Dark Destiny (Dark Sentinel #1) - Lexxie Couper Page 0,1

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