subject of the morning. “Thank you, Miss Curtain. We’ll be in touch.”

The young woman nodded, tugged her purse over her shoulder, and exited the lab. Marlena labeled the blood sample and sighed. She’d conducted psychiatric evaluations on ten possible subjects for Dr. Sneed, the young genius of Neuropsychopharmacology, who’d transferred to Blood-Core to focus on the very research that had driven her own interest in the subject since childhood. Whereas she worked more of the clinical side of the study with her psychological exams and studies, he was the geneticist of the group.

At age twenty-three, he’d already published several papers in major medical journals and had earned a glowing reputation as a pioneer. in his thinking. He had made strides toward proving that variation of genes of the serotonergic circuitry affected aggressive behavior. Yet other studies proved early-life experiences also played a part in aggression.

Marlena had been impressed, especially since his motives were altruistic. His sister had suffered a psychotic break as a result of a head injury and had struggled with drug and alcohol addiction as well as biopolar disorder ever since.

“How did that study turn out?” she asked him as he entered the lab.

“The preliminary results indicated that the frequencies of the S allele and the SS genotype were higher in the study group of violent suicide attempters.”

“Have you had a chance to look at those blood samples from the two Valtrez men?” Both their samples had been lost in the stolen-blood incident but both men had agreed to a second sample. Vincent, an FBI agent, had been trying to find the person who’d stolen the blood, but so far they hadn’t turned up a clue. Security cameras had been stopped and revealed nothing. And everyone at the lab had been questioned and had taken polygraphs. No one on the inside even remotely seemed suspicious, so they knew it had to be a break-in.