Darkness Devours (Dark Angels 3)

“Yes,” Marshall said. “As has been noted, they were long-term addictives. Unfortunately, the longer the term, the greater the need.”

That wasn’t unusual when it came to any sort of addiction, but we weren’t talking about an inanimate substance here; we were talking about human life. I couldn’t help asking, “But surely there comes a time when such an addiction becomes too dangerous for both the abuser and the vampire population in general?”

“It does,” Hunter said, her expression impassive yet cold. “And when that happens, it is dealt with appropriately.”

Meaning good-bye addictive. I rubbed my arms. “So what time did they all stop using these rooms?”

“All four were stopped from using the facilities just after one a.m.”

And the hour between midnight and one was witching hour—the hour when all things dark and dangerous came out to play.

“That,” Azriel said softly, “is a possible link.”

Hunter’s eyebrows rose delicately. “Why?”

He regarded her steadily, and I suddenly wished I could read his thoughts. I had the distinct impression they’d be very interesting right now.

He ignored her question and asked instead, “Were blood whores killed in this room the nights the addicted vampires were murdered?”

Marshall glanced at Hunter and, at her nod, said, “Yes. In each case there were fatalities.”

So much for the whores being well looked after, I thought, as anger surged. My gaze flicked to the silent three, and I felt an answering rise of emotion in them—anger or hunger, I wasn’t entirely sure which. But in this situation, one was as deadly as the other. I returned my attention to Hunter and fought for calm.

Azriel stepped closer, his shoulder pressing against mine. I didn’t know if it was for my benefit or theirs, and I didn’t really care.

“Then that is the link,” he said. “The hour between midnight and one is a very powerful time. When bloodshed is combined with anger and the desperation for revenge, it becomes a call few dark ones could resist. I’m surprised only the Rakshasa has answered.”

I looked at him. “So if the bloodshed stopped, the Rakshasa would be less likely to appear?”

“That,” Hunter said immediately, “is never going to happen.”

“Not even to save lives?”

“The object here is not to save the lives of people I care less than zero about, but to find this thing and stop it. As your reaper will no doubt confirm, the Rakshasa will just move on to less tasty hunting fields if we are not successful here. Such is the nature of a killer.”

And the five of them would know all about that. “So what do you expect me to do?”

She smiled, and it was the smile of a predator whose prey had just stepped neatly into a trap.

But she didn’t answer. The tallest of the three councillors, a thin man with dark auburn hair and muddy, empty eyes, stepped forward.

“What we expect”—his voice was like silk, smooth and sensuous—“is for you to be here every night from midnight to dawn to wait for this thing to appear.”

Horror spread through me. Spend half the night here? Every night? With a room filled with blood-addicted vampires above me and a bloodbath around me?

“Are you insane?” The words were out before I’d really thought about them, and that coiled sense of darkness sharpened abruptly. For several seconds I couldn’t even breathe.

“The sanity of the council may be a debatable point, but it is not the question we seek to answer here,” he said softly. “You and your pet reaper will wait here for this thing, and then you will stop it by whatever means necessary.”

I felt Azriel’s move before he even made it, and pressed a hand against the flat of his stomach, stopping him. But his anger surged past me, churning the ghosts into a frenzied dance of horror.

The councillors seemed unmoved.

“Why?” I asked bluntly. “I thought the keys were the priority, not this thing. If I die here, those keys will remain out of your reach forever.”

“And if you do not stop this thing within the next seventy-two hours, the end result will be the same.”

I frowned, confused. “What result?”