Dark Destiny (Dark Sentinel #1) - Lexxie Couper Page 0,9
one. It was his over-protective way.
Steven Owen Watkins had been nine years old when Patrick was born. According to their mother, he’d greeted the arrival of a baby brother with a lop-sided grin and the adamant proclamation he wasn’t changing any nappies.
Eighteen years later Ven had been killed on a side street in inner-city Sydney by an unknown assailant when both he and Patrick were attacked leaving a pub after celebrating Patrick’s birthday. Declared dead by not only the attending paramedics, but the cops when they arrived, and the coroner a few hours later.
Suffice to say, it had come as a bit of a shock to Patrick and their parents when, six hours after his lifeless body had been interred in a drawer in the city’s morgue, Ven walked into the family home, dropped onto the old sofa in the living room and said without a hint anything was out of the ordinary, “Any chance you’d make me some Vegemite on toast, please, Mum? I’m starving.”
Patrick and their parents had stared at him. For a split second. Then their mum had screamed and thrown the mug of tea she’d been nursing in her hands at him, their father had burst out laughing, and Patrick…
Well, Patrick had just been glad to see his big brother again, whether he was meant to be dead or not.
Since then, Ven lived the typical life of a vampire, if there was such a thing. He had a bevy of willing “feeds”, an easy mix of male and female, all gorgeous, of course. He slept the days away in his king-size bed, block-out blinds down and locked, a classic-Australian rock playlist on repeat thumping out from the HomePod on his dresser. He haunted the dance clubs at night, enjoying the frenzied energy of people still living in the moment, and generally enjoyed the new, rather unusual stage of his existence he’d found himself in, in the same way he’d enjoyed his completely usual life—laid-back with a sardonic bite.
Except, that was, when it came to Patrick. There was nothing laid-back about his attitude and relationship with his younger brother.
From the minute he’d laid eyes on a barely two-hours-old Patrick, Ven had taken it upon himself to protect him. From what, Patrick didn’t know. Neither did their parents. It wasn’t until Ven’s death and, subsequently his completely unexpected transformation, that the threat was given a name: “Something.”
“Something” was out for Patrick. Something “bad”, and Ven dedicated most of his time and energy into keeping his younger brother safe, regardless of how often Patrick told him he was being crazy.
Tonight however, Patrick couldn’t deal with another lecture about being exposed. “I’ve had a shit day, Ven. I’m not in the mood. I’m alive. You should be happy.”
“I am happy, brother. I’ve got a stiff bloody neck from that evil sofa of yours, but I’m happy. That still doesn’t change the fact my gut tells me you were in danger today.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”
“Don’t ‘here we go’ me.” Ven pointed a finger at him, a sudden flash of iridescent yellow in his eyes as his demon reared close to the surface. “You know what I’m talking about and I’m getting fed up with you pretending otherwise. Jesus, you can see the future. You can move things with that stubborn bloody mind of yours. Hell, I saw you pick up the TV remote control from the side table without moving a muscle.”
“I cannot see the future,” Patrick snapped, a dull red heat twisting in his chest. “I made a lucky guess as a kid about who was going to be the next prime minister and you turn me into some kind of freak.”
“You also knew when and where Mum and Dad were going to die, the date and time of the attempted assassination of the Canadian deputy prime minister, and who was going to win the Soccer World Cup final.”
“I was a dumb kid talking out of my arse.”
“Well, that dumb kid’s arse sure knew a lot.” Ven’s eyes flashed yellow again. “And you still haven’t explained the remote control to me. Even after all these years.”
Patrick scowled, turning away from his brother to stare out the kitchen window at the deepening night.
He couldn’t explain the remote. Not to Ven. Not to himself.
Confined to an armchair with a broken leg after a particularly nasty pushbike accident, the then twelve-year-old Patrick had wanted to change the channel on the television. The remote control was on the lamp table beside