Sins of the Night (Kith and Kynn Series #2)

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Mind trapped in the manacles of a nightmare, Adrien fought to drag his sleeping soul away from the dreadful abyss unconsciousness had plunged him into. The devils of his dreamscape world were unmerciful, digging steel-tipped claws of fear and oppression deep into his psyche.

He fought harder, thrashing to escape a realm existing only when he closed his eyes. Eyes blazing with flames, the twin demons smacked their lips. The sound of obscene laughter shredded his soul as surely as their nails ripped his naked flesh asunder. Parting his rib cage, they gazed upon his heart and then lifted it from his chest. Blood drizzled from the pulsing organ even as awareness that he was dying filtered into his dim brain. A final desperate scream burbled from his lips, the agonized wail of the damned soul....

Finding and seizing consciousness, Adrien's eyes snapped open. Through a long moment he found himself looking at ... nothing. His vision was blurry, disturbingly blank.

Comprehending that some sort of a white veil covered his face he instinctively lashed out, half expecting his arm to remain immobile. Sweeping the sheet away from his head, he caught sight of a shadowy figure. Leaping to his feet, his muscles coiled in anticipation of the coming attack.

No intruder lurked. Instead, he was confronted with his own reflection in the nearby mirror: a huge man thrashing like a chicken in convulsions. Relief flooded his body, a merciful release from the tension. He was safe. It was only a nightmare.

A thin smile warped his lips. Drawing a shallow breath, Adrien visually checked every corner. His hands trembled slightly until he clenched his fists. Just to be sure.

Shaking his head, he dropped back onto the mattress. He pushed damp strands of hair away from his face. Jesus, he practically dripped sweat. And no wonder. Elusive wisps of his dream continued to linger. He could see the images floating like ghosts over open graves in the back of his mind. He shook his head slightly to chase them away.

Hard to do, even in the privacy of his own bedroom. A chill insisted on skittering down his spine, settling into tight cold knots in the pit of his stomach.

Brow furrowing, he frowned and cursed softly. "Christ. That can stop." Pressing his palms to his face, he took several deep breaths. The act of drawing air into his lungs, then slowly exhaling, helped calm him.

He relaxed ever so slightly. Tension eased to a more manageable level. Fear was the formidable beast haunting his dreams, a nasty imp visiting him time and time again. He hated feeling overwhelmed and out of control. It frightened him more than he cared to admit.

His nightmare was not the ruminations of a mentally disturbed psyche. What he dreamt had actually taken place. Images of his former captors were seared onto the walls inside his skull. If he closed his eyes he could easily slip back into the mental, physical, and sexual bondage they'd inflicted.

An unbidden tremor scratched its way up his spine. He doubted he'd ever be able to successfully vanquish the memories of his appalling kidnap and rape. The memories never failed to come when he tried to sleep, seeping from the cemetery of bones littering his brain. He glanced down at his wrists. Both were scarred by rope burns. Though he was presently a free man, he'd been tied down for so many years that he was almost unfamiliar with the concept of uninhibited movement.

It's over now. He swallowed down bitter acid. My life is again my own.

Still, fear lingered. Part of the reason he continued to have trouble resting, even in the daytime. His gaze jumped to his wrists. Vision blurring, anxiety knotted through him all over again. Torture wasn't easy to forget. And he certainly hadn't forgiven.

Adrien rubbed his eyes. "Why do I even bother?" Shrouded in shadows, his room was dim and cool. Heavy blinds were drawn against the bright light of the afternoon.

The digital at his bedside gave the time. Three thirty in the afternoon; much too early to get up. The sun wouldn't be going down for at least another hour and a half. That's what he liked about winter. The days were shorter, the nights much longer. Maybe he could doze a bit, then get up in an hour or so.

Adrien punched his pillow into shape, then rolled over onto his side. A slight smile crossed his lips when he saw a spill of black across the pillow beside his. Gisele still slept in her place, undisturbed by his thrashing. Glad he hadn't disturbed her, he stroked her soft, silky hair. The most beautiful shade of smoke he'd ever seen, her hair was her crowning glory.

At his touch Gisele rolled over and stretched, giving a big yawn. Wide, almond-shaped eyes revealed startlingly green orbs flecked with gold. She stared up at him, a question mark on her face.

Adrien quirked an apologetic grin in her direction. "I know it's too early to get up, Gizzy." He sighed, then added with resignation, "I just can't sleep."

Gisele looked at him with a look guaranteed to melt pure stone. Then she turned up her cute pug nose and meowed.

Fingers flexing around her head, Adrien gave her a series of scratches behind her ears. Persian cats were his weakness, and he loved owning them. He and Gisele had been together five years, and hers had been the only warm body to share his bed in a long time. She never questioned his odd hours and the fact that he only went out at night. She was always there, calming him when he was upset and offering a love that was unconditional.

A wet nose touched his fingertips, hinting for more pats.

Adrien stroked the cat's soft fur, calmed by her trilling purr, so peaceful and content. This was how he wished he felt inside, but peace and contentment eluded him. The paths he insisted on treading took him toward unhallowed ground that was his mental hell. He ruthlessly dug up the old graves again and again, examining the rotted corpses.

More than his human life been taken away by the demonic beasts masquerading in human guise; he'd been robbed of his soul. The thing inside looked like him, acted like him. Deep down inside, though, the man known as Adrien Roth had died when Lilith's tainted blood invaded his body.

Sleep wouldn't come.

Adrien sighed and tossed aside the bedcovers, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed to stand up. Urging Gisele off her pillow, he quickly straightened the sheets and tucked the bedspread into place. By the time he finished, the bed was perfectly made. Disorder disturbed him. He needed to have everything in its place. More than a part of a compulsive personality, such care was necessary. He had to maintain a façade of normalcy. He could only live with what had happened and try to go on. He called it staying sane.

If nothing else, he was a survivor.

Adrien headed toward the adjoining bathroom to take a quick shower. Lathering up, he could not help but notice the multitude of tiny scars marring his neck and abdomen. Lilith had used him well to sate her many hungers-for blood, for sex. More than her scars marred his skin. Her demonic brand was burned into his left shoulder. The "slave" collar he'd been forced to wear still cast its thin scores around his neck.

He didn't want to think about Lilith. Not today. Face twisting into a scowl, he redoubled his scrubbing efforts, as if by adding more soap and rubbing harder he could wash away the hateful marks. He couldn't, but the act of cleansing his body made him feel a little less tainted. Rinsing the soap off, he turned off the water and snagged a towel.

Fingering his chin, he decided yesterday's stubble was acceptable; it added to the bad boy outlaw biker look he'd cultivated lately. He could use a haircut, though. Thick brown hair tumbled around his shoulders. He looked like a shaggy dog, all scruffy and unkempt. He skipped a shave and pulled his hair back with a band, then dressed in jeans, a sleeveless T-shirt, and black biker boots.

Gisele waited for him in the kitchen. She wove between his legs, demanding attention. Getting up meant it was time to eat, and she wanted her food. Now.

Adrien laughed, retrieving a bowl and can of food from the cabinet. "Yes, my lady. Always at your service."

He popped the top, spooned out tender flakes, then filled a second bowl with fresh, cool water. Gisele ate only the finest money could buy. Cheap and off brand wasn't good enough for this finicky feline. She knew what she was-a pedigree-and she knew that she deserved it, too. Her owner wouldn't have it any other way.

As Gisele munched, Adrien made a cup of instant coffee, heating water in the microwave. Sugar and a liberal dash of bourbon made it palatable. Sipping the hot liquid, he leaned against the counter. The rush of caffeine gave him an instant boost. He wasn't hungry. Later, he would fix something to eat. Who could face eating first thing after getting up? At this point food was a thing he consumed to live, not the other way around.

Glancing around, he mentally assessed the place that could barely be classified as a dump. The little post-WW2 cracker box didn't come close to the Taj Mahal. It didn't qualify as bohemian chic, or even decent. Out in the middle of nowhere, electricity and water service were negligible. You were lucky to have one, blessed to have both.

Still, it served its purpose. This place wasn't for putting down roots. Just a temporary roost. He wouldn't even be staying that much longer. A week, maybe two, before he had to get moving again. Personally, he owned nothing more than his clothes, cat, and motorcycle. Gisele had a kitty carry that she rode in, though she was happier when stuffed in his backpack, furry head sticking out so she could watch the landscape go by.

Finishing his first cup, he fixed a second, pouring in extra booze. There. That would do just fine for breakfast.

Retrieving yesterday's paper, he sat down at the kitchen table to read. The table wobbled alarmingly, one leg shorter than the other. He'd solved the problem by pushing it against the wall and shoving a Reader's Digest condensed book under the short side. Nobody really read those things anyway. The paper didn't succeed in keeping his attention. Instead, his gaze drifted to his wallet and keys.

He reached out and picked up the folded leather case. Opening it revealed the usual items: driver's license, Social Security card, fifty dollars in small bills. No pictures, though, or any other items that would mark it as a truly personal possession-anyone finding it would take the cash and toss it. The address was a local post office box, not a physical address. He'd deliberately chosen a small rural farming area where there was no home mail delivery. All mail had to be picked up at the post office the next town over.

Sliding the wallet in his back pocket, his tongue worried the inside of his cheek. Adrien Roth did not exist anymore, hadn't existed for a long time. He was presently A. J. Bremmer, and the life he was living did not belong to him. The day and age he was born to was now one hundred and forty-one years in the past.

He'd gotten used to borrowing other people's names. All part of surviving in the modern world, when one's life had overrun its natural span.

Another sigh. The cash layout for a new identity hadn't come cheap. His funds were running short. He had only a few thousand dollars, hardly enough to keep body and soul together long.

It's enough to see me through this.

Adrien flexed his fingers. His were hands that had taken many lives. His avowed mission was to kill the beasts haunting the night in search of victims. There was no turning his back on his own true birthright.

Amhais.

Shadow-stalker.

Another sip, but this time his coffee tasted bitter. He swallowed, fighting a rush of nausea. His stomach curdled, churning acid. As a human being, he'd never imagined viewing the world through other eyes. As a Kynn, he not only saw, but perceived the veiled realms existing beyond mortal boundaries and limitations.

He'd always expected to lose his life in the hunt, never anticipating that he would one day join their ranks. He had all the gifts of the incubi, and their curse. He didn't choose or covet the ways of such misbegotten beasts. The appetites of his "kith" were insatiable, forbidden, and unholy. He continually cursed his own fall to his need to survive even as he secretly anticipated the hunt for fresh conquests.

As much as I might despise what I am, I am one of them.

His penance for his own crimes against humanity must be-and always would be-total isolation. He would never walk with a mate, or sire another like himself. Until the day he died, he would be alone.

Adrien sighed, lips pressing together in distaste. His coffee was cold, the cup more than half full. He didn't want any more. There was a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, and he knew too well that that meant. Two weeks since he'd last fed.

He was pushing the edge, keeping himself hungry in some sort of self-imposed penance he didn't entirely understand. He didn't like what he was, didn't relish what he had to do to survive. But he had accepted it because the alternative-not existing at all-was even more frightening. Becoming part of the clan had changed him in more ways than one. The man he'd been before his capture and torture was a person he could never aspire to be again. He had never considered himself an innocent. He knew the ways of the world.

He thought about the dream again. It never left his mind, lurking at the edge of his consciousness, just waiting for his eyelids to fall, for the walls of mental defense to crumble in his sleep.

Why did he still fear her? Lilith was decades in her grave, but her memory lingered in the vaults of his mind, rising up like a demonic angel from a sealed tomb. When she'd sired him, he'd become one of them.

Fallen from grace.

Cast into hell.

Eternally.

There was no redemption.

But there was revenge.

"Not just Devon." His hands closed into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. The pain was welcome, reaffirming the direction he'd chosen to take. "Far from it."

Carnavorn had a wife now, a very pregnant wife. Normally the Kynn did not reproduce but recruited from the ranks of human beings. Somehow some deviant force had brought together two unique souls who were able to procreate. Devon's present wife, Rachel, was six months pregnant.

Adrien had often questioned his destiny, wondering what perverse god of justice maneuvered to drop him into the center of his enemy's camp. Now there was no more wondering. Recent events led him to believe that he'd been chosen for a holy mission.

"Three months before hell's spawn is delivered into this world," he growled, not caring that no human ears listened. "Just enough time left to put Carnavorn and his kith in their graves."

Like a hound on the scent of possum, Adrien felt his calling as an Amhais more strongly than ever before. He was anointed, the lone man who could prevent the birthing of a new race.

An unbidden smile turned up one corner of his mouth. Devon Carnavorn was soon going to be in for one hell of a surprise.

Draining the last of his coffee, Adrien pushed away from the table. "I hope you enjoy the gift, my friend." A vicious chuckle escaped. "It's only the beginning."

Chapter Two
Warren, California Hammerston Manor, present day

One hand resting on her protruding stomach, Rachel Carnavorn struggled to lower her awkward body into a chair. Feeling her rear connect with the cushion, she smiled in relief. "Whew, for a minute I was afraid my butt was bigger than the seat."

Devon Carnavorn hovered anxiously at his wife's side, ready to offer assistance. "Are you sure you should be up, darling?"

Rachel tilted her head back, treating him to a flash of her dazzling blue eyes. Black hair a tousle around her face, she smiled. "I know the doctor ordered me to rest, but I'm so tired of being stuck in bed, looking at the same four walls."

Her gaze turned longingly toward the back gardens. Outside the bay windows the darkening horizon was a mixture of pinks and deepening navy hues. In another few minutes the sun would disappear into the west and night would spread its velvet cloak over the sleepy sky. "It seems like forever since I've been outside the house."

Devon caught her hint. "Maybe you'll be up to sitting in the garden a little this evening."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Sins of the Night by DEVYN QUINN Copyright © 2008 by Devyn Quinn. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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