Dark Lover. Brenda Joyce

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      “Maclean?”

      He fought the fear, breathing hard. He wasn’t nine years old now. He relished the impending encounter. And then there was only rage, so much so that he did not hear her.

      He had been expecting this predator, but he’d been so intent on Sam Rose, he’d forgotten to put himself on guard. He was prepared now.

      “Ye stay back,” he said quietly. It was an order. And as he spoke, he used his powers to unlock the handcuffs, which instantly dropped off his wrist.

      “I thought you might be able to do that,” Sam said.

      The anger began to build, impossibly. He was a man—nearly immortal, with the kinds of powers only those who followed the gods should have. He hated demons, every single one of them, just as he hated the mixed bloods and all evil. He started forward furiously. Sam followed, the steel-toothed Frisbee in her hand. “Ye leave it to me,” he warned her.

      “Wow, what a change of heart!”

      His library faced them on the next landing. The demon sitting on his brocade sofa there leapt to his feet, his handsome face registering surprise. Then, slowly, he smiled. “This must be a mistake. I’m awaiting a student of mine. He said he needed to see me. Are you Liam’s father?” he said smoothly.

      “There is no mistake,” Ian said softly. “You were right to wait—for me.”

      The demon stared. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, his eyes burning. “Is this some kind of game?”

      “Aye, it’s a game,” Ian murmured, trembling with pentup rage now. The memories flooded him. There was so much pain and fear. “There is no Liam, John. There’s only me.”

      “You have power. So what are you, a vigilante? I’ll play.” The demon laughed at him.

      Sam made a sound.

      Ian had forgotten her presence. He felt his mouth curl as he started forward. “Come and get what you deserve, John,” he murmured. There was no feeling now, not even rage, just determination.

      The demon’s smile faltered as Ian paused before him. “You share our desires, don’t you? Somehow you’re tainted. I can feel it.”

      “Share this,” Ian said softly. The blade had been strapped to his wrist, beneath his sleeve. He thrust it deep into John’s heart.

      But John had seen the movement, and as the blade went deep into his chest, his red-black energy blazed. Ian had known the blast would come and he withstood it, yanking the dagger out and impaling him again. He heard Sam cry out as the black power threw her back into the hall, but he couldn’t care, not now.

      This was his revenge.

      Alive and enraged, John blasted him again.

      It hurt. The pain engulfed him and infuriated him even more, and he tackled the demon and wrestled him to the floor. He seized the dagger, jerked it free of flesh and bone, and sent it back into the bloody heart again. The demon’s red eyes blazed and rolled backward, becoming lifeless.

      Ian knew it and didn’t care. He stabbed him again…and again. He would never hide under his bed again, never hide in the closet, never feel pain or fear or shame…John deserved to die for all that he had done, for all those days, weeks, months and years of shocks and cords and prods and the ripping apart and the final submission. Now he recalled every atrocious act. Now he recalled the fear and the pain, merely repressed and buried deep. For fear and pain were who and what he was. But most of all, he recalled the loss of his humanity and sanity, which he would never have again. Sweat and tears blinded him as he raised the knife again.

      “He’s dead.”

      He heard her but couldn’t stop, even though he realized that the demon was dead, his eyes entirely sightless now, his bloody and mangled body unmoving and still. He buried the knife to the hilt and it quivered in John’s chest.

      “Ian. He’s dead.” She clasped his shoulders from behind but merely held him that way, instead of attempting to pull him off.

      He became vaguely aware of her grasp. He let go of the knife. Slick with blood, it stood up gruesomely in John’s chest.

      “Ian?” she asked very cautiously.

      He was panting uncontrollably, straddling the corpse, wiping the moisture from his face, too late realizing it was tears, not sweat, and his hands were covered with blood. He remembered it all.

      The pain threatened to kill him.

      He turned away and vomited violently.

      He didn’t know how long he remained there, on his hands and knees, the tears sliding helplessly down his face. But by the time he sat up, the demon was half gone, his physical presence rapidly disintegrating, leaving a glowing wake of what looked like embers behind. And a terrible silence filled the library.

      Comprehension began. Sam Rose had just witnessed his insanity.

      He inhaled, seeking composure. Aghast, he launched himself to his feet. To his surprise and relief, she was gone.

      He reeled and used a bookcase to steady himself. The relief vanished. She’d been present and had seen what no one had ever seen, except for Gerard. And she might even be smart enough to figure out the truth…

      At the wet bar, he washed his hands, wiped the last drops of moisture from his face, dried his hands. As he poured a huge scotch, he heard her returning to the room. Tensing—wishing she’d gone home—he looked up.

      She stood in the doorway in her bloody red dress, her expression somber. Her blue eyes were wide and trained on him.

      He did not see pity or compassion on her face, for which he was thankful. He’d kill her if she dared to pity him.

      He was so tired. He hated this fucking miserable life. “Leave.”

      She started.

      He slowly smiled, hoping she would stay so he could take his rage out on her. He’d do to her what they’d done to him and enjoy it. “Ye really should take warning. My mood is foul.”

      She didn’t move. “No kidding.”

      She wasn’t afraid; she was being sarcastic. Briefly he was amazed.

      She glanced at the mostly disintegrated corpse. “Remind me not to piss you off too much.”

      There was more control. Not a lot of it, but more. He didn’t want to hurt her or torture her—he wanted her in his bed, catering to his every damnable desire. But he did not trust himself.

      When he felt like this, he was careful to stay away from women, from humans, from the Innocent. “Go away. Before I do what I want to do.”

      “If you think that tantrum scared me, you’re wrong.” But she wasn’t mocking now. Her tone was thoughtful. “You could give lessons in payback.” She slowly approached.

      He jumped into her mind. She wanted to comprehend him. She wanted to know why СКАЧАТЬ