Demon's Hunger Read Online Free Page A

quick glance at the silent television, and John continued. "They found another one. Another guy. Same MO. Drained dry, desiccated, tortured, and his guts… His intestines looked like they'd been gnawed on while he was still alive." He huffed out a breath. "They brought him in to St. Mike's. Something wrong with that body. Really wrong. Evil . No man could have done that. No human."
    John took a long swallow of his coffee, the fresh cup the waitress had brought. "Whoever— whatever —killed him took a prize. A trophy. The guy's left patella " he cleared his throat—"his, uh, left kneecap was cut out." He raised haunted eyes, his face chalk-pale. "It was my goddamned lousy luck to be working the ER last night. Made me wonder why the hell I thought I could be a doctor. Right now, I'm wondering if I have the stomach for it."
    Darqun studied John for a moment, then lifted his coffee cup as a toast. "Think of the glass as half full, John," he said bluntly, but not without sympathy. " Your luck was better than his."
    The sound of the doorbell pierced the bubble of Vivien's distress. She turned slowly, disoriented, woozy, and more than a little afraid. In a blink, she'd misplaced twelve hours.
    She remembered warming the mug of soup while staring out the kitchen window at the winking stars. They were so bright and beautiful here north of the city, undiluted by ambient light.
    Now, she stood by the sliding glass doors. Between one breath and the next, the stars had disappeared. Daylight poured through the glass, slanting across the living room floor, the green leather couch, the glass and iron coffee table. In a fleeting instant, night had turned to day, and she had no explanation for that, other than the distinctly unpleasant possibility that she was losing her mind.
    Pressing the flat of her hand against her chest, she struggled for calm. How long had she been standing here with the soup puddling at her feet?
    Again, the doorbell chimed. She was… expecting someone. The vague thought gnawed at her, but the details escaped her. She cast an anxious look at the mess of soup and shards of ceramic mug.
    Okay. Front door, then cleanup.
    Then meltdown.
    Having a game plan was important.
    Feeling as though she were walking underwater, she crossed the living room to the hall and shuffled to the door. Her trembling fingers closed on the brass doorknob. The certainty that she was expecting someone grew stronger, bringing a nagging distress because she couldn't remember .
    Deep breaths. Yes, that was better. One more. Her chest expanded until she felt the pull of it, felt the intense urge to exhale. She let the air slide from her in a rush.
    Resting her open palm on the wall, she began leaning forward to peer through the peephole. Before she got the chance to open the door, it swung open, seemingly of its own accord. With a gasp, she jerked back, lost her breath, and after a thready moment, recovered.
    She knew she'd locked that door, shot the bolt. She was certain of it. Wasn't she?
    There was a man on her front porch, dressed in faded jeans, a loose poet's shirt, and a long black duster. His angular features were hard, handsome, perhaps a little savage. He hadn't shaved in a day, maybe two, and the shadow did really great things for him, gave him a sort of outlaw veneer. Brown-black hair, cut in a short, shaggy crop. Straight brows, straight nose, strong jaw. He was absolutely, amazingly gorgeous.
    "Holy flying fish." It just jumped out. Odd, because she had a tendency to watch her words.
    He pushed off the porch rail where he'd been waiting and straightened to his full height. Vivien had the disconcerting realization that she had to look up quite a few inches to meet his gaze, a rare experience for a girl who stood five foot nine in her stockinged feet.
    He studied her, intent. Silvered eyes. Mercury gray, ice gray, framed in dark, thick lashes. The contrast defied description.
    "Dr. Vivien Cairn?" he asked.
    She'd never thought her name