Dark Destiny (Dark Sentinel #1) - Lexxie Couper Page 0,66

The tentacles slapped at him, but it wasn’t him they struck. Sinking his talons deep into the thing’s flabby shoulders, he pumped his wings, forcing it backward, backward until it lost its footing and fell to the ground.

And even then he didn’t let up. He snapped up his legs and sank the talons on his feet into its gut, ripping at its thick flesh, tearing its stomach open as the force from his wings drove it harder into the sandy ground.

The q’thulu thrashed beneath him, piss and black ink spurting from its body, its face. Ven snarled, ducking the vile, stinking fluid and frenzied tentacles. “Nasty bugger, aren’t you.”

Enormous arms struck out at him, but he swatted them away with his wings, tearing into the q’thulu’s shoulders in punishment for its stupidity. The creature wailed, legs and arms flailing, hot guts spilling from the gaping hole Ven’s feet continued to tear into its body.

Calm determination rolled through him. Whatever he was, he was made for this; the utter decimation of something vile and evil.

Hooking the talons on his feet deeper into the q’thulu’s oozing gut, his wings acting as a counterbalance, he released his grip on its shoulders and grabbed two fistfuls of writhing tentacles. He crushed them in his grip, holding its head in a fierce lock. “Hold still, fat boy.” He lowered his head to the q’thulu’s face. “Let’s get a look at what I’ve become.”

He stared into its wide eyes, drawing closer, closer until he saw his reflection in their bulging black surface. Saw his serpentine face, his pupiless white eyes, his lipless mouth full of razor-sharp teeth.

Holy crap, what the fuck am I?

Pestilence dropped into his throne with a thud, his mouth open, his blood roaring in his ears. He gazed blankly at his empty bed, his disbelief robbing him of sight.

The lifeguard’s cursed brother had killed the q’thulu.

Molten-red fury ripped through him. By the Deities, the fucking blood sucker had killed the q’thulu.

No. It wasn’t possible. No lower-order demon could kill a second-order demon, no matter how fast or strong or powerful.

And yet the vampire, Steven Watkins, had.

“Fuck!” he screamed, gouging his nails into the throne’s green bone armrest, feeling the veins in his neck and temple throb. This was not happening. It couldn’t be.

Drawing his power into his core, he reached through the Veil with his mind for Raziel. A wave of blackness threatened to consume him but he fought it. The “visit” to the beach had drained him more than he had expected, the projection into the human world like forcing his existence through a wall of solid nothingness. He’d taken the risk despite the danger, wanting to see the look of terror on Steven Watkins’ face.

Incensed rage smashed through him and he roared. It had all been for nothing. Nothing. Patrick Watkins’ brother was still alive.

How?

Sinking his nails deeper into the armrest, he locked his mind onto Raziel, found him sleeping, and “jerked” him from his undead slumber.

“I do not care how you do it,” he growled into Raziel’s head, a cold twist of joy threading through his fury at the sudden fear he sensed in the vampire’s core. “I do not care that the human sun is still in the sky, I want Steven Watkins in my possession. Bring me the woman. Bring me the female human. Now.”

Patrick smoothed his hand up Fred’s bare back, enjoying the velvet feel of her flesh, the firmness of her fine muscles under his palm. She uttered a contented moan, sliding her knee further up his thigh and wriggling closer to the side of his body. Her soft, full breasts pushed against his ribcage, the tight peak of her nipples brushing the side of his chest in a tantalizing tickle that left his mouth dry.

“I think I’ve said this already,” she traced lazy circles over his stomach, “but that feels nice.”

He smiled and pressed his lips to her forehead, pulling in a deep breath of her wonderful scent as he did so. “You have, but feel free to say it again.”

She chuckled, rolling onto his body to grin down at him. “Now you know I’m not going to do something as clichéd as that.”

He returned her laugh, exploring her back and hips with his hands, letting the tips of his fingers brush the swell of her butt cheeks. “There is nothing clichéd about you, Fred.”

She preened with melodramatic pride, shifting her hips until the damp heat of her sex aligned with the growing stiffness of