Free Dark Ghost by Christine Feehan

They will all be found and returned to their parents.”
    He shook his head. “No. You can’t do that. My mother. My father. It would kill them. My family’s name would be dragged through the mud, and for what? Who were they? Stupid women. They wanted me. They liked what they got. They begged for it.” He pointed his finger, the one that burned and hurt but he refused to acknowledge because none of this was real.
    “I woke hungry. Starved. I need to feed. We’ll talk after,” the reaper said.
    Armend blinked. He looked down at his cooking pot. He’d forgotten he was making food when the fog bank had rolled in. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the reaper was directly in front of him. One moment he’d been several feet away and the next he was close, in Armend’s personal space.
    He was big up close. Solid. All muscle. Intimidating. He threw off the hood and looked down into Armend’s face. And then he smiled. Armend shrieked like a woman, a high-pitched, terrified cry that echoed around the boulders. Armend was looking directly into the mouth of a vampire.
    The moan of the women rose to a fever pitch. The wolves snarled and growled, their impatience rising with their dinner but a few feet away. Armend tried to move, but his feet were frozen into the ground. Stuck. Leaden. He could only stare at the man who appeared almost beautiful, his face wholly masculine, his eyes cold as he lowered his head toward Armend.
    “Get away,” Armend yelled, trying to punch at the vampire’s face as it came closer to him.
    The unholy smile widened. “Are you feeling what those women felt, Armend? The fear? The terror of being helpless? Are you afraid of what I will do to you? Tear through your skin with my teeth? Bite you savagely the way you bit my woman? I’ll drink your blood. I can make you my puppet. I can take your mind. What will I do? Isn’t that the game you played with those helpless women?”
    “Please. My family has money. I’ll do anything.” The teeth kept coming closer and closer. The pulse throbbed in Armend’s neck. He couldn’t stop it. Even holding his breath didn’t stop it. His heart hammered away, calling to the vampire.
    “Did begging and pleading and bargaining work for any of those women you murdered? Even one of them?”
    “Oh, God. This can’t be happening,” Armend wailed.
    The hand on his shoulder, turning him, was gentle, but there was no way to break the implacable grip. The other hand went to his head, pushing it to one side to expose the throbbing vein. He felt hot breath. Teeth tore into him savagely. Mercilessly. The pain was excruciating.
    He screamed again until his throat felt shredded. Still the mouth drew the blood from his body. He began to moan. In pain. A single note. The sound he’d always craved to hear from the women he tortured and killed. The women in the fog picked up the note and harmonized with him. He was surrounded by their moans. He felt the moans in his body. In the fiery never-ending pain in his throat.
    He was cold. Shivering with cold. With fear. Where were his friends? He couldn’t die this way. He couldn’t die by the hand of a vampire, surrounded by the stupid bitches who had drooled over him and then screamed and cried when he gave them what they wanted – what they deserved.
    Why are you doing this to me?
He wanted to scream the words aloud, but he couldn’t talk, not with the vampire ripping out his throat.
Those women were nothing. Nothing at all. They were put here to be used.
    That’s how you viewed my woman? As nothing?
 
    Armend knew he’d made a terrible mistake. It was there in the soft voice moving through his mind. He couldn’t take back anything. There was no way to undo it all. The vampire could read his thoughts, and that meant he could see into Armend’s mind. He could see the truth there. He could see the ever-present need to feed off the pain he inflicted on the women. He liked the power. He craved it. He would always need