blacker than midnight pitch, shimmered in the dusk, his eyes twin balls of burning white light. “For Amy,” he said, lifting the gibbering, squealing vampire up to his unrecognizable face. “For the heinous creature you are, for the heinous acts you performed.” His voice rumbled, thunder in a storm. “By the decree of the Order of the Agents, by the power of the Sentinel, I hereby declare you punished.”
He sank talons the size of daggers into the other vampire’s ribcage, just below his armpit and, with barely a shift in muscle, tore the squealing demon in two.
The two parts spurted blood, bright red arching showers that drenched Ven’s black flesh crimson. And then, as the Sentinel threw back his head and roared, arms wide, wings spread, both parts fell to dust and were scattered to nothing by the gusting wind.
Patrick stared at his brother, his pulse pounding in his ears. Jesus, is that Ven?
The Sentinel turned to look at him, eyes white fire, lips curled away from needle-tipped teeth in a sardonic, cheeky grin. A grin Patrick had seen many, many times before. “Was that too melodramatic?”
Patrick’s laugh took him by surprise. “Well, you always were one for the—”
A shudder wracked Ven’s giant frame, once, twice and he pitched forward, collapsing face first into the sand, changing back into human form before his body came to rest.
“Ven!” Patrick screamed. He sprinted forward, stare locked on Ven’s motionless form, on the blood pouring from his slack mouth and nose and ears, staining the sand around him a dull red. Like a shadow of blood on the beach.
He ran, desperate to reach his brother. To save him.
And was picked up and flung backward by a savage blow of invisible force.
Fred fumed. She stormed around the tiny “space” the Deities had afforded her, an area in the whiteness no bigger than the average public toilet cubicle. What the fuck did she do now? She couldn’t leave, she couldn’t return to Patrick, she couldn’t even track down Pestilence and beat the crap out of him. Shit, with the Deities’ ridiculous confinement she could barely scratch herself.
She stomped her foot. “Aarrggh!”
Well, that was entirely childish, wasn’t it, Fred.
Huffing into her fringe, she glared at the ubiquitous white. Yes, it was childish, but it was better than just standing around accepting her fate.
She narrowed her eyes. Fate? Was that who had blabbed about what she was doing with Patrick? The last Fate? Before she’d mysteriously up and vanished from the Realm, had the last Fate gone all soothsayerish and revealed what role Death was planning to play in the confrontation between Pestilence and the Cure?
And what role was that exactly, Fred? Coach? Umpire? Cheerleader for the Cure? You know you cannot directly wage war on your own brethren, even if Pestilence is a megalomaniacal piece of shit that needs to have his skinny ass kicked from one side of the Realm to the other. The Horsemen cannot attack each other, no matter how much you wished you could. To do so would rend the Weave asunder. So, what role were you planning to play? Wingman?
A numb coldness unfurled in her stomach. She hadn’t allowed herself to think that far ahead. Once she’d discovered Pestilence’s plan, once she’d discovered all the players involved, she’d been so focused on preparing Patrick, she hadn’t stopped to question what she was going to do once the “battle” began.
Preparing Patrick? Is that what you’ve been so focused on? Really? Are you sure?
The cold numbness in her gut grew icy. Shit. Preparing him had not been her sole focus, even though it should have been. Making love to him had been her primary focus, feeling his body move over hers, feeling his body move in hers…
Shit. Instead of trying to equip him for what he had to face, she’d been thinking only of the way he made her feel—alive, wonderful, gloriously amazing. Her own selfish greed may have delivered to Patrick the very thing she was created to do. Death.
Standing motionless, she closed her eyes. Fuck, what if she never saw him again?
No. She wouldn’t let that happen. Time was irrelevant to her. If need be she’d go back to Patrick in a moment of history…
The rebellious thought trailed away and she let out a sigh. The Deities would prevent her doing so. Of that she had little doubt, and if imprisoning her in the whiteness was their reaction to her falling in love with Patrick, what would they do to her