Dark Destiny (Dark Sentinel #1) - Lexxie Couper Page 0,93
end.
Deserted, save for the Disease standing at the high-tide line. Waiting for him, his shadow stretching across the sand, a dark stain on the ever-moving grains.
“Hello, lifeguard.” Pestilence smiled. “Shall we begin?”
15
Patrick attacked, hurling a wall of concentrated air particles, twisted and folded upon each other until they formed a force as solid as a steel sheet at the First Horseman.
He didn’t move. He didn’t think. He attacked.
And Pestilence reeled backward.
One step.
Two.
The Disease’s arms flailed. He stumbled backward, the sand puffing at his heels in little balls of displaced grains and then, with a wide grin, regained his footing. “Well, we have been training, haven’t we?”
Patrick glared at him across the distance, the air charged. The deserted beach seemed to shimmer, and for a split second he swore he saw the undefined ghosts of people hurrying over the sand. People there and yet, not there. People dressed for swimming, for surfing, enjoying the dying light of the summer day even as their eyes shone with unease, as if their souls knew something they did not.
And then the second passed, the ghosts vanished and it was just Pestilence and Patrick, facing each other on an empty stretch of sand.
“Where’s my brother?”
Pestilence smiled again, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “This is an interesting development, lifeguard. I did not expect it, I must say. I figured you would choose this location—you seem to be emotionally handcuffed to this pitiful place—but not the dimensional plane. A simple temporal shift and we are here and yet not. Effective. Still, it makes sense when you consider your incessant desire to maintain human life.” He shrugged, a totally indifferent action and Patrick had to bite back the urge to leap forward and ram his fist into his smug face. “It will make no never mind though. When I destroy you, the world of man will fall.”
Patrick balled his fists. “I didn’t choose anything, Pestilence. Now, tell me where my brother is before I tear you a new arse and shove your head into it.”
Pestilence pulled a contemplative face. “You did not? Now is that not interesting? Hmmm.”
A hot ball of anger rose up in Patrick’s chest. He looked at the Disease, drawing on the inert power lying dormant in the air around him. “There’s nothing remotely interesting about this, Pestilence. Sad, yes. Pathetic, definitely, but interesting?” He shook his head. “Nope.”
Pestilence chuckled and took a few steps forward. “Are you not intrigued by this all, Patrick Watkins?” He lowered his attention to his feet, studying the disturbed sand sliding from the black leather toes of his shoes. “How do you have the strength to determine the location of our…altercation…yet not know it? How can you transubstantiate to your brother and still not control your destination? How do you have the ability to propel me backward and yet still be so naïve to leave your guard down?”
A black wave appeared from nowhere. It dwarfed Patrick, blocking out the low sun, casting him in a light-devouring shadow. It crashed down, knocking him to his knees and it was only then Patrick realized what the wave was—a million gnats, their tiny bodies sticking to his face, blocking his nose, his ears.
He thrust out with his mind, slicing into the wave of insects, carving them apart, sending them tumbling over each other. Crushing them. Molding them. Reforming them.
Into a thick, writhing spear he flung straight back at Pestilence.
They struck the First Horseman in the chest. Hard. Direct.
Pestilence squealed, eyes igniting in baleful yellow hate. His arms flailed, his mouth gaped open.
With a flick of his mind, Patrick sent the gnats down the Horseman’s throat, a pouring, writhing punch that choked Pestilence’s squeal.
Pestilence slapped at his own neck, claws tearing at his pasty flesh. His eyes rolled and—as Patrick watched, sweat trickling down his temple—Pestilence stumbled, the wind-lashed sand collapsing beneath his heels until he fell backwards, lost in a thick mass of gnats.
Patrick staggered to his feet, exhaustion making his lungs burn. Gasping for breath, sweat stinging his eyes, he released his “hold” on the insects. If he didn’t, he would pass out. He had no idea how he’d just done what he had—taken Pestilence’s weapon and used it against him—but his body and mind felt scorched. Drained.
He watched the swirling cloud of stray insects blow away in the wind, his patience tested as he waited for Pestilence to move. Waited for him to attack again.