Free Blood Possession by Tessa Dawn Page A

a hard tug, quickly yanking it out of the wall.
    He cocked his head to the side like a confused canine as he measured the broken glass along the front of the screen and sniffed at the remaining wisps of smoke. “Shit, I need another drink.”
    Low, taunting laughter echoed through the room.
    It crept up the walls, swirled along the ceiling, and dropped down again to envelop the man where he stood. Angus jumped back and threw up his fists. “What the hell kind of game is this? Who’s there! Show yourself, you asshole.” He hurried back to the kitchen, threw open a cabinet door, and retrieved what appeared to be an old Smith & Wesson revolver, and then quickly returned to the living room, waving it in front of him. “I’ve got a gun, you prick. Still want to play with me?”
    Still invisible, Napolean silently approached the filthy man and then abruptly slapped him across the face with an open hand. Angus’s nose shattered like a walnut beneath a nutcracker, and several teeth shot out of his mouth as his feet rose up from the carpet and he flew backward into the wall. The revolver flew out of his hand as he hit with a thud, and something in his hip snapped, crackled, and popped.
    He screamed in pain. “What are you? Where are you? I don’t believe in ghosts!” The words came out gurgled as he choked on his own blood and struggled for air.
    Napolean chuckled, although the lethal sound was devoid of humor. Having divided his life-force into two separate spaces, he now projected his image into the ethereal energy that stood in Monahan’s apartment. “I’m right here,” he whispered, coming into full view with deadly fangs, protruding claws, and glowing eyes.
    “Holy shit!” Angus’s eyes shot open and he scrambled about the floor, favoring his broken hip, searching the room for his weapon.
    Napolean took one step forward and stomped the revolver with his foot, reducing it to smithereens as if it were nothing more than a puny insect.
    “You’re not real,” Angus panted. He rubbed his eyes and then patted the center of his face where his nose used to be. He stared at the empty beer bottles on the floor by the couch. “I’ve had too much to drink.”
    Napolean closed the distance between them in three stealthy strides and towered over the human with fury in his eyes. “Oh, I’m very real,” he taunted. He snatched him by the neckline of his shirt and yanked him onto his feet. “Stand up!”
    Urine trickled down Angus’s leg, and tears poured out of his eyes, making it next to impossible for the man to breathe. “Please, please, man…I mean, what the—”
    “Shut. Up.” Napolean pressed the heel of his hand to Angus’s windpipe, and the man’s remaining teeth literally chattered.
    “Please…” He wept like a baby.
    Napolean scowled. “Is that how Brooke cried? Did she say please ?”
    Angus’s eyes narrowed and his brow creased as he appeared to search for meaning in the words. “What? Who? Brooke?” He shook his head furiously. “No…no…no, man; you’ve got the wrong guy!”
    Napolean froze then. He closed his eyes and held his breath, taking most of the air out of the room with him. The bastard didn’t even remember. “You don’t know the name of your stepdaughter?” He lowered his head until his fangs brushed against Angus’s throat, and then he growled against his skin. “You don’t remember what you did… to Brooke …at the cabin…by the lake?” He met Angus’s blank stare and then forced his way into the human’s mind like a surgeon, rousing the memory with such precision and strength that it must have felt like a scalpel slicing into his brain.
    Angus clasped his head on both sides and cried out. When his eyes met Napolean’s, they were so laced with dread—and understanding—that the pupils had dilated. “How do you know Brooke?” he whispered, shaking.
    Napolean considered the question for the briefest of moments, wanting to couch the answer in terms the man would