Dark Hunger by Rita Herron

and you’ll be the hero of my story.”
    He barked a laugh. A demonborn hero—yeah, right.
    But he didn’t have time to worry about what she’d report.
    The clock was ticking. They had to figure out where this next strike would take place.
    She winced slightly as they took the elevator and then battled the wind as they walked to his car. But she didn’t complain as she settled inside. He drove to his place first and threw together a bag, went to the B and B where she retrieved her things, and then hit the road toward Charleston.
    On the way, he called Detective Crawley to inform him of his plans, then his contacts at Homeland Security to tell them about the message Annabelle had received.
    “We’ll get on it,” Chief Tarrington said. “I’ll try to pinpoint possible locations where the bomber might attack.”
    “Anything on the terrorist-cell side?” Quinton asked.
    “Nothing so far. But all our operatives are working with the CIA and FBI trying to locate the source. Meanwhile, meet with the locals and let them know you’re on the job.”
    “Copy that.” Quinton hung up, worry gnawing at him. So far, they’d found no connection to a terrorist group. And they might not.
    Not if they were dealing with a demon.
    Annabelle sighed and rested her head back against the seat. The bruise on her forehead made the thirst for revenge tap at the brink of his control.
    He imagined finding the man responsible for putting Annabelle in the hospital and for cruelly taking so many lives. He’d tie him down and beat him until blood poured from his nose and mouth. Then he’d torture him as he himself had been tortured before. He’d strip him naked, make him lie in his blood, make him taste it, make him beg to be released.
    The corner of his mouth tilted upward. He could hear the man’s screams and curses, the screech of his voice begging for mercy. A mercy that wouldn’t come, not at Quinton’s hands.
    Nightmares haunted Annabelle. Her car exploding. A faceless madman chasing her.
    A man clothed in black about to kill her. A demon… Quinton.
    No, she didn’t believe in demons…
    She struggled through the bleak memories to a time when she was safe, when nothing could harm her and her future was anything she wanted it to be.
    She was five years old, sitting by a blazing fire, happily playing with the new train set Santa had brought her, the twinkling white Christmas lights dancing along the caboose. Her father rose from his chair, then knelt on the floor beside her and grinned. “That train will take you any place you want to go, Annabelle. All you have to do is dream.”
    Her mother, who’d been relaxing in the big overstuffed chair sipping tea, joined them. “Where do you want to go, sweetie?”
    “All over the world.” She’d jumped up and grabbed the camera her parents had given her and snapped a picture of them. “And I want you to go with me.”
    Her father had clasped her mother’s hand and kissed it. “We’ll always be a family,” her mother said.
    “Sandwich!” Annabelle said with a laugh. It was her favorite game. She squeezed between her parents while they hugged, pretending they were two slices of bread and she was the bologna, and they all laughed.
    She jerked awake, a well of sadness engulfing her as reality crashed back. It wasn’t real. Her parents were gone. She’d been dreaming.
    Then she inhaled a masculine scent, the raw primal one that had been driving her crazy the last few days, and she glanced at Quinton.
    God, the man was mysterious. Still, he intrigued her and stirred wicked fantasies in her mind.
    At the same time, he terrified her.
    His steely gaze met hers, and she swiped at the tears, embarrassed at her display of emotion.
    “Nightmares?” he asked.
    She nodded. “I was thinking about my father.”
    “Where is he?” Quinton asked.
    “I don’t know.” Annabelle sighed. “My mother died about six months ago. The night of the funeral, he disappeared. I haven’t heard from