Read Dark Hunger for Free Online Page B

technicalities.
    Now he was dead.
    Was Quinton Valtrez responsible, or was her information incorrect?
    A second photo was inside the envelope, and her heart hammered as she pulled it out. The scene in the picture wrenched her heart all over again—the bombing on Halloween.
    Suddenly her phone vibrated at her belt, indicating she had a message. She flipped it open, and her heart lurched as she read it:

Like the fireworks? Stay tuned. More on the way.

N OVEMBER 2 , A LL S OULS ’ D AY

    Quinton steered the Range Rover around the Tennessee mountain roads, his Glock weighing heavy against his chest where he’d stowed it inside his shoulder holster.
    He had no idea what he was going to encounter, but he had to be ready for anything.
    Gigantic trees and sharp ridges climbed and rolled, the bare branches swaying with the force of the fall wind, reminding him of the Tennessee mountains where the monks had told him he’d grown up. He’d heard tales of the Black Forest and the strange, inhuman creatures that lived within the dark woods, the serpents and screaming vines that ate humans, the place where no life existed, only shadows, darkness.
    The stories of evil and sin thriving across the land, of the Twilight Guards, who guarded the realm between the mortal and demonic worlds, of the Soul Collectors, who preyed on the weak to steal their souls for Satan, the werecreatures and monsters who lived in the shadows, the Night Stalkers, who could shape-shift into demons or humans at will, the legends of the Sacred Places and the Wasteland for Lost Souls…
    He had been terrified as a kid.
    Because he’d seen into the monks’ minds and known the stories were true.
    With his gift, he didn’t doubt there were others among him who possessed supernatural powers, both good and bad.
    But he had learned to channel his fear of demons because they’d never shown themselves to him. Then he’d escaped the mountains and tales, only to come face-to-face with human monsters.
    Those he could fight.
    Yet the monks had predicted that the demons would come in time. That he must train and focus so he could fight his enemies.
    Was this the time?
    He maneuvered the narrow, winding road, the stiff peaks and ridges swallowing him in their folds as he neared the address Vincent had given him.
    The log cabin sat at the top of the ridge, its back deck jutting over the cliff, offering a breathtaking but terrifying view of the miles of rugged terrain stretching below with its dangers and unforgiving rock.
    He visually assessed the isolated area. If Vincent intended to kill him, he could easily dump his body into the forest and let the animals feed on his remains, and no one would be the wiser.
    He patted the Glock inside his jacket, checked his backup pistol and the knife strapped to his ankle, then climbed out, adjusting his shades as his eyes were sometimes supersensitive to light, a product of being locked in the dark for long periods of time as a child.
    He scanned the periphery of the log cabin, his senses kicking in. A vulture soared above as if waiting on death to strike.
    The scent of the forest engulfed him, the trees, the animals, the stench of blood and death. The sound of scampering squirrels foraging for food, the growl of a mountain lion in search of prey, the flap of a hawk’s wings against the frigid air. A rattlesnake hissed in the distance, followed by the undeniable screech of one animal attacking another.
    Memories of his days of isolation in the monastery and the mountains returned, along with his sniper training, and he steadied his breathing. Calm. Cool. Detached.
    Trust no one. Suspect everyone.
    The front door opened and he squared his shoulders, automatically moving one hand over the weapon inside his bomber jacket, bracing himself for attack.
    The man who walked out was an inch taller than him, and Quinton was a big man. Vincent had black hair and eyes… eyes just like his own. Black. Cold. Emotionless.
    Quinton forced a mental