Dark destiny, p.1
Dark Destiny, page 1
Dark Destiny
Dark Sentinel, Book One
Lexxie Couper
Contents
Blurb
Copyright
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
More Romance From Lexxie Couper…
Dark Embrace
About Lexxie Couper
Is love enough to save the world?
The First Horseman of the Apocalypse, Pestilence is tired of waiting. Mankind is his to destroy. But first he has to defeat one of his own, the Fourth Horseman, Death, along with the lowly human she’s so fond of. The one prophesised to save the world.
Patrick Watkins wasn’t prepared for the way his body—and soul—respond to Death when she suddenly appears in his bedroom. He’s just a normal guy, saving lives at Australia’s busiest beach. But a lifetime of feeling he’s meant for something bigger haunts him, and it only intensifies at Death’s touch and crystalises with her kiss.
Death isn’t interested in bringing about the end of humanity. She’s focused on claiming the souls of the departed, thank you very much. And then she encounters Patrick Watkins. There’s an enigmatic significance to the sexy Australian that pulls on her very existence. And makes her question her very purpose.
Falling in lust with a human isn’t a problem, but falling in love with one? The one who stands in Pestilence’s way. That’s dangerous.
Apocalypse-level dangerous.
When it comes to love or duty, for Death and Patrick, picking a side might just lead to the end. Of everything.
Dark Destiny
Copyright © 2020 by Lexxie Couper
Published November 2020
Editing by Heidi Shoham
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced nor used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for use of brief quotations in a book review.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used facetiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication
For Paula.
Who believed in me.
“And power was given unto them, the Four Horsemen, over a fourth of the earth to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.”
Revelation 6:8
1
“Ven, you’re being an idiot.”
Seriously, if his brother wasn’t already dead, he’d kill him.
Turning from the sea-spray-crusted window, Patrick Watkins ground his teeth, mobile phone clenched in his right hand, blood boiling with frustration. “I’m not coming home. I have a job to do and I’m not leaving the beach just because you’ve got a freaking bee in your bonnet.”
“When are you going to listen to me, brother?” Ven’s normally deep voice growled unnaturally deeper. Whether from anger, worry, or the high position of the sun, Patrick didn’t know. Ven was usually asleep at midday. Being awake and in an argument with his younger brother probably brought the demon lurking in Ven’s blood closer to the surface than usual.
Patrick didn’t care. Not with the way Ven was carrying on. Anyone would think Patrick was walking around with a Kill Me sign taped to his back.
“It feels wrong,” Ven grumbled. “Let the other guards babysit the tourists. You’re the boss. Delegate.”
“Yes, Ven. I am the boss.” Patrick turned back to the window, studying the thousands of swimmers—tourists and locals alike—enjoy the gorgeous summer’s day at Bondi Beach. “Which means I can’t just bugger off.”
Danger lurked out there in the famous beach’s crystal blue waves. Sharks. Rips. Undertows. Blue-bottles…all waiting to catch a swimmer unaware. To bring pain, suffering, maybe even death. He’d be damned if he was leaving those swimmers’ fates to chance. His team was good. Better than good. God knew, Bluey, his second-in-command, had been swimming since birth. The senior lifeguard’s rescue rate was the second highest in the country after his own, but—like Ven—Patrick had an uneasy knot in his gut today.
Unlike Ven, Patrick’s sense of disquiet had nothing to do with a supposed attack from an unknown “thing” and everything to do with the large number of people enjoying the famous stretch of beach.
Ven existed in the inhuman, paranormal world. Patrick didn’t. On a day like today, there were close to forty-thousand human souls on the sand and in the water and that equaled roughly forty-thousand possible drownings, shark-attack victims, blue-bottle stings…
Patrick’s gut knotted again. No matter what bizarre threat Ven’s paranoia created, he couldn’t leave work.
But he’s not being paranoid. You know that. And you know exactly what threat—
Shutting down the unwanted thought, Patrick scanned the surf before him, zeroing his focus down on a group of three tourists bobbing ignorantly close to Backpacker’s Express. If the beach’s notorious and infamous rip took them into its embrace, they’d be out to sea and two miles south before they even realized they were no longer in Bondi waters. It would take at least four lifeguards to round them up, leaving seven to keep the rest of the beach’s visitors safe. Seven people to deal with any emergency on the mile-long stretch. His team couldn’t do that without their boss, no matter how good they were.
He bit back a frustrated sigh. Just a typical day at work. Danger and death lurking everywhere. He couldn’t pack it all in just because his brother thought he was in danger. Besides, it was the middle of the day. What type of paranormal nasty attacked in the middle of the bloody day? And on a busy beach, no less?
The kind in a black suit, maybe?
The silent question scratched at his mind, but he ignored it, returning his attention to the packed surf instead. It was a glorious summer day on Australia’s most famous beach. Perfect, in fact. Blue, cloudless sky, clean five-foot waves, warm seventy-one degree water. If said unseen paranormal attack was going to happen, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be today. What Patrick would more likely be confronted with on a day like today, what the knot in his gut was probably warning him about, was the possibility of a careless, overconfident tourist taking their life in their hands by not swimming between the flags. That, he could deal with on his own. He didn’t need his vampire big brother to save a drowning person. When it came down to it, Ven wasn’t up to swimming these days anyway, not during sunlight at least. Picking up his old board for a midnight surf or two, sure…when he wasn’t trying to protect Patrick from threats from who the hell knows, that was.
Shaking his head, Patrick lifted his phone closer to his mouth. “Sorry, Ven. I’m staying put. Either come get me or go back to sleep.”
“Ha, ha,” Ven muttered. “Really funny. Will you bloody well listen to reason for a—”
“I gotta go, mate.” Patrick cut him off with a shake of his head and a wry chuckle. “I’ll call you when I get home.”
“But—”
Patrick killed the connection and threw his phone on the counter before him. His brother needed to learn how to relax.
Ven had spent the last thirty-six years hellbent on protecting him from some unknown malevolent entity, and Patrick had spent the last eighteen of those years arguing with Ven the entire thing was ridiculous and unnecessary. Nothing was after Patrick. Nothing.
Nothing however, could convince Ven differently. Thank bloody God the bastard spent his days “sleeping”, otherwise Patrick would probably go crazy and shove a stake in Ven’s chest just to get some unsupervised personal space.
Who in the hell would be coming after him anyway? He was nothing more than a simple Aussie lifeguard.
You know who, Patrick. You just have to—
“You see that group in Backpacker’s rip, Wato?” a slightly raspy voice sounded to his left, cutting across the dark unsettling thought.
Grateful for the interruption, Patrick gave his second in charge a quick nod. “Yeah, I see them.”
Bluey handed him a pair of binoculars, concern creasing the sides of his pale blue eyes. “One of them’s flounderin’.”
He took the offered glasses. “Tourist?”
Bluey shrugged. “Dunno, but he’s not one of the regulars. Big bloke. Blond. Looks sunburnt, even from here. Maybe forty, forty-five years old, I’m guessin’. Take a look.”
Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, Patrick focused in on the group of swimmers bobbing in the surf’s choppy southern swell. Five people moved up and down with the rolling waves, their heads breaching the deceptive water, sinking below the surface and emerging again. Five people thinking they were safe when they were in dangerous territory. Five people who would need to be rounded up ASAP. Five people—
A man burst upward from the water, thinning blond hair plastered to a domed skull, sunburnt face distorted in abject fear. He struggled to stay above the inescapable waves, the sea pouring into his open mouth every time he shouted for help. One flabby arm clawed above the surface to wave, once, twice, before he sank below the surface with terrifying speed. Gone.
“Fuck.” Patrick threw aside the binoculars. “He’s under.”
He moved. Fast.
Ordering Bluey to contact the two guards patrolling the southern end of the beach, he charged from the patrol tower, the needs of rescuing a drowning swimmer second nature to him. Snatching up a rescue tube and his board, he sprinted across the sand, dodging sunbathers and beach volleyballers on his way to the water. It would take approximately six minutes to get to the man in Backpacker’s Express. By Patrick’s reckoning, five minutes too long.
The high midday sun beat down on him as he ran, the blistering hot sand scalding the soles of his bare feet. He ran, board tucked under his arm, stare locked on the notorious rip, searching the increasing swell for any sign of the sunburnt drowning swimmer.
Shit. There was none.
To his left, he saw Grub and Hollywood weave through a crowd of laughing tourists before sprinting into the surf. The two lifeguards threw their boards onto the water and launched themselves through the breaking waves at breakneck speed, heading for the group of clueless swimmers.
He flicked his stare back to Backpacker’s Express, picking up his already punishing pace, hot sand peppering the backs of his thighs in stinging pinpricks.
Time pressed on him, as brutal as the sun. Grub and Hollywood were seasoned lifeguards, but neither had extensive experience with the infamous rip, and the middle-aged blond man wasn’t the only swimmer struggling in the water. It was a foregone conclusion any number of the tourists would soon realize they were in trouble and make a desperate scramble for the approaching guards the second they saw them. Once that happened, the drowning man would certainly go under for good. If he hadn’t already.
Patrick plowed into the surf, his muscles burning, sweat streaming down his temples and chest. The cool water stung like icy needles on his flushed flesh, biting at his focus. He pushed through the chilling pain trying to cramp his legs, positioning his board and dropping onto it in one fluid move. Plunging his arms deep into the sea, he pulled stroke after stroke, powering his way through the crashing waves.
With every crest he rode, he looked for the blond man with the sunburnt face. With each dip, his chest grew tighter. He couldn’t see him. Which at this point could only mean one thing. He hadn’t resurfaced.
Fuck.
“Have you seen a guy with blond hair out here?” Grub’s shout rose above the roar of adrenaline in Patrick’s ears and he snapped his head to his left, finding the young guard attempting to communicate with a frantic Japanese tourist in a bright yellow Speedo trying to climb onto Grub’s board. “Careful, mate. I’ve—”
“I can’t see him!” Hollywood shouted on Patrick’s right, pulling himself into a sitting position on his board as he studied the churned-up water around him. He shot Patrick a worried look and shook his head. “Where did he—”
He didn’t finish. One of the panicked swimmers knocked him from his board, wailing incoherently as they tried to scramble from the water, fear and shame turning their eyes into bulging discs.
Patrick bit back a curse. He didn’t have time for this. The drowning man didn’t have time. Ignoring the fracas—Grub and Hollywood would have to handle it on their own—he scanned the choppy waves, feeling the rip’s undercurrent pulling at his legs with menacing force. Backpacker’s Express was aptly named. It sucked you out to sea. Fast. If he didn’t find the blond man soon, he wouldn’t. Not until the guy’s body turned up on nearby Bronte Beach, bloated and gray and nibbled on by fish.
No way Patrick was going to let that happen.
Cutting through the waves, he searched the water, tuning out everything but his gut. Nothing existed. No sound. No smell. Just the cool water splashing against his board and body and the tight tug in the pit of his stomach directing his search. The inexplicable instinct he never questioned that helped him save those beyond saving time and again. The enigmatic, uncanny intuition that repeatedly led him to those sinking into the ocean’s cool embrace.
With that strange, tight tugging in his gut, he paddled his board south.
The water grew black beneath him. Deep. Cold.
He moved slowly, the thump thump thump of his heart a soundless tattoo in his chest, a silent beat keeping time with his progress, charting his search. The water sucked at his arms with each stroke he took, the rip reaching for them, hungry and demanding and greedy. He denied the powerful undertow, refusing to be taken in its hold as he stared into the ocean.
Searching. Searching.
His heart slowed, his breath slowed, his existence shrank until it was just him, his board, and the merciless sea around him. Knowing death waited on his shoulder, salivating. Knowing life depended on his instincts. A life waning. Fading.
Heart almost slowed to complete stillness, he searched for the drowning man.
There.
Plunging his right arm into the ocean, he grabbed a fistful of blond hair and pulled, a grunt bursting past his lips as the man’s considerable weight snapped at his shoulder muscles. “Gotcha.”
Counterbalancing himself against the violent jolt, he hauled the limp body further from the sea, changing his grip until he had the older, unconscious man lying face down across the front of his board. “Get ’em in,” he ordered Grub, nodding toward the still-panicking but at the same time gawking tourists bobbing in the swell to his left. “And give ’em a lecture.”
Shifting his position to accommodate the motionless man’s bulk, he began to propel his board back to the beach. His job was far from done and time pressed harder on him. He may have pulled the guy from a wet grave, but the old bugger wasn’t breathing. Until his lungs were cleared of water, the rescued swimmer belonged to death.
Screw that.
Patrick powered through the surf, ignoring the burn in his shoulders and lungs. A distant part of his mind heard Grub and Hollywood barking at the tourists in the water. An even more distant part noted Hollywood sounded right and royally pissed off, but his main focus was the beach. Bluey waited there, defibrillator and oxi-boot ready.
When it came to saving a life, Patrick refused to concede to death. No matter how long an individual had been underwater.
“Move it, move it, move it!” Bluey’s roar reached Patrick before he even made it to the sand. Swimmers, sunbathers, and gawkers alike fell out of the way, mouths agape, eyes wide as the other man barged through the crowd, orange-red hair gleaming in the ruthless sun, face furious, arms cutting a path through the melee. He met Patrick in the shallows, scooping the still lifeless swimmer up from Patrick’s board and flinging one limp arm around his own shoulder. “Got ’im.”
Patrick hooked the man’s other arm around the back of his neck and, heart hammering, gut tight, half-dragged, half-carried him from the surf.
The moment they passed the waterline, they dumped him onto his back, the crowd gathering around them, gasping as one as the man’s limp body hit the sand.
Before the displaced grains could settle, Patrick dropped to his knees. He didn’t have time to wait for Bluey to pass him a facemask. The man didn’t have time to wait. Blood roaring in his ears, he tilted the bloke’s head back, pinched his nose shut and covered the slack, blue-tinged lips with his mouth.
One. Two. Three. He transferred his breath into the man’s lungs, watching his chest rise with each exhalation.
