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 should be able to wield the device.
Eyes burning, he raised the instrument of death and leveled its razor-sharp tip to her eyes.
She held her breath, drawing all her power into her core.
“Time for a time-out,” he murmured, dropping the scythe to her breastbone. He hooked the very tip into the neckline of her shirt.
And sliced it open.
It was the first time she’d ever been disrobed by anyone but herself. Wet electricity shot straight to her sex and she came. Just like that. She gasped, the sudden, powerful orgasm making her shudder, the cool air on her now fully exposed breasts making her already greedy for more.
A low groan of appreciation rumbled up Patrick’s chest and his eyes flared brighter. Hotter. “Beautiful. So very beautiful.”
She gave him a slow smile, the junction of her thighs sodden and pulsing. “Powerful.” She thrust out with her mind, shoving him across the room.
He hit the wall with a soft, controlled thud, her scythe dropping from his hand, his eyes locked on her.
The invisible bands on her arm and ankles evaporated instantly and she was on her feet, prowling toward him with deliberate intent, the echo of her orgasm still radiating through her body. She “removed” her shorts with a thought, closing the short distance between them with two steps.
Utterly naked.
His breath heated her already flushed flesh. His jaw bunched.
She held out her arm and her scythe materialized in her hand.
His nostrils flared.
Without a word, she pressed the flat edge of the blade to his chest and stomach, tip pointing to the floor, and slowly, slowly slid it downward. Past the waistband of his jeans, until its deadly length rested beside the rigid length of his thick cock. “Time-out,” she whispered on a grin.
His nostrils flared again. His lips curled into a slow smile, he opened his mouth…and froze as a violent gust of midnight black smoke shot through the open window beside his head.
“Jesus!” Ven burst out, materializing in the centre of the room, human save for his elongated fangs. “You won’t believe what just…” He trailed off, his stare sliding from Patrick to Fred to Patrick again. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Bloody hell, Ven!” Patrick stormed. “It’s about time you learnt to knock.”
Ven snarled something in reply, but Fred didn’t hear it.
Because at the very second Ven formed in Patrick’s living room, the iconic hooded robe of the Grim Reaper covered her body. Without any conscious thought or decision from her.
And the base of her spine had begun to itch.
Really itch.
What in all the levels of hell was going on?
11
Ven tasted sex and sweat on the air. He looked at his brother, a surge of something tight and uncomfortable churning in his gut.
Patrick glared at him, his eyes a dark shade of green Ven had never seen before. “What the hell have you been doing, Ven?”
Crossing his arms across his chest, Ven gave him a dark scowl. “Nothing as exciting as you, it seems, brother.” He shot Fred an even darker scowl. “Nice getup, Death. Goes well with your eyes.”
“Ven.”
Patrick’s growl jerked Ven’s attention back to his brother and he let out a short grunt. Since leaving the beach and the garroted carcass of the q’thulu, he’d been attacked by something far more horrific—guilt. Guilt for what he’d done to Amy, guilt for the way he’d treated Patrick before buggering off. He’d told himself he was going to apologise to both. He hadn’t expected to find a half-starkers Patrick with a completely starkers Death hip to hip in Patrick’s living room.
Another twisting knot tightened in his gut and he ground back a growl. He had no fucking clue what had just happened to him on the sand, but whatever it was, it was more important than what was going on between his brother and the Grim Reaper.
“Mind telling me what’s going on, Steven?”
Patrick’s arms were folded across his chest in a mirror of his own pose and a wry sense of comfort threaded into the knot in Ven’s gut. His brother.
“There I was,” Ven began, doing his best not to look at Death—what was she doing in that getup?—“minding my own business at the cliff beach when I’m attacked out of the blue by some fucked-up squid-faced thing some skinny guy in a black suit