Page 131 of Dark Lover

The monk laughed.

Ian started for him again.

The monk smiled, enjoying himself, and struck him again.

Ian slammed into the wall behind the stairs. It hurt more this time. He slowly got up and smiled. He started forward again.

“You might not care if you die,” the monk said softly. “But I don’t want you dead.” His power blazed.

This time, he saw stars as he hit the wall. Eyes closed, he made no move to get up.

The monk came forward. He bent over him and stroked his cheek, the caress sensual. “Try it again,” he whispered.

Ian opened his eyes and looked at him. And he thrust the scalpel into his chest.

The monk jerked back, enraged, the scalpel protruding. He ripped it out. “That will hardly stop me!”

But Ian was blasting him with all the power he had left. The monk grunted, hurled backward across the entire entry, into the small table by the front door.

Ian ran toward him, straining to find more power. It blazed weakly. The monk got to his knees, his face a mask of rage, and a black cyclone struck Ian, driving him backward.

The monk had always had more power. He was not going to defeat him this way; he would die, and the monk would remain alive.

Ian suddenly thought of all the children that this man would continue to torture and abuse, all the women, all the men. A new rage began.

It was quiet and deep.

It was no longer about the years of captivity. It was about the Innocent.

As Ian prepared to get up, a gust of wind seemed to go through the entry hall. He hesitated, confused, as the swirling air seemed to form into a hundred shapes and forms. He glimpsed features, wide, livid eyes, open, gaping mouths. A wisp of bright blond hair. A teardrop, spatters of blood.

Fear and fury came into the entryway.

The monk saw it, too. He stood up, alarm on his face.

Ian heard their cries and realized he was face-to-face with the souls of the monk’s victims—the men, women and children he’d destroyed.

“For them,” he said harshly.

The lost souls stood between the door and the monk. Ian knew, in that moment, that the monk intended to flee.

“Coward!” he raged. “Ye have twice the power that I do! Will a few ghosts chase ye from this fight?”

The monk faced him and the mass of souls formed a tight circle around him.

Ian blasted him.

The monk raised his hand to send his own power back at him. Ian started to duck when he realized that the ghosts were restraining Carlisle. He could not lift his hand. Ian blasted him again.

The monk fell, crying out. The shadows engulfed him. He screamed.

Ian couldn’t see what was happening, but the monk thrashed as if he were covered with snakes and spiders. Those lost souls wanted revenge. He did not blame them. He hoped that they were torturing him.

Ian ran forward, seized the standing lamp and broke it. He knelt over him, holding a long section of brass over his chest. Terror covered the monk’s face. Their gazes met.

“No,” the monk whispered.

The front door burst open.