Armend’s mouth went dry. He dared to take his eyes from the man sitting in judgment of him to glance at the moaning skeletons with the beckoning arms. The women were still there, watching. The wolves were still there, waiting. Armend backed up again, reaching for the knife he’d positioned right on his pile of wood.
His hand closed around the hilt. Fire burned through his body. The hilt glowed red just like the eyes of the wolves. His palm and fingers melted into the knife, the burning so bad he went to one knee. He tried to fling the blade away from him, but it stuck to his hand, burning and burning. He screamed and plunged his hand into the ribbons of fog that crawled along the ground.
He heard the sizzle as the fire spluttered against the cool, wet mist. The knife fell free, and he turned his hand over. His palm was covered in blisters, but he could see beneath the raw wounds that something else burned into his skin. His hand looked as if the flesh was falling from it to leave bones behind. White bones. Scored deep in blackened charcoal was a single word. Murderer.
He screamed again. He didn’t know how long he screamed, but his throat was sore by the time he got control of himself. He shook his head. “This isn’t real. None of this is real. I’m having a nightmare. That’s all. Just a nightmare.”
He steadfastly refused to look at the moaning women or the glowing red eyes of the wolves pacing just a few feet from him. He wouldn’t look at the man who had to be the grim reaper, coming for him. “I’m going to go into my tent and get into my sleeping bag. When I wake up, all this will be gone.”
“Unfortunately, Armend,” the grim reaper said—and his tone was chilling—“your tent cannot aid you this night.”
Armend moistened his dry lips and forced himself to meet the reaper’s gaze. The impact of those eyes was terrifying. “What do you want?”
“You attacked my woman. What do you think I want?”
The voice was low. Soft even. Gentle. There was no threat in the tone, but the way the reaper stared at him, unblinking, the eyes of the predatory wolf, the face always in the shadow, kept Armend terrified.
“I don’t know your woman.”
“Of course you do. She thought you were a friend. She trusted you, and you beat her savagely. You tore her mouth with your teeth. You attempted to rape her. You would have allowed your friends to use her body and then you would have tortured and killed her just as you did the others.”
The voice never changed pitch. That was more chilling than if the reaper had shown some kind of anger.
Armend held up his hand. “No. No. That isn’t true. I wasn’t going to let the others have her. You’re talking about Teagan.”
“Do not say her name. Do not ever call her by name. You are not worthy of speaking her name. I know where every single body is. The women you tortured, raped and killed. They will all be found and returned to their parents.”
He shook his head. “No. You can’t do that. My mother. My father. It would kill them. My family’s name would be dragged through the mud, and for what? Who were they? Stupid women. They wanted me. They liked what they got. They begged for it.” He pointed his finger, the one that burned and hurt but he refused to acknowledge because none of this was real.
“I woke hungry. Starved. I need to feed. We’ll talk after,” the reaper said.
Armend blinked. He looked down at his cooking pot. He’d forgotten he was making food when the fog bank had rolled in. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the reaper was directly in front of him. One moment he’d been several feet away and the next he was close, in Armend’s personal space.
He was big up close. Solid. All muscle. Intimidating. He threw off the hood and looked down into Armend’s face. And then he smiled. Armend shrieked like a woman, a high-pitched, terrified cry that echoed around the boulders. Armend was looking directly into the mouth of a vampire.
The moan of the women rose to a fever pitch. The wolves snarled and growled, their impatience rising with their dinner but a few feet away. Armend tried to move, but his feet were frozen into the ground. Stuck. Leaden. He could only stare at the man who appeared almost beautiful, his face wholly masculine, his eyes cold as he lowered his head toward Armend.
“Get away,” Armend yelled, trying to punch at the vampire’s face as it came closer to him.
The unholy smile widened. “Are you feeling what those women felt, Armend? The fear? The terror of being helpless? Are you afraid of what I will do to you? Tear through your skin with my teeth? Bite you savagely the way you bit my woman? I’ll drink your blood. I can make you my puppet. I can take your mind. What will I do? Isn’t that the game you played with those helpless women?”
“Please. My family has money. I’ll do anything.” The teeth kept coming closer and closer. The pulse throbbed in Armend’s neck. He couldn’t stop it. Even holding his breath didn’t stop it. His heart hammered away, calling to the vampire.
“Did begging and pleading and bargaining work for any of those women you murdered? Even one of them?”
“Oh, God. This can’t be happening,” Armend wailed.
The hand on his shoulder, turning him, was gentle, but there was no way to break the implacable grip. The other hand went to his head, pushing it to one side to expose the throbbing vein. He felt hot breath. Teeth tore into him savagely. Mercilessly. The pain was excruciating.
He screamed again until his throat felt shredded. Still the mouth drew the blood from his body. He began to moan. In pain. A single note. The sound he’d always craved to hear from the women he tortured and killed. The women in the fog picked up the note and harmonized with him. He was surrounded by their moans. He felt the moans in his body. In the fiery never-ending pain in his throat.