The past few months, a voice had intruded in his head. An evil voice that called his name as if searching for him, as if it had splintered the earth to rise from the grave.
The monks had warned him when he was a child that one day demons would find him, that they’d try to trap him.
That was the reason they’d sent him to that training camp.
The reason he’d been isolated. Taught to rely on his chi, to hone his skills, to recognize the evil.
And to kill. He enjoyed the kill, maybe too much.
The memory of the vultures the night of the Savannah bombing flashed into his head. More death was on its way. A new dark force walked the earth, one more terrifying and deadly than any he’d encountered to date.
One that wasn’t human.
“You’re done.” He pushed the women off him, stood and yanked on his jeans, then tossed cash onto the table and stormed into the chilly night.
Cramming his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he climbed in his Land Rover and drove toward Tybee Island, the one place where he found peace and quiet.
And a reprieve from the evil.
Yet as he crossed the bridge to the island, fear crawled along his spine. He checked the perimeter of the secluded house, the dark stretches of beach beyond, closed his eyes and inhaled the wind and marsh.
Danger lurked nearby. So close.
Had the demons found him?
Annabelle paused to look around, her nerves on edge as she used her hairpin to break into his house. She was surprised at his lack of security. It was almost as if he thought he had nothing to hide.
The door squeaked open and she inched inside, tiptoeing as she waved her flashlight around the room. Simple basic furniture, all black and chrome—cold, just like the man.
A black lacquered desk occupied the corner, but there was no TV or sound system, only built-in shelves against the wall housing books. The den opened to a small kitchen and a bedroom sat to the left, but it was empty except for a mattress on the floor. His place seemed minimalistic, as if he didn’t want any comforts.
She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly, but she’d hoped maybe he kept some kind of journal or file on his kills.
And what else? Perhaps evidence that he might be a demon or have supernatural power?
She still couldn’t believe it. Although she could have sworn he’d moved that beam…
She zeroed in on his computer, sat down at the desk and flipped it on, rifling through the contents of the top drawer. A stack of mail drew her eye, and she glanced through it. Typical bills. Curious, she opened the latest bank statement, expecting to find a huge advance for services rendered. She found a few thousand dollars, nothing suspicious.
She spent the next few minutes searching his computer and desk, hunting for hidden files, a calendar, anything to point to his work. Zilch. Frustrated, she stood and went to the bookshelf, surprised to find books on spirituality mingled with others on martial arts and maps of various places all over the world. Then she noticed a leather-bound book wedged behind a work on meditation.
Her interest piqued, she pulled it out and frowned at the handwritten words.
Deadly Demons.
Her pulse clamored as she flipped through the book. Sketches of supernatural creatures, demons, monsters, and pagan gods filled the yellowed pages.
Perspiration dotted her forehead as she studied the drawing of the Death Angel, an ominous, sinister-looking black shadow that could appear as a vulture, a crow, or a raven.
Just like the vulture she’d seen last night after the explosion.
Another page detailed purgatory and the levels of hell. The punishments for evil that matched the sins, punishments that were horrific.
Then a drawing of the Soul Collectors. She frowned as she read the notations:
The Soul Collectors barter and buy souls off the street by offering immortality to those near death or recently deceased.
Some of the undead become vampires and zombies. Others shift into animal forms—werewolves, werecats, and other werecreatures.
On All Hallows’ Eve, a portal is opened that allows demons and Soul Collectors to enter the Earth and ravage the innocents.
Anxiety knotted her insides as she flipped to a sketch of Pan, the god of fear, a hulking black shadow with orange eyes.
One touch and he knows your worst fear, then he uses it to kill you.
Her mind spun with questions. Why did Quinton have this book?
She flipped to another page and read about the Dark Lords, the spawn of Satan and an Angel of Light. Men who possessed superhuman powers.
Suddenly a noise startled her. The faint sound of wooden boards squeaking.
Damn. She quickly shut off the flashlight.
Quinton Valtrez had returned.
If he was a killer as she suspected, he wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in her head. All he had to do was cart her body out to the ocean, and no one would ever know.
And if he was a demon or a Dark Lord?
Her heart tripped in panic.
No, she didn’t believe in demons. Still, Quinton Valtrez was dangerous. She felt along the desk edge for a weapon and grabbed the letter opener as she eyed the sliding glass door. Clenching the letter opener in one hand and the book of demons in the other, she raced to escape.
But Quinton moved at lightning speed, jumped her from behind and slammed her against the wall, pinning her with his body. His knee jabbed into her lower back so painfully she gasped, and he karate-chopped her hand, making her release the letter opener. Pain shot through her wrist, and her legs buckled.
Then the cold barrel of a gun raked across her cheek.
Her heart hammered against her breastbone as she choked on a cry of pure terror. “Please… don’t hurt me.”
His hot breath bathed her neck as he tightened his grip. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
A sob escaped her. “I… wanted to talk to you.”
“So you broke into my house and went through my things?”
“No…”
He wrenched her arm behind her back, twisting it so hard she whimpered and braced herself for the sound of bones shattering.
“Don’t lie to me,” he growled in a menacing tone. “Who are you, and what the fuck do you want with me?”
A tear slid down her cheek. “Please… you’re hurting me…”
“If you don’t tell me the truth, I’m going to do a lot worse.”
She shuddered, growing nauseous from the pain. “All right, just let me go, and… and I’ll explain.”
He dragged her from the wall to the sofa and threw her down onto the edge. Her vision blurred as her head snapped back. Outside, the wind roared and the waves crashed against the shore; thunder clapped above. The sound of her own heartbeat drowned them all out, though, her mind scrambling for a feasible lie.
He flipped on the lamp, the dim light streaking the room in sharp yellow lines that slashed the walls, dust moats floating in the light.
With a grunt, he pressed the gun into her chest as he towered over her, a hulking shadow dressed in all black—black leather jacket, black T-shirt, black jeans—his black eyes making him look even more intimidating.
She rubbed at her arm, which throbbed from his punishing grip. What had she been thinking?
She was an amateur, had been a fool to break in.
But if she’d found something concrete, she would have had the story of her life. She’d finally win the respect she wanted and prove she could do hard-core stories.
“I’m waiting,” he said in a lethal tone. “Who are you?”
“Annabelle Armstrong,” she said.
His voice was just as husky and dark as the rest of him. She’d never seen a man with such raw intensity. His shaggy hair added to his renegade look, the raven locks shimmering in the light. His nose had been broken at least once, and a razorlike scar stretched from his ear down his neck into the top of his T-shirt.
God, he was sexy.
He closed in on her again, rammed his broad face in front of hers, eyes gleaming with coldness. “Go on. You’ve got five seconds before you become shark bait.”
Her breath rushed out, but she met his steely gaze with as much courage as she could muster. “You know who I am, Quinton.”
“An intruder, that’s what I know.”
“Then maybe you should call the police,” she said in challenge. “Or are you afraid they’ll find out who you are?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he hissed.
She inhaled against the pain in her wrist and arm. If he was going to kill her, she wanted the truth first. “Why? Because you’re a cold-blooded killer? Some kind of monster or demon?”
His gaze fell to the book she’d dropped in her haste to escape, and his eyes turned that same strange glittering silver they had the night before.
“You believe in demons?” he asked with an ominous eyebrow raise.
“No, I deal in cold, hard facts, blacks and whites. Demons are mythical legends people made up to explain the unexplainable.” Her voice cracked, but she forged on, determined not to let him intimidate her. “History and research have shown that people who might have once been deemed possessed or demonic were in reality suffering from a mental illness such as schizophrenia, or another disease, such as syphilis.”
“Is that so?” He took a step toward her, his breath bathing her face as his gaze pinned her.
She slid back into the corner of the sofa and shivered. God help her.
He was going to kill her.
Quinton narrowed his eyes, trying to probe Annabelle Armstrong’s mind to see how much she knew about him. In spite of her gutsy attitude, she was terrified of him. Thought he was a hard-edged killer. And maybe a demon.
But sexy…
That realization momentarily threw him off guard.
Made his cock twitch and his blood run hot.
Even in danger the night before, he remembered what it had felt like to have her sinful body beneath his.
But, hell, she’d broken into his damn house.
Where had she gotten her information?
She couldn’t have found anything concrete here. He was a professional. He left no evidence, no paper trail, nothing that could link him to any of the terrorists or their deaths.
Except for that damn demon book…
Which had nothing to do with his job.
Just his personal life.
“You know, lady, if you really think I’m a killer or a monster, you must be pretty damn stupid to break into my house.”
His fingers tightened around her wrist, and he clenched his jaw as she paled. He had to scare her off. “Either that or you have a death wish.”
She winced but jutted up her chin, those cobalt-blue eyes boring into his. “No, I don’t. But I want the truth. I know you’re an assassin. I have photos of three of your kills.” She hesitated. “So I don’t understand why you ran around saving people last night.”
He cursed. “You wanted me to stand by and let innocent people die?”
“No, of course not.” She hesitated, confusion marring her face. “Just tell me one thing, Quinton. Do you ever regret what you do, that you kill for a living?”
How could he regret killing bad guys? But he didn’t acknowledge her question, and he refused to admit to anything, no matter how much proof she thought she had.
“Photos can be misleading.” He squeezed her wrist harder. He’d use his gift against her. Climb in her head and figure out how to keep her from exposing him.
Her memories became his—her mother had died recently. Her father had abandoned her. She was trying to make it in a man’s dog-eat-dog world.
“You think you have something to prove,” he said in a gruff voice. “And you’d jeopardize your life to do it. That’s not very smart, Annabelle.”
She stiffened. “I just want the truth. I saw what you did last night,” she said in a strained voice.
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You moved a beam off of that man without touching it,” she whispered. “You did it with your mind.”
He threw his head back and laughed sarcastically. “You must have hit your head. You were obviously seeing things.”
Her mouth tightened. “I didn’t hit my head.”
Her gaze latched onto his, the sultry look in her eyes daring him to argue.
“Then you’re delusional.”
A crooked smile curved her mouth as her gaze swung sideways to note the demon book. “That’s not what your book says. Which one are you? One of the demons? A Dark Lord or a Soul Collector?”
He smirked. “Like you said, they’re childhood stories. Not real.” He released her abruptly. “Get out,” he snapped. “And stay out of my life or you’ll be sorry.”
She heaved a breath and strode toward the door, tugging her shoulder bag over her arm. It suddenly hit him that she probably had a recorder.
He caught her before she could leave, jerked the bag from her and rummaged through it.