Rita Herron
Author Book List

Telepath Quinton Valtrez wants nothing from Annabelle Armstrong except her luscious body. One peek into her mind, however, and he knows that that this CNN reporter has uncovered his identity as a government assassin and is determined to expose all of his dark secrets, one by one. He'll never let that happen, his uncontrollable hunger for her be damned. But when a bomber strikes as they're both in range, killing hundreds, Annabelle devotes herself entirely to the story.

Thrown together by danger and desperate to stop the violence, Quinton and Annabelle uncover that the serial bomber is a supernatural attack, perpetrated by an evil force that exerts mind control over people and turns them into killers. But when the forces of evil unite to overpower them, targeting Annabelle in order to ensnare him, Quinton must face his own destiny as one of the Demonborn and join forces with his brother Vincent (from Insatiable Desire) to save Annabelle and fight the evil threatening to overtake them.

Excerpt

Chapter One

All Hallow’s Eve - Midnight – Savannah, Georgia

Quinton Valtrez was a killer.

A loner. A man without a conscience. A man who roamed the world as a ghostly gun for hire.

He needed no one. Wanted no one to need him.

But it was All Hallow’s Eve and dammit, he was going to get laid.

Still, the Glock inside his jacket rubbed against his chest, taunting him with the fact that he could never relax. That evil never died.

That it was his mission to stop it at all costs. Even if he didn’t survive.

And all Hallow’s eve was the time when the veil between the world and the underworld was thinnest, when the spirit world could mingle with the humans and the ghosts of the dead came to life.

A buxom redhead in a pussycat costume smiled at him through the crowded Savannah streets, and he put thoughts of the evildoers on hold as she glided toward him.

Even assassins deserved the night off.

“Hey, sexy,” she purred. “Where’s your costume?”

He cut her a sideways smile, letting his gaze dip to her ample cleavage. “I am in costume. I’m going as a nice guy.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Want to head over to the party boat?”

“Sure.” Despite the lust burning through his body, his heightened senses kicked in as he followed her through the dark, ghostlike alleys along River Street toward the lit up ship.

Refuse from the late night partiers, stale beer, cigarette smoke and cheap perfume permeated the air along with the pungent odor of fried fish, shrimp and oysters floating from the pubs.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he paused and scanned the crowd, searching the source of his unease. Kids, teenagers and adults swarmed the streets in both colorful cartoon characters and dark, macabre costumes, everything from witches, zombies, pirates, werecreatures, birds of prey, goblins to demons.

Twinkling orange lights, jack o’lanterns carved with scary faces, skeletons, ghosts, spider webs and cardboard tombstones decorated the storefronts, while spooky music, ghostly clanging, hooting owls, and zombies moaning added to the atmosphere.

Calling upon his chi, he focused on thumbing through the thoughts of various bystanders, searching for the evil one amongst them.

It was as natural as breathing, using his gift. He’d honed it when he’d lived with the Monks. They’d taught him to access his inner being, drawing on nature and spirituality to strengthen his power. He’d expanded that power to a sharp tool in the military, searching and destroying the enemy on clandestine operations no one would ever admit existed.

His heart picked up its pace in recognition. He could feel the enemy, sense his presence, but an otherworldly sensation inundated the darkness of the enemy’s soul. Was this the demon the monks had warned him about?

Narrowing his eyes, he zeroed in on a stooped, old man in a ratty green corduroy coat, his wire rimmed glasses held together with duct tape. A terrible screeching sound suddenly reverberated from the gray skies.

He glanced up, sweat beading on his brow as he spotted a vulture soaring above. Not a New World Vulture but an Old World one, black with strong feet and a craving for carrion, not only animal’s flesh but like the raven, this creature’s bloodlust included human meat.

Just as he sometimes did.

A feeling of impending doom engulfed him as he connected with the vulture. The black bird was hovering above, ready to swoop down and gather the dead meat of an animal in its sharp talons and bury its bald head inside the carcass and feast on the remains.

Part vulture – part raven? Where had this creature come from?

He glanced through the crowd again, a strange acidic odor emanating from the old homeless man in the green coat. Quinton pressed a finger to his temple, his head throbbing as he struggled to tap into his thoughts. The man’s frail body trembled in the stiff wind, his mind a blank slate as if it had been wiped clean, all thoughts erased.

His skin held a dull gray/black pallor as if he’d already met death, his eyes were glassy and vacant, dazed, a shell of a human.

The redhead tugged at his elbow. “Aren’t you coming, Sugar?”

A different woman’s scent assaulted him. Delicious. Sultry. Enticing. “Go ahead, honey, I’ll catch up,” he murmured.

She raked her sharp nails down his arm. “All right, but don’t make me wait long. I promise I’ll destroy that nice guy image of yours.”

He chuckled. As if he’d ever had one.

She pranced toward the ship, and the enticing scent of the other woman quickly obliterated her cheap, flowery perfume of the other.

Then his gaze fell upon the source.

Shiny, straight long blonde hair cascaded over slender shoulders. Intrigued, he forced his mind to drown out the sounds of the night. The party whistles and noisemakers preparing to ring in the celebration of the supernatural with witchcraft, séances and pagan rituals that transcended time and worlds.

Instead his body tingled with arousal, the fierce need he had to hunt stirring primal instincts he couldn’t extinguish. He could almost smell the scent of her sex.

As if she sensed him watching her, she slowly turned, her gaze shifting through the crowd toward him.

His stomach clenched as their gazes locked. Shit.

It was her. CNN reporter Annabelle Armstrong. He’d watched her news clips on TV, her do-gooder pieces on the homeless, her stories behind the stories.

A sliver of moonlight played across her face, her hair shimmering beneath the spilled light. He couldn’t tear himself away. Her big blue eyes were hypnotic. Her pale creamy skin, exotic. And her rosy lips made him ache for a sinful taste.

A taste he could never have.

Because she was a damn reporter. A beautiful one, but falcons were beautiful too. Still they were vultures, birds of prey.

A bead of sweat slid down his neck. Had she discovered who he was?

Had she come to Savannah to expose him?

Annabelle Armstrong’s gaze locked with Quinton Valtrez’s. Damn. She’d come here to find him but hadn’t expected to see him tonight. Not in the midst of a party in town.

And she certainly hadn’t expected his penetrating gaze to rattle her. Or make her tingle with desire.

“Annabelle, are you listening?” Her boss Roland from CNN barked over the phone. “Do you think you can get this story?”

“Yes,” she said into her cell phone. “If Valtrez is this Ghost assassin working for some secret government unit, I’ll find out.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, well aware that the man hadn’t moved since he’d spotted her. That his cold eyes and tightly set mouth screamed of danger. That every bone in her body warned her to run.

To forget this story or she might end up dead.

"Annabelle?” her boss shouted.

“Yes, Roland, I’ll do whatever I have to do to find out the truth.”

She snapped the phone shut, smoothed down her skirt and desperately struggled for a playful flirty smile.

Quinton Valtrez was devastatingly and darkly handsome. Bigger than she’d imagined. His features were chiseled in stone, and his five o’clock shadow painted his bronzed stoic jaw with a hint of menace.

Her body tingled. Still, he was just a man.

And she was damn well tired of being the low one on the food chain at the station. Of being assigned human-interest pieces instead of the big stories.

She’d do whatever necessary to get the scoop this time.

Even if it meant cozying up to a killer.

Suddenly a loud explosion rent the air, and the outer deck of the party ship exploded. Annabelle stumbled, the earth trembling below her feet as flames shot into the air. Wood and fiberglass shattered and spewed across the sidewalk, and bodies collapsed into the burning rubble.

Quinton threw himself over Annabelle Armstrong, his heart hammering. What in the hell was happening? Were they under a terrorist attack?

And why in the hell had he tried to save her?

Pure instincts, he thought quickly.

A bloody arm landed beside them, its charred fingers reaching toward him as if begging for help.

Then a vulture swooped down and snapped up the bone, crunching it between his jagged teeth. A sinister look lit the bird’s beady eyes, and in that split second, he could have sworn that the vulture smiled.

The rumble of the blazing fire continued as heat pelted him, and Annabelle’s soft body trembled beneath him.

In the midst of the chaos and acrid odors of charred flesh and burning wood, the horrific scent of evil splintered the air.

He had to do something.

He lifted his head slightly. “Are you okay?” he growled.

She moved slightly as if to push him off. “Yes, I think so.”

Forcing himself onto his hands and knees, he extricated himself and stood, studying her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice strained, as she looked around at the mad chaos and dead bodies floating in the river.

The panicked screams jerked him into action. He dashed toward the burning ship, leaving Annabelle alone.

He needed to sniff out this killer. As he ran, he sent a text to his contact at Homeland Security to alert them of the attack.

The Death Angel flapped his black wings and bowed his bald head to Zion, paying umbrage to the new leader of the underworld. His belly was swollen from his recent meal, yet he still craved more tasty carrion.

The human bones and meat were especially delicious. Being sent into the hybrid of the vulture and Raven as his demonic form for eternity had been punishment at its worst, but over the past century, he had embraced the predator’s needs and urges, and now savored the agility of the bird’s keen eyesight, flight patterns and sharp talons.

Demons, shapeshifters, werecreatures, vampires, fallen angels and other soldiers of Satan gathered in the underground cave of black rock lit by the fiery torches.

Zion entered, his black cape billowing around his demonic form, his orange eyes lighting up the darkness. The mortals would run in terror if they saw him, complete now with sharp fang like claws, the devil’s horns, flaming red scales and cloven feet.

“The death toll?” Zion asked.

“In the hundreds.”

Striking on all Hallow’s Eve, the night of the dead, had been genius. All he’d had to do was slide past the Twilight Guards, those with powers who guarded the portal between the mortals and humans, then he’d crossed into the mortal’s world. Thousands of other demons had unleashed themselves tonight, their screeches unrecognizable to the humans but calling the others to announce their presence. The pagan holiday had also afforded him the opportunity to possess a human’s body and walk among the masses unnoticed – the one he had chosen would serve him well.

And now that same one lay in a sleep-induced stage awaiting his return. The bastard had been an easy mark, had been too weak to fight, his soul already black.

Just as the Death Angel’s power allowed him to crawl into the feeble minds of the weak on Earth, put their minds to sleep, then bend them to his will.

One touch and they became marionettes dancing on his string.

“I commend you.” Zion’s fiery breath rippled out in pleasure. “When I said spread evil and create chaos, you embraced the challenge.”

The Death Angel flapped his wings with pride.

“And my sons?” Zion asked

“The seer found one of the twins, Quinton. He lives in the place they call Savannah, Georgia. This attack should capture the demonborn’s attention.”

Zion’s red eyes flared, shooting sparks of crisp yellow flames across the black rock in jagged lightning-like lines. “Quinton should be easy. He has succumbed to his destiny already by choosing to be a killer.”

The Death Angel refrained from comment. That was true, although technically the Dark Lord only targeted the sinners.

But the fact that Quinton had no remorse, no conscience over his kills, worked in their favor and would ultimately be his downfall.

Unfortunately, the Dark Lord’s cause also kept the balance of good and evil alive within him.

That balance had to be destroyed.

The Dark Lord had a weakness for that reporter. They could use her to trap him.

She would also bring attention to the Death Angel’s victories with the mortals, keep a tally of the dead and create pain and misery with her stories.

He’d use her until she became dispensable, then he’d expose of her. He might even be able to twist Quinton to the point that he killed the woman.

That would definitely earn Quinton his place in the kingdom of evil.

Vultures announce a deadly game.

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