Praise for Adrian Phoenix and The Maker’s Song series

BENEATH THE SKIN

“Adrian Phoenix has done it again! Complex, lyrical, and beautifully written . . . another unique and compulsive page-turner.”

—Jenna Black, author of Speak of the Devil

“In the burgeoning genre of urban fantasy, Adrian Phoenix’s world stands out as unique. . . . This violent, wrenching tale is something special. Readers have seen tortured heroes before, but young, almost androgynously beautiful Dante is a remarkable hero who bonds with Heather even as he struggles with his sanity.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“This darkly dramatic tale is one wild ride in a series that only promises to get better.”

—Romantic Times

“Phoenix transports the reader to another world comprised of both shimmering beauty and tactile violence. . . . Fusing and melding the worlds of angels, vampires, and mortals into a story where appearances hide greater truths ensures an engrossing and matchless reading experience.”

—Bitten By Books

IN THE BLOOD

“Phoenix trips the dark fantastic in this wild, bloody sequel. . . . She keeps the plot thick and the tension high.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The atmosphere is dark, and treachery abounds, making this story white-knuckle reading in the extreme.”

—Romantic Times

“Adrian Phoenix takes us into a world with tremendous passion and caring combined with evil beyond comprehension. In the Blood is a complex story that leaves you begging for more.”

—Vampire Librarian

“Filled with twisting plots, shadowy government agencies, conspiracies, and betrayals, In the Blood kept me hooked from page one. This dark urban fantasy is not only action-packed from beginning to end, but at its core, it is also a story of hope and love.”

—ParaNormal Romance

A RUSH OF WINGS

“Hard-charging action sequences, steamy sex scenes, and a surprising government conspiracy make this debut, the first in a series, engrossingly fun.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“Phoenix’s lively debut has it all . . . vampires and fallen angels and a slicing-dicing serial killer . . . Phoenix alternates romantic homages to gothdom and steamy blood-drinking threesomes with enough terse, fast-paced thriller scenes to satisfy even the most jaded fan.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Sharp, wicked, and hot as sin.”

—New York Times bestselling author Marjorie M. Liu

“Twisted science and the paranormal collide in this eerie new detective thriller that takes an intriguing slant on the supernatural. Phoenix’s gritty and original characters are instantly engaging, and the rapid pace keeps you glued to the pages.”

—Romantic Times

“A thrilling tale of lust and murder that will keep you turning the pages to see what happens next. A Rush of Wings joins the vampire romanticism of Anne Rice with the brutal intrigue of Silence of the Lambs.”

—Gothic Beauty

“Ms. Phoenix spins a deliciously dark and seductive tale filled with sadistic serial killers, sexy vampires, powerful fallen angels and secret experiments. The fast pace and creative twists make this action-packed read one to remember, and the steamy romance will have readers eagerly looking for more of the same.”

—Darque Reviews

“A complex, layered story filled with twists and turns . . . a dark, rich treat you won’t soon forget.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“This one pulled me in from the first page. Heather and Dante are among those rare characters readers so often look for and seldom find.”

—New York Times bestselling author Barb Hendee

“A Rush of Wings is a fast-paced ride, its New Orleans setting appropriately rich and gothic, its characters both real and surprising.”

—New York Times bestselling author Kristine Kathryn Rusch

ALSO BY ADRIAN PHOENIX
FROM POCKET BOOKS

A Rush of Wings
In the Blood
Beneath the Skin

Black Dust Mambo

Pocket Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Adrian Phoenix
“End of Days” lyrics © Tommy Dark and Ruby Ruin, used with permission.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

First Pocket Books paperback edition March 2011

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Cover illustration by Craig White

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 978-1-4391-3730-7
ISBN 978-1-4391-9868-1 (ebook)

Dedicated to Sean and Rose Prescott,
the writer whisperers.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

HEARTFELT THANKS TO MY incredible editor, Jen Heddle, for her insight, advice, understanding, and patience. I couldn’t do this without her! Special thanks also to Renee Huff and Erica Feldon at Pocket for their unflagging support and promotion; to Craig White for the beautiful covers and to Lisa Litwack for their design. I couldn’t be happier! I’m honored to work with each of you. And I’m also honored to be a part of Pocket. I’m deeply grateful to everyone involved with my books for your hard work, dedication, and support!

Big thanks to my agent, Matt Bialer, as always for your encouragement, friendship, and enthusiasm. You’ve made this wonderful journey even more so.

Special thanks to Paul Goat Allen at BN.com for his unwavering support and promotion of the books, and for his love of the characters and their story. You rock! I can’t thank you enough. Gimme a devil sign, dude.

And to D.B. Reynolds for not only writing awesome and sexy books (check out her Vampires in America series), but for her friendship and support.

Monster thanks to: Mippy Carlson, Nate Gross, Sheila Dale, Louise Robson, Judi Szabo, Heather Lobdell, and all the members of Club Hell and my street team for your support, enthusiasm, and love for Dante and his world. He’s got a helluva lot of kisses to deliver.

To my friends and family: You know who you are. I love you all. You’re the flame that fuels my heart.

Thanks also to: Nine Inch Nails, Queens of the Stone Age, Anders Manga, Saints of Ruin, How to Destroy Angels, and Muse for the music.

And, last, but never least, Trent Reznor whose music always provides an emotional soundscape for Dante and his world and is always a source of inspiration.

And, always, thanks to you, the reader, for picking up this book and plunging back into Dante, Heather, and Lucien’s world. None of this could happen without you. If this is your first time, bienvenue and enjoy.

Please visit me at www.adrianphoenix.com, www.myspace.com/adriannikolasphoenix and at www.facebook.com/pages/Adrian-Phoenix/.

GLOSSARY

TO MAKE THINGS AS simple as possible, I’ve listed not only words, but phrases used in the story. Please keep in mind that Cajun is different from Parisian French and the French generally spoken in Europe. Different grammatically and even, sometimes, in pronunciation and spelling.

The French that Guy Mauvais and Justine Aucoin use is traditional French as opposed to Dante’s Cajun.

For the Irish and Welsh words—including the ones I’ve created—pronunciation is provided.

One final thing: Prejean is pronounced PRAY-zhawn.

Aingeal (AIN-gyahl), angel. Fallen/Elohim word.

Ami, (m) friend, (f) amie. Mon ami, my friend.

Anhrefncathl (ann-HREVN-cathl), chaos song; the song of a Maker. Fallen/Elohim word.

Apprentis, (pl) apprentices, (s) apprenti.

Assolutamente, (Italian) absolutely.

Aussi, too, also.

Au ’voir, short for au revoir, good-bye.

Beaucoup, very, much, many, a great deal.

Bien, well, very.

Bon, good, nice, fine, kind.

Bonne chance, good luck.

Buenas noches, (Spanish) good evening.

Buona sera, (Italian) good evening. Buona sera, bella, good evening, beautiful.

Buono, (Italian) good.

Ça fait pas rien, you’re welcome. Also, pas de quoi.

Ça fini pas, it never ends.

Calon-cyfaill, (KAW-lawn-CUHV-aisle) bondmate, heart-mate.

Catin, (f) doll, dear, sweetheart.

Ça va bien, I’m fine, I’m good, okay.

Ça va pas du tout, Things aren’t going well at all.

Cercle de Druide, Circle of Druids, a sacred and select nightkind order.

C’est bon, that’s good.

Chalkydri (chal-KOO-dree), winged serpentine demons of Sheol, subservient to the Elohim.

Cher, (m) dear, beloved; (f) chère. Mon cher, (m) my dear or my beloved.

Cher ami, mon, (m) my dearest friend, my best friend; intimate, implying a special relationship. (f) Chère ami, ma.

Chéri, (m) dearest, darling, honey (f) chérie.

Chien, (m) dog. (f) Chienne, dog, bitch.

Creawdwr (KRAY-OW-dooer), creator; Maker/Unmaker; an extremely rare branch of the Elohim believed to be extinct. Last known creawdwr was Yahweh.

Creu tân (kray tahn), Maker’s fire, a creawdwr’s power of creation.

Cydymaith (kuh-DUH-mith), companion.

Da, (Russian) yes.

D’accord, okay.

Delizioso, (Italian) delicious.

Elohim, (s and pl) the Fallen; the beings mythologized as fallen angels.

È una possibilità, (Italian) It’s a possibility.

Exactement, exactly.

Fais-moi, make me.

Fallen, see Elohim.

Fi’ de garce, son-of-a-bitch.

Filidh, master bard/warriors of the llygaid.

Fils, son. Mon fils, my son.

Fille de sang, (f) blood-daughter; “turned” female offspring of a vampire.

Fils de sang, (m) blood-son; “turned” male offspring of a vampire.

Fout moi la paix, leave me alone. Harsher than quitte moi tranquille.

Grazie, (Italian) thank you.

Je connais, I know.

Je t’aime, I love you.

Je t’entends, I hear you. Je t’entends, catin, I hear you, doll.

Joli, (m) pretty, cute; (f) jolie. Mon joli, my pretty boy.

J’su ici, I’m here.

J’su sûr, I’m sure

Le Conseil du Sang, the Council of Blood, nightkind lawgivers.

Llygad, (THLOO-gad) (s) eye; a watcher; keeper of immortal history; story-shaper; Llygaid, (THLOO-guide) pl.

Ma belle femme, my beautiful woman, lady. Can mean wife.

Ma mère, my mother.

Marmot, (m) brat.

Más claro que el agua, (Spanish) as clear as daylight.

Menteuse, (f) liar; (m) menteur.

Merci, thank you. Merci beaucoup, thanks a lot. Merci bien, thanks very much.

Merde, shit.

Mère de sang, (f) blood-mother; female vampire who has turned another and become their “parent.”

Minou, (m) endearing name for a cat.

Mio amico, (Italian) my friend.

Mo bhean, (Irish) my lady.

Mo pháiste, (Irish) my child.

M’selle, (f) abbreviated spoken form of mademoiselle, Miss, young lady.

M’sieu, (m) abbreviated spoken form of monsieur, Mr., sir, gentleman.

Naturellement, naturally, of course.

Nephilim, the offspring resulting from Fallen and mortal unions.

Nightbringer, a name/title given to Lucien De Noir.

Nightkind, (s and pl) vampire; Dante’s term for vampires.

Nomad, name for the pagan, gypsy-style clans who ride across the land.

Oui, yes.

Oui sûr, Yeah, sure; yeah, right.

Père, (m) father, Mon père, my father.

Père de sang, (m) blood-father; male vampire who has turned another and become their “parent.”

Peut-être, maybe, perhaps.

Potete andare diritto ad inferno, (Italian) You can go straight to hell.

P’tit, mon, (m) my little one, (f) p’tite, ma. (Generally affectionate.)

Quitte moi tranquille, leave me alone.

Sì, (Italian) yes.

Tais toi, shut up.

Tayeau, (s) hound. Tayeoux, (pl) hounds

T’es sûr de sa? are you sure about that? T’es sûr? you sure?

Toujours, always.

Tout de suite, right away.

Très, very.

Très joli, (m) very pretty.

True Blood, born vampire, rare and powerful.

Une main lave l’autre, one good turn deserves another.

Va t’cacher, go to hell.

Wybrcathl (OOEEBR-cathl), sky-song. Fallen/Elohim word.

Caterina’s lullaby: Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol/ Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol/ Fa si la nana/ Fa si la nana/ Dormi ben, e mi bel fiol/ Dormi ben, e mi bel fiol . . .

Hush-a-bye, my lovely child/ Hush-a-bye, my lovely child/ Hush, hush and go to sleep/ Hush, hush and go to sleep/ Sleep well, my lovely child/ Sleep well, my lovely child . . . —Traditional Italian lullaby in an old dialect.

1
DIRTY BUSINESS

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 30

“HEY, PUMPKIN.”

Just two simple words spoken into air fragrant with the homey scents of toast and cantaloupe, yet they fractured the club’s late-morning peace and iced Heather Wallace’s spine.

Never expected to see him in New Orleans, let alone Club Hell. Did he come on his own or did the Bureau send him?

Heather finished rinsing her plate in the sink behind the bar, turned off the water, then, pulse pounding, swiveled around to face her father. The weight of the Colt snugged into the back of her jeans did little to comfort her.

Special Agent James William Wallace stood in the entrance beneath the neon BURN sign, red light winking from the lenses of his glasses and gliding along the shoulders of his tan trench coat. Shadows cast by the dim overheads hollowed his cheeks, making him look older than his fifty-seven years.

The last time Heather had seen her father had been at the FBI field office in Seattle, where he’d tried to convince her to abandon the truth and sell her soul to the Bureau, and where Heather had also learned that the lying bastard had used Annie to spy on her, promising his long-ignored bipolar daughter that they’d be a family once more.

Of course, Annie hadn’t known he’d sell Heather’s secrets. Or that he’d lied.

But Alexander Lyons had known, and had shared the information with Heather before he’d held her at gunpoint, before he’d triggered Dante’s programming, before Dante had remade him into something . . . else.

Your dad contacted a member of the Shadow Branch and told this person that Dante Baptiste saved your life without using his blood. So the SB decided to bring you in for tests to determine what he did to you and how.

“Whose dirty business are you doing today?” Heather asked, wiping her hands dry against her jeans. “The Bureau’s or your own?”

“The traditional greeting is still ‘Hello, good to see you,’ I believe,” James Wallace replied. A sardonic smile slanted his lips. His gaze slid past Heather. “I admit, I’m disappointed in you, Annie,” he said.

The cold icing Heather’s spine deepened. She turned her head to look at her sister. Wearing a fuzzy purple bathrobe, her blue-black-purple-colored tresses bed-mussed and pointing in all directions, Annie sat perched on a stool at the polished counter, her blue eyes wide with shock. She lowered her cream cheese–slathered bagel from her mouth. “How the fuck did you get in?” she asked.

“Well, given that you didn’t leave the door unlocked like I asked, I had to find my own solution,” James Wallace chided, his tone a wagging naughty-naughty finger.

Heather stiffened. “You called him?”

Mingled guilt and defiance flashed across Annie’s face. “I didn’t think it’d be a big deal. Fuck.” She looked down at her bagel, then pushed the plate away. She seemed to find the bar’s surface suddenly fascinating.

“Jesus Christ! He asked you to unlock the door and you didn’t tell me?” Heather stared at her sister, her pulse pounding at her temples. “Didn’t tell any of us? What the hell were you thinking?” She slapped both palms down on the counter in front of Annie’s shoved-away plate. The abrupt, harsh sound echoed throughout the club. “Look at me, dammit!”

Annie lifted her gaze. Defiance had won the war over guilt in her blue eyes. “But I didn’t unlock the door,” she protested, “so I thought that ended it. I only called him to let him know we were okay. In case he was worried or something.”

“Dammit, Annie. Shit.” Anger Heather didn’t have time for—not now, but later, oh, hell yes, we’re going to have it out—burned a hole in her gut. She blew out a frustrated breath, then looked at their father. “Trust me, he wasn’t worried,” she said, voice grim.

James Wallace shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he replied. “I’ve been worried since the moment I learned you’d disappeared. And before that—from the moment I realized you’ve been protecting a vampire. Lying for him. Covering up for him.”

“That’s pretty damned funny coming from a pathological liar,” Heather said.

“That’s not you talking, Pumpkin.”

“I’m pretty damned sure it is.”

“No. It’s not. It’s that bloodsucker, not you. And I plan to free you from Dante Prejean and his influence. Help you redeem yourself.”

“His name isn’t Prejean, it’s Baptiste. And you’re wasting your time,” Heather said, her voice tight, knife-edged. “I don’t need or want your so-called freedom or your goddamned redemption.”

“You don’t get it—of course you don’t,” her father said, stepping down from the entrance’s mouth and into the club proper. “That bloodsucker has messed with your mind and your loyalties. You no longer know what you want. You’re no longer in control of your own life. You’ve even destroyed your career because of him.”

“You’re so far from the truth, I don’t even know where to begin,” Heather said. “But I’m not going to bother, because you’ll never understand that every action I’ve taken has been my choice. So . . .” She reached back for her Colt and locked her fingers around the grip. “You need to leave. I have things to do.”

It was nearly noon, and Heather kept expecting to hear the thump of the streetside doors as Jack or Eli or Emmett Thibodaux arrived to add more warm bodies to their daytime security detail.

C’mon, guys. Now would be good. Before things escalate.

She’d be even happier if Lucien De Noir were present, but he’d gone to the fire-bombed plantation house to meet with the insurance adjuster. But some things could never be compensated for—not even in blood. When Guy Mauvais had orchestrated the house’s destruction, his henchmen burning it to a smoldering pile of rubble and ashes, Dante hadn’t just lost the home he’d shared with Von, De Noir, and the others, he’d also lost Simone, his chère amie, in the gasoline-fueled blaze.

“You’re right,” James Wallace said, voice strained, “I don’t believe any action you’ve taken since meeting Prejean has been your own. You’re lying to yourself, Pumpkin. You’ve chosen nothing.” He walked across the wood floor, headed for the bar. The clean scent of his Brut aftershave preceded him. “That’s just what Prejean or Baptiste or whatever name the bloodsucking bastard goes by wants you to think. But I’m going to put an end to that.”

“No, you’re not.” Heather slipped the Colt free and swung it around in a two-handed hold, leveling the muzzle with her father’s chest. Her aim was steady despite the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Hold it right there. Not another step.”

“Heather,” Annie breathed.

James Wallace halted and lifted his hands into the air, palms out. One eyebrow quirked up. “Is this necessary?” he asked.

“Sadly, yeah,” Heather replied. He might be her father, but he was also the man who’d sold her out to the SB.

“We’re blood, Heather. Family,” her father said, his words calm and matter-of-fact. “Human. That should count more than a roll in the sack with an inhuman, bloodsucking scumbag. He’s not human, and never will be.”

“Right now, that’s a point in his favor,” Heather replied. “And you’re wrong about what he is.”

Von’s words, spoken a lifetime ago, were etched into her mind: He is the never-ending Road.

And that never-ending Road Slept upstairs in the bed he and Heather shared, his hair a silky night-black spill across the pillow, with Eerie nestled beside him on the red velvet comforter in a fluffy orange kitty-ball.

Silver and Von Slept as well. All three nightkind lost to the narcotic embrace of Sleep. All vulnerable. And all beyond her ability to awaken.

Heather flicked the Colt’s safety off, her heart drumming against her ribs.

“You can’t shoot Dad,” Annie said in an incredulous near-whisper.

“His choice,” Heather said. “If he turns around and leaves, then I won’t have to.”

Resolve tightened her father’s jaw, deepened the lines bracketing his mouth. He touched a finger to the base of his ear. “I can’t leave without what I came for,” he said.

Com set. Lying bastard isn’t alone. The sound of heavy boots against wood echoed from the entrance hall. Tac team.

“Annie, get your ass upstairs,” Heather snapped. She kept her gaze locked on their father. Sweat trickled between her breasts. “You’re not taking Dante,” she told him.

“It’s not Dante I want,” James Wallace replied as black uniformed and masked figures armed with assault rifles dashed into the club, red neon from the BURN sign flickering over them as they passed beneath it and spread out. “I’ve come for you, Pumpkin.”

Heather stared at her father, her pulse pounding. “Don’t you know what they’ll do to me?”

Genuine pain flickered across James Wallace’s face. “Whatever’s necessary to save you,” he said, his voice husky.

Heather shook her head. Not according to the headline provided to the press by FBI ADIC Monica Rutgers: TRAGIC MENTAL ILLNESS CLAIMS FBI STAR PROFILER HEATHER WALLACE. Not unless “whatever’s necessary” meant involuntary commitment to a mental institution, followed by a convenient and tragic suicide.

“Trust me, neither the Bureau nor the Shadow Branch are interested in saving me,” Heather said. Adrenaline poured through her veins, made her aware of each breath she drew, aware of the position of each agent in the room. She was surrounded and outnumbered.

What would happen to Dante and the others once she’d been taken down?

She didn’t know if she could awaken Dante from Sleep through their bond, but she had to try. Tightening her grip on the Colt, she closed her eyes and funneled her adrenaline-fueled awareness into her link with Dante.

His scent of burning leaves and November frost permeated her, perfumed her senses, then she felt the razor edge of his nightmares scrape against her mind. Heard the drone of wasps. Her breath caught in her throat.

He’d been Sleeping easy—for a change—his beautiful, pale face relaxed, when she’d reluctantly slipped free of his heated embrace and risen from their bed. Before leaving the room, she’d placed a lingering Sleep-well kiss on his lips.

Dual pangs of apprehension and sorrow pierced Heather as she realized her wish hadn’t come true; once again, the past raged through Dante’s mind like a monster hurricane, a tidal surge of dark and dangerous debris running ahead of it, scouring away his hard-won quiet, his scraps of peace.

What Von had told her in their motel room in Damascus coiled through her memory.

You’re Dante’s life-line, doll. I’m sorry you had no say in getting bonded to him, but you quiet the storm inside a him. And that’s a damned good thing.

It looked like her father was intent on severing that life-line.

An echo of pain—Dante’s pain—bled in through their bond and whispered against Heather’s thoughts as she tried to wriggle her way past his shields and into the wasp-droning darkness he did his best to keep locked away from her.

<DANGER! WAKE UP!> she sent, banging mental fists against his shields. <BAPTISTE! WAKE—>

Something stung Heather’s left shoulder, hitting with all the force of a knuckled punch, shattering her concentration. Her eyes flew open. A dart protruded from the front of her snug cornflower-blue sweater. Cold oozed down her arm and into her chest. She looked at her father as he lowered the trank gun. She tasted the drugs, bitter and icy, at the back of her throat.

“Dad! What the fuck?” Annie cried. Leaning across the counter, she plucked the dart from Heather’s shoulder.

“Get out of here, Annie,” Heather said, her words already slurring. The room took a slow carousel spin around her. Her stomach lurched. “Find Jack . . .”

“You’re not going anywhere, Annie,” James Wallace said. “Stevenson, hold her, please.”

“Fuck you, you lying, motherfucking sonuvabitch!” Annie yelled.

A stool clattered to the floor. A wordless shriek of fury followed as someone—the unlucky Stevenson—grabbed Annie and attempted to hold on to her. Heather didn’t look, keeping her attention focused on James William Wallace instead. She blinked as his trench-coated figure blurred, then tripled.

“Heather, listen to me,” her father said, his voice low but firm. “Put your gun down before you—”

Heather squeezed the trigger. The Colt’s retort cracked through the air like thick ice breaking apart on a lake, the sound rippling from one end of the club to the other. James Wallace, all three blurred copies of him, dove to the floor.

“Christ!” her father cried.

Heather concentrated on keeping the Colt upright and in both hands, concentrated on steadying her aim. But she found herself going up, then down, as if riding one of the spinning carousel’s horses. A loud clunk drew her gaze to the floor. Her Colt rested on the hardwood, its muzzle pointing at a plastic bucket full of bar rags.

The room whirled, a runaway carousel, and Heather stumbled, then fell. Stars supernovaed in blue and green through her vision as her head bounced against the floor. She heard Annie scream her name. She stretched her fingers toward the Colt, darkness nibbling at the edges of her vision.

<Baptiste . . . Dante . . . wake . . .> But Heather’s desperate thought bounced back from a wall of drug-charged static, unreceived.

The carousel spun her into a starless night.

2
THE BEAUTY OF BEING NUMB

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 30

ANNIE WATCHED IN HORROR as Heather swayed in front of the ebony shelves lined with sleek and colorful bottles of liquor. Her head rocked forward, her red hair fanning across her face, then she crumpled, falling behind the counter and out of Annie’s view with a soft thud.

“Heather!” Annie screamed.

But Heather was out cold. Tranked by their own father.

And it’s all my fucking fault.

And, as shocked as she was by the fact that her sister had just tried to shoot their father, Annie wished—in that moment—that Heather hadn’t missed.

Annie struggled against the black-uniformed asshole holding her, kicking ineffectually with her bare feet. She knuckled both fists into his bulletproof vest–protected gut, pounding the mingled odors of sweat and gun oil into the air. He grunted, but more out of irritation than any real discomfort. And his bruising grip on her biceps didn’t ease one iota. In fact, it tightened.

“Settle down,” he growled, his eyes—the only thing visible beneath the ski mask stretched across his face—gray flint. “We’re here to help you, for chrissakes.”

“Fucker! Let me go!” Annie tried to ram a knee into the uniformed asshole’s crotch, but missed when he arched his torso away from her.

“Annie, enough. We don’t have time for your nonsense.”

She twisted around to see James Wallace standing behind her, brushing at the knees of his wheat-colored slacks. He nodded at the man holding her. “Go ahead and release her.”

The hands slid away from Annie’s arms and she rubbed her aching biceps. Her fingers tingled as her circulation returned.

“Finished with your tantrum?”

Annie met James Wallace’s stern regard and spat into his face. Spittle flecked the lenses of his glasses, glistened on his cheek. “You used me, you fucker.”

Her father wiped at his glasses and face with the sleeve of his trench coat, his expression one more of weary exasperation than the disgust she’d hoped for. “Of course I did. And without regret. Do you know why?”

“Because you’re a prick?”

James Wallace smiled, but there was nothing warm or paternal in that curving of lips. “Because I will do whatever it takes to save Heather’s life.”

Unspoken: your life—not so much.

“I was right,” Annie muttered. “You’re a prick.”

Her father sighed. “Didn’t you tell me that Prejean would hurt Heather someday?”

Guilt strapped around Annie, tight as a straitjacket. “Yeah, but not deliberately. He fucking loves her. Of course.”

Her father tilted his head, a knowing light in his cold, hazel eyes. “I think this is one instance where you shouldn’t feel jealous of your sister.”

“Screw yourself—”

“Like I said, sweetie,” James Wallace interrupted, curling his fingers around Annie’s aching arm. “I really don’t have time for your nonsense.”

Movement caught Annie’s attention, and she watched as two members of her father’s black-uniformed posse carried Heather out from behind the bar on a stretcher. Flex cuffs bound her unconscious sister’s wrists, and tendrils of red hair trailed across her face.

“Where are they taking her?” Annie asked.

“Same place you’ll be going, sweet pea. A safe place.”

Annie stiffened. “Me? Oh, hell no. I don’t need to go anywhere. Neither does Heather! Don’t do this. I never would’ve called you if I’d known—”

“You did the right thing.” Her father released her arm and tenderly grasped her chin. Directed her gaze to his face. Warmth, or the illusion of it, anyway, kindled in his eyes. “That’s my good girl. I’m proud of you.”

A barbed knot of anger, yearning, and guilt prickled against Annie’s heart.

I’m proud of you.

For what? Unintentionally helping him kidnap her sister—the only person in her life who’d always stood beside her?

Funny thing—just a couple of months ago, Annie’s help might not’ve been so unintentional if it would’ve earned her those very same words.

I’m proud of you.

She thought of Heather on the stretcher, drugged and bound, being carted off to shit-knows-where during daylight hours—when nightkind would be unable to rescue her.

But I can. And I’ve gotta.

“Motherfucking liar,” Annie spat, jerking her chin free of his hold.

“Takes one to know one, Annie-bunny,” her father replied, all warmth stripped from his eyes.

Annie slipped a hand into the pocket of her bathrobe and palmed the dart she’d yanked from Heather’s arm. She doubted drugs still coated the dart, but getting hit with it would still hurt like hell.

“Now it’s time to go,” her father said.

As James Wallace lifted the trank gun, Annie stepped forward, jerking her hand from her pocket, and slamming the dart into her father’s throat. His eyes widened and a strangled gasp escaped his lips. The trank gun hit the hardwood floor with a plastic clatter. His hands flew up to the quivering dart protruding from his throat.

Annie bolted for the stairs, a clear visual of the fire escape at the end of the second and third floor landings in her mind. She wished she could pause long enough to attempt to awaken Silver or Von on her way out—or badass and beautiful Dante—but didn’t know if it was even possible.

Behind her, several testosterone-laden male voices shouted for her to halt. She lifted a hand, then her middle finger, and kept going.

Annie raced upstairs, her bathrobe flapping behind her. She glanced down. The belt had come unknotted and now trailed her like an off-centered tail. She was grateful she’d pulled on a pair of Silver’s boxers and one of his skin-tight Inferno tees before restless sleep and hunger had rolled her out of bed.

Her stomach rumbled and she found herself mourning her cream cheese–slathered bagel. Seriously? Food? Now?

When Annie hit the second floor landing, she paused and looked down the hall with its Oriental carpet and gargoyle wall sconces to the French window at its end.

Make a mad dash for the fire escape or try to alert the Snoozing nightkind?

A thump from above Annie launched her heart into her throat and yanked her gaze to the old-fashioned tin ceiling. No one was on the third floor except for the Sleepers, unless—for whatever reason—one of them was no longer Sleeping.

Hope blossomed within her.

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps from behind propelled Annie around the wrought-iron banister and up the next narrow flight of stairs. When she reached the third-floor landing, a flash of white down the dark hallway captured her gaze.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

Dante was awake. Well, he was on his feet, anyway. And naked except for the bondage collar strapped around his throat.

He leaned drunkenly against the threshold to his and Heather’s room, his pale hands clutching either side of the doorjamb for balance. Head bowed, his black hair veiling his face, it seemed as though he was already slipping back into Sleep. But beneath his milky-white skin, his muscles were taut, corded, rippling.

Eerie rubbed against Dante’s legs, orange fur practically glowing against that pale skin, kitty-back arched for pats.

Annie stared at Dante, pulse racing, mouth dry, as she drank in the sight of his lean-muscled and very naked body, wishing he’d move just a little so she could see the goodies his current position hid from view.

Ogle later, her mind sing-songed. Danger now. Move!

As Annie pelted down the hall, Dante half slid, half fell to his knees on the Oriental carpet, his black-painted nails scraping furrows along the threshold on his way down. She knelt in front of him and his intoxicating autumn scent curled around her.

Eerie mewed at Dante, then bunted his head against his hip, before sauntering back into the bedroom’s inky darkness, as though saying, If you can’t stand up long enough to feed me, then let’s go back to bed.

Annie couldn’t help it, she glanced down at Dante’s lap, his hard thighs. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Warm flutters rippled through her belly. “Goddamn,” she breathed.

“J’su ici, catin,” Dante whispered, his words Sleep-slurred. “Je t’entends.”

Catin. Dante’s pet name for Heather. Annie forced her gaze back up to his face. “English, dork. I don’t understand Cajun,” she said, patting his pale, whisker-free cheek. She sucked in a breath at the fevered heat beneath her fingers.

“Quitte moi tranquille,” he muttered, sleepily swatting at her hand, his eyes fluttering shut again.

“Dante, hey, c’mon, wake up.” Annie pushed his silky hair back from his face and behind his silver hoop-rimmed ear. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw blood trickling from his nose and over his lips.

Migraine. Fuck. At least his hands aren’t doing their blue-glowy thing. Wait. Maybe it’d be better if they were glowing.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

“C’mon, wake up!” Annie urged. “Heather’s in trouble! They’re taking her away.” Desperate and out of ideas, she slapped Dante, rocking his head to one side. “Wake up!” As she pulled her hand back for another blow, Dante’s fingers locked around her wrist in a heated steel grip.

His eyes opened. A rim of dark brown slashed with red circled his dilated pupils. Baring his fangs, he hissed, a chilling and primal sound. Annie froze, the hair lifting on the back of her neck. She saw no hint of recognition in his eyes.

“Hey, dork,” she said through a mouth gone dry. She stared at his slender, deadly fangs. “C’mon, it’s me. Annie. Heather’s in trouble.”

Dante’s dark brows slashed down and his muscles corded as he visibly struggled to shove away the pain or nightmares or fucking brutal memories that were busy hiding reality from his perception at the moment. “Heather,” he whispered.

Annie remembered what Heather had told her just a few nights earlier.

Sometimes he slips between worlds—from now to then. But he’s fighting like hell to stay here and now with us.

“We’re at Club Hell, since your house burned down,” Annie said hurriedly, remembering how Heather would sometimes remind Dante of where and when he was. “But it’s daytime, and Heather’s in deep—”

Dante’s dilated eyes focused. “P’tite, what—” His words cut off as his gaze shifted past her, then several things happened with breathtaking speed.

Something hot splashed Annie’s chest and spattered her throat, her lips.

Dante tossed Annie across the hall.

Annie saw blood streaming in dark rivulets from a hole in Dante’s chest. She had time to think His heart before her head slammed into the opposite wall.

A gunshot exploded through the air.

Black flecks sprinkled her vision. Pain moshed through her skull. “No,” Annie groaned, struggling to get to her hands and knees. Something stung the side of her neck. Cold swirled into her veins.

“Jesus fucking Christ! That was one helluva lucky shot, Wallace. Good thing your daughter made the bloodsucker pause. Otherwise he woulda been on his feet and on us.”

“No shit.” Her father sounded shaken.

Annie plucked the dart from her neck, dropping it onto the carpet with fingers that already felt numb. She crawled over to Dante. He lay crumpled on his side, one pale arm across his waist, the other flung above his head. Like he was Sleeping.

Except for all the blood glistening on his white skin.

“Dante?” Annie choked. She grabbed his shoulder and gently shook it. “Dante?”

Less gentle hands seized her by the shoulders and pulled her back to the wall she’d dented with her head. “Keep away from him,” her father said.

Cold leached the strength from Annie’s muscles, short-circuited her reflexes. Frosted her thoughts. “You fucking bastard,” she slurred. Her lips felt Novocain-numb. “Why the fuck did you shoo’ him?”

“Hush, just go to sleep, sweet pea,” James Wallace murmured. He crossed the hall to stand over Dante’s body, his Glock in hand. Sweat beaded his forehead.

Despite the numbing effects of the drugs spiraling through Annie’s system, dread lodged like a pail of pebbles in her belly. She swallowed hard. She tasted blood, coppery and somehow sweet, like grapes, on her lips—Dante’s blood.

James Wallace seemed to study Dante, his gaze sweeping his body from head to toe. “His pictures don’t prepare you—” He bit off his words, then shook his head, his face disgusted. Dropping to one knee beside Dante, he pressed the muzzle of his gun against Dante’s blood-slicked chest, above his heart. He squeezed off two more rounds. Then he placed the gun against Dante’s temple.

“No,” Annie begged. “Daddy, no, please.”

James Wallace ignored her. “For Heather,” he said, his voice low and level and Arctic cold. He pulled the trigger. Blood spattered the wall. The stink of cordite and scorched blood curled into the air.

Annie screamed—or tried to, anyway. All that came out of her numbed vocal cords was a muted groan.

“He won’t be getting up again, not with those bullets inside of him,” James Wallace said, rising to his feet. He looked at the pair of black uniforms who’d accompanied him up the stairs. “Shoot the others.”

Annie felt her drug-iced body slump over onto the carpet. She lay there, helpless, tears blurring her vision, scalding her face. She heard doors being kicked open. Heard two more shots—one for Silver, and one for Von. She sobbed.

James William Wallace stopped beside her, his shoes gleaming with blood. Kneeling, he slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, then straightened with a grunt and headed down the stairs.

Annie’s view of the floor dimmed, then melted away into darkness. She wondered if the drugs numbing her body and her grieving heart would hurt the baby. Then she wondered if it would matter. Wondered if she even cared.

As Annie tumbled into unconsciousness, three words followed her into the dark, three words spoken by the man who had once been her father.

“Burn it down.”

3
A BITTER PILL

NEW ORLEANS
ST. LOUIS NO. 3 CEMETERY
Three days earlier . . .

Night of March 27–28

MOTHERFUCKING VAMPIRE WAS BREAKING into a cemetery.

Parked across the street from crypt-filled St. Louis No. 3 and the black van Dante Prejean and Heather Wallace had arrived in, Shadow Branch section chief Sam Gillespie watched as Prejean boosted the petite FBI agent over the cemetery’s locked wrought-iron gate, following her in a heart-stopping blur of motion a second later.

The pair trotted down the cemetery’s central cement path and out of sight.

Gillespie tipped back his bottle of Pacifico and drained it, the beer tasting warm and a little flat. Being the last of the six-pack he’d brought with him, he’d nursed it to make it last. He unwrapped a stick of Juicy Fruit and popped it into his mouth. Placing the empty bottle on the rented Nissan’s passenger side floorboards, he grabbed his binoculars and slipped out of the car. He glanced at the trunk. He wanted to take the scoped sniper rifle with him—just in case the moment was finally right.

The moment to slay a monster packaged in a riveting and dangerous form; a monster who unmade people and murdered others. A monster fathered by a being that, until two days ago, Gillespie had been blissfully unaware existed—a motherfucking fallen angel.

A monster partially created and released by the SB itself—Dante Prejean.

Yeah, great. Sure. And if a curious cop stopped to see what he was doing loitering outside a closed cemetery in the wee hours? A black man with a rifle? Let alone a black man with a rifle babbling about slaying monsters and making the world a safer place? Gillespie shook his head. He could just imagine how well that would go over. He’d be Tasered to the ground and pissing himself before he could even reach for his ID.

He couldn’t afford to be arrested. Couldn’t afford for the SB to discover where their AWOL section chief had gone or what he planned to do to their pet monster. But he also couldn’t afford to let an opportunity to put Prejean down slip past him.

Gillespie scrubbed a hand over his head, the buzzed-to-the-scalp hair smooth beneath his palm. No choice. He’d have to risk the rifle. He walked behind the Nissan and unlocked the trunk, then bent into the interior, his Gore-Tex jacket rustling. Tossed aside the blue tarp and flipped open the latches on the rifle case.

Once he had the rifle out of its smart-foam interior and the scope screwed onto the barrel, he wrapped it up in the tarp. Trotting across the street, Gillespie headed for the shadows beneath an oak rooted into the strip of lawn along the sidewalk in front of the cemetery gates. The burnt-oil stink of exhaust from cars cruising the street behind him stung his nostrils. Considering it was after midnight, the amount of traffic surprised him.

Looks like the city comes to life after midnight. A vampire of brick and concrete and wrought iron, cloaked in ghost-gray Spanish moss.

Night-thick shadows stretched from beneath the oak’s twisted branches, veiling Gillespie from the traffic rushing along Esplanade Avenue. He rested his back against the oak’s rough trunk, the tarp-hidden rifle propped beside him. He slipped off his gold wire-rimmed glasses, folded them, then tucked them into a pocket of his jacket.

Lifting the binoculars, he scanned the cemetery for any sign of Prejean and Wallace among the white and gray tombs.

A flash of movement between a couple of moonlight-washed crypts at the cemetery’s center caught his attention. Prejean, streetlight winking from the steel ring in the bondage collar strapped around his throat, had straightened from a crouch, his gaze on the night sky.

Even through binoculars, the bloodsucker’s beauty was mesmerizing—a fact photos alone couldn’t adequately prepare a person for, a fact that had caught Gillespie off guard the first time he’d seen the bastard in the flesh. Had slowed his reactions.

But not this time. Not ever again.

For this go-round, Gillespie had the advantage of distance and secrecy; Prejean was unaware of his presence.

A careful sighting through the rifle’s scope, a twitch of the finger against the trigger, and Prejean’s blood and brains would be spattered all over the weathered white crypt he and rogue FBI agent Heather Wallace now stood beside.

A bullet wouldn’t kill Prejean. No.

But a bullet would put the fucking vampire down long enough for Gillespie to scale the cemetery’s locked wrought-iron gates and finish him. A bit of gasoline and a match ought to do the trick. At least he hoped so. To be honest, he wasn’t sure. Dante Prejean wasn’t a regular vampire. Not by a long shot.

True Blood and more . . .

Gillespie remembered the last time he’d fired a gun at Prejean, just a few nights ago in the parking lot of a worn-down motel at the other end of the country in Oregon.

Prejean lowers his hand and knots both into fists. His gaze locks with Gillespie’s. The bloodsucker’s coiled muscles unwind. Gillespie pulls the trigger and keeps pulling, but Prejean is gone.

A semi hauling steel and cruising at the speed of light slams into Gillespie, bulldozing him down to the pavement . . .

He pushed away the unwelcome memory of heated lips touching his throat and the twin stabs of pain that followed as Prejean’s fangs had pierced his skin.

And the reason why Gillespie was still alive and drawing in air?

An innocent child, caught in the crossfire.

A mother’s anguished scream cuts through the pop-pop-pop of gunfire in the parking lot. An anguished scream that draws Prejean away like a dog to a whistle.

Goddamned fucking vampires. Goddamned fucking Prejean.

Ten years ago, like most people on the planet, Gillespie hadn’t even known vampires existed outside of bestselling YA books and sexy, fake blood–drenched series on HBO and Showtime. Most people on the planet still didn’t know the truth. He often wished he’d also remained in blissful ignorance.

Not only did vampires exist, they participated in every level of government. Always had. Always would. Just as they would always feed on the blood of humans.

Hell, since the SB had recruited Gillespie ten years ago from the FBI and had then stripped him of his illusions, he’d worked alongside several vamps. Some good, some not so much. He hadn’t always liked it, but he had adapted. Learned to look the other way when necessary.

But not now. Not when he had a chance to do something that truly mattered. To make things right after a lifetime of failure, cowardice, and fuckups.

Kill a born vampire—a deadly and gorgeous bloodsucker who’d transformed a head-shot little girl clutched in her wailing mother’s arms into someone else entirely.

How had Prejean done it? How had it even been possible?

Blue flames flare around Prejean’s hands, engulfing the child cradled in his arms. Black hair ripples into red tresses, golden skin lightens to freckled and fair, life-sparked blue replaces empty jade green eyes.

Gillespie shoved aside the memory. He wished for another cold bottle of Pacifico or six to wash the bad taste out of his mouth. He chewed the piece of good ol’ Juicy Fruit gum with grim determination.

What about Wallace? Take her out too?

Gillespie sighted in on the attractive redhead, his hands sweating around the binoculars. An FBI agent with a stellar career—until she’d met Dante Prejean and been corrupted. Gillespie remembered the words Wallace had spoken to him a couple of nights ago in the motel parking lot outside Damascus, Oregon.

They’re lying to you. Ask about Bad Seed.

I know about Bad Seed. I know what Dante Prejean is.

I doubt that.

Wallace had been right. He’d had no idea. But that had changed. He also realized it was too late to save the lovely fed; she was lost to Dante-fucking-Prejean, body and soul. And that was a goddamned shame.

He’d make sure that Prejean paid for her too.

But the question now was, what the hell were they doing in the cemetery?

Gillespie breathed in the cool, moist scent of dew-slick grass and sweet cherry blossoms as he studied Wallace and Prejean. The redhead, wearing a purple tank top and black leather pants underneath her unbelted black trench, dropped into a crouch in front of a crypt, her expression perplexed as she studied the path. What were they looking for?

Prejean bent and scooped something up from the path. Gillespie frowned. A rock? His heart slammed against his ribs when blue flames flickered to life around the vamp’s pale hands, sparked from the rings on his fingers and thumbs. Prejean bowed his head, his glossy black hair swinging forward to curtain his face. Wallace stood beside her lover, her expression concerned.

What the hell is the little shit doing now?

“Don’t move,” a woman’s low voice said from behind Gillespie. A familiar voice. One he couldn’t quite place. Something hard jabbed into the base of his skull.

Gillespie froze, his fingers still wrapped around the binoculars. Sweat broke out on his forehead when he heard the click of a trigger easing back. “I’m not moving,” he managed to say in a level tone.

“Must admit, I’m surprised to see you here, Chief Gillespie,” the woman said. “I expected someone lower on the totem pole to be sent to safeguard SB interests. Or is this Underwood’s idea of punishment? Have a few beers too many on the job?”

Safeguard? Relief washed through Gillespie. Whoever this woman was, she thought he’d been assigned to protect Prejean. She knew his name and his reputation for boozing, knew just how low he’d fallen in Special Ops Director Underwood’s regard.

A fellow Shadow Branch agent? If so, as much as he didn’t like it, he would have to kill her before she reported his presence in New Orleans.

But she’d said “SB interests,” not “our interests.”

“I haven’t yet discovered what constitutes too many beers,” Gillespie replied, allowing his brain time to root around in his memory for a face to match the familiar voice. “Whose interests are you safeguarding?”

“Certainly not Dante Prejean’s.”

Interesting. “Perhaps we have something in common, then.”

The woman snorted. “Oh, I doubt that.” She pressed the gun barrel harder against Gillespie’s skull. “Lower the binoculars, but keep your hands up.”

Gillespie did as instructed, looping the binoculars strap around his neck, then lifting his hands, slow and easy. “I’m not safeguarding SB interests, ma’am,” he said quietly, still trying to place her voice. He felt her gaze burning a hole through his skull. “And Underwood doesn’t know I’m here.”

At least not yet. But time was running out.

“If that’s the case, what are you doing here?” she asked.

“Safeguarding human interests by killing Prejean.”

“And what are your plans for Wallace?”

The woman’s voice clicked then, a slot sliding into place inside Gillespie’s mind. And the knowledge shocked him like a screwdriver into an electrical outlet.

Monica Rutgers. FBI. Assistant Director in Charge. His mind scrabbled for a reason why she would be in New Orleans instead of at her desk in FBI headquarters in D.C. She was years and many pay grades away from field work.

Instinct guided his next words. “I have no interest in Wallace, ma’am,” he lied. “Just Prejean. But why are you here?”

“You can drop the ‘ma’am,’ Rutgers will do. I’ve resigned and I’m here as a private citizen.”

Gillespie stared at the black wrought iron gate in front of him, stunned. Resigned? When had that happened, and why?

“But it seems that you’re right, Chief Gillespie. We do have something in common, after all.”

“That is?”

“We both want Prejean dead,” Rutgers said.

Gillespie’s pulse picked up speed. “We might have a better chance of accomplishing that together.”

“Perhaps. What’s he doing in the cemetery?”

Gillespie started to shake his head, but the painful scrape of the gun barrel against his scalp aborted the movement. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “He and Wallace seem to be looking for someone or something.”

“Well, then, put those binoculars to use, Chief, and let’s see if they’ve found what they’re looking for.”

The gun barrel’s pressure vanished from the back of his head and Gillespie exhaled in relief. He glanced at the woman as she stepped up beside him.

The former Bureau ADIC wore a belted tan trench and black slacks and stood a pear-shaped five-six or five-seven, compared to his six-one. Dark brown curls threaded through with gray cupped her angular face. He knew she was in her fifties, but beneath the oak’s shadows, she looked younger. She met his regard with calm brown eyes.

Gillespie had never met Rutgers, had only spoken to her over the phone during times when SB and FBI interests intersected. Like with motherfucking Bad Seed. And with the mysterious events outside Damascus at the Wells/Lyons compound.

A dark cave stretches across the ground where the main house had once stood, a cave ringed with a Stonehenge of white stone angels. And sitting quietly in the SB’s watchful custody, the FBI agent Rutgers sent to tail Prejean and Wallace, his sanity on permanent vacation.

Mysterious events and Dante Prejean seemed to go hand-in-hand, like a high school couple going steady.

Returning his attention to the cemetery, Gillespie lifted the binoculars to his eyes and trained them on the area he’d last seen Prejean and Wallace. He spotted them still beside the crypt, but now the bloodsucker stood with both blue-flames-flickering palms against its white stone, Wallace right behind him—and it looked like she had looped a hand through the back of his belt.

Prejean drew back his left fist. Then punched it into the crypt.

Gillespie frowned. What the hell—Before he could finish his thought, a blinding flash of blue light exploded from the cemetery. Sudden pressure jabbed his ears, then he felt the air sucked from his lungs.

Whoomph!

A heated rush of air slammed into him, lifting him off his feet and hurling him like a Frisbee—a flesh and bone Frisbee—across the sidewalk and against a parked car. Blue stars flickered through his vision as his head cracked into a fender. He bit his tongue. The old nickel taste of blood filled his mouth.

Gillespie tumbled into the street, landing face-first on the pavement. More flickering stars. Another mouthful of old nickels. Curling into a ball to protect himself as debris tinked and clunked to the ground beside him, Gillespie folded his arms over his head.

The ground quaked and shuddered beneath him for a moment, then went still once more. But he knew what he’d felt had been the aftereffects of an explosive shock wave and not an earthquake. He smelled ozone thick in the air, but no smoke. Through the painful ringing in his ears he heard car alarms beeping and whooping, heard stones crashing against concrete and pavement, heard the clang of iron, heard the high-pressure gush of a broken water main and the panicked shouts of people.

“Holy Jesus, did you see that?”

“An explosion in the cemetery!”

“Dear Lord, oh, it’s the end of days—a ring of fire!”

“Someone call 911! Call the shittin’ bomb squad!”

A hand gripped Gillespie’s shoulder. Lowering his arms, he looked up into Monica Rutgers’s ashen face. Her dark curls were disheveled, her expression grim and making her look every one of her fifty-plus years.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “Are you all right?”

Good question. Gillespie pushed against the pavement and eased himself into a sitting position. Pain rang his skull like a noontime bell. Nausea twisted through his guts. He felt a cold sweat pop up on his forehead.

“I’ll live,” he said. Then he chuckled as he realized he’d swallowed his gum.

Rutgers shook her head. Her lips stretched into a thin line. Her expression told him that he looked as bad as he felt. He grasped the hand she offered and allowed her to help him up to his feet.

He stared at the wreckage surrounding him, pulse racing, mouth dry. Shattered glass was everywhere—in the street, on the sidewalk, strewn like sharp and glittering confetti on cars, grass, in bushes. Water from a broken hydrant geysered into the night, a pale starward stream. His Nissan rested on its side on the sidewalk beside a now tattered-looking rose bush.

Then he looked across the cemetery. Its walls and gate had been smashed into blue-flickering ruin.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “What the hell happened?”

“Damned if I know,” Rutgers replied. “But I intend to find out.”

She hurried back to the sidewalk and Gillespie followed, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his glasses. He realized the binoculars no longer dangled from around his neck. His fingers skimmed across his glasses and he was surprised, but happy, to find them in one piece. Pulling them free, he slid them on.

Gillespie stepped up onto the cracked sidewalk and felt ice flow through his veins. Throughout the cemetery, tombs, crypts, and statues had been cut in half, their contents spilling onto the ruptured stone paths; the sliced-off tops of cypresses and oaks had tumbled onto chunks of broken stone and masonry, their leaves aglow with blue flames.

Uneasiness snaked through Gillespie as he recalled his last sight of Prejean.

Blue fire swallows the bloodsucker’s hands. Prejean draws back his left fist. Then punches it into the crypt.

Blue flames. Just like those devouring the leaves and sparking along the ruptured tombs.

Dear God. Had Prejean caused the explosion? Gillespie’s thoughts flipped back to what he’d seen on the security cam disk he’d stolen in Damascus.

The energy surrounding Prejean shafts into Johanna Moore’s body from dozens of different points. Explodes from her eyes. From her nostrils. Her screaming mouth. She separates into strands, wet and glistening. Prejean’s energy unthreads Moore. Pulls apart every single element of her flesh.

Johanna Moore spills to the tiled floor, her scream ending in a gurgle.

If Prejean could unmake a woman, then he could also make a cave like the one that had mysteriously appeared in Damascus. Could surround its raw edge with a Stonehenge of white stone angels—smooth-winged angels that he’d bet anything had once been flesh—while something deep within the cave’s dark and glistening guts sang holy, holy, holy.

Jesus Christ. Listen to yourself. You’ve finally pickled your brain. No way Prejean’s responsible for all that. Not possible. Can’t be possible.

That final conversation with Wallace replayed through his aching mind, intensifying the dread knotting up his belly.

They’re lying to you. Ask about Bad Seed.

I know about Bad Seed. I know what Dante Prejean is.

I doubt that.

Three simple words containing depths beyond Gillespie’s imagining.

Pain pulsed through Gillespie’s head, throbbed at the back of his skull. He looked around for his rifle and found it, tarp-free, in the gutter. He scooped it up, then started running along the cracked concrete path, heading for the spot he’d last seen Prejean and Wallace through the binoculars.

“Hold up,” Rutgers panted, winded already after too many years behind a desk. “Where are we headed?”

“To where I last saw Prejean.” Gillespie stumbled to a stop in front of a ruined white tomb. He could make out the name carved into the shattered marble—BARONNE. A wisp of pale smoke curled from behind the tomb’s remains. He stepped over chunks of masonry and looked. What he saw catapulted his heart into his throat.

A large hole, molten-rimmed and glowing yellow-orange, swallowed up most of the tomb’s only intact wall.

But that wasn’t what scraped fear through Gillespie’s mind and across his heart. On the other side of the embered hole, he didn’t see what he expected to see—a tomb’s dusty interior. Instead, hallways stretched away from the hole, with sky blue marble floors and ridged marble columns that reached into pale night skies.

Pale night skies full of rustling wings.

“Dear God. What is that?” Rutgers’s voice was stunned, disbelieving.

A faint whiff of smoky incense wafted from the hole. “Do you feel like stepping inside and finding out?” Gillespie asked.

“Are you out of your goddamned mind?”

“Not yet,” Gillespie replied. He nodded at the smoldering portal. “But I feel zero hour rapidly approaching.”

“Christ, what the hell am I looking at—a dimensional doorway?” Rutgers asked. “What could cause that? Create it?”

Remembering pale hands swallowed by blue flames, Gillespie said, “Not what, but who.”

Gillespie felt Rutgers’s gaze bulls-eye in on the side of his head.

“Are you saying that Prejean did this?” she questioned, voice flat. “Now I know you’re out of your goddamned mind. The bastard’s a True Blood vampire and a programmed sociopath, but—”

Programmed? News to Gillespie. “That’s not all he is,” he said. “What do you know about his father?”

“Nothing. Prejean’s mother never said word one about who fathered her baby.”

“And you never wondered about that?”

“Didn’t seem important.”

“I’ve got something that’ll change your mind about that,” Gillespie said. “Something you need to see.”

“And that would be?” Rutgers asked.

Gillespie shook his head. “Later.”

“Fair enough. So—Prejean and Wallace—do you think they’re inside whatever or wherever the hell that is?”

“That’d be my guess.”

“Christ.” Face grim, dirt-smudged, Rutgers reached inside her trench and pulled out a gun. Looked like a standard issue Glock.

“If you’re thinking of going in, you’re going alone,” Gillespie said. His throat felt parched, prickling with a deep thirst for the flannel-blanket comfort floating inside a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “Me, I’m going for a drink.”

In the distance, sirens wailed, oracles of disaster.

“I just might join you,” Rutgers murmured as she eyed the ember-rimmed hole. She reholstered her Glock. “The first responders will be here soon. I don’t want to explain my presence.”

Gillespie nodded. “Same here. Plus, there’s a few things we need to discuss before we take any action.”

“We, is it?” Rutgers looked at Gillespie. “How bitter a pill was it when Underwood ordered you to let Prejean walk away after the debacle in Damascus?”

“Very.”

“I’ll bet.” Rutgers swiveled around, then hurried back the way they’d come, dodging piles of rubble with surprising grace for a desk jockey.

Gillespie followed her to the glass-glinting street, his fingers sweating against the rifle’s stock. A less thirsty part of him insisted that he remain in the cemetery, waiting out of sight for the monster to return—

Monster? How about bloodsucking bastard god?

—and put an end to Prejean the second he stepped out of the tomb and back into their world. Trouble was, Gillespie was no longer sure he knew how to do that.

Or if anyone could.

4
A DARK AND RESTLESS SEA

GEHENNA,
THE PIT OF SHEOL
Night of March 27–28

FURY PULSED THROUGH DANTE like blood.

The Morningstar’s bone-white wings fanned through hot air thick with heat and smoke and the stench of rotten eggs as they descended into the stinking pit. Heat baked against Dante’s skin, sucked at his breath. His mesh-sleeved arm wound tighter around the Morningstar’s neck.

Lucien hung in the depths of the ember-shadowed pit, thick curves of barbed steel impaling both shoulders, blood smearing his skin. The orange light from the glowing coals glinted in the bands clipping Lucien’s smooth black wings together.

The Fallen pricks had tossed Lucien onto hooks like a side of beef. Had fucking tortured him as punishment for a crime thousands of years cold, according to the Morningstar.

Dante didn’t know if Lucien was guilty of the murder or not and, in truth, he didn’t give a rat’s ass. All he cared about was getting Lucien off those hooks and out of the pit.

“Une main lave l’autre, for true,” Dante said, picturing Gabriel hook-impaled, his swagger and smirk gone all to hell like fresh air in the pit.

“Is that French?” the Morningstar asked, tucking Dante even closer against his side. “Your accent is unusual.”

“Nope. Cajun.”

“Ah, ancient and corrupted French, then.”

“Oh, hey, an unwanted and incorrect opinion. You know where you can cram that opinion, yeah? Not to mention how far, how hard, and how often?”

“I suspect I do, yes. Think I’ll let the suggestion slide.”

“Too bad.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Dry amusement buoyed the fallen angel’s voice.

Dante snorted. “Oui sûr.”

Dante wished he could’ve gone to Sheol on his own to fetch Lucien from its smoldering guts, but his own newborn wings, still wet with blood and untested, were useless until he learned how to use them. If he wanted to learn. So, no matter how much it had grated against his instincts, he’d accepted the Morning-star’s help.

Besides, the sooner he reached Lucien and got the three of them—Heather, Lucien, and himself—out of Gehenna, the better.

A tsunami of rapturous wybrcathl crashed into Dante’s mind, battering his shields and unraveling his thoughts as the Fallen resumed greeting him—en masse—a warbling choir composed of what sounded and felt like thousands of voices. White light flickered at the edges of his vision.

Welcome home, young Maker!

Holy, holy, holy!

Take your place upon the Chaos Seat. We shall love you. Instruct you. Guide you.

You shall breathe new life into Gehenna.

Dante tightened his shields, shored them up with fresh mental steel, but exhaustion sucked at his strength, his focus. He resisted the urge to unleash his song in a furious back-the-fuck-off-and-let-me-breathe response, worried that he’d lose control of his power and accidentally hurt Heather or even Lucien.

His muscles knotted and his wings fluttered in automatic response. Molten pain blazed along his back, twitching liquid fire from nerve to nerve. Sucking in a breath, he held himself still, jaw clenched, until the pain faded.

<Baptiste? Everything okay?>

Dante tilted his head and looked up. Heather knelt at the mouth of the pit above, her lovely, heart-shaped face illuminated by the pit’s fiery glow, her expression composed. But through their bond, he felt her concern, cool and coiled, nudging against his shields. She pushed her breeze-caught red hair out of her eyes with one hand, a big-ass Browning locked in the fingers of the other.

<Oui, catin, c’est bon. Keep sharp.>

<You too.>

Dante hadn’t liked leaving her above and alone, not one fucking bit; no matter how capable Heather was, no matter how deadly an aim, she remained a vulnerable mortal in a world of winged and taloned Fallen. But the Morningstar had refused to bring her with them into the pit.

If your father should be too weak to fly, I can’t carry all three of you out.

“She’d better be safe up there,” Dante warned, voice low.

“She is,” the Morningstar replied. “As companion and bond-mate to the Maker, no one would dream of harming her.”

“That dick Gabriel would. He seems to have a major stick up his ass where mortals are concerned.”

The Morningstar laughed, genuine amusement deepening the musical timbre of his voice. “You’ve such an eloquent way with words.”

“Nice to be appreciated, and fuck you.”

“By the way, please be careful with your wings,” the Morningstar said. “The tips and edges are sharp as blades, and you just smacked me a moment ago. You could’ve drawn blood.”

“Yeah, yeah. Gotcha.” Dante lifted his hand, then extended his middle finger, displaying it with exaggerated care from all sides.

The Morningstar arched a pale eyebrow. “Obviously, you take instruction well.”

“Tais toi, you.”

Catching a flash of white from the corner of his eye, Dante twisted around for a better look. Shock iced his blood as he realized Lucien wasn’t the only one being punished.

Ghostly twists of smoke curled against the thin moonlight shafting into the pit, revealing another figure hanging across from Lucien. She dangled on her own pair of hooks, blood staining the front of her gold and black gown. Coils of winter-pale hair looped to her shoulders alongside her pain-etched face. Her creamy white wings had also been banded shut. Despite the pain etching her face, she watched their descent, her violet eyes bright with wonder.

“Creawdwr,” she whispered, her gaze caressing Dante’s face.

“Who’s she?” Dante asked. “And why the hell is she on hooks too?”

“She is Hekate . . . my daughter,” the Morningstar replied, voice grim. “I didn’t know Gabriel had sentenced her to Sheol for trying to help your father escape until we stepped through your gate. Then I heard her.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Dante said. “You’re linked to her as her dad, yeah? You woulda heard her, felt her, anywhere.”

“She shielded her pain and refused to call to me. She knew I had more important concerns.” The Morningstar gave Dante a pointed look.

“Think again. I ain’t your concern. Never was. Never will be.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the Morningstar said. “As Maker, you’re everyone’s concern—whether you like it or not. All I want is to help you along whatever path you choose to walk.”

“All you want. Uh-huh. Yeah. Right.”

Lucien’s warning remained clear in Dante’s mind: I hid you from others—powerful others who would use you without mercy. Dante had a feeling the Morningstar, despite all his friendly help and so-called guidance, fell smack into the middle of the “use you without mercy” category.

“Stubborn and cynical,” the Morningstar muttered. “Truly, a winning combination.”

Before Dante could bite off a proper retort, a rapid burring sound caught his attention and drew his gaze to the dark tunnels stretching off in both directions from within the pit’s guts.

Several creatures with serpentine bodies—maybe three feet plus change in length—and feathered, lizardlike heads flew out from the mouths of the tunnels, carried on multiple, hummingbird-quick wings. They flitted around the pit in agitated circles, their burring wings stirring up the rotten-egg stench. Red and orange ember-light glinted from their scaled hides.

“And who are they?” Dante asked, eyeing the snake-lizard-hummingbird things.

“Chalkydri,” the Morningstar said dismissively. “Servants and jailors.”

“You really fucking think you’re superior to everyone, don’tcha?”

An amused smile quirked at the Morningstar’s lips. “Think? No. I know I am.”

Dante snorted. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

The chalkydri continued their anxious aerial darting, chittering and fluting, as the Morningstar slowed his descent, coming to a hovering position in front of Lucien’s unconscious body with strong, steady wing-beats.

Fear slipped a shiv between Dante’s ribs. With all the wybrcathl and noise bouncing around in his head, he couldn’t hear Lucien’s heart, couldn’t tell whether it still beat or not.

Before our bond was severed, I woulda known without hearing . . .

Dante shoved the thought away, not wanting to be drawn to the dark, empty spot in his mind where Lucien’s steadying presence had once dwelt.

Lucien’s waist-length black hair streamed past his bowed head and seemed to merge with the black kilt belted at his hips. Even though Gabriel had undone the spell that he’d laid upon Lucien—at Dante’s terse insistence—a spell that had bound Lucien’s fate to that of a dying land, his father’s strength and vitality hadn’t yet been restored. His skin was too pale, almost translucent.

A pang of guilt pierced Dante. My fault. I shoved him away.

The Morningstar’s wings swooshed behind Dante in a steady, measured rhythm as he wrapped both arms around Dante’s waist and held him securely. Sliding his arm free of the fallen angel’s neck, Dante leaned forward and pressed a trembling hand against Lucien’s bare and blood-sticky chest above his heart.

The warmth radiating into Dante’s palm did little to reassure him, since he couldn’t be sure if it was Lucien’s own or heat soaked up from the coals below.

Dante arrowed a wished-hard thought out into the night, seeking the dead.

Keep him breathing, ma mère, s’il te plaît. Keep his heart beating.

A moment later, Dante felt a slow, hard beat thump beneath his palm. He closed his eyes, exhaling in relief. “Merci beau-coup,” he whispered.

Opening his eyes, Dante pushed Lucien’s hair back from his face, and another sharp pang pierced him. The skin beneath Lucien’s closed eyes looked bruised, the smudges of darkness stark against his pallor. And the hooks . . .

Dante-angel?

Chloe’s soft voice whispered up from the depths within, and the pit tilted abruptly. Dante felt his world shifting, sliding, fracturing. Panic trickled like ice water along his spine as he fought to remain in the present, but another world whirled into view—a world composed of a white padded room, a steel hook bolted into the ceiling.

Ready for business.

Dante shuddered, pain spasming in his back, spiking his temples. A hook-shaped uneasiness fueled his racing pulse.

Not fucking now. Keep your shit together.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he focused on the image of Lucien’s bowed head, his too-pale face, and shoved the white room with its steel hook down below. Reality steadied. The past receded, a dark and restless sea—a sea Dante wasn’t sure he could hold back a second time.

<Baptiste?>

<Still here, chérie.> He opened his eyes, and relief butter-flied through him when he saw only one image—Lucien’s face. <Let’s get this done, yeah?>

A chalkydri flitted near, its rows of delicate, gold-edged wings a blur. Dante reached out and nabbed its thick, twisting tail. It squawked in panic, its talons popping out from its paws like a startled cat’s, then it fell silent. It regarded Dante with large golden eyes.

Dante tugged it closer. Its black-scaled skin felt as smooth as velvet under his fingers. “I want you to release him.” He nodded at Lucien. “Get him off these fucking hooks and free his wings.” He then pointed in the violet-eyed chick’s—Hekate’s—direction. “Her too. Tout de suite. You can do all that, yeah?”

The chalkydri bobbed its feathered head and chittered in rapid, high-pitched tones, an aural hummingbird. Dante frowned. He’d almost understood the little demon-thing, or thought he had, anyway. It sounded like it’d said something along the lines of, Welcome, welcome, please don’t unmake me.

Dante shook his head. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I ain’t got a problem with y’all.” He released the chalkydri’s muscular tail, then tossed a glance over his shoulder at the Morning-star, who arched a white brow. “Just your bosses.”

“I hope you aren’t including me in that comment,” the Morningstar murmured.

“Depends. Do you tell them what to do?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then you’re included.”

The Morningstar sighed.

As the chalkydri and its companion worked on removing the barbed hooks from Lucien’s shoulders and the clips from his wings, Dante cupped Lucien’s face between his hands and planted gentle kisses on his forehead, his eyelids, then his lips. As he kissed Lucien, he inhaled an earthy scent he’d thought he’d never experience again—his father’s scent of deep, dark earth and green leaves.

Lucien’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, then gazed with disbelieving wonder at Dante, his expression that of a man who believes he’s dreaming.

“Found you, mon cher ami, mon père, and I ain’t never losing you again,” Dante said, voice husky. “We’re going home.”

A smile brushed Lucien’s lips. “I’d like that, mon fils,” he whispered. “I’d like that very much.”

5
BETWEEN THE LIES

GEHENNA,
THE PIT OF SHEOL
Night of March 27–28

“ARE YOU STRONG ENOUGH to fly?” Dante asked.

“By all that’s holy,” Lucien whispered, looking past Dante. His sleepy, half-dreaming, heavy-lidded expression vanished. “Child, you’re with the Morningstar,” he stated in the low, level, caution-please tone of voice most people reserved for saying things like, A snake is coiled at your feet about to strike. Don’t move. Hold. Very. Still.

“Totally aware of that,” Dante replied, unable to keep a smile from tilting his lips. “But we’ll discuss it later, after we’re . . .” He paused, stumbling over the word. “. . . home.” As he dropped his hands from Lucien’s face, his wings flexed involuntarily. Pain bit into his back muscles.

“Ouch,” the Morningstar said. “Stop flapping.”

“Blow me.”

Stunned wonder widened Lucien’s eyes. “You . . . you have wings,” he breathed. “Dante, when . . . I mean . . . how . . . ?”

“Just a little bit ago,” Dante replied. “I don’t know how—it just happened. Another thing we can discuss later, yeah? Heather’s waiting above and she’s alone.”

“Not anymore,” the Morningstar said.

Those words chiseled ice into Dante’s bones. He looked up and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the tall shapes ringing the pit’s mouth, their wings folded behind them. Gowns and kilts and long, silken strands of hair fluttered in the night breeze. Eyes glittered like gold stars in the diluted darkness.

Tall shapes ringing the pit . . . shovels ringing a grave . . .

Dante’s vision fractured and, for a second, he was a teenager again, fighting his way out of the grave Papa-fucking-Prejean had dumped him into, a hasty grave rimmed with shovels, blue blades buried into the mud and sawgrass, wood handles reaching into the night. . . . Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson.

<Stay here, Baptiste, here and now. Stay with me.>

Heather’s sending—white silence and a grounded calm energy—nudged the puzzle pieces of Dante’s vision, his multiple realities, together again until they clicked into place to form a single image: the opening to the pit edged with wary and tensed Fallen winging out from either side of one mortal woman.

Heather knelt at the pit’s rough and sandy edge in her black trench coat and leather pants, Browning in hand, her body taut and coiled. An aura of purple and inky gold shimmered around her like an aurora borealis—intense concentration and fierce determination, but fading energy and a deepening weariness muddied its colors.

It’d been a long and hellish night for both of them, and Dante had a feeling they were both running on fumes.

<Still here, catin,> he sent.

Relief flickered across her face and a smile curved her lips. <I see that, Baptiste.> Then she glanced at the Fallen standing beside her. <You going to be much longer?>

<We’ll be done soon. Hold on.>

“Hey, y’all with the wings,” Dante called, knowing the fallen angels could hear him, despite the distance. “Keep your distance from her and stay outta our way. As long as you’re just watching, we’re cool.”

“It shall be as you say, little creawdwr,” one of the female Fallen said, her voice soft and reverent, a hymn. “Your will shall be done.”

“Your will be done,” the other Fallen echoed, one by one, their murmured voices blending into a musical amen.

“Terrific,” Dante muttered, wondering whether to flip them off or salute or drop trou and show his ass. He settled on rubbing the side of his nose with his middle finger, not caring if they got his point or not.

Dante didn’t return his attention to Lucien until the fallen angels standing on either side of Heather—both males—had put a careful, healthy distance between them and her.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Lucien said, his black eyes searching Dante’s face. “They are only pretending obedience. Trying to lull you. My words are still true.”

The Fallen will find you. And bind you.

“Yeah, je connais,” Dante said. “I know how to read between the lies. I heard you that night in the cemetery. Even if I was pissed off, I was listening. And I meant what I said too.”

If they find me, they ain’t binding me. They’re gonna hafta kill me.

“I know you did,” Lucien said, his expression unreadable, his exhaustion-etched face still. But Dante read the truth in his eyes, the words he didn’t voice. And that’s what worries me.

“Forget all that for now, yeah?” Dante said, “Let’s get you outta here.”

“And Hekate too, she helped . . .”

“Yup. Already got the chalky dudes working on it.”

“Chalkydri,” the Morningstar corrected.

“Whatever.”

Dante drew in a deep, steadying breath before wrapping his arms around Lucien’s waist so he could support the angel when the chalkydri removed the hooks. Heat from his father’s tensed and fevered body radiated into him. “Here we go, mon ami,” he whispered, his mouth close to Lucien’s ear. “Hold on.”

Lucien bit back a groan as the first barbed hook was pulled out through his back with a wet, sucking sound.

“Take it easy, dammit,” Dante growled, glaring at the pair of chalkydri hovering—one with a sapphire-blue-tipped crescent of feathers on its flat head, neon-green-tipped feathers on the other—behind Lucien. One held the bloodied hook in its paws. Uneasiness, dark and cold and oily, slid through Dante again as he looked at it.

Dante caught a whiff of the blood smeared on Lucien’s skin—thick and coppery and seeded with pomegranate—before the pit’s rotten egg stink swallowed it up.

Hunger twisted through Dante, spun his thoughts.

The few mouthfuls of blood he’d gulped down from Gabriel’s torn throat couldn’t make up for all the blood he’d lost when his wings had put in their abrupt and unexpected appearance, tearing through muscle and skin and his fave NIN T-shirt.

Hunger scratched at Dante’s thoughts, reminding him of the heady vintage he’d just tasted. Pomegranate-tart blood pours between his lips and down his throat in a heated rush, strength threading into him with each ravenous swallow, flooding his veins with heat and light.

With a shudder, Dante shoved his hunger below. It would just have to wait. Like so many other things.

The chalkydri with blue-tipped feathers began snipping the bands from Lucien’s wings with what looked like dull black shears as its neon-green feathered buddy reached taloned paws for the second hook.

Dante wrapped his arms tighter around Lucien’s waist. Wanting to distract him, he said, “Fucking Mauvais had the house burned to the ground tonight.”

“What? Our house? Our home?” Lucien asked in disbelief, barely flinching when the second hook was yanked free with a wet pop, and he dropped into Dante’s tight-muscled embrace.

The Morningstar’s powerful wings swept faster through the smoky air as he balanced the added weight.

“The club’s home for now,” Dante said.

“Is everyone all right?” Lucien asked. His hair brushed against Dante’s cheek as he pulled back a bit so he could see Dante’s face.

Fire scorches her lungs. Blackens her skin. Devours her with relentless teeth.

A muscle flexed in Dante’s jaw. He met Lucien’s eyes. “No.”

Concern flickered across Lucien’s face. “Who . . .?”

Dante shook his head. Not now.

The chalkydri snipped the final band from Lucien’s wings and the metal halves ting, ting, tinged against the burning rocks below. Lucien’s black wings flared out, stretching and flexing.

“Hey, thanks,” Dante said to the chalkydri. “I appreciate your help.”

Two pairs of golden eyes blinked. The demon-lizard-hummingbirds glanced at one another before flitting away into one of the pit’s dark tunnels, burring wings translucent with speed.

Dante frowned. Clearly not used to being thanked.

“Here we go,” the Morningstar said. The fallen angel’s arms clamped even tighter around Dante’s waist, squeezing the air from his lungs.

The question Dante had intended to ask Lucien—Can you fly?—came out, “Can you . . . ooof.”

The Morningstar’s wings swept through the air in quick, powerful strokes, and without another word, he carried the three of them up through the lung-searing smoke toward the pale night beyond the pit’s mouth.

“Release me, child,” Lucien said.

“T’es sûr?” Dante asked.

“I doubt he’s strong enough,” the Morningstar said. “Between Gabriel’s spell and all the time on the hooks, he’s going to need my help.”

“I can fly. I don’t need your help,” Lucien retorted, his voice a hollow echo of its usual vibrant rumble, but buoyed with confidence all the same.

“Fine,” the Morningstar sighed, and Dante had a feeling that he was rolling his eyes as he spoke. “Fly or plummet to sizzle on the coals. I don’t care.”

“No doubt you don’t,” Lucien muttered, wings stretching out behind him. He shifted his attention to Dante. “You can let go.”

“D’accord.”

Dante opened his arms and his heart leapt into his throat when Lucien dropped toward the pit’s smoldering floor, his wings flapping weakly.

“Shit,” Dante breathed. “We gotta go back.”

“A few bruises, broken bones, and random burns won’t hurt him,” the Morningstar commented, refusing to stop, slow, or hover. “At least, not for long. Might even help him learn to accept help when offered in the future.”

Dante twisted against the Morningstar’s steel grip, intending to go after Lucien himself, figuring instinct would tell his wings what to do, but before he could wrench free, a blur of white cut through the smoke-hazed air.

The Morningstar’s daughter soared up behind Lucien, her face nearly incandescent in the gloom. Hekate stopped Lucien’s tumbling fall with her own body, bracing her hands against his back, her wings with their lavender undersides beating strong and steady as she balanced him until his wings could rediscover their rhythm and strength.

Tendrils of Lucien’s long black hair snaked across Hekate’s face, her lips, stark against her gleaming skin. Then his dark wings slashed through the air in sure strokes and her hands slid away from his back.

Lucien kited up from the depths, following Dante and the Morningstar out of the pit, Hekate winging in his wake. Relief curled warm through Dante, slowed his pulse.

<Ready, chérie?> Dante sent as the Morningstar’s wings carried them out of the pit and into the night sky, its horizon stained with undulating color—blue, purple, and green—an aurora borealis viewed through a rain-streaked window.

“More than ready,” Heather replied, her voice clear and steady.

Dante had a glimpse of Heather rising to her feet as he and the Morningstar soared from the pit’s dark mouth. The Fallen standing beside her watched their ascent, their wings no longer folded at their backs, but flexing and fluttering.

The Morningstar looped through the air, heading back toward the pit and Heather. She stood at the pit’s edge, gun in hand, her lovely face tipped up to the sky, expression composed. The jasmine and myrrh scented breeze tugged at the hem of her black trench, rippled through her hair.

“She may be human, but she’s far from ordinary,” the Morningstar commented.

“Wow. Beaucoup talented at understatement,” Dante said. “With that kinda sweet-talking, I’ll bet you spend most of your nights alone. And you forgot the most important thing.”

“And that would be?”

“She’s mine.”

“Ah. Yes.”

The Morningstar glided down to the sandy ground beside Heather, wing-gust blowing her hair back from her face, her trench coat back from her body, and plastering her purple tank top against her breasts.

“Hey, catin.”

A relieved smile played across Heather’s lips. “Hey, Baptiste.” Dropping the Browning into the trench’s pocket, she stepped up beside the Morningstar and slipped an arm around the angel’s neck.

Her hand brushed against Dante’s, her fingers warm against his skin as her hand slid past his to secure her hold. Now that she was with him again, his tension eased, but only a little. As long as they remained in Gehenna and among the Fallen, the last thing they were was safe.

The Morningstar locked an arm around Heather’s waist. His powerful wings lifted them effortlessly into the air. Dante heard multiple wing whooshes as the Fallen who had watched as he’d freed his father took to the air. Ahead, he saw Lucien and Hekate—black wings and white—flying side by side toward the distant lights of the Royal Aerie.

<Who’s the woman?> Heather sent.

<Hekate. The Morningstar’s daughter. She was there because she tried to help Lucien escape.>

<His daughter? He doesn’t seem at all concerned that she was up on hooks.>

<No,> Dante agreed. <He doesn’t.>

Dante caught the faint tang of brine in the air and heard the rhythmic pounding of surf against rocks. He realized that an ocean seethed on the other side of the mountains.

Landing terraces shadowed the mountain faces like opened and chocolate-emptied windows on the Christmas advent calendars that Simone had insisted on putting up on the fireplace mantel every December.

Simone.

Grief coiled around Dante’s heart. It’d only been a few hours since that Creole asshole Mauvais, the so-called nightkind Lord of New Orleans, and his chienne of a daughter, Justine, had torched Dante’s house—payback for his killing Justine’s play partner, Étienne.

Dante remembered his answer to Justine’s accusation of murder.

Oui, I did. And I’d do it again. No regrets.

And Justine’s furious response, her words like daggers of ice.

Trust me, I’ll make sure you regret every breath you’ve ever drawn.

Simone had helped Heather’s sister Annie escape the Molotov-cocktail birthed firestorm engulfing the house before the intense flames had blocked her from following Annie and the others to safety.

Fire scorches her lungs. Blackens her skin. Devours her with relentless teeth.

Pain pulsed at Dante’s back and at his temples. Within his heart.

Chloe’s voice whispered up from the darkness deep inside.

She trusted you too, huh, Dante-angel?

Yeah, she did, princess. Now hush, p’tite, and go back to sleep.

Knowing laughter slithered up from below. Still no regrets?

Dante didn’t know who had asked that last question, even though the voice and the laughter had sounded familiar. He struggled to put a name or face to the voice, but the memory capered at the edge of his recall, out of reach and beyond his grasp.

Still no regrets?

And the answer to that question?

The hard truth torqued through Dante, ratcheting every tendon, nerve, and muscle piano-wire tight. Simone would still be breathing if I hadn’t killed fucking Étienne.

Dante’s budding migraine intensified, spiking a red-hot poker of pain through his left eye. He shoved the pain ruthlessly below. Blood trickled hot from his nose as white light jittered like Times Square neon across his vision. Sniffing back blood, he wiped at his nose with the back of his hand.

Ain’t got time for this. Focus, dammit.

“Dante.”

Dante looked across the Morningstar to meet Heather’s questioning gaze. Night shadowed the curve of her jaw, pooled in her eyes.

“Your nose is bleeding. That’s a migraine I’m feeling, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Just beginning.” Dante wiped his nose against his mesh sleeve.

Her brows slashed down in a frown. “Christ, Baptiste. That’s just the start?”

“Yeah, but it’s nothing I wanna share, so you need to tighten your shields.” Dante tapped a finger against his temple. “You know how to do that?”

Heather nodded. “Visualization and focus, right? Von told me to picture something that I believe secure and impenetrable, like steel walls.”

“Yeah, c’est bon, chère. Just imagine the walls thicker, reinforced. I’ll tighten mine too and that should stop any more pain bleedthrough.”

“If I fed you energy, maybe it would—”

“Heather, no. Merci, but not here. Not now. And you ain’t got none to spare.”

“Neither do you.” Heather sighed. Weariness and something else Dante couldn’t name—regret or sorrow or maybe a grim and quiet determination—sculpted her face, carved hollows beneath her cheeks. “I’ve got morphine with me,” she said. “If it comes to that.”

“I can’t afford to go on the nod, catin, no matter how bad it gets.”

“I know,” Heather agreed quietly. “But if you have a seizure, I’ll have no choice.”

“I could ease your pain,” the Morningstar said, glancing at Dante sidelong.

Remembering how Lucien used to ice the pain in his head with quicksilver curls of energy, Dante said, “You could, yeah. If I trusted you. Which I don’t.”

“You mean you don’t trust me yet.”

“I mean, maybe I trust you never.”

A smile quirked up one corner of the Morningstar’s mouth. “I love a challenge.”

Dante snorted. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Wybrcathl floated into the air, a buoyant song, a nighthawk gliding on thermals.

Our creawdwr comes!

Dante focused his attention on the Royal Aerie’s torch-lit main landing terrace. His muscles knotted a twist tighter when he saw the crowd of Fallen waiting on the other side of the terrace’s white marble balustrade.

“It looks like we have a welcoming committee,” Heather murmured. “How do we want to play it, Baptiste?”

“As soon as our feet hit the ground, we grab Lucien and haul ass for the gate.”

“And if they won’t let us?” Heather asked.

“Then we fight, catin.”

“There’s no need for that,” the Morningstar said. “They only wish to greet you, to look upon you. The ones who would try to stop you aren’t here. At least, I don’t see any of the Celestial Seven. Perhaps they’ve heard how you knocked Gabriel to the floor and feasted on his blood, and are exercising a bit of caution. We can hope, in any case.”

“The Celestial Seven?” Dante questioned. “Even though that sounds like the name of the cheesiest Christian rock band ever—”

“Or a gospel choir group composed of seven plump divas,” Heather suggested with a quick smile.

A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “Nice,” he approved. “But I’m betting it’s neither.”

“You’re right. They are the Dominions,” the Morningstar replied. “Princes of the Elohim and the leading members of Gehenna’s senate.”

“Politicians, yeah? So why the concern?”

“They’re much more than that, but never underestimate a politician, boy. It never ends well—for anyone.” Having closed the distance between them and Lucien and Hekate, the Morningstar leveled his wings and glided in the slipstream created by the pair. “The Seven are charismatic, charming, and treacherous egomaniacs hungry for power and glory.”

Dante snorted. “There’s a surprise.”

“And what does that mean for us?” Heather asked. “For Dante?”

“Whoever can claim and bind the creawdwr will be exalted above all others,” the Morningstar replied. He turned his head to look at Dante. Moonlight gilded his blue eyes silver. “They will never allow you to leave Gehenna, not unbound.”

6
ÇA FINI PAS

GEHENNA,
IN THE AIR
Night of March 27–28

“Allow? IT AIN’T UP to them,” Dante said, voice low and tight. “I’m leaving, un-fucking-bound.”

“Perhaps a compromise could be worked out,” the Morning-star said. “We’ve—”

“A compromise requires trust, yeah?” Dante cut in. “And trust needs to be earned. Over time. We ain’t anywhere near there yet. So fuck the compromise.”

“Ah, cranky. Must be getting close to your bedtime,” the Morningstar murmured. “Well, let’s see if we can get you home. And, yes, I know—I can go fuck myself.”

Heather laughed. “He’s got your number.”

Dante couldn’t help the grin that slid across his lips. “Must be psychic.”

“More like a glutton for punishment,” the Morningstar said, dipping his right wing and following as Lucien and Hekate descended in graceful swoops to the crowded terrace.

Lucien landed first, stumbling a little as his sandaled feet hit the marble, but recovering quickly. His belted black kilt swirled around his legs. Folding his wings behind him, he drew himself to his full six-eight, shoulders back, an arrogant tilt to his chin, as he put his back to the balustrade.

The gathered Fallen bristled at Lucien’s presence, tension prickling through the crowd like a thorned blackberry cane. Expressions darkened. Taloned hands fisted. The scorched rubber smell of anger threaded into the air.

“Looks like they’re ready to put Lucien right back on those hooks, Baptiste,” Heather commented.

“Of course they are,” the Morningstar said. “He murdered Yahweh and we’ve been forced to live without a creawdwr ever since. They don’t want to risk their new Maker’s safety.”

“Do they know he’s my father?” Dante asked.

“No one did, until you named him as such to Gabriel,” the Morningstar replied. “Although I imagine rumors are winging through Gehenna even now.”

White wings fluttering, the Morningstar’s daughter, Hekate, landed on the marble landing terrace with grace. She smoothed her pale tresses with one elegant hand, then moved to stand beside Lucien.

The Morningstar descended to the terrace with powerful sweeps of his wings, fanning the scent of wing-musk and bitter orange into the perfumed air. He touched his sandaled feet to the marble floor, landing with ease and precision, despite his passengers.

Wybrcathl chimed and trilled into the air, hundreds of voices, the earlier tsunami’s intense second surge. Instructing. Praising. Suggesting.

Welcome home, young Maker! Take your place upon the Chaos seat.

Holy, holy, holy!

We shall love and serve you and you shall feed Gehenna.

But underneath the crystalline multiple-voiced choir battering at Dante’s shields, he detected a quiet, desperate vibrato, a warning song.

Don’t listen, little creawdwr. They will enslave you, just like they have us.

Pain rapped brass knuckles against Dante’s temples.

The Morningstar released Dante from his hold. His silver brows knitted in concern. “Your nose is still bleeding and you look like you’re about to drop. I could ease your pain and clear your head, if you’d only allow it. Just say the word, child.”

“Ça va bien. Ain’t your worry.” Dante unlooped his arm from around the Morningstar’s neck. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. Blood glistened on his skin. “And don’t call me child. I don’t care if you’re older than the fucking pyramids, you ain’t got the right.”

Frustration shadowed the Morningstar’s handsome face, thinned his lips. He regarded Dante through hooded, silver-lashed eyes. “You truly are a pain in the ass,” he muttered. Nodding at the fallen angels gathered on the terrace, he asked, “What shall I tell them? And the thousands who haven’t yet arrived?”

“Tell ’em we’re gonna hafta schedule a meet-and-greet some other time.” Dante crooked a c’mere finger at Lucien—who seemed to be in a heated conversation with the Morningstar’s silver-haired daughter. “We ain’t sticking around.”

Heather slipped past the Morningstar and joined Dante. She pulled her Browning free of its pocket. “Ready when you are,” she said, her twilight gaze meeting his.

“I’m ready, catin.”

As Lucien started across the terrace, a frowning Hekate padding in his wake, several golden-winged Fallen stepped into his path, taloned fingers resting on the Celtic-scrolled hilts of the long knives sheathed at their sides. Lucien stopped, and a cold smile brushed his lips.

“Creawdwr-slayer!” someone shouted.

Mutters rose from the gathered Fallen, droned like wasps. The sound burrowed behind Dante’s eyes, beneath his skin. White light flickered at the edges of his vision. The terrace blurred into a white-padded room from whose ceiling a light-slicked hook hung. Dante’s heart kicked against his ribs.

Ready for business.

No escape for you, sweetie.

<Stay here, Baptiste.> Heather’s thought wriggled past Dante’s stressed shields. Her sage and lilacs-in-the-rain scent curled around him. <Stay now.> White silence poured into him in a honey-thick rush, swallowing the voices, hushing the noise.

The terrace returned. Steadied. Blinking, Dante focused on Heather’s worried gaze, suddenly aware that she was holding his hand and squeezing it with everything she had. Sweat trickled along Dante’s temple. “J’su ici, chérie,” he whispered.

“Your shields are slipping,” she whispered. Sweat beaded her forehead. Pain—his pain—had dilated her eyes to blue-rimmed pools of black/night. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

Dante nodded and the terrace tilted. He sucked in a breath. Focus. “We’re going. I just gotta set them straight about Lucien first.”

“Hurry, then.” Heather squeezed his hand one more time, then her warm touch vanished.

Dante stepped forward, intending to shove his way through the towering Fallen blocking Lucien’s path, but the angry rumblings died at Dante’s approach. A Fallen male in a silken green kilt dropped to his knees on the marble and, like nudged dominos, the others knelt as well.

“Terrific.” Pain prickled at Dante’s temples. “Ya’ll need to stand the hell up,” he growled. “Knock this kneeling shit off.”

One musical voice lifted into the air. “But you are the creawdwr . . .”

Dante raked a hand through his hair. Something dark and weary curled through him. Ça fini pas. “Yeah, yeah. Still. Stand up.”

One by one, the fallen angels complied, their movements awkward and unsure, their rapt faces—all gleaming eyes and parted lips—fixed on Dante. He felt their heated, hungry gazes nibbling at him, seizing whatever they could grab—whatever he allowed them to grab—just like the Cage-climbing audiences at Inferno gigs.

He pictured the fallen angels offering him CDs, clothing, and bared flesh to sign. Sign just above my boob. A coy flutter of wings. I plan to get it tattooed on permanently.

Dante smiled at the image and a measure of calm stole through him, easing some of the tension from his muscles. Stabbing a finger in Lucien’s direction, he said, “No matter what he has or hasn’t done, he’s mon père, my father.”

A hundred pairs of eyes shifted their attention to Lucien—most wide with shock or surprise, even disbelief. Dante heard the scrape of Lucien’s sandals against the marble as he straightened and folded his arms over his blood-streaked chest, looking uncomfortable.

“And,” Dante continued, “no one here is going to lay—”

Trumpets bellowed, shattering the night, a deep, resonating, and unnerving primal blast of sound that vibrated up Dante’s spine and into the back of his aching skull.

“So much for slipping away,” the Morningstar said, voice grim. “The Seven have arrived to greet your return from the pit and to escort you to your place upon the Chaos Seat.”

Dante’s song, dark and savage and hungry, slashed out from his heart, a primal and furious aria slicing through the night. Energy prickled along his fingers, pooled blue in the palms of his hands. Pain throbbed at his temples.

“That’s what they think,” he said, voice tight.

7
TO DIE AS SAMURAI

ALEXANDRIA, VA,
OLD TOWN
Night of March 27–28

NIGHT-VISION GOGGLES DRAPED AROUND her neck, Caterina Cortini slipped out of the stolen van and into the quiet residential street, looping a small knapsack containing her B-and-E gear over one shoulder. Her Sig P220 was tucked into the shoulder holster she wore beneath her black workman’s jacket and over her black T-shirt, its weight nestled comfortably against her ribs.

Avoiding the cone of pale light radiating from the street light, she crossed the road in an unhurried stride, her black-soled Air-walk sneakers silent against the pavement.

Three a.m. And all was still, the neighborhood asleep—including Epstein.

Caterina had been in place and watching when her boss/handler had returned from his nightly workout at the dojo, gym bag in hand, around seven P.M. The lights in his house had switched off near midnight and Caterina had waited inside the stuffy van for the next three hours, studying every shadow slanting in the driveway, inspecting every branch of the evergreens growing in front of Epstein’s dark and curtained living room window.

She gave the man plenty of time to fall asleep. Gave him time to stay that way.

She couldn’t take chances, didn’t dare assume—not with Joseph Epstein. Not with the man who’d taught her everything she knew about wetwork, the man who’d mentored her career in Shadow Branch black ops; a kindred spirit.

Not if she hoped to see another dawn.

Words Epstein had said less than forty-eight hours ago as they’d stood together in front of the filing cabinet in his office, audio jammer burbling away to guarantee that their words remained secret, burned bright in Caterina’s mind—a torch carried by a solitary runner.

With each life we end, we alter the future, end possibilities. We become agents of destiny. Severing some, fulfilling others. A hard and honorable duty.

Words she believed in. Words she’d always followed. Even now.

Caterina’s chest muscles cinched tight. Her hands knotted into fists, leather gloves creaking. Especially now.

She drew in a slow, deep breath of frost-crackling air and forced her muscles to relax. Once they had, she padded down Epstein’s hedge-shadowed driveway, past his Crown Victoria, and to his front porch.

A quick peek through the glass panes inset in the mahogany door revealed an alarm keypad set into the foyer wall. Its green all-systems-armed-and-functioning light glinted in the darkness, matching the green pinpoint light winking from the door’s lockbox.

Just as Caterina had expected. No secondary system. None was necessary. She knew Epstein well enough to know that he considered himself his home’s secondary security system. And for good reason.

She’d sparred with him often during training sessions and knew from painful experience how quick, deadly, and ruthless he could be. Several tours of combat duty in Iraq, then Pakistan, had honed the man’s reflexes guillotine-sharp.

Agents of destiny. Epstein’s words haunted her.

Unlike almost every other operative under my command, you’ve always known, always understood, what we did and why.

She understood all too well.

Caterina crouched and shrugged off her knapsack. She reached into it, her gloved fingers seeking and finding the EMP minibomb’s smooth shape—the B-and-E pro’s new all-purpose crowbar for gigs in the electronic world. She slid the minibomb onto the lockbox and thumbed in a ten-second countdown.

Swiveling around on her heels and turning her hunched back to the door, Caterina pulled her goggles up and over her eyes. The night shifted into shades of gray and ghost-green. She unholstered her Sig, then, with the silent countdown ticking away in her mind, she pulled her oil-cloth wrapped silencer from the knapsack. She screwed the silencer onto the barrel with quick and efficient twists, and chambered a round.

Her pulse threaded through her veins hard and fast. Her palms sweated inside her gloves. In the past, she’d always viewed her termination assignments as marks, targets. Her sworn duty.

But this time she would be executing a man she knew and respected.

With each life we end, we alter the future, end possibilities. We become agents of destiny. Severing some, fulfilling others. A hard and honorable duty.

Epstein had altered his future the moment he’d assigned Caterina to end Dante Baptiste’s life, handing her a folder with instructions on how to kill a True Blood, never suspecting she’d already altered her own destiny.

Caterina kneels and places her borrowed gun at Dante’s pale bare feet. He stares at her, disbelief flashing across his beautiful face . . .

A soft beep. Countdown achieved. The porch light vanished.

Caterina swung back around. The light on the lockbox had gone dark as well. The mini had done its job in complete silence, hitting the house and yard with a wave of EMP energy. A faint whiff of ozone curled into the air.

Rising to her feet, Caterina eased the door open just enough to slip inside, her sneakers squeaking against the hardwood floor. She winced, hoping against goddamned hope that the slide of rubber against wood hadn’t been heard upstairs. She pushed the door closed, but didn’t shut it—not all the way.

Sig in hand, Caterina hastily toed off her Airwalks. She listened. Adrenaline pumped through her veins with each rapid pulse of her heart, fine-tuning her senses.

Refrigerator hum. The ticking of the pendulum clock. A gurgle from the toilet. And silence from the bedrooms upstairs.

Caterina drew a breath in through her nose. The faint odor of Epstein’s cherry cordial pipe tobacco. The fishy scent of broiled salmon.

She padded along the foyer’s polished floor in her stocking feet, her shoulder against one wall, her Sig secured in both hands. She paused at the mouth of the dark living room. Her night-vision goggles painted the room in pale shades of green as light from outside—light beyond the limited reach of her mini-bomb—filtered in through the blinds, outlining the shadowed humps of furniture.

Locating the staircase, Caterina strode across the room and up the stairs, her socks whispering against the runner. She moved along the outer edge to avoid creaks, her gait swift and light. On the landing, she paused for a moment as she considered the shadowed mouths of three rooms.

Guest room. Bathroom. Master bedroom. One room on the right-hand side of the hall, one dead ahead—the bathroom, in all likelihood—one room on the left-hand side.

Caterina held her breath and listened. A low, almost inaudible snore drifted down the hall from the right. She swung to the right and followed the carpet runner stretching the length of the narrow hall to the doorway, her footsteps as light as meringue.

Pressing her back against the wall, Caterina stopped and listened again. Now she could hear Epstein’s breathing. Steady, rhythmic, the quiet snore buzzing into the air like a bumblebee every few breaths.

A hard and honorable duty. No, make that just a hard duty. No honor in shooting a sleeping man, no matter how necessary. She owed Epstein—mentor, hard-nosed boss, fellow samurai—more than that. But she couldn’t afford to give him more. Couldn’t afford to satisfy her own sense of honor. If she lost, Epstein would send someone else after Dante, maybe even himself. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, risk Dante’s life.

The future pumps within Dante’s heart and flows through his veins. The future for all of us: mortal, vampire, and Fallen. If Dante falls, the world and all it holds will fall with him.

Caterina rolled her shoulders, attempting to siphon some of the tension from her muscles, then she stepped into the room, lifted her gun, and fired twice at the figure curled on its side beneath the blankets. The body jumped with each hushed thwip.

Sorry, Ep. Nothing personal.

But even as her finger was squeezing the trigger, warning prickled along her spine. Instinct slammed into high gear. Pure adrenaline flooded her veins. She caught a faint whiff of cherry tobacco.

A motherfucking dummy in the bed.

Caterina ducked and whirled to the left, another gun’s muted thwip hot on her heels. She swung the Sig up for a return shot. But Epstein had anticipated her action and had stepped in even as she’d spun away, closing the distance between them in a single long-legged stride.

A gun barrel—well, the silencer, actually—jammed hard against Caterina’s forehead, its heated mouth burning against her skin. She went still. He yanked the Sig from her grip and tucked it into the back of his khakis.

The night-vision goggles stole the blue ice color from Epstein’s eyes, made them luminous with captured light. But the winter in his gaze chilled Caterina to the bone.

He wasn’t expecting just anyone. He was waiting for me.

“Goddammit, Cortini,” he said, mingled disappointment and ice in his voice. His white hair, cut high and tight military-style, was a ghostly gleam in her goggles. “I was hoping to hell the evidence was wrong.”

“Evidence?” she asked, then a dark possibility occurred to her. “You found my gun. In Damascus.”

Epstein nodded, face grim. “And not just your gun. The techs processing the scene in Damascus also found your missing partner’s gun in what appeared to be an empty grave. Beck never would’ve left his weapon behind. So that suggested he’d never left the Wells compound, like you said, or driven you back to your hotel. It also suggested that you’ve been lying and Beck is dead. The only question is why.”

“It was necessary,” Caterina replied, holding Epstein’s gaze. “And not a decision I made lightly.”

“Very vague, Cortini,” Epstein growled. “Care to fill in a few details?”

“Not really.” She also didn’t plan to waste any more time with talk.

Swinging both hands up, she clapped her palms against Epstein’s ears, then hammered the heel of her hand into his unprotected belly just above the pubic bone.

Epstein doubled over, pain contorting his face, baring his teeth. Caterina pivoted behind him, reaching for the gun nestled against the small of his T-shirted back, but he twisted away and wheeled around before she could grab it.

Son of a bitch!

Sliding back a step, Caterina snapped out a front kick to Epstein’s gun hand, pinwheeling the Glock into the air. She barely had time to lower her foot back to the floor before Epstein came at her with a breath-stealing flurry of precise and deadly blows.

Caterina tossed up forearm and knee blocks, fending off each bruising hit from its intended target as she spun on the balls of her stocking-clad feet. She launched adrenaline-fueled punches and open-handed blows of her own as she danced a whirling, punishing, Mach-3 martial arts tango with the man who’d taught her much of what she knew.

Sweat trickled between Caterina’s breasts. Her breath burned in her lungs, her throat. She fought without pause or thought, her muscles and reflexes responding with speed and accuracy. This was a primal battle. One for survival. A duel between samurai.

And soon, one of them would be dead.

Caterina caught Epstein’s sudden subtle shift of position, and she used a change-body technique to slither aside just as his combat-boot-clad foot rocketed past her cheek in a lethal roundhouse kick.

Dropping, she knocked Epstein’s legs out from under him with a quick leg-sweep. He crashed into the bed, sliding down the comforter-humped but empty mattress—wait, where’s the dummy or pillows or whatever that was rigged under the blankets to draw my fire?—then rolling, but Caterina was on him. She yanked her captured Sig free of Epstein’s khakis.

The hair prickled on the back of Caterina’s neck.

Someone was behind her. Bastard wasn’t alone.

She snapped the gun up, intending to fire a couple of rounds into Epstein’s skull before spinning around to take on his partner, but before she could even squeeze the trigger, a Fourth of July’s worth of fireworks exploded behind her eyes, searing her vision white. Her muscles short-circuited, then went slack, and she flopped to the floor like an air-gunned steer. Her teeth cut into the inside of her cheek. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth.

“She would’ve had you,” a low, masculine voice said.

Epstein grunted in agreement.

Unsure what had happened to her—if she’d been hit with a Taser or had taken a sledgehammer blow to the temple—Caterina tried to move, struggled to get her hands and knees under her, but nothing happened. Sweat slicked her face and nausea rolled through her belly. Fear slivered her heart with ice. Had she taken a bullet to the neck and been paralyzed?

“Even though I knew from day one, Cortini, that you had a foot in both worlds, I never questioned your allegiance,” Epstein said. “Not even when I learned that our so-called director was in your mother’s pocket and that she was using him to protect Prejean, because I believed you truly didn’t know anything about Renata’s arrangement with that traitorous prick Britto.”

“I didn’t know,” Caterina said. At least her vocal cords worked. She spat blood onto the polished oak floor. If she was paralyzed, it seemed to be only from the neck down. Small comfort, that.

“Maybe you didn’t,” Epstein allowed. “But you do now, right? And you’ve taken Renata’s side and betrayed not only me, but the human race. You might’ve been raised in a bloodsucker household, but at the end of the day, you’re still human, Cortini. Just like me.”

Caterina saved her breath. Nothing she could say would make any difference. She had betrayed Epstein’s trust. The reasons why wouldn’t matter to him.

A small measure of relief trickled into Caterina when she felt the pain and pressure of a knee digging into the small of her back. Not paralyzed, then. Drugged, maybe. Epstein wrenched her arms behind her. She heard the ratchet of handcuffs clicking shut, felt the bite of cold steel against her skin. Then rough hands hauled her into a sitting position against the side of the bed.

Epstein ripped the goggles from Caterina’s face. He stepped back, stopping beside a tall man in slacks and a button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves. The man’s eyes gleamed in the dark room, a lambent and inhuman gaze.

Teodoro Díon.

Caterina’s heart kicked hard against her ribs. Now she knew why she couldn’t move. Her skin crawled. He’s in my fucking head. Switching things off.

Díon could reach into a person’s mind and pluck information from it. He could also wipe the mind clean of all memories.

And he was an interrogator for the SB.

Panic rooted tendrils deep into Caterina’s guts. She met and held the interrogator’s calm, curious gaze. The powers that be at the Shadow Branch declared Díon a man with special gifts, a rare talent. But she felt pretty damned sure that he wasn’t mortal. Nor vampire, given his tanned olive skin and his regular daylight hours.

Could he be Fallen?

A smile quirked up one corner of Díon’s mouth. He lifted a hand and seesawed it in the air. A chill rippled the length of Caterina’s spine. He was still in her mind, like a cockroach inside a wall.

Díon arched an amused eyebrow.

Words burst like soap bubbles in Caterina’s mind: Interesting analogy.

Sweat beaded her forehead. She corralled her thoughts, steered away from recent memories—especially those involving Dante Baptiste.

“Get the lights,” Epstein ordered.

Díon stepped back and flipped on the wall switch. Caterina winced as the bright overhead illuminated the room.

“Why did you kill Beck?” Epstein asked, folding his arms over his chest.

Caterina shook her head, refusing the images, shooing away the memories, her gaze never wavering from Díon’s watchful face.

“I never dreamed I’d be having you interrogated,” Epstein said, shaking his head, voice laced tight. “Never imagined you giving me cause. I believed we were two of a kind. Old school warriors. You’re one of my best, Cortini—hell, you are my best; or were, anyway—and I trusted you.”

Each cold word, diamond-hard and true, shanked Caterina to her core. “I know, and I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

“But I was wrong about you. You’re not samurai. And you have no honor.”

Caterina looked away from Díon then and met Epstein’s gaze. She lifted her chin. “So says the man who planned to execute his own master.”

“Britto stopped being my master the day he decided the life of his dying son was more important than the integrity and honor of the SB, more important than his allegiance to the goddamned USA or even to the human race, and sold his soul to Renata Alessa Cortini in exchange for his son’s life.” Epstein barked a laugh. “Are you actually trying to tell me you came after me out of loyalty to that bastard?”

“No. I—”

Epstein waved a hand wearily. “Save it. I don’t want to hear any more lies.” He nodded at the man standing at ease beside him. “Díon will dredge the truth out of you.” He glanced at the interrogator, jerked his head in a nod, then stalked over to the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed and sat on it, his back ramrod-straight. He rested Caterina’s Sig on his thigh.

Díon sauntered across the floor, one hand tucked casually into his trouser pocket, handsome face amused. Caterina closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath of air reeking of sweat and musky adrenaline, hoping to calm the frantic pounding of her heart.

Maybe she couldn’t stop him from mind-raping her, but she could keep her emotions stowed away. She refused to give him fear.

A quiet thump on the hardwood floor told her that Díon had knelt beside her. She caught a whiff of vanilla-spice and spring dandelions and maybe a hint of lightning-strike ozone. Ozone. Like in Damascus. The image of blue sparks skipping along white stone, stone that had once been Fallen flesh, popped unbidden into her mind.

Caterina’s heart refused to quiet, refused to slow.

Warm fingertips caressed her temple. The heated touch left Caterina feeling drowsy but dizzy, like a child falling asleep on a merry-go-round. Nausea cramped her belly. A cold sweat slicked her body.

“Relax,” Díon murmured. “Submit.”

“Potete andare diritto ad inferno,” she spat.

“One visit was quite enough, thank you. Hell is chock-full of fanatics. You, however, might fit right in.”

Memories flipped unbidden through Caterina’s mind, like thumbed-through cards in a Rolodex, and flared in-the-moment vivid behind her eyes.

Flip: Beck yanks the Colt free of its holster. Caterina squeezes the Glock’s trigger. The bullet hits Beck between the eyes, and he is dead before his body crumples to the ground and rolls down the hill. . . .

Flip: Dante Baptiste rolls up to his hands and knees, his gaze on Caterina’s bleeding throat. Hunger and delirium burn in his dark, dilated eyes. His beautiful face is etched with pain, blood trickling from one nostril. Weariness smudges the skin beneath his eyes blue. He crawls to the sofa, then rises to his knees.

Dante leans over Caterina. He lowers his face to her throat, his lips parting and revealing the points of his fangs. Wishing she had the use of her hands, Caterina tries to shake her hair back, then arches her neck to make it easier for him to feed since he also doesn’t have the use of his hands. . . .

Flip: Dante’s seizure ends. He curls up on the carpet, shivering, his breathing rough. Spokes of blue flame wheel around his hands, spinning out wider with every revolution.

Transforming everything they touch. . . .

Flip: The night rustles, full of wings. Ethereal music rings through the wet air as the Fallen sing to Dante Baptiste. . . .

Flip: A spear of blue light pierces the fallen angel. His mouth opens in shock, then fear tremors across his face as blue flames light him up from within, turning his skin translucent. The light flickers out. A stone statue stands on the wet grass beneath the evergreens. . . .

Flip: Caterina kneels and places her borrowed gun at Dante’s pale bare feet. He stares at her, disbelief flashing across his beautiful face. . . .

The kaleidoscopic whirl of images and memories slowed, then stopped. Caterina sucked in a ragged breath, then opened her eyes. Pain pulsed at her temples. She felt blood slick the skin beneath her nose.

Díon regarded her for a long moment, his face thoughtful, then he rose to his feet and turned to face Epstein.

“What did you learn?” Epstein asked. His fingers flexed around the Sig’s grip.

Caterina had no doubt he planned to finish her with her own gun. Given the intensity of the pain in her head, she could almost welcome a bullet. Almost.

“Plenty,” Díon replied. “She killed Beck to keep Prejean safe.”

“Because he’s a goddamned True Blood. I knew it.”

“Turns out his name is actually Baptiste,” Díon murmured, sauntering over to join Epstein at the upholstered bench. “And you’re only partially correct. Baptiste is also a Fallen creawdwr. And that played into her decision too. As did her belief that he isn’t the monster Bad Seed tried so hard to twist him into.”

Caterina stared at Díon, heart sinking. He was Fallen.

He glanced at her and shook his head, and she remembered the seesaw motion of his hand earlier. She frowned. If not Fallen, what then?

Epstein frowned. “Fallen? Cray-oo-what? You’re not making any sense.”

“I know,” Díon agreed, regret threading through his voice. “And I apologize for that. And for this.”

The interrogator grabbed Epstein’s head in both hands and twisted it with a quick and violent motion. Epstein’s neck broke with a sharp snap. Caterina’s Sig clattered to the floor as Epstein tumbled bonelessly from the bench, eyes wide and staring.

Caterina tried to move, but her body refused to cooperate. Díon’s mental fingers were still planted in her brain.

“You’re going to help me find a crowbar, one I can use to bash Dante Baptiste’s sanity into little tiny pieces,” Díon said, returning to crouch beside her. “One I will enjoy wielding as I bring the high and mighty Elohim down. You’re going to be my sleeper spy, my link to Baptiste and his household, reporting every word back to me.”

“I won’t help you,” Caterina said, despite the furious pounding of her heart. “You might as well just snap my neck now.”

Díon laughed, the sound low and amused. “You say that as if you actually have a choice in the matter, mia bella assassina . . .”

The mental fingers buried in Caterina’s mind probed deeper, and images from her past streaked across her vision like falling stars.

“. . . which, of course, you don’t.”

Molten pain stole Caterina’s voice as phantom fingers hooked and unstrung her memories, rewired her consciousness. She struggled to find an anchor, something buried in the primal depths of her psyche, her self, that she could cling to.

Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol
Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol
Fa si la nana/ Fa si la nana
Dormi ben, e mi bel fiol
Dormi ben, e mi bel fiol . . .

Renata’s soft bedtime lullaby whispered along the ravaged pathways of Caterina’s mind, and Caterina found herself once more a child nestled in her mother’s lap, safe, secure, and warm as she pillowed her sleepy head against her mother’s nightgown-draped breast, breathing in her mother’s soothing night-dewed roses scent.

With a low sigh, Caterina surrendered to the lullaby.

8
LITTLE FUCKING PSYCHO

BAD SEED FLASH DRIVE
Ten Years Ago

S File No. 2504, The Doucet-Bainbridge
Sanitarium in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Wearing wet, blood-smeared blue scrubs, S sits in the padded room’s far corner, his arms folded over his upraised knees and pillowing his forehead. His body thrums with tension, taut as a drawn bow, muscles spring-coiled. Blood glistens on his hands, freckles the pale skin of his arms. Wet black hair shelters S’s face from the camera.

Water slicks the concrete floor, laps against his bare white feet.

The camera zooms in to show the tail of the bloodstained plushie orca tucked against the boy’s chest, then zips wide again to show the room’s destruction.

Shredded bedding and torn mattress.

Fist-cracked dents in the concrete bed slab.

Toilet wrenched from the floor.

The body sprawled face down on the concrete in water an inch deep.

The camera lingers on the man’s motionless form. Streamers of blood curl lazily away from the slashed throat, threading dark color into the water like Easter egg dye.

Woman’s voice: You sent someone in without drugging him first?

Man’s voice: Ma’am, absolutely not. Doctor Wells left standing orders that S is to be drugged and down before anyone enters the room. I made sure those orders were passed along.

Woman’s voice (dryly): Passed along to whom? The cockroaches? Obviously the tech that S just killed never received those orders.

Man’s voice: Ma’am, the tech’s dead because he screwed up, plain and simple. I’m not responsible if that idiot viewed S as just another violent, loony-tunes kid instead of what he really is—a bloodsucking psychopath.

Woman’s voice: S is True Blood, Purcell, and superior to you in every way possible—even at thirteen-years old. Don’t forget that.

Silence.

Woman’s voice: What was the tech doing in the room, anyway?

Man’s voice (tight and clipped): He was supposed to take away that goddamned orca plushie. Doctor Wells’s orders. Ma’am.

Woman’s voice: Ah. Well, I think we should carry out those orders. But I also think we need to alter them a bit. S needs to be punished for his little temper tantrum and for destroying his room.

Man’s voice: Ma’am, what about the tech the little bastard—excuse me, the little True Blood bastard—killed? Doesn’t that warrant punishment too?

Woman’s voice (icy): No. S is supposed to kill; he’s a born predator. Violence is etched into his bones, his DNA. The tech suffered a fatal lapse in judgment when he walked into that room without first making sure S had been drugged into submission. His death is his own fault.

Man’s voice: Jesus Christ. Fine. So what’s the punishment?

Woman’s voice: Drug him, but with only enough to immobilize him so he can be thoroughly restrained. I don’t want him unconscious. I want him to watch as you take Chloe’s plushie orca away from him and toss it into the Dumpster where it belongs.

Man’s voice: That’s it? Trash the plushie?

Woman’s voice (as though the man had never spoken): What’s the name of that paranoid schizophrenic who was admitted a couple of weeks ago for study—the Jesuit priest? The one who skinned those teens in Shreveport believing they were angels trapped in human flesh and that it was his holy duty to release them? And wept when he failed?

Man’s voice (intrigued): Michael Moses.

Woman’s voice: Ah, yes. Tell the good father that S is another flesh-trapped angel in need of rescue, give him his sculpting scalpels, then send him into S’s room. If the pain S is about to experience isn’t enough to keep him from wasting time and energy in grieving, then I’ll just have to take his memories of Chloe away.

Man’s voice: I doubt he’s capable of grief, ma’am. I think it’s a feint to throw us off our guard, to lure us in.

Woman’s voice (pure frost): Never presume to tell me what S would or wouldn’t do. Your job is to ensure that the orders Doctor Wells and I give are carried out in every detail. I suggest you stick to it.

Man’s voice (stiff): Ma’am.

Heels click-clickety-click across tile. A door thunks shut. A breath is released in a low hiss.

As though he hears the sound, S lifts his head and stares directly into the camera. Slashes of feral-red cut through his dark brown irises, and a searing blend of fury, grief, and guilt torches his gaze. Black tendrils of hair frame his breathtaking face. His Cupid’s bow lips curl into a mocking smile. He lifts a middle finger, then points it at the camera and carefully mouths: You’re next.

Man’s voice: Yeah, we’ll see, you little fucking psycho. We’ll just see.

9
ON THE RECEIVING END

HUNTSVILLE, AL,
THE LUCKY STAR MOTEL
The Night of March 27–28

SHADOW BRANCH FIELD AGENT Merri Goodnight keyed open the door and stepped into the motel room, cool air laden with the scent of rain and the spiced perfume of the clove cigarette she’d just smoked swirling in behind her.

She halted, her gaze caught by the image paused on her partner’s laptop—a teenaged Dante Baptiste in wet, blood-spattered scrubs promising violence with a scorching twist of a smile and a flipped-up middle finger.

A boy coiled and knotted with guilt, with a grief he didn’t dare voice or show—if he even knew how. A boy who Slept with a dead little girl’s plushie orca hidden beneath his pillow.

A shattered boy fighting to hold himself together.

“Goddamn, Em, are you looking at those files again?” Merri questioned. She eyed her partner’s tensed shoulders, his tight jaw. Listened to his hard pounding heart. Smelled anger peppering his anise and fresh ice scent. “Not so sure that’s healthy.”

“Truth, sistah,” Emmett Thibodaux replied, clicking the file closed and swiveling around in the rickety metal folding chair to face her. He rubbed his hands wearily over his beard-shadowed face. “What they did to him . . .” He shook his head.

“Truth, brothah. From the moment he was born.” Merri closed the door, twisting the deadbolt into place with a solid tunk, then rattling the chain into its slot. “The first time I viewed those files, I wanted to find the bastards behind the project and tear them apart, even if it meant I ended up heart-shot, staked, and burned. It would’ve been worth it. And not just because Baptiste is a True Blood, but because—”

“He was a kid,” Emmett finished quietly as she turned back around. “How can they justify a program like Bad Seed? Twisting children into sociopaths just to study them?”

“They did a helluva lot more than that,” Merri said, resting her black suede-jacketed back against the door. “They programmed Baptiste, so maybe they programmed others too.”

“And used them. Shit. Yeah. Roger that, partner.”

“And as for your question? There’s a way to justify almost anything, Em. Hell, you and me? We’ve both played parts in some dark and dirty cover-ups. It was our motherfucking job—even if we didn’t always like it.”

“True dat,” Emmett drawled, his Louisiana roots curling through his voice. “Cleaning up the messes other agencies created, making sure the truth—harmful truth—was hidden, altered, or erased in the country’s best interests. The minds of witnesses wiped. Lives destroyed. A necessary evil. So I kept telling myself, anyway.” He trailed a hand through his short, ginger-spice hair. “I’ve had more than a few sleepless nights thinking about the things I’d done and why. But you’re right; I always found ways to justify everything I did for the SB.”

“Funny how being on the receiving end changes your perspective,” Merri said.

“Don’t it just?”

“And Purcell . . . No wonder that asshole claimed to know so much about Baptiste. The motherfucker helped torture him.”

Seeing the perplexed frown on Emmett’s face, Merri felt twin stabs of guilt and sympathy.

Another wiped memory.

Emmett’s reddish brows knitted together. “Don’t remember that particular conversation,” he muttered. “Not even a goddamned tickle. Am I missing anything important—aside from the fact that Purcell is a sadistic sonuvabitch?”

“Nope. Sounds like you’ve got the key point.”

With a low sigh of frustration, Emmett nodded. “Okay then.” He relaxed against the back of his rust-pocked chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and crossed his ankles, one square-toed Dingo boot sliding over the other. Like a man checking for his wallet, he absently patted the Colt parked in the leather shoulder holster strapped over his white button-down shirt with its currently rolled-up sleeves.

Merri had always thought he looked like a pre-squint, pre-scowl Clint Eastwood in his rugged and handsome prime—all hard angles, cabled muscle, and lethal calm—with eyes the deep blue of a sunlit summer iris.

But right now Emmett looked exhausted. Neither of them had slept in the thirty-one hours since they’d fled HQ. Of course, given that Merri had stay-awake pills thrumming through her bloodstream, disrupting her natural rhythms but keeping Sleep at bay, she was in better shape than Emmett.

For now. She’d eventually pay a price for the motherfucking pills and the lost Sleep. But she was in better shape than Emmett in another way—her memory was intact.

Merri’s throat tightened. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to learn that some of your memories had been stripped from your mind. That they’d been replaced with lies. And you couldn’t tell the difference.

Even now.

She remembered reading the note Emmett had slid under the door of her room in the SB’s visiting agents quarters—a tradition between them whenever they were on the road.

HAHAHA! By the time you wake up, I’ll already be debriefed and lounging in my spacious luxury room! You snooze, you lose!!

Expecting only a routine debriefing, Merri hadn’t given much thought to the fact that Emmett had been called in early, ahead of his Sleeping partner. She’d had other things on her mind—dark, disturbing, unholy things.

Before heading off for her own debriefing, Merri had gone to her partner’s room for an unauthorized chat about her theft of the files she’d downloaded from Prissy-Ass Purcell’s computer, files that revealed Dante Prejean/Baptiste’s true nature and his forced participation in the nightmare known as Project Bad Seed.

But Emmett no longer had any knowledge of Dante Prejean/Baptiste.

The motherfuckers had plucked the knowledge from his mind.

They’ve wiped your memory, Em. They’ve fucking wiped your memory.

No, that can’t be. Why would they? No, no.

I’m next. Part of the reason why is on that flash drive. Maybe what we discovered at the compound is another part of why.

The compound? Shit! What compound? What did we discover?

If that’s gone too, then I’m fucking right.

Merri had realized that not only had Emmett’s memories of Damascus and Baptiste been stolen, they’d been replaced with artificial memories like fairy changelings tucked into the cradle of his recall. Merri had also learned that the details of their original assignment, the one that had placed them on the road to Damascus—the brutal murder of FBI SAC Alberto Rodriguez by Dante Baptiste—had been altered in Emmett’s mind as well.

Deciding to bail on her own debriefing/mind-wiping session, she and Emmett had slipped unnoticed from HQ and escaped from Alexandria.

They’d blasted bat-outta-hell-style down I-81 South, looking for a cheap, skanky-ass motel that accepted cash and didn’t require ID, scrambling to get their stunned minds working long enough to formulate a now-what? plan. Then they’d stumbled across the sleazy broken-neon wonders of The Lucky Star Motel. Refuge by the hour.

“There’s something that’s been bothering me,” Emmett said, his voice reeling Merri up from her mental wallowing and dark reflections. “Bugging the shit outta me, actually.”

Merri snorted and shook her head, her ponytail swinging against her shoulders. “Betrayal. Conspiracies. Memory-tampering. Imminent death. And something’s bothering you?” A smile tugged at her lips. “So spill, brothah. Give it to me.”

“All right. Here’s the million dollar question,” Emmett said. “How do we know our memories haven’t been wiped before? After each assignment?”

Those words hung like smoke in still air, goosing Merri’s pulse and icing her bones. A damned good question. “Well, goddamn.”

She stared at Emmett for a long moment, chewing on her lower lip, considering. Was it possible? Would her mère de sang, Galiana, be able to detect alterations in her mind? She’d have to find out.

Finally, she shook her head. “I guess we don’t know.”

“Ain’t that all kinds of yippee-hooray?” Emmett grumbled, more Louisiana creeping into his voice. “Appreciate the reassurance, Goodnight.”

Merri managed a wink. “Don’t mention it, Thibodaux. Just doing my part.”

“I guess the question now is, what do we do about it?”

“We keep alive and out of reach.” Merri pushed away from the door and crossed to the twin bed farthest away from the window. She plopped down onto the worn quilt, her nose wrinkling at the funky-ass stink of spilled whiskey, sweat, semen, and—what was that stale tomato tang?—ketchup assaulting her nostrils. “Whoo!” she breathed.

The Lucky Star Motel apparently didn’t figure their Rooms-by-the-Hour-and-Half-Hour! guests would have much need for clean bedding—or furniture, for that matter—given the poor excuse of a chair that Emmett’s long, lean-muscled body was draped over.

“Stay alive. Check. Keep out of reach. Check,” Emmett drawled. “What’s our next move, sistah? Go underground? How do we stay off a grid that spans the entire goddamned country?”

“We don’t,” Merri said. “They’re going to find us sooner or later. But maybe we can take control of where and when. I say we find Dante Baptiste.”

Emmett straightened in his chair. “Why the hell would we do that?”

“They wiped him and Damascus from your mind for a reason. We’re going to find out why.”

Understanding glittered in Emmett’s iris-blue eyes. “The fallen angel Stonehenge you told me about and the cave they ringed.”

Merri nodded. Images flashed through her mind, images that the SB had strip-mined from Emmett’s memory, images she now carried for them both.

A cave’s dark mouth stretches across the ground, an opening into the earth’s heart . . . Gleaming white statues of winged beings in various postures ring the cave . . . And something moves down in the darkness, something pale and thick, humping along the stone like a gigantic slug, singing, Holy, holy, holy. . .

Blue sparks flicker like fireflies over the white stone, skip along the butter-smooth wings . . . From within the white stone a heart flutters, the sound slowing . . .

Not statues.

Merri senses power in each stone figure, power that tingles against her gloved fingertips. She remembers tales of Fallen magic, whispers of angelic battles.

Her mère de sang’s voice whispered through her memory: I have a suspicion that events beyond the scope of mortals or even vampires might be unfolding.

“Baptiste was there, Em,” Merri said. “He saw what happened, him and Heather Wallace both. We can find out what they know. What they witnessed. Galiana thinks something big might be coming down, a war among the Fallen maybe.”

“Sounds lovely. Christ. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that fallen angels exist,” Emmett said, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“You managed to wrap your jambalaya-stewed mind around vampires just fine. After I proved the point with a very fine ass-kicking.”

“That’s étouffée-simmered, and I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“Because I keep your backwater mind propped open?”

A smile quirked up one corner of Emmett’s mouth. “That’d be it.”

“Thing is, we need to find Baptiste,” Merri said, leaning back on the bed and resting on her elbows. “Maybe he headed home to New Orleans, maybe not. Galiana’s looking into it.”

Emmett opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was preempted by sudden rhythmic thuds shaking the wall, accompanied by a woman’s bored and toneless moans—“Yeah, that’s it. Uh-huh. Oh. Oh. Oh.”—and enthusiastic male grunts.

Again. One of the hazards of refuge by the hour.

Emmett glanced at his watch. “I’m gonna bet twenty this one’s done and snoozing in five minutes.”

“I’ve got your twenty. Three minutes, then out the door.”

Three minutes later, the steady thumping slowed, then stopped. Two minutes after that a faint snore buzzed through the wall.

A triumphant grin parted Emmett’s lips. “Given that we need our cash, I’ll take an IOU.”

“Generous. Just add it to my tab.”

“Roger that.” Emmett’s expression sobered. “Okay, before I was so noisily interrupted, I was gonna say, even if we find Baptiste, what’s to stop him from just flat-out killing us?” He jerked his head at the laptop resting on the ink-graffitied desk. “You saw what Bad Seed did to him, what he was twisted into. Hell, we even studied his handiwork in Seattle.”

Rodriguez stares up at the glass-domed ceiling light with half-lidded, milky eyes. His throat looks shredded, savaged . . .

“I’ve got a feeling that what we saw in Seattle was a case of Baptiste being used, his programming triggered,” Merri said. “Someone wanted Rodriguez dead, and they used Baptiste to do it.”

“Could be, yeah. And that someone could still be controlling Baptiste.”

“True,” Merri sighed. “That’s what we’ll have to figure out when we find him.”

“Like I said, what’s to stop him from flat-out killing us?”

“We’ve got something he’s going to want,” Merri replied. “You saw what those motherfuckers did to his memory.”

Emmett nodded, face grim. “Bastards tore it apart—more than once.”

“We can give him his past. Contained in a flash drive.”

“Would you be doing this if he wasn’t a True Blood?” Emmett asked quietly.

Merri sat back up, planted her elbows on her knees, and rested her chin in the cup of her hands. She met her partner’s steady gaze. “I’d like to think so,” she replied, “but I don’t know. His being a True Blood is a major factor for me. So is the fact that he was just a baby, a toddler, a child handed over to fuckedup people with fucked-to-shit agendas—just to see what would happen.”

“I hear you. I think of my kids and . . .” A muscle jumped in Emmett’s jaw. “But Baptiste isn’t a kid anymore, he’s twenty-three. He’s a killer. He’s proven that time and again. Bad Seed succeeded with him.”

“Did they? I’m not so sure. He protected the other kids in his foster homes, he loved—” She stopped talking, lifted her head, and held up a just-a-second hand as her mère de sang’s welcome sending brushed across her thoughts.

<Buenas noches, Merri-child,> Galiana al-Qibtiyah greeted. <We have received word that Dante Baptiste is in New Orleans. He is also involved in some local feud that has resulted in his house being burned to the ground, but I have no details.>

<But he’s all right?>

<As far as we know,> Galiana admitted. <And the llygaid are deeply troubled by their lack of knowledge about this young True Blood.>

Merri frowned. <Why’s that?>

<It seems the llygad in Baptiste’s household has been silent. No word about True Blood. No word about that True Blood being hunted by government operatives.>

<Maybe Baptiste’s llygad doesn’t know.>

<Perhaps, but unlikely. The llygaid intend to find out. But that is their concern, Merri-girl. My concern is you. Since you refuse to come to Savannah—>

<I’m not putting you and your household at risk—>

A mental snort resonated through Merri’s mind. <The Shadow Branch would be starting a war if they came for you here.>

<Not if they destroyed you and everyone connected to you first. I won’t risk it. Emmett and I are going to find the True Blood. Offer him his past. And see if we can free him from those manipulating him.>

<I had a feeling you might say that.> Galiana’s thoughts stilled, a mental sigh. <I even told the Conseil du Sang as much. They want you to be their emissary to Dante Baptiste. They want you to assess his condition, to determine if he can be salvaged.>

<Salvaged? Jesus Christ. He’s a person, not a treasure ship half a mile underwater.>

<You know what I mean, girl. Don’t get on your high horse. As rare and powerful as True Bloods are, no one wants to just throw this boy away. But if he’s too damaged, then he’s much too dangerous to remain . . . free.>

<Shit. Okay. So what’s the procedure if Baptiste turns out to be a stone-cold psychopath?>

<Get away from him, then contact me and I’ll pass the word on to the Elders. They’ll take care of him.>

<All right. Understood.>

<Wyatt should be arriving soon,> Galiana sent. <He has cash, blind credit spikes, throw-away cell phones, blood, and a new car—with clean registration.>

<Thank you so much. Em and I really appreciate your help.>

<Feel free to change your mind at any point, Merri-girl. The most important thing to me is that you keep safe.>

Merri felt a smile curve her lips. <Also understood.>

For a second, Merri felt Galiana’s cool, satin-smooth arms wrapped around her, smelled her clean sweet oranges and almonds scent, then the sensations wisped away as her mère de sang withdrew, their conversation finished.

“Baptiste is in New Orleans,” Merri said, shifting her attention outward and meeting Emmett’s gaze once more. “A car and essentials will be here soon.”

“How is Galiana, anyway?” Emmett asked. “Must be nice to speak to your family, let them know that you’re okay and where you are.”

Merri felt a double pinch of guilt and sympathy. “Look, if I couldn’t send to Galiana, she wouldn’t know any more than Mark does.”

“Which is nothing,” Emmett growled. He jumped to his feet and started pacing. “Mark doesn’t know what’s going on. Doesn’t know I ain’t coming home any time soon. Doesn’t know I’d like him to pack the kids up and go stay with my folks for a while.”

“Em, no. If Mark suddenly ups and takes off, the SB will know you’re in contact with him. He’ll be safer if he knows nothing. Your house landline will be tapped and his cell phone will be monitored.” Merri shook her head. “No contact. Let the SB think we’ve gone completely underground.”

“Shit, I don’t know if I can do that. Leave him and the kids high and dry with no idea what’s happened. Or what danger they might be in.”

“Mark’s in no danger,” Merri said, watching her partner figure-eight the room. “They’ll just keep surveillance on him and the kids and wait for you to make contact.”

Emmett stopped pacing. He looked at Merri. “And what happens when they get tired of waiting?”

“We’ll worry about that when and if.”

Emmett shook his head and folded his arms over his chest. “Not good enough, Merri. Not by half. You don’t have a partner or kids. You don’t know—”

Merri moved, blurring off the bed and onto her booted feet. She poked a finger into Emmett’s chest, cutting off his words. He looked down at her from his lordly six-three, face startled.

“How the hell would you know, Thibodaux?” she demanded, voice harsh. “I was mortal once. A slave, remember? Nothing belonged to us.” Resurrected wails echoed through her memory, cries she thought she’d buried two centuries ago.

Mama! Mama! Mama! MAAAAMAAAA . . . !

Hold on, baby. Mama’s comin’. Give me my child! Master, please!

Throat so tight, she could barely breathe, Merri gave Emmett’s chest another hard jab. He staggered back a step. “You have no motherfucking idea what I’ve been forced to give up. You think you’re the only one? You can just go to hell, Emmett Thibodaux.”

“Aw, Christ.” Emmett’s strong arms wrapped around Merri and folded her into a tight embrace. His heart pulsed hard and fast beneath her cheek. She breathed in his sharp anise-over-ice scent. “I’m an idiot, Merri,” he murmured.

“No argument here.”

“I’m truly sorry—”

“Forget it,” Merri replied, stepping back and tilting her head back to meet her partner’s shadowed gaze. “What you need to remember is that your family will be in very real danger if you contact them in any way. Trust me on that.”

Emmett released his breath in a long, slow exhale, then nodded. “I’ve trusted you every step of the way, I ain’t about to quit now.” His hands slid up from their embrace to squeeze her shoulders once before releasing her. “New Orleans, huh? So we’re gonna visit the bad mofo on his own turf?”

“The bad and beautiful mofo.”

A smile flickered across Emmett’s lips. “Truth, sistah.”

Merri tilted her head and listened as a car pulled into the motel’s drive, tires splashing through rain puddles on the blacktop, then parked; listened to its door creak open. “Wyatt’s here,” she said, a bare second ahead of the quiet knock on the door.

Emmett whipped his Colt from its holster, his karate-trained instincts sharp as a razor-edged switchblade, his finger curled around the trigger. “Let’s be positive,” he murmured.

On the other side of the door, Merri heard the strong, slow rhythm of a vampire heart, felt his banked and controlled energy. Striding to the door, she unchained and unlocked it, then eased it open.

“Hey,” Wyatt greeted, his eyes gleaming with streetlight. A smile curved his lips, giving his handsome face with its hazel eyes and coffee-brown curls a look of mischief. “Got a care package for y’all.”

“Hey back, and thanks.”

“Got something special just for you too, sugar,” Wyatt drawled, his voice all smooth Savannah charm.

Merri drew in a deep breath of rain-chilled air laced with the sharp snap of spearmint, the latter Wyatt’s scent, and allowed her hunger to unwind in anticipation. “Bagged?” she asked.

Wyatt’s mischievous smile deepened, dimpled his cheeks. “Nah. Volunteer.”

“I’ll be right out,” Merri said.

“All right.” Glancing past her and into the room, Wyatt nodded, then added an amiable, “Emmett.”

“Wyatt. Easy drive?” Emmett lowered his Colt.

“Yup. All my drives been easy since I gave up riding.”

Emmett cocked an eyebrow. “Only horses, I hope.”

Wyatt laughed. “Hell, yeah. Only horses.” Chuckling, he turned and walked back to the car, a rain-glistening SUV.

Merri swiveled around to face her partner. “I’ll be back in a few,” she said. She glanced at the grease-spotted bag sitting beside his laptop. The bag was still rolled shut. She frowned. “It doesn’t look like you ever touched your Quarter Pounder and fries.”

“Nope,” Emmett said, reholstering his gun, then slouching into the metal folding chair again. He looked at the laptop. “Kinda lost my appetite.”

“I told you to eat before you looked at the Bad Seed flash drive, Em.”

“You did,” Emmett said. “Wish to hell I’d listened.” He trailed both hands through his hair. “You believe in karma, Merri?”

“To some extent, yeah. But I’ve lived long enough to know that some people never get what they have coming—good or bad.”

“I’ve been wondering if losing those memories was a little bit of karma.”

Merri shook her head. “You never wiped anyone’s memory, so how could it be?”

“I’m responsible for people getting their minds scrubbed.”

“No, we are. Everything we’ve done, we’ve done together. And that means any karma earned would hit us both,” Merri said. “What happened to you wasn’t karma, it was betrayal.”

Emmett looked unconvinced, but he waved her out the door. “Go on with your bad self. I’m good. Maybe I’ll see if I can get a little shut-eye before we hit the road.”

“Good. You could use it, partner,” Merri said, slipping outside. But as she turned to pull the door shut, she saw Emmett awaken his laptop monitor and click open the Bad Seed file again.

Shaking her head, Merri quietly shut the door.

10
AIN’T STAYING

GEHENNA,
THE ROYAL AERIE
The Night of March 27–28

THE TRUMPET BLAST FADED, rumbling across the horizon like long-rolling thunder.

Fear traced an icy hand down Heather’s spine. Bible stories full of lion-faced angels, flaming swords, pillars of salt, and random fiery destruction wheeled through her memory, along with the image of the small serpentine creatures that had fluttered around Dante, De Noir, and the Morningstar in the sulfur-reeking pit, the soft orange glow of embers twinkling from scales and their impossible and delicate dragonfly wings.

Gehenna. Fallen angels. Little winged pit-demons.

A strange and beautiful place. A world both alien and Sunday-school familiar.

Heart pounding, Heather stared into a night sky that looked scraped thin, a threadbare black curtain pocked with pale stars. Even the undulating aurora borealis at its center seemed dimmed, its colors mere ghosts of blue, purple, and green.

After enduring thousands of years without an infusion of energy from a creawdwr, Gehenna is fading away. Without you . . . Gehenna will vanish.

Even though she wondered how such a thing could be possible, she sensed the truth behind the Morningstar’s words. Gehenna felt somehow off to her, an orange just beginning to go soft underneath the skin.

Heather’s fingers white-knuckled around the Browning’s grip. After a wait spanning millennia, the Fallen finally had a new Maker—Dante. Whether he liked it or not. Whether he wanted it or not. And the last thing he needed was someone else determined to control him, manipulate him, use him. Someone else to deny him the right to live his own life.

Another trumpet blast pealed through the night. A massive wheel of light appeared in the sky above them, blotting out the aurora borealis’s vivid bands of color and bleaching the night with spinning spokes of brilliant white radiance.

Icy tendrils of fear twisted through Heather’s insides. Her pulse pounded hard through her veins. What is that? Squinting against the blazing light display, she shaded her eyes with the edge of her hand.

The Morningstar muttered something under his breath in a musical language Heather didn’t understand, a language she’d heard spoken by the Fallen who’d stood beside her at the pit’s mouth, then he added, “Show-offs.”

“Is that them?” she asked, dropping her gaze from the blazing sky. “The Seven?”

“Yes, but not all of them,” De Noir answered, his voice coming from behind her.

“Two seem to be absent, and I know at least one was turned to stone down in Damascus,” the Morningstar said, shading his face with the edge of one white wing.

“Lilith,” De Noir murmured.

The Morningstar nodded. “Yes.”

A memory sparked in Heather’s mind.

“Liar,” Dante whispers. “Lucien warned me . . .”

A rope of blue fire snakes around the black-haired woman. Her wings curve forward and she closes her eyes, her hands clenched in her lap. Caught within glimmering blue coils, she morphs from flesh to stone, her long hair a white curtain framing her bowed head.

The Morningstar sauntered to the ivy and jasmine-draped balustrade, pretending it wasn’t a retreat, but Heather saw how he kept glancing at Dante’s blue-lit hands and knew better. Not that she blamed him. But she also knew that distance alone didn’t equal safety.

Blue rays spike into the fleeing Fallen, one by one. And turn them to stone.

“Christ.” Dante fumbled a pair of blood-flecked and battered sunglasses free from his metal-studded belt, sliding them on over his eyes. “What the fuck is that?”

“Think of it as the Seven’s version of a stretch limo—all dazzle and bling,” the Morningstar replied. “Uriel’s work. And a display no doubt meant to impress our new creawdwr.”

“Yeah, ain’t feelin’ it.” Dante’s left hand blurred through a mock jack-off session.

But despite his dry tone, Heather heard strain beneath Dante’s drawled words.

Blue flames crackled around Dante’s hands. Tension and pain drew his gorgeous features tight. Sweat glistened on his forehead and blood still trickled from his nose, stark against his white skin.

Von’s words whispered through Heather’s memory.

I think he’s had all he can take, doll. Heart and mind. If I knew a way to hide him from the world until he could regain his balance, until he had the chance to face his past on his own terms and reconcile himself to it . . .

But chance and time were working against them. Again.

Glancing across the light-and-shadow-striped terrace to the arched entry leading back inside the Royal Aerie, Heather mentally measured the distance. The fallen angels gathered on the terrace had silently melted away from Dante and his glowing hands like winter frost in the path of a rolling red-embered coal, their handsome faces wary, leaving the way clear.

Heather touched Dante’s shoulder, careful to avoid his flame-swallowed hands and their cool, transforming fire. “Your gate. I think we can still make it.”

“Did you say his gate?” De Noir questioned.

“Your son created a gate of his own,” the Morningstar said.

Considering that Dante had literally punched his way into another world, transforming a tomb into a flame-embered doorway, and destroying a cemetery with a shock wave of blue light in the process—a fact she still struggled to wrap her mind around—Heather felt that created a gate was one hell of an inadequate description.

“I severed our bond to keep you safe, to keep you out of Fallen hands,” De Noir said slowly, staring at his son. Despair lined his face. “But I drew you straight to Gehenna instead. A gate of his own . . .”

“I had to find you,” Dante said softly. “Whatever it took.” His shaded gaze shifted to the arched entry. “You and Lucien get the hell outta here, catin, and head home. I’ll catch up. Tell Von—”

Anger prickled cold and hollow in the pit of Heather’s belly. “Screw that. I don’t know about De Noir, but I’m going to be standing right here beside you. You ditched me earlier tonight in that fight with Mauvais’s nightkind. You’re not doing it again.”

“I didn’t ditch you, dammit. I wanted to keep you outta their fucking hands.”

“You could’ve followed me over that cemetery gate.”

“Aw, shit,” Dante muttered, trailing both hands in frustration through his hair. Tiny flames skipped along his black tresses like blue fireflies in the wake of his pale fingers. “Now? We’re going to fucking discuss this now?”

Heather sucked in a deep breath and looked up. The incandescent wheel circled ever closer, strobing the terrace and its occupants with alternating bands of dark-side-of-the-moon shadow and blinding light.

“No, we’re not. Not now,” Heather admitted, voice tight. “But get this through your head—I’m not leaving your side.”

“And you call me pigheaded?”

“By all that’s holy, are you both mad?” De Noir growled, voice a deep rumble. He stepped in front of Dante, a furious light burning in his black eyes, his wings flexing. “You can’t stay. They will chain you up—heart, mind, and soul. I’ll carry you out if I have to. Both of you!”

Heather liked that idea. She had no objections to De Noir tossing Dante over his brawny shoulder and carting him out of Gehenna—if necessary. But . . .

She noticed that the wounds in each of De Noir’s pectoral muscles were only half-healed—pink and raw and ringed with dried blood—despite his Fallen regenerative abilities, and he looked drained, almost nightkind-pale. She had a feeling his flight from the pit to the terrace had used up all of his strength and that he’d be lucky if he could walk himself out of Gehenna.

“I ain’t running, Lucien. Ain’t hiding. And you still ain’t got no say in my . . .” Dante’s words trailed off as if he’d suddenly lost his train of thought.

Pain stabbed into Heather’s mind, a red-hot splinter burning through the filter of Dante’s exhausted, weakening shields. She caught a glimpse of a steel hook hanging from the ceiling of a blood-splashed room. Her heart constricted.

I know this. I saw it on the Bad Seed disk.

The room where Chloe had died. Where Moore had ordered Dante—twelve or thirteen years old and savage with grief—strapped into a nightkind-proof straitjacket and hoisted up by his chain-wrapped ankles to hang upside-down above the little girl’s body.

White light strobed at the edges of Heather’s vision, then vanished, taking the pain and nightmarish peek into Dante’s past along with it. She stumbled forward a step and sucked in a deep breath of ozone-charged air.

“Fuck,” Dante whispered. He touched shaking fingers to his left temple. “Focus, goddammit. Focus.”

Dread dropped like a cold brick into Heather’s belly. How could he focus past pain that intense? How could he even keep on his feet? He was hurting and exhausted—on all levels.

“Stay now, Baptiste. Stay with me.” She grabbed him by both biceps, the muscles hard as steel under her fingers. Fevered heat baked through his cotton and mesh sleeves and into her palms. “Stay here.”

A shudder traveled the length of Dante’s body, his muscles knotting, his breath catching in his throat. “J’su ici, chérie,” he said, voice ragged.

Rotating light from the wheel above strobed incandescent along the lenses of Dante’s sunglasses. The thunderstorm smell of ozone crackled through the air. Heather’s scalp prickled as her hair started to lift.

Time was running out.

“Your control is slipping, child. You can’t stay,” De Noir said, dark brows knitted together. “Where’s your gate?”

Dante nodded at the arched doorway. “Inside. But I ain’t—”

“He’s right, you know,” Heather said, releasing her hold on Dante’s arms. “You’re in no shape to face anyone down, let alone a bunch of ambitious Fallen determined to bind you.”

A wry smile tilted Dante’s lips. “Von said the same thing.”

“Smart man, that nomad,” Heather said. “You should listen to him. Look, I get why you want to face them, I do, but you’re exhausted. This isn’t the time to make a stand. There’s no shame in retreating long enough to regain your strength, your focus—”

The searing white light disappeared. The lenses of Dante’s shades went dark.

Heather blinked rapidly in the sudden darkness, trying to clear her vision of the white, orange, and black retinal ghosts haunting it. Behind her, she heard a rush of wings, the soft slide of silk against flesh, the scuff of sandals upon marble.

“Shit,” she sighed. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

“Yup.” Dante wiped blood from his nose with a swipe of his mesh sleeve as he eyed the Seven over her shoulder. “Definitely not a Christian rock band.”

“Whatever you do, don’t give the Morningstar one gram of trust,” De Noir said, voice pitched just above a whisper. “And don’t let any of them mark you with their blood.” He pulled his healing body erect, rolled back his tight-muscled shoulders. His hair rippled between his wings like a banner of black silk.

“Je t’entends.”

Mark you with their blood. A chill traced the length of Heather’s spine as she recalled what the Morningstar had said in the cemetery about De Noir. Gabriel used a blood-spell to bind him to Gehenna’s fate.

Dante slid his shades to the top of his head. He looked at Heather from beneath his black lashes, his dilated pupils rimmed with molten-gold. Blue light and dark emotion flickered in their depths. Shadows bruised the skin beneath them. “Let’s do this and go home, catin.”

“Sounds good to me.” Heather tightened her grip on the Browning. “It’s almost our bedtime, anyway,” she added with a full-of-promise wink.

Dante laughed, and some of the tension drained from his face and shoulders, just as Heather had hoped. “Then we’d better hurry.”

“Damn straight.” Heather swiveled on the ball of one foot to face the so-called Celestial Seven.

They stood Fallen-tall and proud in front of the arched, brazier-lit entry leading into the Royal Aerie. But only five—three males and two females in flowing gowns, silken kilts, veils, simple torques, and—in one case—what sure as hell looked like a priest’s white collar and black, leather-belted cassock.

Adrenaline pumped through Heather’s veins, flooding her mind with a diamond-edged focus and crystal awareness. Her gaze ticked across each Celestial face, noting details in a split-second.

Celestial One: Gold wings, hair a cap of tight black curls, ebony skin etched with graceful, gold-inked glyphs, gold light fades from his eyes, revealing irises the dark purple-black of ripe plums; his full lips twist into a calculating smile; a purple kilt flecked with silver stars is double-belted at his muscular waist.

Celestial Two: Deep red wings, a spill of winter-wheat pale hair, honey-colored eyes, the brooding face of a Romantic poet; a Highlander’s belted blue plaid tartan falls to his knees above black leather boots, a silver torque twists around his throat.

Celestial Three: Black wings, a veil of shifting aurora borealis color drapes her from head to shoulders, hiding her features except for the black cherry-red tendrils of hair snaking and twisting from beneath the veil; a burgundy gown clings to her curves, its corseted bodice providing a display shelf for her smooth and rounded cleavage.

Celestial Four: White wings; glossy chocolate-brown hair cascades to her shoulders in long curls; golden-brown skin, proud nose, eyes black as the night and glittering with gold flecks; her flawless complexion, bee-stung lips, and voluptuous figure in its demure flowing silver and pale blue gown a Renaissance artist’s wet dream.

Celestial Five: No visible wings, olive-skinned, short black hair curls against his temples, introspective summer evening–blue eyes above a straight Roman nose, he wears a priest’s collar and cassock, a beaded rosary wrapped around the knuckles of one hand.

All radiated a cool poise, their body language one of anticipation and curiosity as their gazes caressed Dante, lingering on his pale face, tracing the length of his hard body.

Seeing lust flare in more than one pair of moonlight-sparked eyes, a cold smile touched Heather’s lips. If they think he’s a just a plaything to tumble between the sheets, they’re going to be in for one helluva rude surprise.

Celestial One suddenly dipped one gold wing tip and song rang into the air, a beautiful hundredfold song pealing and harmonizing like cathedral bells, loud enough to fill the night. Each joyous crystalline note resonated through the air.

“Shit. Too goddamned many . . . “

Fear curled through Heather at the strain and desperation edging Dante’s voice. He stood, head bowed, fists clenched, body coiled and muscles trembling, and she realized that he was hearing the song inside as well, not just with his ears—and not just as a single choir. She suspected that each individual voice was a mental hammer battering against his shields.

Shoving her Browning into a pocket in her trench coat, Heather stepped in front of him and cupped his burning, blood-smeared face between her hands. “You’re not alone,” she whispered, looking into his dazed gold-and-blue-flame eyes. “Let me in, so I can help. I don’t give a damn about the pain.”

“I know you don’t, chérie, all heart and steel, you,” Dante murmured. “But not yet. Not until this headache’s gone. I ain’t sharing it. It’s too . . . hungry.”

“Sharing might make it easier to bear.”

“Not this. I ain’t letting it have you.” Lowering his head, Dante grazed his fevered lips against Heather’s before gently pulling free of her hands. “I’m gonna tell ’em all to back the fuck off, so keep close, d’accord?”

“Ditto, Baptiste.” Squaring her shoulders, Heather turned around once more.

Dante’s song stabbed into the air in response, a scorching and defiant aria aflame with power that challenged the symphonic greeting, demanded space. Refused to play games. Each exquisite note of his song, dark and savage and heartbreaking, pierced Heather to the core. He was making a stand, but the ledge was crumbling beneath his feet.

I think he’s had all he can take, doll . . .

And as Heather scanned the attractive faces of the five not-turned-to-stone members of the Seven, their expressions enthralled, eyes gleaming with captured moonlight, hungry and confident, and fixed on Dante, a dark realization threaded through her: they knew Dante was teetering on the edge too, about to lose his balance.

About to fall.

All he needed was a nudge. And they planned to supply it.

Heather slipped her hands into the pockets of her trench. Not if she could help it. Her fingers found the smooth shape of the morphine-filled syringe in one pocket, the Browning’s grip in the other. She would do whatever was necessary to protect him.

Even from his own damaged psyche.

The choir’s chiming and crystalline song trailed away as Dante’s fierce aria claimed the night. A woman’s reverent voice lifted into the air, husky and trembling, “Holy, holy, holy. The Maker’s song shapes us all.”

A soft chorus of “Amen” trailed her words.

Celestial Four sashayed forward, her silver and blue gown rippling like water over her rounded curves. A smile graced her lips. She stopped a cautious yard or so from Dante. She flicked a glance at Heather, then away, dismissing her.

“Quiet the song, young creawdwr, and douse the fire,” she said, her voice a rich, warm curl of caramel. “I am Astarte and, speaking for all of Gehenna, I am pleased to welcome you home, Dante.”

“I only dropped in to do a prison-pit snatch-and-grab, jolie,” Dante said, his song still pulsing molten into the night. Blue flames licked out from around his fingers. “This ain’t home, and I ain’t staying.”

11
A PROMISE IN BLOOD AND FIRE

GEHENNA
THE ROYAL AERIE
The Night of March 27–28

EROS’S HAIR RIPPLED AS though caught in a breeze as he and the other members of the Seven faced the creawdwr, but the night held still, the thick smoke-and-saffron reek of Uriel’s extinguished wheel blanketing the motionless air.

Power, wild and deadly and barely controlled, pulsated from the creawdwr—Dante, according to the Morningstar and Gabriel—crackled like lightning through the air. Pain fragmented his golden aura with jagged red lines, exhaustion smudged it nearly black. Blood trickled from his nose, blood he smeared across his white skin with absent-minded swipes of his sleeve.

Not mad, this young and untrained creawdwr, not yet, despite Gabriel’s incensed and bitter claims. But hurting intensely. And striding the abyss’s crumbling edge.

The lovely little redhead with the tantalizing curves Eros had only caught glimpses of from beneath her wretched black trench coat had soothed Dante with a touch, a kiss, and a few murmured words. Heat had shimmered between them, sparked white-hot.

Eros had found himself wishing their kiss would continue, deepen. Found himself wishing to move closer for a better look, drawn like an arrow to an apple.

It seemed Gabriel had spoken the truth—the creawdwr had bonded a mortal. Another dangerous impossibility.

And at Dante’s left shoulder stood Samael—wait, he now calls himself Lucille or Lucifer or some such thing, Lucien, that’s it!—pale, drained of strength, the wounds created by the hooks still visible on his chest, but his back straight, his taloned hands resting easy at his sides.

Meeting Eros’s gaze, Lucien nodded, a contemptuous smile curling his lips.

A smile Eros returned along with a slow wink. Doing well for an aingeal who’d been blood-spelled and hanging from hooks just minutes before.

How was it that the slayer of one creawdwr should father the next? Eros shook his head. Given Dante’s blunt words to Astarte, his rejection of her welcome, Eros had no doubt Lucien had poisoned his son’s mind against the Elohim.

We must cleanse Dante of that poison.

The aingeals and nephilim thronging the terrace kept a healthy distance from Dante and his burning hands, from the fire smoldering in his eyes. They backed up to the balustrade, some taking to the air, wings snapping loud as canvas sails in the silence. But most stared, stunned by his words.

This ain’t home, and I ain’t staying.

And why should he? The mortal world was the only one Dante had ever known.

Thanks to Lucien.

This creawdwr was not what any of them had expected or even imagined. A Maker of mixed bloodlines—both pure and powerful—Fallen and True Blood. A Maker born and raised in the mortal world. Shaped by it. He was an impossibility. A dangerous impossibility. No one knew what he was capable of; within moments of his arrival in Gehenna, he’d managed to both disgrace and humiliate Gabriel.

Eros wondered how much longer Gabriel would rule the Elohim now that he’d been violently rejected by the creawdwr.

Dante’s crimson-edged black wings flared behind him, wings unlike any Eros had ever seen before. Starlight glimmered like ice along the designs—twisting ivy-like loops and delicate spirals—etched into their blue and purple undersides. His autumn scent—burning leaves and November frost—spiced the air.

Gabriel had claimed that the Maker’s wings had just been born, ripping free through the boy’s back shortly after he’d arrived in Gehenna. After he’d torn into Gabriel’s throat and feasted like a wild thing on his blood.

A wild thing, yes. But the creawdwr was also a heart-stopping, lust-fueling, thought-stealing beauty. Pale moonlight skimmed the steel ring of the collar buckled around Dante’s throat, glinted from the hoops rimming his ears, the rings on his flame-spiked thumbs and fingers.

Bewitching.

Eros’s gaze raked over the creawdwr’s lean, coiled length, drinking in his wing-shredded and bloodied mesh-sleeved T-shirt, low-slung leather pants and boots, his moonlight-radiant white skin, his mouth made for kissing, his hard-muscled body meant for all manner of pleasurable things, the black hair intended to entangle grasping fingers. Eros felt himself stir beneath his kilt.

<A creawdwr born for the bedroom,> he sent to Morrigan, casting her a sidelong glance. <His training should be handed over to me. He looks to be in serious need of taming. And I would be more than happy to oblige.>

Morrigan fingered the edge of her ever-shifting veil, and Eros wondered which face she currently wore beneath it. Her attention was riveted on the creawdwr and the flummoxed Astarte.

<Beautiful, yes,> she sent, <but he’s just a child.>

<He’s young, I’ll give you that, but he’s no child. I’ll bet he never was.>

<No, I suppose not. But let’s win him first, tame him later.>

<What better way to win him over than by peeling off his clothes and exploring his luscious body by mouth?>

Morrigan sighed. <Spoken like a true incubus.> Her usual disdain percolated through her thought. But Eros wasn’t fooled. He smelled the musky pheromones thickening her brine, blood, and molten steel scent. <However, I don’t think he’s going to allow you to do that, considering he intends to leave. And we very much need him to stay.>

<That we do,> Eros agreed.

Astarte glanced at Eros from beneath dark lashes, expression perplexed as she fumbled for a reply to Dante’s unexpected response to her welcome. <Any suggestions?>

Folding his arms over his chest, Eros shook his head. He couldn’t help but smile at Astarte’s unaccustomed speechlessness. Her boast to him—only ten minutes old—already proven false, her wager lost.

According to Gabriel, the Maker’s just a child.

A True Blood child, one born to violence and quick with his fangs.

He’s also Elohim. With Elohim instincts. So I shall accomplish what Gabriel obviously failed to do and charm him.

Oh, I’m sure he’ll find sinking his fangs into your throat and drinking you dry quite charming indeed.

Prick. I’ll have this mixed blood boy laughing and drinking with me within five minutes of meeting. I’ll have him bonded in five more.

“Gehenna is your home. Your rightful place is here with us, little creawdwr,” Astarte finally managed, regaining her composure. She offered Dante a warm, reassuring smile.

“You’re wrong about the rightful place bullshit. Just so we’re clear, my life is my own. I don’t answer to any of you.” Dante’s gaze shifted from Astarte and swept across each of them—a dark and violent promise in his kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Of course not,” Astarte soothed. “We only wish to help you, guide you.”

“To the fucking Chaos Seat, yeah? No thanks. Ain’t interested.”

Astarte stared, momentarily speechless again. Eros couldn’t really blame her. No creawdwr before had ever spurned the Chaos Seat, the power-focusing marble throne from which a Maker wove chaos into ordered life.

Of course, this creawdwr was unlike any other.

“And let me fill you in on something else in case that dick Gabriel forgot to mention it. You ain’t binding me. Not now. Not ever.”

A choked snort drew Eros’s attention to the ivy-laced balustrade. His white-winged back turned to the terrace, the Morningstar’s shoulders and wing tips shook with suppressed laughter, one taloned hand braced against the balcony.

The muscles in Eros’s shoulders pulled tight. Knotted. The Morningstar was playing them for fools. And succeeding. Frustration burned like acid through his guts.

<At least someone’s amused,> Uriel sent, darting a barbed glance at the Morningstar, his lips compressed into a thin, disapproving line. <He’s encouraging the child’s hostility.>

<The Morningstar can afford to be amused. He has a huge advantage over us,> Eros pointed out. <He came here in Dante’s company, flew him to the pit, and helped him free his father. No doubt, he made us out to be the ones who put Lucien on those hooks.>

<Aye. And neglected to mention his own role in the creawdwr -slayer’s punishment,> Uriel agreed, his expression souring.

“Bind you?” Astarte questioned. She shook her head, her curls sweeping in dark twists against her shoulders. “No one can bind you against your will, nor would anyone wish to.”

Lucien leaned in and murmured into his son’s ear in a low voice, but not so low that Eros couldn’t catch his words—as Lucien had no doubt intended: “Not true.”

Cocking his weight onto one hip, a dark smile tilted Dante’s lips, pooled deep in his eyes. Coiled. Pissed. All fangs and venom and lethal intent. “Menteuse,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on Astarte.

French, with an unusual accent—Cajun, perhaps?—but the word’s meaning was clear: Liar.

Daggering an icicle gaze at Lucien before returning her attention to Dante, Astarte shook her head again. “No one can bind you against your will,” she repeated, each word a clear, ringing bell. “But you must be bonded, your sanity anchored by two calon-cyfaill—bondmates. Otherwise the creu tân, the creation fire, will sear away your tethers to reality and—”

Dante snorted. “Trust me, the reality-untethering qualities of the creu tân is the least of my worries. I’m bonded to Heather, so c’est bon.”

Lucien stared at Dante, shock blanking his face. His lips compressed into a grim line. Interesting, Eros mused. He had no idea that his son had bonded the lovely redhead.

“No, not good.” Astarte said. “You need two. And a mortal bond is worthless.”

“Worthless, huh? Fuck you.” Dante glanced at the redhead—at Heather—standing beside him. “We’re done here. Let’s go, catin.”

“Right behind you.” Heather slipped a hand into her trench’s right pocket, pulling her gun free. She held it with practiced ease down at her side.

Not just a bedroom toy, Dante’s delicious little mortal, given her gun and protective stance, her adrenaline-cocked muscles and the taut line of her jaw.

As Dante started forward, Heather at his side, Astarte blocked his path, panic rippling across her face, flecking her eyes with gold. “No, stay, please,” she urged breathlessly. “Rooms have been prepared for you and your . . . cydymaith . . . a warm bath to soothe your wings, blood to ease your hunger . . .” Without thinking, she grabbed the creawdwr’s forearm.

Staring at Dante’s glowing hands, Eros sucked in a breath.

Dante glanced at her hand. “Only gonna tell you once. Don’t touch me.”

All color drained from Astarte’s face. She looked down. Reflected blue light flickered in her eyes. She yanked her hand away from Dante’s arm as though the hot embered coals of the pit burned beneath his skin.

“Of course,” she stammered. Sweat glistened on her forehead. Looking faint, she stepped aside.

Dante walked past her and up to the loose line Eros, Morrigan, Uriel, and Janus had formed in front of the palace’s arched threshold. Braziers at either side of the entry snapped sparks and the sharp smell of myrrh and cedar into the night.

Just as Eros was about to ease forward and intercept the sexy little creawdwr, Uriel’s hand clamped onto Eros’s shoulder. Electric pain arrowed down his arm to his fingers. Uriel squeezed once, a not-so-gentle warning, then shoved past him and planted himself in front of Dante.

Fire flared in Dante’s eyes, his body tensed. But he halted, the redhead on one side, Lucien on the other.

“It sounds as though you’ve been misled about our intentions,” Uriel said, his voice a rolling rumble of thunder. “We’ve been waiting for you for thousands of years. In no way would we ever harm you. Our duty is to educate you, train you in your duties—”

Dante frowned. “My duties? Fuck that. Ain’t got no duty but to friends—” He paused and glanced at Lucien, then added, “And family.”

Eros tilted his head, pondering the relief that had flickered quick as lightning across Lucien’s face when the word family had slipped from Dante’s lips. Interesting. Despite the fact that his son had broken into another world to find him, Lucien had apparently harbored doubts about their relationship. Eros carefully filed that tidbit of information away for later examination.

Disbelief danced across Uriel’s face. “But Gehenna—”

“Je connais,” Dante said, voice weary, a near sigh. “The Morningstar told me that your world is dying and y’all need me to pump new life into it, yeah? I’m willing to consider it, but on my own time and my own terms.”

“Perhaps after you’ve seen your father and Heather home,” the Morningstar said, crossing the terrace in long strides. Brushing past Lucien, he sauntered to a stop beside Uriel. “And after you’ve rested.”

Dante shrugged. “Maybe, yeah. We’ll see.”

Heather stiffened. “If he returns to Gehenna, it won’t be alone.”

“Of course,” the Morningstar murmured.

Uriel’s smile suddenly looked strained, looked more like clenched teeth than a smile. White fire pooled in the palms of both hands, spun into two tiny wheels. “Even though . . . Lucien is your father, I fear for your safety. He murdered the last creawdwr and I’m concerned that history might repeat itself.”

Dante shook his head. “I’m not, and it won’t.”

“If we allow you to leave Gehenna, how do we know you’ll return?” Uriel asked, his little spinning wheels vanishing like snuffed candle flame when he fisted both hands. “We can’t rely on maybe and we’ll see.”

“You ain’t got no say in whether I leave or not,” Dante said, another dark and dangerous smile slanting across his lips. Eros caught a tantalizing glimpse of fang tips. “Let me make this real fucking clear: I. Ain’t. Running. And I sure as hell ain’t hiding. I’m gonna be easy to find.”

“We can set up a meet-and-greet like you mentioned earlier,” the Morningstar said, his pale brows knitting together thoughtfully. “Allow all of the Elohim to see you and speak with you. After that, we can discuss making arrangements for you to heal the land. And for training you how to do so.”

Dante raked a hand through his hair, blue flames pinwheeling along his fingers. “Yeah, d’accord, that’ll work—as long as the nephilim and the chalky dudes are at the meet-and-greet too.”

“Chalkydri,” the Morningstar reminded.

A hint of a smile brushed Dante’s lips. “You can still blow me.”

Dante’s flippant, Cajun-spiced words goosed Eros’s pulse. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to dip his toes into the heated pool of an incubus’s natural erotic vision; he imagined the Morningstar dropping to his knees in front of Dante and unbuckling his belt. Then replaced the Morningstar with himself. Felt the belt buckle’s cold steel beneath his fingers, heard the rasp of the zipper as he drew it down inch by inch.

Fire pulsed through Eros’s loins.

<Stop. Your vision is edging outward.>

Morrigan’s command splashed into Eros’s imaginings like a boulder into a mud puddle. His eyes jerked open, the vision ruined.

Uriel frowned at Dante. “Even if we agreed to these arrangements, what guarantee do we have that you’d actually return?”

“I said I would,” Dante replied, looking him in the eye.

Uriel stared at him. Seemed nonplussed. “You’re giving me your . . . word?”

Morrigan laughed, a crow’s mocking amusement. “Do you also cross your heart and hope to die?”

Without looking away from Uriel, Dante raised his hands level with Morrigan’s veiled face and extended both middle fingers. “Yup. I’m giving you my word.”

“Dante never lies,” Lucien said. “If he says he’ll return, then he’ll return.”

“That may be true, but it’s not good enough,” Uriel said, shaking his head. Starlight glinted along the glyphs inked into his black skin. “We’ve waited too long, Dante. We can’t just let you walk away again. We either need a hostage—and I vote we keep your father—or a blood pledge.”

“Keep me then,” Lucien said, wings flexing. Gold light glimmered in his eyes.

“They’re not keeping you or anyone else,” Dante growled, gaze locked with Uriel’s. “No hostages.”

“Then we need your blood pledge,” Janus said in a light Italian accent. Beads clicked as his fingers worked along his rosary. He studied Dante with eyes the deep blue of a long summer evening—and unreadable. “It will be your promise to us that you will return. A promise we can trust.”

“No,” Lucien said. “Absolutely not.”

Eros arched an eyebrow. “Do you speak for the creawdwr?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Dante answered. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck. Fine. Tell me what this blood pledge involves.”

“Like Janus said, it’s a promise,” the Morningstar said. “The only blood involved will be your own, so no one will be attempting to lay a blood spell on you. It will simply link you to your word, make your promise physical. And once the promise is fulfilled, the link vanishes.”

“So it’s temporary, yeah?”

The Morningstar nodded. “Yes. And harmless—for the most part.”

“For the most part?” Heather questioned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“If a pledge isn’t fulfilled in a timely manner, then the link begins to produce pain as a reminder and as incentive.” The Morningstar shrugged. “Mild pain. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“What he hasn’t told you,” Lucien said, “is that Heather will be affected by your pledge too. All bondmates are. Any pain you earn from the pledge, she’ll share.”

“She’s mortal,” the Morningstar pointed out, voice amused. “The pledge won’t affect her in the same way—if at all. At most she might get a whisper, an echo. But as long as you fulfill your promise, neither of you will feel anything.”

Dante shook his head. “Ain’t risking Heather.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a risk, Baptiste.”

Dante glanced at Heather and, seeing the question in his dilated eyes, Eros realized that the gorgeous mortal was more than just a bodyguard. She was the creawdwr’s partner in more ways than one, a partner whose opinion he valued—a true bond.

“Too many to fight,” she murmured. “But I’ll back your play—whatever it is. If we can leave here together and intact, I can live with sharing your promise.”

Dante twisted around to face her, then bent his head and touched his forehead to hers. She rested her free hand on his leather-clad hip. Neither said a word, but Eros had no doubt plenty was passing between them.

A dark pang of envy jabbed into Eros as he watched them together. They burned like a strong flame cupped between two hands.

Dante could do anything to her—reshape her, transform her, unmake her—yet she didn’t hesitate to touch him.

“Okay,” Dante said, lifting his head to look at Uriel. “I’ll do it, but I choose the Morningstar.”

A muscle flexed in Uriel’s jaw. “Of course.”

Regarding Uriel from beneath his silver lashes, the Morning-star smiled.

Emotions flashed across Lucien’s face in rapid succession—anger, frustration, despair, fear—and his taloned hands knotted into fists. “I don’t know how you managed to trick Dante into trusting you,” he said, his gaze on the Morningstar, his eyes dangerous black ice. “But I plan to be sure my son knows how skilled you are at manipulating the truth to your own ends.”

The Morningstar laughed. “Well, you would know all about manipulating the truth to your own ends, wouldn’t you? Given that your son has no understanding of his heritage or his gifts. Nor of his duties. You’ve manipulated him all of his very young life. Kept him ignorant of who and what he is.”

Dante arrowed a razored look at the Morningstar. “You’re still talking about shit you know nothing about,” he said, then slashed an equally sharp glance at his father. “And he hasn’t tricked me, since I don’t fucking trust him, so you don’t know what you’re talking about either. I’m choosing the lesser of . . .” He paused to make a point of counting each of the Seven, before finishing, “. . . five evils.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing, child,” Lucien grated. “I appreciate you coming for me, but leave me behind. Take Heather and go.”

“No. Quit fighting me, dammit,” Dante said, his voice strained. He looked at his father with a strange mix of fury and anguish. “I ain’t losing you again.”

The muscles in Lucien’s shoulders cabled. Drops of dark blood spattered the marble beneath his clenched hands. Closing his eyes, he nodded.

Shifting his attention to the Morningstar, Dante asked, “So how do we do this?”

“It’s simple,” the Morningstar replied. “A bit of blood from you, a bit of magic from me and we’ll seal the pledge to your heart. You need to take off that torn and bloodied thing you call a shirt first.”

“That part of the ritual?”

“No. I despise that shirt.”

A smile tilted the creawdwr’s luscious lips. He peeled off the offending shirt with the cryptic NIN letters in one fluid motion, wincing in pain as he did, then stuffed one end of it into the left rear pocket of his leather pants.

His muscles must still be tender from wing-birth. Eros paused in his admiration of Dante’s bared torso—white skin, lean muscles, hard, flat abs, and on the sculpted chest above the left nipple, a small bat tattoo—and thinned his shields so he could extend his senses outward, rechanneling his erotic focus into a healer’s questing scan. Brushing against Dante’s ragged shields, he took a peek inside.

A grave lined with upright shovels, their blades buried into the sawgrass . . .

Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson . . .

Wasps wriggle beneath black-painted fingernails . . .

A savage meat hook gleams beneath fluorescent lights . . .

Holy, holy, holy . . .

I’m scared, Dante-angel. But I’m glad I’m with you . . .

Eros reeled himself away, feeling scorched, his senses crisped—and he hadn’t even gone inside. His breath hissed out between his teeth. Fire ravaged the creawdwr’s mind. Voices whispered and capered. The past and the present flipped back and forth like a double-hinged gate in a gale.

Not only young and untrained, the creawdwr was damaged. Dante wasn’t mad, not yet. But he would be. Between the creu tân and the damage he’d only glimpsed, Eros knew it was only a matter of rapidly passing time.

Was it possible to heal him? Or was the damage irreparable? Or would it be more advantageous to make sure Dante continued to need a healer—one he might wish to bind himself to? Eros’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. He might’ve just found a way to gain the upper hand against the Morningstar and the other members of the Seven.

“What’s next?” Dante asked. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His muscles rippled and flexed as though he was struggling for control. His eyes unfocused. “Ready for use, yeah, Papa?” he whispered.

“Baptiste?” Concern knitted Heather’s brows. She reached for him. “Stay with me.”

As though the marble floor had abruptly tilted beneath his boots, Dante stumbled a step sideways. He threw out a flame-swallowed hand to brace himself against one of the fluted columns guarding the entry.

Blue flames flared against the moonlit marble column. The column dissolved into a hailstorm of tiny blue stones that scattered across the floor in all directions. Dante hit the marble on his hands and knees, his wings flaring and flapping in a belated effort to restore his balance.

Panicked murmurs and cries rippled throughout the terrace like pebbles tossed into a lake.

On his hands and knees, Dante shook his head as if to clear it. Dozens of little moths—or what looked like moths—wriggled out from beneath the creawdwr’s fingers with their black-painted nails, fanning their sable wings. Song chimed into the air with each wing flutter. Fewer stones littered the floor.

Curiosity and fear twisted through Eros in equal measure when he saw the blue-sparked image of a hook centered in each soft wing. He saw the same fear reflected in every face on the terrace.

Including Heather’s. But her fear was for Dante, not of him.

“Shit,” Dante whispered. He shoved himself back up onto his feet, his expression dazed, uncertain. Fresh blood trickled from his nose. His wild, searing anhrefncathl spilled away into silence. The flames vanished from his hands.

“You’re in Gehenna,” Heather said, reaching up to push his sweat-dampened hair out of his face. “You came here for Lucien and found him. We’re going home as soon as the blood pledge has been made. You with me, Baptiste?”

Swallowing hard, Dante nodded. “J’su ici.” He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he glanced at the Morningstar, his pale face resolved. “Let’s do this.”

12
THROUGH THE WORMHOLE

GEHENNA
THE ROYAL AERIE
The Night of March 27–28

THE MORNINGSTAR RESTED A moonlight-gilded talon against Dante’s chest just above his heart. Pain throbbed at Dante’s temples, swirled through his thoughts like a red-hot poker as he met the fallen angel’s blue gaze. Tension corkscrewed his muscles.

Keep focused. Stay here. Get this done.

The Morningstar lifted a brow. “Two weeks enough time?”

“I’ll take it.”

“Breathe in,” the Morningstar suggested.

Dante drew in a breath of cool, jasmine-scented air. Pain needled his chest as the Morningstar’s talon pierced his skin, sliding its full length into his pectoral muscle, then out. The image of a wasp’s stinger flared in Dante’s mind, then faded. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. Stay here.

Blood welled hot against the wound and Dante watched as the Morningstar traced a pattern in the blood with his finger—a symbol, a sigil—murmuring in a language Dante didn’t know, but the words strummed against his heart like fingers across guitar strings.

“A vow made in blood and fire,” Lucien translated, his voice tight, “a promise to return to Gehenna in two weeks, a pledge freely given, shaped in blood and sealed with fire . . .”

Heat trailed the Morningstar’s finger, burning against Dante’s blood-slicked skin like a lighter’s flame.

“ . . . and if the pledge isn’t honored, if you do not return as promised, then this mark will remind you and compel you. Shall give you no other choice but to return and fulfill your obligation.”

The Morningstar pressed his hot palm against the blood sigil he’d just traced on Dante’s skin. “This will hurt,” he warned in a whisper. “A lot.”

Nodding, Dante tensed his muscles. Took another deep breath. Then a bolt of lightning struck him straight through the heart. Electricity surged through his skull. His muscles locked. He felt his body spasming. The electric smell of ozone and the stink of scorched blood—his own—curled into his nostrils.

Molten chains coiled around his heart and locked into place.

As suddenly as it had begun, the pain stopped. The lightning vanished. Dante felt himself falling, felt hands seize his biceps, hold him steady. Kept him on his feet.

“It’s done,” the Morningstar said.

Dante blinked away the black spots flecking his vision, sucked in a ragged breath. “Christ. I think hurt a lot was a bit of a fucking understatement,” he muttered.

A smile quirked at the corners of the Morningstar’s mouth. “A bit,” he agreed. He dropped his hands from Dante’s arms.

Dante looked down at the sigil seared into his chest. No visible burn, just ridged white skin in the shape of an upside-down pyramid with a smaller reversed triangle hooked to its base with graceful curlicues. A scar. His first.

“You okay, Baptiste?”

Dante turned and looked at Heather, saw the strain on her face, the fear in her eyes, felt her fatigue. “Ça va bien, catin,” he replied. He reached for her hand, folded his fingers through hers. “We’re done here. Let’s go home, yeah?”

A weary smile curved Heather’s lips. “Oh, hell yeah.”

“Wait! You can’t leave.”

The Morningstar’s daughter, Hekate, hurried across the terrace, her sandals pattering against the marble, and brushed between Lucien and her frowning father. “What of my mother, little creawdwr?” She stopped in front of Dante, her violet eyes meeting his, wavy tendrils of moon-silvered hair framing her face. “What of all the others you’ve turned to stone? Our emissaries?”

“Who’s your mom?” Dante asked.

The Morningstar grasped his daughter’s elbow. “Not now. There will be time for this later.”

Hekate yanked free of her father’s hold and said, “My mother’s name is Lilith.”

Dante remembered Lilith—golden eyes, midnight hair, rain-beaded face. Remembered her lies even better.

Your father’s dead, little one . . . Gone to ash. Nothing remains.

“Sorry to hear that,” Dante said. “But she’s gonna stay stone.”

Hekate’s pale brows knitted together, her expression disbelieving. As she opened her mouth to protest or argue or—given the sudden frost in her eyes—cuss him out, another voice cut in. A familiar voice. A lecturing voice.

Dante’s hunger shoved its way up, back from below.

“A fate no doubt deserved by our lovely Lilith of Lies. But as for the others, their only intention was to welcome you.”

Golden wings folded behind him, Gabriel strolled from the arched doorway onto the landing terrace, the ends of his whiskey-amber hair curling against the waistline of his blood red kilt, his eyebrows lifted in a stern expression edged with mock regret—like fucking Papa whenever he took off his belt and looped it.

Stopping beside the chick with the veil and the dude with the crimson wings and hot honey gaze, Gabriel touched a hand to his healed throat. “Creawdwr,” he murmured, moss green eyes wary.

“Gabriel,” Dante drawled. “I’m still trying to picture what’d you’d look like on hooks down in the pit. Got a feeling you’d look much like Lucien did.”

Gabriel’s expression hardened and a challenge flared like match-sparked gasoline in his eyes. As he opened his mouth to reply, the Celestial with the red wings laughed, a low and sexy sound like warm silk sliding along naked flesh.

“Now there’s an image to inspire sweet dreams,” the red-winged angel said.

“Keep your opinions to yourself, Eros,” Gabriel growled, folding his arms over his sculpted bare chest.

Dante listened to the slow, strong rhythm of Gabriel’s heart, smelled the blood pulsing beneath his skin. Smelled bitter anger. Drew in a deep breath. And wrenched his gaze away from the artery pulsing in Gabriel’s muscle-corded throat.

No time to feed. Time only to haul ass.

“The Fallen-turned-to-stone issue is one we can deal with when I come back for the meet-and-greet,” Dante said, returning his gaze to Hekate. “But not your mom. That’s settled.”

Fury danced in Hekate’s eyes and her scent—apple blossoms and cool, shaded water—thickened. She opened her mouth, then closed it abruptly. She glared at her father as they shared a silent and heated exchange.

A warm hand touched Dante’s shoulder. He looked up into Lucien’s eyes. “Will you give me a moment?” he asked, casting a glance at Hekate.

Surprise flickered through Dante, but remembering how the Morningstar’s daughter had caught Lucien during his tumble back into the pit, her white wings sweeping through the sulfurous air, he realized that whatever Lucien felt for her was mutual.

“Yeah, sure,” Dante said, exchanging a look with Heather.

A smile brushed Lucien’s lips as he swiveled around to face Hekate. He extended his hand to her. “Come with us,” he said, voice low. “There’s no longer a need to protect your parents. Experience the mortal world you’ve yearned for but always been denied. You can begin with New Orleans.”

The Morningstar stiffened at Lucien’s words, his eyes going black as outrage swallowed their light. He stepped forward, then glanced at Dante.

Dante mouthed: Stay the fuck out of it.

A muscle twitched near the Morningstar’s left eye. Drawing in a deep breath, he paced back a step.

Hekate slipped her hand into Lucien’s without hesitation, her violet, gold-flecked eyes meeting his. “I would like that—very much. But not now, not yet.” She leveled an icy gaze on Gabriel. “I have a few things to tend to first.”

“He had you cast into the pit and put on hooks,” Lucien said. “I hope you’re planning to hurt him. A lot.”

Hekate laughed, the sound like delicate chiming bells, like musical silver. “I hadn’t realized you were a romantic.”

Lucien kissed her hand, then released it. “There’s much about me you don’t know,” he said. “Voice your wybrcathl when you finally cross the gate and I’ll find you.”

“I will,” Hekate promised. Rosy color blossomed on her cheeks.

Turning back to Dante, Lucien said, “I’m ready.”

“We’ll see you out,” Uriel said, nodding at the entry.

“Ain’t necessary,” Dante said. “We can find our own way.”

“I insist,” Uriel said through his teeth.

“Whatever.” Heather’s hand still wrapped up in his, Dante led the way across the arched threshold, walking into the lamp-lit corridor beyond.

“Are those . . . shovels?” Lucien asked.

“Yes,” Heather replied, voice tight. “That’s exactly what they are.”

Something abruptly shifted inside Dante’s head. Scattered his thoughts. White light strobed at the edges of his vision. Scalding pain corkscrewed into place through his left eye as his migraine revved into the red zone. His breath caught in his throat. Wasps droned up from the scorched depths within, carrying voices on their burning wings.

Time to get yo’ ass down in the basement, p’tit.

My little night-bred beauty. You’ll survive anything I might do to you.

She trusted you. I guess she got what she deserved.

How does it feel, marmot?

Like hell, but I’m digging my way out. Dante shoved the pain and voices below, not sure either would stay there, but tamping them down as hard as he could.

As he passed them, Dante looked at the blue-bladed shovels lining both walls like swords bracketed to the marble. Another of his accidental creations, but one he felt indicated the path he needed to walk—one forged from his past, but a past that no longer controlled him, a past he was free to walk away from.

Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson.

Not this time, Papa. This time I’m handing out the lessons.

Dante set a quick pace for the gate he’d punched into the aerie wall, the walk down the corridor silent except for the pad of Heather’s Skechers and the scrape of Fallen sandals against the marble floor.

When they reached the gate, Dante touched its smooth edge. It no longer glowed orange-white with molten heat, but the stone still felt warm beneath his fingers. “How do I close it?” he asked. “And once I do, will I have to punch it open again?”

“No, you should be able to open it again with just a thought or a touch,” a cool voice said. “But I shall need to teach you how to close it properly, and that will take time and practice.”

“Why?” Dante dropped his hand from the gate and turned around. “It didn’t take either to open—”

The fallen angel wearing the black cassock and priest’s collar met his gaze. A broken memory scraped through Dante’s mind, raking furrows of pain. His focus/vision splintered.

Facedown on a bare mattress, the smell of his own blood thick in his nostrils. The air’s cool breath paints searing pain across his back. His heart thunders in his ears.

“No one lights a lamp to cover it with a bowl or to put it under a bed,” a man’s low voice says, his words both instruction and prayer. “No, he puts it on a lampstand so that people may see the light when they come in.”

“Ain’t hiding an angel inside me, asshole,” Dante whispers for the millionth time. He twists his wrists again and again—on automatic—hoping the cuffs have weakened.

Another slice. Fresh blood spills hot down Dante’s side and soaks into the mattress. He bites into his constantly healing lower lip. Black flecks whirl through his vision.

“For nothing is hidden but it will be made clear, nothing secret but it will be known and brought to light.” Warm breath touches the cup of Dante’s ear. “I see your light hidden within. I shall bring it forth,” he promises. “As God commands.”

His fingers grasp the edges of Dante’s cut skin and yank, peeling it back.

Dante screams . . .

A tide of white silence washed over Dante, tumbling the memory back into the shattered depths below. From far away, he heard someone calling his name. A woman’s voice, steady and soothing and familiar.

“Baptiste. Stay here. Stay now.”

Warm hands cupped his face. Patted his cheek. He smelled lilac and sage.

“Baptiste. We need you here.”

Dante looked into twilight blue eyes, the first caress of evening. “Heather,” he breathed.

Relief glinted in those eyes. “We’re in Gehenna, about to leave, Baptiste. You with us now?”

Dante nodded. “Oui. Yeah. J’su ici.”

“Okay then,” Heather said, her hands slipping from his face. The others regarded him with varied expressions of concern, nervousness, or uncertainty.

“What was I talking about before I—” Dante twirled his hand in the air, index finger pointing at his temple.

The fallen priest cleared his throat, then said, “Closing the gate. You wanted to know why closing it would take time and practice when opening it hadn’t required either.”

Dante trailed a hand through his hair. “Yeah. D’accord. I remember. So spill, how come?”

The Fallen priest studied the gate, lips pursed. “Because you used brute force and raw power to open the gate.” His attention returned to Dante, his blue eyes grave. “And you were lucky. You could have easily torn a hole in the time/space continuum instead, in which case we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Dante looked at the gate again and whistled low. “Shit.”

“Ditto that,” Heather murmured. “When that shock wave blasted through the cemetery . . .” She shook her head.

“Until I can train you in the proper opening and closing of gates, this one will be masked with an illusion so that no one shall see it for what it is.”

Dante shifted his attention back to the priest-garbed Fallen. “C’est bon. I appreciate that.” Pain throbbed at his temples as he looked the fallen angel over. “You a real priest or is that just for show in the mortal world?”

“I am a real priest,” was the reply. “I am called Father John there and simply Janus here.”

“Wait. So you live in the mortal world?” Heather asked.

Janus nodded. “Off and on. Yes. Some of us do—out of boredom or restlessness or curiosity. This is the first span of time I’ve spent among mortals in centuries.”

“Centuries?” Realization flickered in Heather’s eyes. She tilted her head. “Janus. As in the Roman god?”

A smile brushed Janus’s lips, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “A few of my original temples still remain in Rome and elsewhere in Italy.”

“And now you’re a fucking Catholic priest?” Dante asked. “Gotta hear the story behind that some night, but not tonight. See y’all in two weeks.” Spotting Gabriel behind the others, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hooded, Dante added, “And I’ll definitely be seeing you.”

A chiseled-ice smile stretched Gabriel’s lips. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

“Liar.”

Dante ducked down, intending to slip through the gate, but pain knuckled against his wing tips with bruising force instead, shuddering along his tender shoulder muscles, and stopping him cold. Little bits of marble snowflaked to the gate’s rim.

“Fuck.” He’d smacked his half-folded wings full-tilt into the gate.

“Perhaps you should tuck your wings into their pouches before exiting?” Astarte suggested helpfully.

“I would if I knew how,” Dante replied, straightening. His wing tips throbbed.

“Here,” Lucien said. Turning around, he offered Dante a view of his black wings. “Flex in and down, like so.” His wings compressed together with a soft rustle, then seemed to disappear into his back.

“Flex in and down,” Dante repeated. “D’accord.” Drawing in a deep breath of hyacinth and myrrh scented air, he attempted to imitate Lucien’s movements. On the third nerve-tingling try, he felt his wings contract and kaleidoscope inward, felt their velvety slide beneath his skin. His shoulder muscles spasmed once, then quieted.

Dante blew out his breath. “Damn.”

“It’ll eventually become automatic,” Lucien said, sympathy and amusement lacing his voice. “You’ll even get them both in at the same time.”

“Terrific. Can’t wait,” Dante muttered. As he started to duck through the gate again, a strong-fingered hand gripped his shoulder, stopping him.

Catching a whiff of bitter orange and tree sap, Dante glanced back at the Morningstar. “I need to clear the way,” he said, releasing Dante’s shoulder. He arched a meaningful eyebrow.

From the night-shrouded cemetery beyond the gate, Dante heard the squelch of emergency radios, the murmur of incredulous voices. “Even with Heather, I can move fast enough that no one will ever see us.”

“Won’t be necessary,” the Morningstar said. Bending, he angled himself, body and wings, skillfully through the gate. Dante followed him, and was about to turn around and offer a hand to Heather when he froze, finally comprehending what he was seeing.

The cemetery had been destroyed.

Pale mist twisted around shattered tombs and crumbling crypts. Clung to fallen cypress and oaks. Snaked along fallen and severed statues. Cob-webbed chunks of broken masonry cluttering uprooted stone paths, draped the ruins of the cemetery walls. And in the street beyond, shards of glass hung from windows like jagged teeth. Cars were piled in the road at odd angles, crumpled and dented.

Blue and white and red lights strobed through the night.

Dante’s heart hammered against his ribs. Despite the blood racing through his veins, he felt ice-cold.

What the hell did I do?

“I need to fix this,” he whispered.

A warm hand tucked into his. Dante smelled lilac and evening rain.

“Yeah, you do,” Heather said. “But not tonight.”

“What the . . .? Are those people or ghosts?” A startled voice asked.

“Huh? Where? Christ!”

Several firemen in reflective tape-striped turnouts stood facing them, their eyes shadowed beneath their helmets, bodies rigid with surprise.

Standing on the path outside the tomb, the Morningstar tossed a glance over his shoulder at Heather before returning his attention to the mortals in front of him. “Cover your ears,” he told her.

Heather clamped her hands over ears as suggested.

The Morningstar unfolded his wings with a taut snap. Their undersides glimmered with a wet mother-of-pearl sheen, pale blue and purple. His body gleamed, as though captured sunlight burned beneath his skin.

The Morningstar’s radiance beamed throughout the ruined cemetery, searing away the low mist and bleaching the scene white.

Dante hastily reached for his shades and discovered he’d lost them. Again. Squinting, he shaded his eyes with the edge of his hand. His eyes teared.

“Shit,” Heather whispered.

The firemen lifted their arms to shield their faces from the blazing light.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Shit. Another bomb?”

“Holy fuck! Are those wings?”

The Morningstar’s voice pealed through the dying night. “Sleep.”

The firemen crumpled to the cracked stone path. Dante heard the soft thump of bodies falling throughout the cemetery, heard the clatter of dropped flashlights and equipment.

The Morningstar’s radiance dimmed. He swiveled to face Dante, his skin still glowing with light. His smile made Dante wish for his shades again.

“See you in two weeks,” he said.

13
DARK AND DAZZLING

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 28

VON MCGUINN TOSSED BACK another shot of Jim Beam Black. It burned like gasoline all the way down, leaving behind the aftertaste of caramel-smoothed oak on his tongue. And, like the twenty previous shots, it didn’t do one damned thing to ease the tight knot of worry prickling in his chest.

He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall between the booze-filled glass shelves behind the bar. Its red-eyed bat hour markers indicated 4:25 A.M.

Dante’d gone offline around two. Von could still feel their link, but whenever he tried to reach Dante, his sending would vanish—a message unsent and unreceived, like an e-mail hovering in the Ethernet waiting for a downed server to reboot so it could slide into the appropriate inbox.

Grabbing the nearly empty Jim Beam bottle from the bar’s polished and now bourbon-sprinkled counter, Von splashed another round into his shot glass. Tossed it back. A little more napalm added to the pool of unease curdling in his guts.

Dante, man. Where you at?

Unreceived messages. Blocked links. Oh. And the explosion he’d felt ten or fifteen minutes after Dante and Heather had split for St. Louis No. 3. Yeah, don’t forget that. Let’s just toss it into the mix, get everything stirred up real goddamned good.

Normally the trip to No. 3 was a ten-minute drive, longer if you hit the lights wrong or got swallowed up in traffic, but with Dante behind the van’s wheel, Von figured five minutes max with Dante blowing every red light.

Then the explosion. Not close. Several miles away, at least.

Von had frozen, heart jackhammering against his ribs. Possibilities had flipped through his mind like a Slinky down a set of stairs.

Terrorist bombing. Plane crash. Massive levee failure. Steamship explosion on the Mississippi. Asteroid. Worlds colliding. The freaking apocalypse.

Anything could’ve happened. Didn’t mean it had anything to do with Dante.

But images of fallen angels caught in coils of blue fire and plummeting from rain cloud-paled skies as stone had flashed behind Von’s eyes.

I’m gonna find Lucien and bring him home. We just lost Simone. We ain’t losing him too. Dante’s voice had been rough and low, tight with grief. But his body had been coiled with determination and a low-simmering rage.

How you plan on doing that? You don’t even know where he is or how to get there. Where the hell do the Fallen live anyway? I know it’s called Gehenna, but . . .

Dunno. But I’m bringing him home, mon ami.

Then I’m coming with you, little brother. That’s fucking final.

No. I need you here. I gotta know that everyone’s gonna be safe, and I trust you to do that.

So I just get to worry about you and Heather?

I can reach you.

So could Simone. Didn’t do her much good, did it?

Von’s hands clenched into fists, the scars on his knuckles stretching tight over the bone. I can reach you. Dante was wrong about that. The silence between them buzzed against Von’s nerves like a sander on low speed.

Dammit, Dante.

Von drew in a deep breath, caught a lingering trace of cloves and tobacco and dark beer on sawdust. Blew it back out again. Chased away the storm of dark memories and cleared his thoughts. Fretting was wasted energy.

Setting his shot glass on the bar, he snatched up the bottle of Jim Beam and resumed pacing, following a long-legged path in front of the darkened Cage and the dais leading up to Dante’s bat-winged throne. The feather and bone fetishes dangling from the Cage’s steel bars fluttered in Von’s fast-paced wake.

For a second, he thought he caught Simone’s magnolia scent, thought he saw her sitting on the top step of the dais, her arms wrapped around the long, shapely legs revealed by her denim mini-skirt, the club lights streaking her long, spiraled blonde hair gold and deepest blue.

She was laughing, light dancing in her eyes. Come dance with me, cher.

Pain twisted around Von’s heart. Tightened his throat. The stink of burning wood, singed clothing and hair suddenly coated his nostrils.

Gonna kill Mauvais. Slow. Maybe over years.

“You’re gonna wear a groove in the floor, dude.”

Von glanced up. Silver stood on the second floor landing, one hand on the banister. His silver eyes gleamed. His anime-styled midnight purple hair poked up in peaks and angles from his head and looked almost black beneath the dim lights on the staircase. Soot still smudged one pale cheek, his nose, and forehead—evidence of the fire he’d barely escaped.

Von slowed to a stop at the foot of the stairs. “Where’s Annie?”

“She finished the vodka, then passed out.”

“Both damned bottles? Girl drinks like nightkind. And dances on tables like she’s auditioning for a job on Bourbon Street.”

“She was trying not to feel,” Silver said quietly.

“I think she succeeded,” Von drawled. “Until she wakes up, anyway.”

A smile ghosted across Silver’s lips. “She’ll still be drunk.”

“Holy shit, I’d hope so.” Von paused, then asked, “And Trey?”

Silver shook his head, sorrow drawing his features taut. “The same. Just staring into the dark. Eerie’s curled up with him, working purr-mojo, but I don’t think it’s helping. Nothing is.” Raking a hand through his hair and disarranging it even more, he added in a thick voice, “I can’t believe she’s gone. And I’m scared Trey’s gonna follow her. He doesn’t want blood. He doesn’t want talk. I ain’t even sure he’s blinking. It’s like his body’s here, but . . .”

“He just lost his sister and his mère de sang, Silver. He’s in shock. He needs time to grieve. As much as we can give him.” But Von wondered if time would be enough. Simone had been Trey’s only tether to the world, just as she’d been his only kin. “We all need time.”

“People always say that, like time is fucking Oxycontin,” Silver muttered, his voice prickling with pain and anger. “Like I could just down a handful of time and not worry about it hurting any more. Instant fix. But I can’t. And time takes fucking forever to heal. How’s that for ironic? Fuck time. And fuck Mauvais for taking her from us.” The banister creaked beneath Silver’s white-knuckled hand.

“I hear you, bro,” Von said softly. He tapped two fingers against his chest over his heart. “I hear you. And trust me, Mauvais is fucked—he just don’t know it yet.”

Losing someone you cared about—hell, be honest—someone you loved, never got easier no matter how many decades slid past. Mortal. Nightkind. It didn’t matter. Even though the nomad clans taught that death was a part of the natural order, like birth and sex, it was nothing to rejoice in as far as Von was concerned. Especially when someone died hard. And alone.

Von couldn’t imagine the hurt lessening, couldn’t imagine ever losing the heart-squeezing sound of Simone’s screams. His fingers squeezed tight around the Jim Beam bottle’s neck, then he heard glass shattering. Liquid splashed over his hand, his knuckles. The sharp odor of bourbon soaked the air.

“Jesus Christ,” Silver said, eyes wide.

Von closed his eyes, sighed. After a moment, he opened them again and looked at the broken bottle neck clutched in his hand. The rest of the bottle was scattered in glittering black pieces on the floor. Blood dripped from the cuts and nicks on his booze-stung fingers.

“Well, hell. I was gonna drink that.”

“Not anymore,” Silver commented. “But if you strip off your jeans and table-dance in your undies while screaming ‘you can’t touch me, motherfucker’ like Annie, I’ll get you another bottle.”

“Don’t believe I’d jiggle as fetchingly, though I’d be willing to give it a try if the tips were good. And I can get my own bottle, smart-ass. How ’bout you get me a broom instead?”

“Damn. I already had a title for the YouTube video—Swinging Nomad Dick.”

“Think that was the title of my first porn flick. I’ve been used, man. Tragic story.”

Silver rolled his eyes. “Tragic—to the viewer. If such a flick existed. Tattooed nomad booty.” He shook his head, then moved down the stairs.

“Wouldn’t’ve been just my fine ass.”

“Now you’re scaring me.”

Von tossed the blood-smeared bottle neck onto the floor. Glass crunched beneath it. He licked blood from his knuckles, tasted copper and bourbon and heated grapes.

Hunger scraped at his belly and backbone. He needed to feed, and as soon as Dante and Heather were back safe and relatively sound, he’d head out to hunt. Grab a quick alley snack before dawn.

A blur of movement, a streak of purple hair, black tee and studded black jeans, a cinnamon and smoke-scented breeze, then Silver stood beside Von. Handed him a push-broom and a dust pan. “Heard anything from Dante?”

Wrapping his uncut hand around the broom’s smooth handle, Von shook his head. “Nope. Not yet. But he’ll contact us as soon as he finds Lucien.”

Von kept his current inability to contact Dante to himself. No need to get Silver more worked up than he already was. He swept up the broken glass, the broom’s bristles smearing the spilled bourbon across the wood in a thin, dark streak.

“He’ll contact you, you mean.”

Von stopped pushing the broom and glanced at Silver from beneath his brows. Silver stood with his back against the bar, his hands behind him gripping the bar’s edge, his biceps bunched and hard. Beneath the club’s low-lit overheads, his face was pensive and all angsty teen. Boy was twenty-five, but his body would forever be that of a sixteen-year-old.

But not his eyes, which were knowing and shadowed and razor-edged.

“Well, if you wanna be literal, then yeah, that is what I mean.” Bending, Von swept the pieces of dark glass into the plastic dustpan. “You chose to lie to him—no matter your intentions. You knew the consequences.”

“Yeah, but . . . shit. It’s been over a year. I’ve never known anyone to hold a grudge like he does.”

Von straightened. “He’ll forgive just about anything—except a lie. Especially coming from someone he trusts.”

“He doesn’t trust me.”

“Nope,” Von agreed. “Not anymore. But he does care about you, man. You still have a chance to earn his trust again.”

“I don’t get what his thing with lies is all about. People lie all the fucking time. It’s no big deal. I just don’t get it.”

“No big deal? Your lie tricked Dante into helping his best friend commit suicide by vampire and you don’t think that’s a big deal? Now you’re lying to yourself.”

“I was trying to help. I wanted to save Leigh’s life.”

Von snorted. “So you turned Leigh against his will and now he’s in Portland with your père de sang because he can’t stand the sight of you and because Dante won’t speak to him anymore. Yeah, that was all real helpful.”

“I fucked up, I know that. And I’ve apologized over and over. But Dante still won’t let me back in.” Silver touched a finger to his forehead. “It was a lie, not murder.”

“In this case, that’s where you’re wrong. With that lie, you also messed with everyone’s free will. And if you don’t get that, you’ll never understand Dante.”

“Guess I’m fucking doomed then.”

“You just might be, with that kinda attitude.”

Going to the trash can behind the bar, Von dumped the dustpan’s contents into its black plastic-lined interior. He parked the broom against the wall. Plucking a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the glass shelves, he sauntered around the bar to join Silver. Poured shots for them both. The liquor’s golden tones wafted into the air.

“I’m gonna tell you something I don’t think Dante understands himself. Maybe somewhere down deep inside him he does, but not here.” Von tapped a finger against his temple, then touched it to his chest at heart level. “Because it’s here.”

Turning around, Silver leaned his black T-shirted side against the counter. He picked up the shot glass, then tossed it back. Sweat instantly sprang up on his forehead. “I’m listening,” he said, voice hoarse with whiskey.

Von rolled his shot glass between his fingers, watching the play of light across the booze’s amber surface. “Dante’s been lied to from day one. Lied to. Used. Fucked with. Picked apart, then stitched back together again. Maybe he doesn’t remember most of it, but it’s still a part of him.”

A low simmering anger reignited, tightening the muscles in Von’s chest and shoulders as he thought of some of the images he’d caught glimpses of in Dante’s mind—splinters of his dark, dirty, and violent past piercing and impaling his present.

On his knees, Dante looks around. All three badass men sprawl on the bloodied floor. He swivels, wiping blood from his mouth and reaching for Chloe. But she’s no longer in the corner. His hand freezes.

Von slammed back his shot. “Ain’t nothing dishonest about Dante. What you see is what you get.”

Silver snorted. “That’s pure bullshit, man. There’s layers and depths to Dante that people don’t see when they’re busy drooling over him. Depths they don’t wanna see.”

Von chuckled. “Well, yeah, that’s true. But I stand—lean, actually—by my words. Just because those idiots ain’t looking for the truth of him don’t mean it ain’t there to be seen.”

Silver frowned, the skin wrinkling between his eyebrows. “The truth of him? Don’t you mean in him?”

“Nope. I meant just what I said. The truth ain’t just words or deeds, it’s threaded into our DNA, etched into our bones, pulsing through our veins. Each of us is shaped by the truth of our natures. You can be the evilest motherfucker striding the world, a bloody knife in each hand, and still be brimming with down-to-the-bone truth.”

“Awesome,” Silver muttered. “A llygad lecture. Should I take notes?”

“If you plan to pass the pop quiz later, I’d advise it.”

“It ain’t a pop quiz if you warn people beforehand. Doofus.”

“That’s llygad-doofus to you, and did I say pop quiz? ’Cuz I meant ninja-quiz since you’ll never see it coming.”

Glancing at Silver’s empty shot glass, Von arched an eyebrow. At Silver’s nod, he splashed more Jack into both shot glasses. Thumping the bottle back onto the bar’s light-streaked surface, Von downed his shot.

“And Dante?” Silver asked. “What’s his truth?”

“Dante’s truth is dark and dazzling; it lays the heart bare. All you hafta do is look.”

Silver’s head tilted back as he lifted his glass to his lips and knocked the shot back. Blew out a whiskey-fumed breath. “Yeah, that’s the fucking goddamned truth all right.” He looked at Von, a muscle playing in his jaw. “But what does it have to do with lying to him?”

“Everything. His truth demands truth in return. Whenever you lie to him, you bury truth and trust in an unmarked shallow grave. Whenever you—” Von’s words froze unspoken in his throat when a thought blazed through his mind like a burning arrow.

<We’re on our way back. Y’all okay?>

<Dante! We’re good, man. How you doing?> But even as he sent that, Von knew the answer. Pain rippled through Dante’s sending like flame licking up a gasoline trail. Migraine. <You find Lucien?>

<Oui, we’ll be there soon, cher.>

<I’ll have the porch light on.>

<Clothes might be better . . . less likely to singe anything delicate.>

Von laughed out loud, relief draining the tension from his knotted muscles like oil from a bike engine. <Ain’t nuthin’ delicate about me, little brother. See y’all soon.>

Feeling the heat and weight of Silver’s gaze, Von poured another shot of Jack for both of them, then clinked his glass against Silver’s. Silver stared at him, his expression both hopeful and wary. “Well?” he asked.

“Dante’s on his way back. He found Lucien too.”

Silver closed his eyes, a smile curving his lips. “Goddamn.” He tossed back his shot, then opened his eyes again. “Did he say where he found Lucien or how?”

“Nah. Didn’t come up. We can ask him when he gets here.”

Von was about to drink his shot when he heard a double thump at the club’s locked front door. Straightening, he looked in the direction of the darkened entrance hall. Red light from the neon BURN sign at the hall’s mouth winked across the wood floor.

“Did someone just knock?” Silver asked.

“Yup. And it’s too soon to be Dante.” Von pushed away from the bar. Reached for the Brownings in the double shoulder holsters strapped on over his black button-down shirt, but his fingers only brushed against the butt of one gun.

That’s right. Heather’s got the other.

Leather creaked as Von pulled the Browning free of its holster. He flipped off the safety and slid a round into the chamber. He motioned for Silver to wait at the hall’s entrance beneath the buzzing sign in case the fucker at the door managed to get past Von.

Silver nodded. Bared his fangs. Coiled his body. Hunger for the fight gleamed in his eyes.

Von moved down the dark hall to the front door in an adrenaline-fueled rush, and ghosted up against it. Listened. On the other side of the door, he heard the slow, measured beat of a nightkind heart.

And knew whoever it was heard his.

Mauvais’s lackeys wouldn’t bother to knock—unless drawing him to the door was a decoy, and they were busy climbing the fire escape at the back of the building.

Von sent to Silver as he quietly worked the door’s dead bolts.

<Check upstairs.>

<On my way.>

Swinging the Browning up, Von grabbed the metal door latch and yanked the door open, gun aimed at forehead level. His finger froze on the trigger when he realized he recognized the face targeted in front of his gun barrel.

14
MUCH TO ANSWER FOR

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 28

VON STARED, FINGER CURLED around the trigger, boots rooted to the wood planks.

Holly Miková’s hair was a wild, wind-swept tangle the pale, buttery color of late afternoon sunshine, her eyes the deep blue of ripe blueberries and full of mocking laughter, just like the lips painted a deep wine red and parted in a fang-revealing smile.

She wore a white blouse underneath a black leather vest that hugged her firm curves like it’d been molded to her with a blow torch, and belted blue jeans over square-toed scooter boots. A crescent moon tattoo glittered like frost beneath her right eye.

And her presence—or the possible reason for her presence—turned Von’s blood ice-water cold.

“Good to see you again, McGuinn.” Time had plucked her formerly flannel-thick Russian accent almost threadbare. She nodded at the gun barrel in her face. “Looks like some things never change, da? Still playing with your gun, I see.”

“Every chance I get, darlin’.”

“Well, they say practice makes perfect.”

“That it does. Which is why I get no complaints,” Von drawled. He lowered the Browning to his side, but didn’t holster it. No way this is an outta-the-blue social call. “So what brings you to New Orleans, Miková?”

“You.”

Suspicions confirmed. She’d been sent. And Von had a sinking feeling as to why.

“I’m flattered as hell, truly. But I’ve handed myself over to God and taken a vow of chastity in order to keep the peace. I don’t wanna be responsible for the ladies—and a few gents—turning this city into Thunderdome just to win a date with me.”

“Still an egocentric idiot, I see.” Holly’s gaze glided over him in a heated blue caress. “But a handsome-as-sin egocentric idiot.”

“Stop. You’re making me blush.”

Holly snorted. Her attention shifted past him as she looked into the darkened hall. “You going to ask me in, McGuinn?”

“Nope.” Von stepped out onto the sidewalk, pulling the door shut behind him. The cool, moist night smelled of rain-wet brick, the Mississippi, and night-blooming jasmine. He sent Silver an all-clear, then leaned one shoulder against the door. “Tell me why you’re here.”

A smile flickered across Holly’s dark lips. “To the point, as always. A nomad thing, da? At least the few nomads I’ve met have all been . . . direct.”

“Unlike a certain Russian llygad. Spill, woman. Why you here?”

“I was sent to deliver a summons.” Pale light from the street lamps flickered in her eyes. All expression vanished from her face as she took up her official duty. “Von McGuinn, you are to report to the filidh in Memphis in one night’s time to explain why they’ve learned of a True Blood through outside sources and not from the llygad apparently serving this alleged True Blood’s household.”

Von nodded. Even though his chest felt slivered with ice, some of the tension unspooled from his muscles. He’d been right; so no more reason to fret over it. The filidh, the master-bards of the llygaid, planned to take him to task for his silence.

“Why’d they send you? Because they thought you’d enjoy breaking the news?”

“No, they thought you’d listen to me—because of what we once had.”

Holly’s black tea and vanilla scent curled into Von’s nostrils, a warm and intimate odor he’d once known very well. “Before or after you shot me?”

“That was thirty years ago, McGuinn. And, for the record—in case you haven’t noticed—you lived.”

“I’ve noticed,” Von growled. “I was thinking you might like to explain.”

“Why you lived?”

“Why you shot me, woman.”

“Come to Memphis and maybe I’ll tell you.”

Holly stepped closer and tilted her head as she scanned him from head to toe and back again, her heated gaze skimming his body like hot oil. “One question,” she said softly, lifting her eyes to his.

“Shoot—not literally, of course. Maybe I didn’t make that clear last time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Big baby.”

“So what’s your question?”

“Is Dante Baptiste a True Blood?” Excitement curled through Holly’s voice, thickened her accent. Ruined her llygad- bred impartiality.

Von held her lambent gaze. “Ain’t my place to say. You need to ask him.”

Low, incredulous laughter broke from Holly, and she shook her head. “Of course it’s your place! It’s your duty to observe, compose, and report. This is information vital to vampire society, and you’ve kept mum. Abandoned your duty, your impartiality.” She touched his arm, her fingers as warm as her gaze had been. “Oh, Vonushka. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”

Von kept quiet. Her charges were true. But he regretted nothing. Gently shaking off her touch, he flipped the Browning’s safety back on, then reholstered the gun. Just as he pushed away from the wall, he heard the low, throbbing thunder of a Harley rumbling up one of the Quarter’s streets. And his heart kicked into high gear. Good old Murphy’s Law was putting in a goddamned appearance.

<Keep away for a few more minutes,> Von sent.

Dante’s response burned, a white-hot coal centered behind Von’s left eye. <Why?>

Von rubbed his forehead as the searing echo of Dante’s migraine faded. <A complication just popped in.>

Her weight on one hip, Holly folded her arms under her breasts and studied Von. “Who are you sending to, McGuinn?”

<Ain’t running. Ain’t hiding.>

<I thought we agreed that you ain’t ready yet, dammit.>

Silence.

“Goddamned pigheaded sonuvabitch . . .” Von muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Holly said, arching one straw-colored eyebrow.

The thup-thup-thup of a Harley’s deep-throated engine filled the street, echoed from the buildings. Headlight glare dazzled Von’s eyes. Shifting his gaze back to Holly, he said, “Tell the filidh I’ll be there. And have a safe trip back, darlin’.” Turning away, he pushed the club’s door open, hoping she’d take the hint and split.

“You trying to get rid of me, McGuinn?” Her voice was knowing, amused. “Without even a farewell kiss? Very subtle. Oh, and it looks like you have company, by the way.”

Sighing, Von let the door swing shut again, twisted back around and watched as Dante guided the Harley up against the curb. He lowered the kickstand with a nudge of his foot, the straps criss-crossing his boot glinting with silver light from the street lamp, then eased the bike over onto the stand. He switched off the headlight. Killed the throbbing engine.

Silence rushed in like surf over sand.

The van glided to a stop behind the Harley, Heather at the wheel, her face shadowed behind the windshield. Von frowned. Were those dents in the van’s side panel and front bumper?

Lucien opened the passenger side door and unfolded from the van. Straightening, he looked across the van’s black hood, his attention fixed on Von and his lingering guest. He arched a dark, questioning eyebrow.

<A problem with your fellow llygad?> Lucien sent.

<Yes and no. She ain’t here to cause problems, but she’s asking questions.>

<About Dante.>

<You got it. And if she asks Dante directly . . .>

<He’ll tell her the truth. The child’s determined to make himself visible to all.> Frustration and resignation edged Lucien’s thought.

<I know. He ain’t running and he ain’t hiding.>

Dante stood, swung his leg with easy grace over the bike, then bounced up onto the sidewalk. Shirtless—and what the hell happened to his shirt this time?—his white skin seemed almost to glow in the darkness. Von narrowed his eyes. Dark color streaked Dante’s shoulders and down along his sides, color that seemed to radiate out from his back. Smears of dried blood. What the hell had happened?

Then Von’s gaze locked onto the mark scarring Dante’s chest right above his heart. It looked like pictures he’d seen of angelic script. Von’s pulse pounded in his temples.

Dante acknowledged Von with a nod of his chin, a wry smile tilting his lips as he brushed a finger along the scar. His gaze flicked over Holly as he waited for Heather and Lucien.

<She’s llygad, yeah? Since you wanted me to stay away, I’m guessing she ain’t a friend of yours.>

<Not at the moment, but we did train together,> Von replied. Dante had tightened his shields, but pain radiated hot against Von’s mind like fire behind a furnace’s closed door. <She’s here on official business.>

<What do the llygaid want with us?>

<Me. It’s me they want. No big deal. I’ll tell you about it later.>

The furnace scorching Von’s thoughts vanished as Dante withdrew his psionic touch. He nodded, but Von read his dubious expression loud and clear: If it’s no big deal, then why the hell did you warn me away?

Von had no doubt Dante wouldn’t like the truth. Hell, even he didn’t like the truth. But it was truth that could wait until after Sleep.

Heather slipped out of the van, one of Dante’s black hoodies in her hand. Draping it over her trench-coated shoulder, she stepped up onto the sidewalk beside Dante, Lucien a few paces behind her, then the three of them headed over to join Von at the club entrance.

Von blinked. Was Lucien wearing a kilt? A belted black kilt and . . . sandals? And where was his goddamned shirt?

All three looked wiped out from where Von stood. Shadows bruised Heather’s eyes, and she moved with a heavy-limbed weariness; Lucien was pale, his vitality dimmed, half-healed wounds just below each shoulder; and Dante . . .

The boy was hurting. Von saw it in the set of Dante’s jaw, the dried smear of blood beneath his nose, in the black depths of his dilated eyes. Even through the double layer of protection offered by his shields and Dante’s own, pain had scorched the edges of Dante’s sendings.

Von heard Holly’s breath catch in her throat as her gaze traveled over Dante, heard her pulse pick up speed, until she drew in a deep breath and deliberately calmed herself. Her pulse slowed. Her breathing evened out. Her curious gaze skimmed Lucien, then Heather.

“Lucien,” Von greeted. He clasped the fallen angel’s forearm in a warm welcome, the muscles hard as steel beneath his fingers. “It’s damned good to see you, man.”

Lucien nodded, squeezing his fingers around Von’s arm in turn. A smile lit his obsidian eyes. “Indeed it is, llygad.”

“What happened to your shirt?” Von asked when Dante halted beside him. “You run into more grab-happy Inferno fans?”

“Nope, not Inferno fans.” Dante pulled something out of his back pocket and tossed it to Von. <We’ll talk about it later, yeah?>

Frowning, Von unfolded the blood-stiff shirt he’d caught and stared at its torn and shredded back. The thick smell of Dante’s blood threaded into the air. He looked back up at Dante. <Hell, yeah, we’re gonna talk about it later.>

Holly extended her hand. “You must be Dante Baptiste, da? I’m Holly Miková.”

“Llygad,” Dante acknowledged, giving her hand a quick squeeze. “This is Heather and Lucien. You here on official business?”

“And it’s all taken care of,” Von supplied, still hoping against hope to get her nicely rounded ass moving down the sidewalk before she asked Dante the question. “She’s just now on her way back to Memphis. Drive safe, darlin’. I’ll see you later.”

Heather assessed Holly with a cool gaze, her hands tucked into the pockets of her trench. A smile twitched across Von’s lips. Woman probably already had a round chambered.

“Would you answer a question for me?” Holly asked Dante.

And . . . too late. Von sighed.

Dante shrugged. “Peut-être. Depends on the question.”

Von held his breath, knowing that Holly was memorizing every detail of Dante’s pale face, his tight-muscled body, his Cajun-spiced words. And passing it along as she connected to the web of linked consciousnesses forming the llygaid mind-net and downloaded every captured image, word, and movement to be prioritized and channeled to the proper filidh for verification.

“Rumor says that you’re a True Blood,” Holly said. “Are you?”

“You asking as llygad?”

“I am, da.” Holly studied Dante, her expression neutral and composed.

“Gotta refuse your question, then,” Dante said with a slight shake of his head. “I only send official responses through Von, and I ain’t got time for this one right now.”

Holly blinked in surprise.

So did Von. Twice. Well hell. Didn’t see that coming.

His respect for Dante deepened another notch. Looked like the boy’s ain’t running, ain’t hiding policy involved taking control of the information flow, instead of just blurting the truth whenever asked. Von released his pent-up breath in a low sigh of relief.

“Have a safe trip back to Memphis, llygad,” Dante said, stepping between Holly and Von to the door and pushing it open. “If you don’t mind, I got shit to do.”

“Of course.”

Dante slipped into the darkened hall, Lucien following him inside. Heather, however, remained standing beside Von, her attention on Holly.

“Interesting,” Holly murmured under her breath, her gaze on the closed door. Shifting her attention to Von, she said, “See you soon, da?”

“Yeah, Miková. Soon. Be sure to have that explanation ready, darlin’. A gun might not hurt either.”

With a soft laugh, Holly swiveled around and walked away into the flickering light of the street lamps, hips swinging. Von watched until the night swallowed up her cloud of pale hair.

15
THE FIRST DOZEN TIMES

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 28

“HOLY HELL,” VON MUTTERED.

“So . . . how long were you two an item?” Heather asked, voice thoughtful. “And how badly did it end?”

Von looked at her. “You pulling a special agent move on me, woman?”

She met his gaze, a knowing smile on her lips. “Yup.”

“It ended in a hail of bullets, doll, but we were never ‘an item,’ “ Von said. He opened the door and held it for Heather. A thank-you smile flashed across her lips. “Friends with benefits, maybe.”

“Tomato, to-mah-toe. I think you’re full of shit, nomad,” Heather declared as she passed him, walking into the club. “In my experience, when a man and a woman whip out guns and start shooting at each other, it usually means they’re an item—or about to become an ex-item.”

“Hey, I wasn’t shooting,” Von said indignantly.

From inside the club, Von heard Dante laugh. “Sounds like I ain’t the only one who’s had his number called tonight.”

“Must be losing my touch,” Von grumbled, following Heather inside. He paused to twist the door’s dead bolts into place, then moved over to the security system’s keypad and made a couple of adjustments since they were staying in the building. Motion detector—OFF. Door and window alarms: ON.

He strode down the darkened, tobacco-reeking hallway and passed underneath the buzzing BURN sign. He walked into the club proper and into the razor-edged grief and tension slicing through the air.

He slowed to a stop. His gaze slid along the bar’s polished, bottle-cluttered counter, drinking in details.

Heather standing at the bar, sorrow on her face, one hand trailing through her wavy red tresses, her attention focused on something across the room.

Silver perched on a bar stool, an unopened bottle of absinthe in his hands, a gift intended for Dante, his silver eyes glistening with unshed tears and aimed in the same direction as Heather’s.

Von’s gaze skipped past tables crowned with upended chairs, past the empty and shadowed Cage, past the cheesetacular bat-winged throne atop its dais, finally coming to rest on Dante and Lucien standing at the foot of the staircase, heads bowed close together, black hair mingling.

Dante’s left hand gripped his father’s taut-muscled shoulder. Lucien stood stiff and silent beneath his son’s touch. Soft, whispered words drifted through the quiet air.

Ice crackled around Von’s heart. Turning away, he joined Heather at the bar, snatched up the bottle of Jack. “I take it Lucien didn’t know about . . .” He couldn’t say her name; his throat was too tight.

“No,” Heather murmured. “He didn’t. Dante wanted to wait until we were back.”

Von nodded, then poured a long, burning swallow of whiskey down his throat. Felt the tightness ease. “Back from where?” he asked.

“Gehenna.” Heather looked at him, her twilight blue eyes troubled. “Dante punched his way in, Von. Made a gate, a doorway, through a tomb.”

Von stared at her, pulse roaring in his ears, the bottle of Jack frozen in the air halfway to his mouth. “The explosion,” he whispered. Worlds colliding. “Holy hell.”

“He destroyed the cemetery,” Heather said. “And damn near used himself up. It took everything he had to stay here and now.”

“And you, doll? How much of you did it take to keep him here and now?”

“Almost everything she had,” Dante said, easing up against the bar at Heather’s other side.

“Almost,” Heather agreed.

She handed Dante the hoodie she’d brought from the van, then shrugged off her trench coat and draped it across the bar. The faint smell of smoky incense—myrrh, maybe frankincense—wafted from the coat and mingled with her lilac and sage scent.

With a quick smile, Dante accepted the hoodie, tossing it onto the bar.

Von glanced over his shoulder. Lucien walked slowly up the stairs, his face shadowed, his hand sliding along the banister. “How’d he take the news?”

“Hard.” Dante’s voice was ragged with emotion. “After Sleep, we’re gonna hunt that motherfucker Mauvais and his chienne of a daughter down.”

“I’ve got the word out to your tayeaux to contact us if they spot Mauvais’s riverboat hunkered down anywhere during the day.”

“Bon.”

Silver leaned forward against the bar and slid the bottle of absinthe down the counter to Dante.

Pale fingers blurred. “Merci beaucoup.” Dante lifted the intercepted and now-opened bottle to his lips and took a long swallow of the green liquor.

Von didn’t know how Dante managed to drink the stuff. Shit was bitter as hell and tended to make the tongue curl—and not in a good way. At least, that’d been his experience. He’d take a smooth bourbon any day.

Closing his eyes, Dante breathed out a low sigh of relief and pressed the green-glassed bottle against his forehead.

“I’m going upstairs to check on Annie,” Heather said, squeezing Dante’s forearm.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I’m gonna feed. I’ll be up later.”

“Annie’s out cold, by the way,” Silver volunteered. “She passed out after the second bottle of vodka. But I put her to bed and covered her up. And I made sure a trash can was near her in case she felt like puking.”

“Christ.” Heather rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. “Good to know, Silver. Thanks.” With a rueful glance at Dante, she headed across the room and up the stairs.

“I called Jack and Eli and Antoine when you were gone,” Von said, grabbing his shot glass and pouring himself another round. “Let them know about everything that’s happened—about Simone, the fire, Mauvais, the FBI’s smear campaign against Heather. They volunteered to come over at dawn and keep an eye on things here while we Sleep.”

Dante lowered the absinthe bottle to his lips. “No. I fucking hate involving them in all this—”

“Too late. I took ’em up on their offer. And I plan to contact any clans who might be in the area about providing daytime security until we get this shit resolved.” Von tossed back his shot. “I get why you ain’t running or hiding, man, I do, but that means everyone hunting you and Heather—from the SB to the FBI to the Fallen to fucking Mauvais—is gonna know right where to find you. And no matter how bad you wanna take them on—”

“I ain’t ready,” Dante finished. “I heard you the first dozen times, llygad.”

Dread twisted a cold knife in Von’s guts. He might not be llygad much longer. He had a feeling the filidh planned to strip him of his rank and boot him out into the cold. He splashed more whiskey into his glass.

“Holly’s question made me realize something,” Dante said, pausing to take another long swallow of absinthe before setting the bottle on the counter. “I need to put an end to the True Blood rumors.”

Von nodded, then tossed back his shot. “Given Holly’s question, yeah, it’s time—especially if you wanna direct the info flow. But you gotta be sure. You do this and once your statement’s been verified, nightkind from all around the world will be coming to camp on your doorstep, hoping for a taste of your blood. And the power it’ll give them.”

“Then they’re gonna be real fucking disappointed. But, yeah, I’m sure.”

“Some of the fuckers won’t be planning on asking for a taste.”

“Really? You think so? Gosh. Can’t imagine such a thing.”

“Smart-ass,” Von growled. “Fine. When do you want to do your coming-out gig?”

Dante considered. “After Sleep. Get it done and outta the way.”

“Sure, little brother, but it’ll still need to be verified.”

“How’s that done?”

Von shrugged. “Records will be searched for any data on when, where, and by who you were turned. Once that results in a big ol’ blank, one of the filidh—our master-bards,” he explained when Dante lifted a questioning eyebrow, “will drop in to personally check out your claim.”

“Sounds like a long-ass process. And I think I know a way around that.”

“And that would be?”

Dante rubbed his face wearily with his hands, then replied, “Later, mon ami.”

“Okay, then. You gonna tell me what all happened tonight? Gehenna, the cemetery, the Fallen? How you found Lucien?” Von nodded his head at Dante’s chest. “That mark?”

“Yeah, I will. But not now. We’ll swap stories after Sleep.”

Von eyed Dante carefully. “Given the dried blood on your back, you must be running low. Me and Silver are gonna head over to Mistress Feral’s place. I gave her a jingle earlier in case no one had time to scare up a meal. She and a pretty friend are warmed-up, willing, and waiting. You wanna come with? Or I could send a donor back.” He glanced over at the empty staircase, thinking of Heather. “A male donor.”

“No. I wanna hunt.”

Dante’s low, taut voice sketched dark pictures in Von’s mind of shadowed alleys, moonlight-glinting fangs, and ravaged throats, of life pulsing away in thick gouts between a pair of blood-smeared lips. A primal hunger stirred within Von.

Dante’s version of hunting was as true as that of any silent-pawed predator—pouncing, tearing into warm and frantic flesh, rending. Killing. The lion never allowed the gazelle to live.

Of course, Dante possessed the ability to reason in a way the lion couldn’t, but Von couldn’t help but wonder if Dante’s lethal feeding tendencies were the natural instincts of a born nightkind or the result of the damage wreaked by Bad Seed, or a bit of both.

“Alone?” Von asked. “Ain’t sure that’s wise.”

“Yeah, alone. And at the moment, I don’t give a fuck if it’s wise or not.” Tension corded Dante’s muscles, peppered his scent. Hunger and something darker, something feral, tightened his features. “Gotta hunt.”

Von knew that some low-life, small-time predator was about to disappear from among the ranks of the living, leaving the Big Easy with one less scumbag.

The right or wrong of it didn’t matter. Not right now. He could work on teaching Dante how to hunt without needing to kill some other time. This wasn’t it.

“You’d better get moving then, man,” Von said. “Dawn’s in less than two hours.”

“I know,” Dante murmured. In a rush of air smelling of frost and burning leaves and blood, he stepped in front of Von and cupped his face between fevered hands. Von’s breath caught in his throat at the heat baking against his skin.

He’s burning up, like his core is white-hot, a sun about to split the night as it goes nova. How long can he burn like this before everything inside a him goes dark?

Dante kissed him with lips as hot as his hands and tasting of amaretto and blood. “Thanks, mon ami, for staying behind and keeping an eye on everyone, for keeping them safe. That means everything to me.”

“You’re welcome, little brother. Not that I exactly had a choice.”

“You coulda told me to fuck myself.”

“I almost did.”

“What stopped you?”

“Knowing that you were right. Won’t save you next time, however.”

A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “That works. Don’t wanna be saved.”

“You might change your mind about that after I’m done with you.”

“I’ll take everything you’ve got and more.”

Von laughed. “Bet you would too, you pigheaded sonuvabitch. Only question is—are we talking about the same thing anymore?”

“Hope so, could be interesting otherwise.” Dante’s hands slid away from Von’s face and the air suddenly felt cold as winter against his skin in their absence.

Von’s amusement faded as he registered the strain edging Dante’s voice. He almost made me forget with his kiss and his hot hands and his hunger. “Why you pretending that you ain’t in pain?”

And even as the words left Von’s lips, the answer flashed through his mind: He doesn’t know anything else. He probably figures that as long as he’s upright and conscious, he’s just fucking fine.

“Ain’t pretending nothing. And fuck you, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, and fuck you back. You don’t hafta keep hurting, little brother. After you feed, I can grab some morphine so you can—”

“Spike myself right into la-la land?” Dante shook his head. “Don’t think so. Ça va bien.”

“Ça va bien, my ass,” Von grumbled. “But, hey, you’re a big boy and all.”

“For fucking true.” Dante whapped Von’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Stop worrying about me. Go feed, you.” He looked past Von to Silver. “You too, cher.” Pushing away from the bar, he headed for the club entrance.

Studying Dante’s blood-streaked back as he walked away, Von frowned. The blood patterns on his skin looked almost like an outline of wings.

“Hey!” Silver called, scooping Dante’s hoodie up from the counter. He wadded up the pile of black material and tossed it at Dante. “Catch!”

Dante spun around, his pale hand blurring up to snag the hoodie in midair.

“Thought maybe you wouldn’t want to attract too much attention,” Silver said with a shrug.

A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “You thought right. Merci beaucoup.” Shrugging the hoodie on—the one with the red, safety-pinned letters he’d been wearing when the evening had begun ages ago—he turned back around and continued across the floor.

“Hey,” Von called as Dante stepped into the red-lit hall. “Just one question.”

Dante paused, and looked at Von from over one black-clad shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Who put that mark on you?”

“The Morningstar,” Dante said, pulling up his hood and shadowing his pale face. He resumed walking, his boots soundless against the hardwood.

Von stared after him, his heart kicking against his ribs. Holy hell. A glacier of fear settled in his belly, radiating cold throughout his body.

“Who’s the Morningstar?” Silver asked.

“Lucifer,” Von replied, each word as bitter and tongue-curling as absinthe. “The Prince of fucking Darkness.”

16
NIGHT HUNT

NEW ORLEANS
THE FRENCH QUARTER
March 28

DANTE STEERED HIMSELF TOWARD Bourbon Street, hunger drumming a savage tempo through his veins. He extended his senses, listening for a dark and violent heart, a mind bursting at the seams with blood-slicked shivs and steel cuffs and motherfucking lies.

That’s my Bad Seed bro.

Pain throbbed against Dante’s temples, behind his eyes. Wrong, motherfucker. Not anymore. Bad Seed is dead. Like you.

Sure about that?

“T’es sûr,” Dante muttered. “Now shut the fuck up.”

Laughter trickled up from below. Laughter that sounded familiar—like his own—and left him uneasy.

He picked up his pace, breezing past a couple of hard-partying tourists stumbling back to their hotel rooms and reeking of rum and strawberries. The last of the street regulars were heading home, done with souvenir selling and impromptu guided tours and fast-hand card tricks, disappearing into the dying night like twists of smoke.

Dawn was on the way.

The Quarter was about to curl up and take a catnap—except for Bourbon Street, party jamboree and flesh-fest central, twenty-four/seven, and as wide awake as a lap-dancing tweaker go-juiced to the eyebrows.

Party jamboree, yeah. And a strobe-light beacon for pervs on the prowl.

And the reason he’d aimed his hunt in this direction. The past stirred, restless and full of venomous whispers.

Très joli, dis one, like an angel. Play with him all you want, but don’t put nuthin’ in his mouth. Boy bites.

Do you think you could love me?

Nope.

If I had Papa remove your handcuffs, could you love me then?

Nope. I’d kill you then.

Searing pain shoved a red-hot poker behind Dante’s left eye, and blood trickled hot from his nose. Jaw clenched, he wiped at his nose automatically with the back of his hand, smearing blood across the skin.

You could kill them all, y’know. Nothing and no one could stop you.

Dante’s breath caught in his throat as those words soaked into his mind like melting ice—clear and cold and true.

Dante-angel?

It’s okay, princess. I ain’t listening.

More laughter, warm and low and too familiar, spiraled up from below. Liar.

Dante jammed his fisted hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

Halfway to Bourbon, Dante’s searching senses brushed up against that dark and violent heart he was scouring the night for, a mind bursting at the seams with blood-slicked shivs and steel cuffs and motherfucking lies, but this predator/perv was cold and efficient, a gutter shark fueled by survival, by power and money, and not lust—at least not for sex.

Pulling his hands from his pockets, Dante paused on the empty sidewalk, his gaze on a sleek old Caddy gleaming like a white-washed tomb beneath the street lights, nestled against the curb on Saint Peter, just before Preservation Hall.

The beats of two mortal hearts—one hammering out a desperate rhythm, the other a lazy roll of thunder, the shark’s unhurried tempo—echoed from the car’s interior.

Behind the Caddy’s windshield, Dante saw a dark-skinned boy with close-cropped black curls struggling to slide across the passenger seat to the door. One hand reached for the door handle. But the Caddy’s driver wasn’t having it. His fingers twisted into the teen’s long-sleeved black T-shirt and yanked him back. Shook him.

“You think I don’t know a lie when I hear it, you little shit?” The driver’s face was impassive, without a flicker of emotion, his voice matter-of-fact. “Robbed, my ass. You done smoked-up my money again. And for the last fucking time. You’re gonna be a lesson for the rest of the little shits.”

Hard-knuckled images flashed through the man’s mind as he doubled up a large fist. Bullet to the temple. Body dumped into the Caddy’s trunk. A quick drive out to the bayou. A Happy Meal for hungry gators.

From the darkness below, Papa-fucking-Prejean laughed. Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson.

Dante moved.

Before the fi’ de garce had even lowered his fist, Dante had wrenched open the Caddy’s passenger side door, tearing it from its hinges in an eardrum-scraping shriek of metal and tossing it to the sidewalk. Steel clanged against brick.

Two pairs of dark and startled eyes focused on Dante, bodies frozen in a stark still-frame of impending violence.

Dante breathed in the smell of sweat and beer and the heady, smoky aroma of panic-peppered adrenaline and shivered as hunger twisted through him. He moved again. Leaning into the car, Dante grabbed the teen’s wrist and jerked him free of the driver’s grip, out of the Caddy, and onto the sidewalk.

The boy—maybe fourteen or fifteen and meth-skinny—stared at Dante, mouth open, panic still bright in his eyes. “God-damn,” he breathed.

Dante spun the teen around, then pushed him away from the Caddy with a shove to the back of his How to Destroy Angels T-shirt with its skeletal beast graphic.

“Fucking go. And don’t look back.”

The boy bolted toward Bourbon Street, his sneakers slapping against the sidewalk bricks with ever increasing speed.

Dante turned back around to face the Caddy and its driver—nah, make that pimp—who was reaching under his seat—no doubt for the gun he’d planned to use on the now-fleeing teen, his dead-eyed gaze on Dante.

“You’ve just made the last mistake of your life, asshole,” the man stated, his tone level and easy, a man ordering mashed potatoes with his BBQ ribs, as he swung the gun out from beneath the seat.

Dante moved, blurring into the Caddy, across the front seat, slamming against the pimp, a forearm pressed against his throat. The back of the pimp’s head smashed against the driver’s side window, a spiderweb of fractures crackling across the glass behind his trimmed ’fro. Dante snugged his leather-clad knee against the man’s crotch.

Wincing and struggling for air, the pimp fi’ de garce shoved the gun muzzle underneath Dante’s hoodie and against his ribs. Dante reached down and wrapped his fingers around the gun’s barrel. And twisted. Fingers and other small bones in the pimp’s hand and wrist snapped.

The man screamed, the sound scraping like fingernails across Dante’s aching mind. Dante released the gun and it bounced onto the seat before thudding onto the floorboards. Grabbing the pimp’s chin, Dante forced his face aside, exposing his throat.

“Still thinking this is the last mistake of my life, motherfucker?”

“Go screw—” were the only words said motherfucker managed to grate out from between clenched teeth before pain-triggered endorphins flooded his adrenaline-saturated scent. And Dante’s hunger uncoiled like a striking rattler.

Dante tore into the pimp’s taut, whiskered throat with his fangs, shredding flesh and muscle and larynx, lost to everything except the rush of hot, coppery blood pulsing in between his lips.

DANTE TOSSED THE CADDY’S keys into the trunk alongside the pimp’s already cooling body, then shut the lid.

Guess the fucker was right about a body in the trunk, just wrong about whose.

A sliver of molten pain pierced Dante’s mind. “Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

Despite feeding, pain still chiseled away at his thoughts; his migraine refused to relent one fucking iota. And the blood-fed energy surging through his veins was only skating along the surface of his exhaustion, like a dragonfly skimming the Mississippi, instead of washing it away like normal.

Looks like trashing cemeteries and creating gates comes with a honking huge price tag. Who knew, yeah? And I’m flat-ass broke.

Maybe after Sleep . . .

He thought of Heather, felt her presence at the back of his mind like a blue-white star, cool and soothing and constant. Beacon and anchor both. But their bond was a danger to her if he couldn’t keep his shit together and stay in the here-and-now.

Ain’t losing her too.

He stepped up from the street onto the sidewalk, skirting the Caddy’s liberated passenger door. He swiveled around, looking past green-shuttered doorways, past night-pooled balconies with pots of ferns and roses and geraniums hanging from their black iron scrollwork, the flowers perfuming the humid air, and toward the restless flickers of neon on Bourbon.

He hoped that the teen with the black curls and HDA tee had found a safe place to snooze, but knew safe was real fucking relative when you lived on the streets.

With a last glance toward Bourbon Street, Dante said, “Bonne chance, p’tit.”

Tugging the edges of his hood past his face, Dante strode up the empty sidewalk, his boots soundless against the brickwork. Headlights starred the night, dazzling his vision and needling pain into his eyes, as a car turned onto Saint Peter and purred up the street. Wishing for a pair of shades, he both shielded his sight with his arm and looked down at the bit of sidewalk between his boots.

He and the car reached the club at the same time. The headlights winked out as the vehicle glided up against the curb, in front of Von’s Harley. The engine revved, a high-performance eight cylinder’s throaty roar, idling down into a low rumble as the driver eased off the gas pedal, then killed the engine.

Dante looked up, his muscles coiling in anticipation.

A silver Jaguar convertible with black-tinted windows glinted beneath the gaslights. Music escaped from the car’s interior, penetrating the night—bass throb and sexy, up-tempo drumbeat, a pensive voice—David’s Bowie’s “China Girl.”

Dante frowned. He didn’t recognize the car. Given the Louisiana license plates, it sure as hell wasn’t piloted by a lost tourist. Maybe one of Mauvais’s muscle-nerds looking to play?

Glancing at the star-faded horizon, Dante felt the deadly dawn burning beneath it, searing away the night. Still an hour or so away. A cold smile tugged at his lips. Maybe the night’s hunt wasn’t over, after all.

Dante pushed his hood back from his face and stepped over to the Jaguar, his hands loose and ready at his sides.

The driver’s side window hummed as it glided down into its slot and a cloud of smoke smelling of premium, dark-leaf tobacco and vanilla rolled out from the car’s interior, carried on “China Girl’s” dark and yearning chords.

“Christ. I always forget how bloody gorgeous you are, mate,” a male voice with a light British accent said, managing to sound both amused and rueful at the same time. A voice Dante recognized as belonging to one of Simone and Silver’s friends, the lord of the household down on Magazine Street—a household allied with Mauvais’s. “I think it must be a self-defense mechanism of some sort.”

Body still tensed for action, Dante met Vincent’s gleaming, eye liner-rimmed gaze. “Self-defense mechanism, huh?”

“Must be. Otherwise I’d become obsessed with figuring out how to get you into bed for a proper and thorough shagging. Then I’d never get anything bloody done.”

“You could just ask me.”

Vincent blinked, mouth open. He moved, blurring out of the car and onto the sidewalk. Dante caught a glimpse of the Jaguar’s full moon–white interior before the car door thunked shut again. The music shut off.

Vincent leaned against the Jaguar, dressed in his usual 1970s glam-style—skin-tight purple and blue paisley button-down shirt, the black top of his usual pack of Pink Elephant cigarettes poking up from the pocket; snug mock-snakeskin vinyl pants and platform-soled boots. His shoulder-length dark brown hair was cut glam star shag-style, his face clean-shaven. Several centuries old, maybe more, but he didn’t look a day over thirty.

Dante had always thought he looked like Ewan McGregor’s character, sexy and out-of-control Curt Wild, in that old movie Velvet Goldmine. Minus the heroin habit. And the tendency to expose himself. Well, maybe not on that last one. At the moment, however, Vincent was staring at him, arms folded over his chest, the expression on his handsome face one of utter disbelief.

“I could just ask? And where would the sodding fun be in that?”

“In the proper and thorough shagging if the answer was yes, would be my guess,” Dante said with a shrug. “Whatcha doing here, Vincent? Kinda late for a visit, yeah?”

Emotion tightened the corners of Vincent’s mouth and all amusement vanished from his hazel eyes. “Silver called me. Told me about the fire . . . and Simone. My condolences, mate.”

Dante nodded, his muscles twisting several turns tighter. “Merci bien, but you didn’t hafta fucking drive out here to tell me that. What else?”

“Your nose is bleeding.” Vincent tapped a paint-stained fingertip under his own nose. “And no, I didn’t drive out here to tell you that,” he added with a roll of his eyes. “I’m not bloody psychic or that desperate.”

Dante snorted. “What else?” he repeated, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie.

Shaking his head, Vincent straightened and stepped away from the Jaguar to stand less than a handspan from Dante. Underneath the nicotine, tobacco, and vanilla reek of his smokes, his skin smelled of turpentine and ink and fresh canvas.

“I don’t know what Mauvais’s beef with you is exactly,” Vincent said, “and to be honest, I don’t sodding care. The man’s a prick. So are you at times. But I suspect that whatever it is, it’s the reason Simone died. Which means you fucked up, mate.”

Fire scorches her lungs. Blackens her skin. Devours her with relentless teeth.

“Oui, je connais,” Dante agreed, voice low. “I fucked up for true and she paid the price. So did her brother.”

“Bloody hell. I forgot about her brother. How is he?”

“In fucking shock.”

Vincent’s brow furrowed in concern. “Will he survive it?”

“Gonna do everything in my power to see that he does,” Dante said. “Now if that’s all—” His words cut off as pain drove an ice pick through his left eye.

The gaslit sidewalk and Vincent tilted, then shifted, peeling away to reveal a concrete floor awash in water. Dante stumbled, but strong hands latched around his biceps and kept him upright.

A dark ribbon of blood curls through the water and away from the scrubs-clad man sprawled facedown on the wet concrete floor.

Dante crouches beside the body and rifles the guy’s pockets, searching for the lighter or book of matches he knows has to be there, given the smoke and nicotine odor coating the tech’s skin and clothes. Score. He finds it. Dante pulls his hand free and palms the blue Bic lighter.

His pulse races. Fuckers will be here soon. Gotta hurry.

Rising to his bare feet, he splashes across the padded room to the mattress he’d tossed aside. Hands shaking, he places Orem, the plushie Orca, the only thing he has left of Chloe, onto the torn and shredded mattress’s dry center. Long-dried flecks of blood dot the white part of Orem’s fur.

Ain’t letting them touch you. Ain’t letting them take you. I promised.

Dante’s eyes sting. He flicks the lighter’s wheel . . .

Someone was shaking Dante, calling his name in a low, urgent voice. Focused energy tapped insistently against his shields.

The image of his hand touching the lighter’s flame to Orem’s fur rippled like a puddle pummeled by rain drops, then vanished as Vincent’s pale and perplexed face blurred into view. Fingers were squeezing Dante’s biceps hard enough to cut off the circulation.

“J’su ici,” Dante whispered, blinking. Pain prickled behind his eyes. He tasted his own blood at the back of his throat. He tried to recall what he’d just been thinking about or remembering, but it spun away from him like an oiled roulette wheel.

“Yes,” Vincent said, drawing the word out dubiously. “You are here. But are you all right, mate? You looked . . .” He hesitated, as though searching for the right words, then said, “. . . lost.”

“You can let go now,” Dante said, ignoring Vincent’s question, flexing against his tight-fingered hold.

“You’re welcome,” Vincent muttered, releasing Dante’s arms. “Next time I’ll bloody well let you bash your skull against the pavement. Might do you some good.”

A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “Fair enough.” His fingers tingled with pinpricks as blood started flowing to his hands again.

“Of course,” Vincent mused, his gaze taking a slow cruise along Dante’s body from his head to his boots and all ports in between, “if that was an attempt to end up in my arms . . .”

Dante closed the distance between them. Brushing his lips against Vincent’s ear, he murmured, “Then you blew it . . . mate.”

Vincent shivered. Musk spiked his scent. “You really are a right bastard, aren’t you?”

“I give it my best, yeah,” Dante agreed. Pacing backwards toward the club’s door, he added, “I’ll pass your condolences along to Trey, d’accord?”

“You might be able to pass along more than that.” Vincent glanced up at the ivy-draped balcony above them, expression thoughtful. “I have a gift for Trey, one that might give him a reason to keep breathing—for a little while, anyway.”

Dante stopped walking. “What’s the gift?”

“The bloody wankers Mauvais sent to torch your house? He left without them, mate, and I know right where they are.”

17
A DARK AND QUIET PLACE

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 28

HEATHER SANK DOWN ON the edge of the bed, the mattress giving just a little beneath her weight. Annie lay on her belly, her head turned to one side on the pillow, snoozing booze-hard and drooling like a four-year-old. And reeking of nicotine, alcohol, and, faintly, of black smoke from the torched house.

If not for Simone, Annie might’ve died in that blaze too.

Heather pushed locks of blue/black/purple hair away from her sister’s face, then, squinting in the low-wattage light filtering in from the hall, she checked to make sure the gauze bandages on Annie’s arms and right hand were still secure.

That was one thing about hanging out in a nightkind household that she’d have to get used to—the lack of bright lighting. Maybe a compromise involving LED light bulbs for her and Annie and sunglasses for them could be worked out—though at the rate Dante went through sunglasses, she’d need to buy them by the case. He couldn’t hold on to a pair of shades to save his life.

Annie’s bandages looked fine—still in place and dry despite her no doubt enthusiastic plunge into the bottom of a vodka bottle; no, make that the bottom of two vodka bottles, according to Silver.

Guilt pinched Heather hard as she remembered Annie’s shocked, pale face and smoke-inhalation raspy voice—Simone never made it out . . .

Heather wearily rubbed her face with both hands. Exhaustion burned through her. Enthusiastic? I don’t know that and I’m not being fair. I think what she went through tonight should entitle her to a get drunk free card.

Heather needed to figure out how to get Annie checked over by a doctor without drawing FBI or SB attention. Not just for her burns and smoke inhalation, but to get her back on the meds she desperately needed. And into counseling or group therapy before her adventures in self-medication ended in razor blades and blood again.

But that was a task for later. Right now she needed sleep. Later, when her thoughts were focused and clear, she and Dante could hammer out a plan of action.

Ain’t running. Ain’t hiding.

Heather still couldn’t fathom what Dante had done. Cracked the cemetery apart like an egg, hard-knuckling his way into another world or dimension or whatever it was; faced down fallen angels and plucked his father from the pit.

Oh. And had grown wings. Just like in her vision.

Smooth black wings arch up behind him, fire patterns of brilliant blue and purple streaking their undersides. Gold light stars out from his kohl-rimmed eyes. He looks up as song—not his own—rings through the air. The night burns, the sky on fire from horizon to horizon.

Had he been fighting against the Fallen while the world burned or alongside them? Fear brushed icy fingers against her heart. At least that last part hadn’t happened.

But a traitorous voice inside whispered, Yet.

Dante still shielded himself from her, determined to protect her from the pain and darkness ravaging him from the inside out. Determined to protect her from himself.

She intended to set him straight. She didn’t need his protection.

Too late for that. I’m in for the long haul. And he needs to learn that a burden is easier when it’s shared.

Rising to her feet, Heather made sure that Annie was comfortably blanketed and the trash can close at hand—just in case—before striding out into the hall. She headed for the room Trey occupied across the hall and down.

With or without Dante’s shields, Heather felt his presence through their bond, burning bright and steady in a corner of her mind like a nightlight. She wondered if she was a nightlight for him as well.

And hoped she was.

PAUSING IN THE DOORWAY, Heather looked into the darkened bedroom. Tucked into a snoozing kitty-ball, Eerie was nestled against Trey’s back. Neon light from the bar across the street filtered in through the lace curtains, winking blue, then pink across the bed and Trey’s curled form. Glittered like Christmas across his face, his closed eyes.

A dark shape sat in a straight-backed chair beside the bed, caught in alternating flares of blue-pink-blue. Neon reflections danced in De Noir’s sleek, black hair. His scent—deep dark earth and green leaves—threaded through the room’s close air. Gold light glinted like tiny stars in his eyes.

“Trey’s Sleeping early,” Heather said. “Did you . . . ?”

Hearing her voice, Eerie lifted his head and yawned, tongue curling.

“Yes, Agent Wallace, he allowed me to ease him into Sleep,” De Noir said in a low rumble. “He’s hoping to awaken and find that the fire and the loss of his sister were only a bad dream.” He sighed. “I didn’t have the heart to reason him out of that hope.”

“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t have had the heart either.”

De Noir looked at the Sleeping web-runner. “Once he’s awake again, I hope to convince him that his sister would want him to keep living.”

The words Dante had whispered to Trey after the fire circled through Heather’s memory. You gotta stay alive, mon ami, for Simone. I wanna kill the assholes responsible for her death, but that’s your right. Mauvais and Justine ordered it. I’ll help you find them and their house-torching buddies, and I’ll stand beside you as you kill them.

And she remembered Trey’s reply. Can I stop living after that?

Ain’t up to me, cher. But ask me again when they’re all dead, yeah?

Heather blinked rapidly until the burning in her eyes faded.

“Where’s Dante?” De Noir asked, his tone casual, but something else altogether shadowed the planes of his face, strained his voice.

“He went out to feed.”

De Noir shook his head. “Even with his migraine.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I offered to help him, but he refused my touch, refused to let me ease his pain.”

Even though Heather wished Dante would’ve allowed De Noir to cool down his migraine, she understood why he hadn’t. Dante loved his father, but he no longer trusted him. And the intimacy of mind-to-mind contact required trust.

“It’s too soon,” Heather allowed. “I hope you can see that.”

De Noir sighed, then nodded. “I suppose I can at that, Agent Wallace.”

“Please, just call me Heather. I’m not with the Bureau anymore. According to the FBI, I’m a much-valued agent, but one now lost to paranoid delusions due to a hereditary mental illness and in desperate need of treatment.”

De Noir arched an eyebrow. “Are you expected to survive said treatment?”

Heather shook her head. “I’m sure it’ll end in a tragic suicide.”

“And Dante?”

“Snipped as the final loose end linking the Bureau to Bad Seed.”

“I believe they would very much regret finding him.”

“Not if they triggered his programming. Forced him to obey. It’s already happened once. He was used to murder a man in Seattle.”

De Noir sucked in a breath at her words, his face blanking as though she’d slapped him. His fingers tightened around the arms of the chair. Wood creaked. “I believe they are very much going to regret that, as well,” he finally said, his voice cold enough to sheet the room in ice. Neon blue light strobed across his face.

“I don’t care if they regret it or not, just as long as they can never use him again,” Heather said, throat tight. Her hands knotted into fists as she remembered tranking Dante after he’d completed his assigned “task”—the murder of FBI SAC Alberto Rodriguez. Remembered the relief in Dante’s eyes.

“It seems I’ve missed much in these last couple of weeks,” De Noir said softly, drawing her attention back from its dark trip down memory lane.

“I don’t know if ‘missed’ is the right word,” Heather said, feeling a smile brush her lips. “But yes, a lot’s happened.”

“I never imagined he’d have wings,” De Noir mused. Pink and blue light strobed in alternating bands across his face. “Even though he’s a creawdwr and True Blood, he’s still only half-Fallen.”

He rose to his feet, muscles rippling, kilt swinging against his knees, then went to the French windows and pulled down the shades behind the lace curtains, blocking out the neon light and the approaching dawn. And deepening the room’s gloom.

“It happened after he jumped on Gabriel and fed on him,” Heather said.

De Noir turned around and stared at her. “He attacked Gabriel?”

“Pretty much the moment he laid eyes on him.”

De Noir laughed, the sound low and delighted. “Well, well. I doubt Gabriel’s ass will be warming up the Black-Starred throne for much longer.”

“Why’s that?” Heather asked.

With a small chirp, Eerie hopped off the bed and rubbed up against Heather’s legs. He arched his back for pats. Bending, Heather obliged him, stroking her fingers along his warm, soft fur. Scratching his head.

“The Elohim will view the attack as a humiliating and humbling rejection of Gabriel by the creawdwr.” A dark smile played across De Noir’s lips. “Hardly an endorsement of his ability to lead.”

“Gotta admit, that doesn’t break my heart,” Heather said, straightening. “Gabriel came across like a true dick.”

De Noir laughed again. “For good reason. He is a true dick.”

Done with pats, Eerie padded back to the bed and leapt onto the mattress in one smooth, graceful bound, then curled up against Trey’s T-shirted back again.

“Do you need anything before I go?” Heather asked, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.

De Noir sat back down in the chair. “No, thank you, Agent Wal—Heather.”

A burr of pain and heat prickled against Heather’s thoughts as she turned to leave. Her heart gave one hard kick against her ribs. She sucked in a breath.

De Noir’s lambent eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?”

The pain vanished as though the burr had been plucked away. But as with pricked flesh, a trace of the hurt remained. “I’m fine,” Heather answered truthfully. Dante, on the other hand . . .

Whirling around, Heather hurried down the hall. Dante had returned to the club, but even though he’d fed, his migraine still raged. She looked for the dark and quiet place she knew from experience that he would need. And found it in the second to the last room on the right.

18
TUMBLING DOWN

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 28

DIM LIGHT FROM THE hall revealed Dante standing in front of the far wall in the bedroom, his hands braced against the wall, head bowed, his muscles ridged and knotted as he struggled for control. Fought to stay here and now.

Voices whispered into Heather’s mind through his thinning shields. Pain floated through her mind like a blazing zeppelin.

Little fucking psycho.

Get yo’ ass down in the basement, p’tit.

You won’t save her, you know. You’ll fail.

The darkened bedroom did a slow merry-go-round spin around Heather, then a different room suddenly clicked into view like the next image in a slide show: a white padded room with a concrete floor an inch deep in water.

Shredded bedding and torn mattress.

Fist-cracked dents in the concrete bed slab.

Toilet wrenched from the floor.

A man’s scrubs-clad body sprawled facedown on the concrete, blood oozing into the water from his torn throat.

The thick odors of wet concrete, toilet chemicals, and coppery blood filled the air.

What the hell?

Dizzied, pulse pounding hard through her veins, Heather grabbed the doorjamb with both hands for balance. With a sickening twist of her stomach, she realized that her shields had slipped, that her concentration had faltered. Keeping her shields in place wasn’t second nature yet.

Worse? Dante’s shields were also tumbling down.

Von’s words scrolled though her mind. Focus is key. Picture steel walls or whatever feels secure and safe to you . . .

Swallowing back her nausea, Heather closed her eyes and concentrated on hammering another thick layer of steel into place around her mind. Sweat trickled between her breasts. Her heart drummed a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

No escape for you, sweetie.

Get down. I won’t let them have you.

That’s my good boy. No one can ever be used against you if you’re willing to kill them yourself first.

Just you and me, princess. Forever and—

The whispers and molten pain disappeared as though a steel vault had dropped down over her mind. Heather cautiously opened her eyes. And breathed out a sigh of relief when she saw the dark bedroom with its curtained French windows again.

Releasing the doorjamb, Heather padded past the bed and across the room to Dante, stopping beside him. His silken hair hid his face from view, but she saw dark spatters on the wood floor beneath him, like tiny ink blots, and realized his nose was bleeding again. His bow string-taut body quivered with tension.

“You’re next,” he whispered, a violent promise coiled in his voice.

A cold finger traced the length of her spine, and her hand froze in the act of reaching for his bunched biceps. She sucked in a deep breath, hoping to calm her trip-hammering heart. And lowered her hand to her side.

Given what she’d seen through Dante’s eyes just a moment before, Heather knew he wasn’t talking to her. She also knew he could very easily mistake her for whoever he believed stood in front of him.

Okay. Touching is out. Mind-to-mind is out because I don’t think I have the strength to fight my way free right now. That leaves one option—well, two. But I don’t want to have to run downstairs to get the morphine.

Shutting her eyes once more, Heather imagined a deep pool of water, its surface gleaming with reflected moonlight. She drew in a deep breath and visualized the cool, platinum water funneling through their bond and rushing into Dante’s blazing mind. Imagined a tide of white silence drowning the voices and scrubbing/sweeping away the broken visions from the past. And reducing the white-orange heat of his pain to dying embers.

“Come back, Baptiste,” she said, opening her eyes and brushing the backs of her fingers against his burning cheek. “You’re in New Orleans, at Club Hell. You’ve just returned from feeding. It’s almost dawn and time for Sleep.”

Dante shuddered, drew in a sharp breath.

“I’m here, waiting for you,” Heather promised.

Dante lifted his head and stared at the wall between his hands. Blinked.

“Dante, here. I’m here.”

“Catin,” he whispered, voice rough.

He looked at her then, from across his muscle-corded shoulder. Red slashed the thin rings of dark brown encircling his pupils, the furious color fading as she watched. Blood trickled dark from his nose. Slicked his lips.

“Me too.” He turned to face her, his hands sliding away from the wall. “J’su ici.”

Feeling rubber-kneed with relief, Heather stepped in and hugged him hard. His strong arms wrapped around her and he rested his cheek against her hair. She didn’t know if she was holding him up or if he was holding her up.

A little of both, I bet. We’re both done in.

Dante burned against her, his hard, lean body hot as sunbaked desert sand. Sweat popped up on her forehead, dampened the hair beside her face. She breathed in his November frost and burning leaves fragrance, filled her lungs with his scent. Pulling free of their embrace, she grabbed his hand and led him to the queen-sized bed.

“Lie down,” she said, releasing his hand to give his bare chest a gentle shove.

Dante shook his head. “Nope. Not yet. I just spoke to someone who knows where the motherfuckers who torched the house are holed up. He also knows they’re supposed to meet Mauvais at midnight on Lake Pontchartrain. Guess the fucker has a yacht too.”

“Is this someone you trust?” Heather asked.

“Trust? No. He and his household did the pinky-swear kiss-kiss BFF thing with fucking Mauvais, even though he doesn’t like the fi’ de garce. But . . . Vincent is—” Dante paused, then raked a hand through his hair, a muscle jumping in his jaw. After a moment, he continued, voice husky. “Was a friend of Simone’s, and I know he actually cares . . . cared . . . about her. But since nightkind politics often trumps friendship, he might just be playing me, setting a goddamned trap. I need to discuss it with Trey, see how he feels.”

“I hate to break it to you, but Trey’s already Sleeping, thanks to De Noir, and you’re in no shape to do anything except lie down on the bed. But if you’d rather fall down, that’s up to you.” Without waiting for his reply, Heather turned around and went to the attached bathroom and wet a wash cloth with cold water.

When she returned, she didn’t know whether to feel pleased or worried to see Dante sitting on the edge of the bed, his forearms against his knees, a bottle of absinthe dangling from his black-nailed hand. She settled on both—pleased and worried—with extra helpings of worried.

“Empty,” he mourned. He set the bottle on the hardwood floor between his boots.

“Then lie down,” Heather urged softly. “I don’t know how you’re still on your feet. Fighting nightkind and Fallen, breaking into other worlds. Aren’t you even sleepy?”

Dante straightened, and pushed his hair back from his face. A smile flickered across his lips. “Tired, sure, catin, but not sleepy. Not until Sleep comes. Nightkind don’t take naps.”

“That’s sad. I love a good nap.”

“Maybe I’ll get to watch you having one some night, see what I’m missing.”

Heather plopped down beside him on the blood-red comforter. Smooth velvet greeted her hand as it brushed against the comforter. The faint scent of sandalwood wafted up from the velvet.

Mmm. Feels warm and comfy and completely snoozalicious.

“I can think of other things I’d rather have you watching me do,” she murmured, wiping at his blood-smeared face with the washcloth.

“Kick ass? Take names? Mix a mean margarita?”

“How about I kick your gorgeous ass?”

“Promises, promises,” Dante laughed, his voice husky and low and warm, but Heather heard strain underneath. Plucking the washcloth from her fingers, he finished scrubbing his face clean of blood.

For the moment, anyway, Heather mused. His nose was still bleeding. And more blood loss couldn’t be good.

“Did you . . . feed enough?” she asked, wondering what she would do to keep him inside and safe if he said no. The thought of him taking blood from her out of hunger left her cold. But if he needed it . . . Her hands clenched into fists on her lap.

Dante lobbed the wadded-up cloth into the bathroom, hitting the sink with annoying ease, then he looked at her. His dark eyes held hers, his gaze open and direct. “I got enough,” he said quietly. “But even if I hadn’t, I’d never take blood from you outta hunger, Heather. No matter what.”

Heather felt her cheeks heat up even as relief flooded through her. Had her freaking shields dropped again? A quick check revealed her steel walls still surrounded her mind. “Did you . . . hear me?” she asked, touching a finger to her temple.

“Nah. I felt your apprehension through the bond. So I made a guess about what was bothering you.” His fingers whispered against her cheek, trailing heat. Amusement stretched his voice out into a warm drawl. “You’re blushing, chérie.”

“I’m used to my thoughts being private,” Heather muttered.

A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “They’re still private. I didn’t hear anything. I just—” His words came to an abrupt halt. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rubbed his left temple with his fingers. More blood trickled from one nostril.

Fear curled through her.

“That’s it,” Heather said. “Lie down, Baptiste.” Crawling to the head of the bed, she untucked both pillows from beneath the comforter. Lying down and resting her head on one firm pillow, she patted the other. “Please,” she added in a low voice.

Without a word, Dante joined her, rolling onto his side to face her. Heather scooted close to him and studied his pale, beautiful face. Exhaustion and grief shadowed his eyes, pain drew his features tight. He looked at her from beneath his long, dark lashes.

“I’ve been thinking about our next move, after we tend to Mauvais and his motherfucking Molotov cocktail tossing buddies,” he said.

“Well, there’s your problem right there,” Heather said. She trailed a finger along his jaw. “No more thinking. No more planning. Rest.”

“Not yet, catin,” he said, his hand skimming over her leather-clad hip to the curve of her waist. “As long as my past is messing up my present, I’m beaucoup dangerous to you and anyone near me. I’ve gotta find a way to always stay here and now.”

“You’ve done more than enough tonight. You need to rest. And you need to mourn. We can think about all this when we wake up. When our heads are clear.”

“Don’t tell me what I need, you,” Dante murmured. He slid hot fingers underneath her tank top and across her belly, a teasing path traveling north. She shivered, her nipples stiffening in anticipation. “Already know what I need.”

Heather’s finger trailed from Dante’s jaw, down along his throat to his collar, and curved through its steel ring. “You do, do you?”

She tugged him in close and kissed him thoroughly. His soft and fevered lips tasted of alcohol and anise and amaretto—a heady brew.

Dante deepened the kiss, parting her eager lips with his tongue. His hand cupped her breast through her bra. Slipped underneath. Her breathing quickened. Heat pooled low in her belly, flared between her legs.

“Was that what you needed? How about this?” Heather asked breathlessly when the kiss ended. Her finger abandoned his collar so her hand could glide down to his chiseled chest. “Or do you have other things in mind?”

“Thought I wasn’t supposed to be thinking.”

Dante’s kisses moved from her lips to her throat, tracing a wet, molten path down to the top of her breasts. His fingers discovered her aching nipple, pinched.

“That’s right,” Heather gasped. “No thinking.”

“A shame, cuz I’ve got all kinds of naughty things in mind for you.”

Liquid fire rippled through Heather’s belly. “In that case, by all means, keep thinking, Baptiste,” she whispered. Licking the tips of her fingers, she brushed them over the stiff peaks of his nipples, swirled a wet design on his flesh.

It was his turn to gasp.

Heather smiled against the top of his head, his silken hair. “Two can play the naughty game,” she said, trailing her hand over his taut, flat abs—then down. She caressed and rubbed, her hands hungry for the feel of him. He was hard, his erection straining against his leather pants, and she happily felt him up through the supple leather.

Dante groaned against her breast. “Ain’t I supposed to be resting?”

“You complaining?”

“Fuck, no.”

“Then shut up, Baptiste.”

Dante obliged her by pulling down the neckline of her tank top, thumbing aside the lace of her bra, and closing his hot, wet mouth over her nipple. Moaning softly, she arched her back, offering more of herself to his mouth.

Unbuckling his belt, Heather fumbled his zipper down and freed him from his leather confines. His breath caught rough in his throat when she stroked her hand along his hard, hot, satiny length.

“So tell me, what else do you need?” Heather asked, her voice a husky whisper. “A little bit of this?” She stroked him again.

Dante’s low growl, the sound vibrating against her nipple, was all the answer she needed. His hand blurred down to the front of her leather pants, then—with another low growl—he tore them open. The top snap tinged against the floor. She gasped as his fingers slipped beneath her now-wet panties.

She moved her hips against his circling, dipping, and knowing touch and closed her eyes. Pleasure fluttered through her belly. Dante curled his tongue around her nipple, then his lips moved from her breast and reclaimed hers in a fierce and hungry kiss.

His desire, his need for her raged like a gasoline-fueled bonfire through their bond, torching Heather, body and mind in an explosion of white napalm heat. Her breath rasped in her throat. Pleasure coiled and pulsed within her as his fingers worked their magic . . .

A sudden narcotic tide washed over Heather, submerging her in a black and dreamy drowsiness, like a morphine drip. Then just as quickly, it ebbed from her mind, vanishing like a sneaker wave.

Dante’s lips slid away from hers. His fingers stilled. His body relaxed.

Heather opened her eyes. Gray light leaked into the room from around the edges of the curtains. Dante’s eyes were closed, his pale face calm and peaceful. Lost to Sleep.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

And in her hand? Still hard and hot and ready. So very ready.

Heather groaned in frustration. It wouldn’t be right to jump Dante’s bones when he was out cold and unable to enjoy it. Wouldn’t be right to use him like a hard and fevered sex toy while he Slept.

Tempting. But not even close to right.

She wanted him to be with her. Inside of her. Kissing her. She wanted to look into his eyes as pleasure lit them from within and sparked blue fire in their depths.

Sighing, Heather released him, then rearranged their clothing and respective body parts as best she could—torn clothing and heightened arousal considered.

Curling up against Dante’s smoldering-coal warmth, she planted a kiss on his lips. “You’re gonna pay later, Baptiste,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Over and over and over.”

19
PUMPKINS INTO COACHES

ALEXANDRIA, VA
SUNSHINE WAFFLES CAFÉ
March 28

ASWIRL OF WARM air flavored with the crisp smells of bacon, waffles, coffee, and cantaloupe washed over Teodoro Díon as he pulled open the door to Sunshine Waffles and walked inside, leaving the chilly predawn morning behind him.

A manila file folder in hand, Teodoro strolled down the café’s narrow aisle, smiling apologetically as waitresses balancing armloads of plates sidled past him. Forks scraped against plates. Spoons clinked against coffee mugs. Voices rolled and dipped, a gentle wave of hushed conversations—a quiet, comforting hum.

Mortals, every one, their fast-paced hearts a trilling cascade of notes, like a two-handed cocktail run down a piano keyboard, in comparison to the slow, bass boom of his own heart.

Teodoro tuned out the noise as he headed for the last booth on the right. The woman sitting there alone was busy reading a report or printout of some kind while eating, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, a frown on her dark face. Silver glinted among the tight black curls that capped her skull. He would bet anything that the ratio of black to gray in her curls would soon reverse, given the recent events at HQ.

An AWOL section chief, two runaway field agents with heads full of sensitive intel—correction, only one head jam-packed with intel since Teodoro had wiped the other’s memory during debrief—and a joint project with the FBI in sociopathology that had imploded in a violent and messy fashion.

But none of that had anything on a little girl named Violet Miyako Sullivan. She’d taken a stray bullet to the head during the SB shootout in the Happy Beaver motel parking lot outside Damascus and had ended up cradled in Dante Baptiste’s arms. Then between one moment and the next, she’d been transformed by his glowing blue hands into another child entirely.

The long-dead Chloe.

True Blood magic, some of the SB brains claimed. Illusion. Mass hypnosis.

Hoax, others declared. The child hadn’t changed—she’d been disguised, and Prejean had performed a very effective sleight of hand.

But only Teodoro understood that Violet had been reshaped by a creawdwr caught up in the past and balanced on the edge of madness. A truth he planned to keep from the Shadow Branch’s fumbling grasp for as long as possible.

Until it no longer mattered.

Halting beside SOD Underwood’s booth, Teodoro said, “Good morning, ma’am. Interesting choice for a meeting. Looks like the land of comfort food. I didn’t even know this café was here.”

Underwood’s fork full of scrambled eggs paused at her mouth, and irritation rippled across her face before she smoothed it into her usual cool and professional expression. She looked up from her report, light from the overheads bouncing from the lenses of her reading glasses.

“I’m not surprised, Díon,” she replied, setting her fork on her plate. Her gaze flicked down to the folder in his hand, then back to his face. “Trendy bistros, biscotti and lattes, and European cigarettes seem more your style. But those who beg for off-site meetings are in no position to be choosy.”

Teodoro shook his head and allowed a self-deprecating smile to curl across his lips. “Right on all accounts, ma’am.”

Underwood picked up her fork and tucked it back into the diminishing pile of scrambled eggs on her plate. Only thin swirls of maple syrup and crumbs remained of her waffles. “Take a seat. And let’s get to it. I need to get into the office early.”

“Understood, ma’am.” Unbelting his short khaki trench coat, Teodoro slid onto the opposite seat, the vinyl squeaking beneath his charcoal gray trousers. He placed the folder on the table.

Underwood looked at him from over the top of her reading glasses and waited.

“First,” Teodoro said, “the Sullivan/Prejean event seems to be contained. The final agent involved in the shoot-out in Damascus was debriefed last night.”

“It went smoothly, I trust?”

Teodoro nodded. “It did. He didn’t resist, and the wipe wasn’t difficult.”

“Then that’s everyone—motel manager, guests, field agents. Everyone who saw what Prejean did to that child.”

“Violet Sullivan, ma’am, yes. Except Section Chief Gillespie.”

Underwood’s expression iced over—deep winter. “I gave that bastard a second chance when no one else would and he goes AWOL at the first little bit of weirdness as a thank you. Never trust a drunk.”

In truth, Teodoro mused, Violet’s transformation had been the third or possibly fourth bit of weirdness SC Gillespie had run into since arriving in Damascus. Out of curiosity, he ticked through a quick mental count.

Uno: a Stonehenge of fallen angels, white stone statues kissed with dancing blue sparks.

Dos: a missing house—porch, foundation, every single nail, gone.

Tres: a pit delving deep into the earth where the house had once stood; a pit ringed by the Fallen Stonehenge.

Cuatro: and from within the pit/cave’s glistening depths? Something sang, Holy, holy, holy.

So in all fairness, Violet’s transformation at Dante Baptiste’s hands had been the fifth bit of weirdness encountered by Gillespie before he’d bugged out for parts unknown.

But Teodoro decided to keep those observations to himself. He doubted Underwood would appreciate his insight.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Gillespie was busy boozing his way across the country,” Underwood said, her voice so cold Teodoro half-expected her words to frost the lenses of her reading glasses. “When we find the deserting bastard, I think we’ll do more than just wipe his poor excuse of a memory.” She arched one are-we-clear? eyebrow.

“Más claro que el agua,” Teodoro murmured. Then added at her questioning frown, “We’re clear, ma’am.”

The eggs finished, Underwood rested her fork on her plate. Curiosity thawed her expression. “Were you born in Spain, Díon, or just raised there?”

“My mother was Spanish, but I was born in Egypt. We moved back to Spain when I was very young,” he replied. “However, I’ve lived in the States all of my adult life,” he added, the lie slipping without thought from his lips. Another act of transformation—falsehood into truth with endless retellings.

Underwood opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again when the waitress, a slightly chubby woman in her mid-thirties, with a warm, gap-toothed smile, stopped beside their booth.

Teodoro ordered a cup of black coffee and a fruit platter, hoping the coffee wouldn’t be scorched or the fruit less than fresh.

After the waitress hurried away, tucking her order pad into a pocket of her apron, Underwood asked, “How is the girl and her mother?”

“Comfortable in the medical wing at HQ. I planted the suggestion in Aiko Sullivan’s mind that she was exposed to a hallucinatory toxin at the motel and that’s why she thinks her daughter looks different. We’re keeping her mildly sedated for the time being.”

“And the girl?”

“She seems content enough, not afraid, even with all the medical tests that we’re conducting,” Teodoro said. “But she’s worried about her mom and wants to know when she’ll be well so they can go home. She also keeps talking about Prejean. Believes him to be an angel.”

Close, little one, but no cigar.

Teodoro remembered the matter-of-fact sound of Violet’s voice, low and earnest, as she colored a daffodil blue in the coloring book he’d brought her.

I was a balloon with a broken string floating up to the stars, then the angel caught me and wrapped my string around his wrist and pulled me back down. It tickled in my tummy.

“An angel.” Slipping off her reading glasses, Underwood tossed them on top of the report she’d been reading. She rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. “Christ. Does she know what Prejean did to her?”

“She does,” Teodoro affirmed, remembering Violet standing in front of the bathroom mirror, fingering her long red hair and peering into her new blue eyes, an expression of intense curiosity on her fair-skinned and freckled face. “But she’s at an age where anything is possible—pumpkins into coaches, mice into people, scrub-girls into princesses—so she accepts this change as magical.”

He called me Princess, but I told him my name was Violet.

Underwood sighed. “I doubt her mother ever will.”

“According to witnesses, Aiko Sullivan begged Prejean to save Violet after she’d been shot. If this is the price of having her daughter’s life restored, Mrs. Sullivan might be willing to accept that cost. In time.”

A muscle flexed in Underwood’s jaw and she looked away, but not before Teodoro saw grief ghost across her face, stark and aging. “You might be right. There’s virtually nothing a parent wouldn’t do for their child. Especially if it meant they could hold them once more.”

A grief and sentiment Teodoro sympathized with. Her son was murdered, like my Felicia so long ago.

Drawing in a deep breath, Underwood composed herself and looked at him again, her dark eyes no longer haunted. But Teodoro detected the ragged edge of loss in their depths, like sharp shards of glass in a broken window.

The waitress delivered Teodoro’s coffee and fruit platter, splashed more coffee into Underwood’s half-empty cup, then hurried away after they assured her they needed nothing else.

The mingled scents of ripe strawberries, cantaloupe, pineapple, honeydew melon, and grapes wafted into Teodoro’s nostrils, mingling with the coffee’s strong, fresh-roasted odor. It looked and smelled as though his concerns about the food quality had been unfounded. Plucking up a piece of cantaloupe between his fingers, he popped it into his mouth. Juicy and cool.

“Honestly, given our conversation so far, I don’t see why we needed to meet off-site. We could’ve had this conversation in my office,” Underwood said, her irritation making an encore performance.

“The first part, yes,” Teodoro agreed. “But this next part of the conversation requires either an audio jammer in your office or a meeting outside of HQ. I opted for the latter.”

Underwood picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. “Let’s hear it then, Díon. I’m listening. What is this about?”

“Containing Prejean. Bringing him in. I suspect that you’re as unhappy about him roaming free as I am.”

Underwood snorted. “You must’ve missed the director’s memo. He declared Prejean and Wallace hands-off, surveillance only. My feelings on the matter are moot.”

“Why do you suppose Director Britto gave that order?”

“No idea.”

“Speculations?”

Underwood tilted her head and regarded Teodoro speculatively. “I think I’d be more interested in hearing yours.”

With his fingertips, Teodoro pushed the folder across the table to her.

Retrieving her reading glasses, Underwood perched them on the end of her nose, then flipped open the folder.

“It’s all in there,” Teodoro said, picking up a succulent chunk of pineapple. “The director sold his soul to the devil to save his son’s life. The boy was dying of brain cancer. Now he’s cancer-free and healthy—and usually seen in the hours between twilight and dawn.”

A deep vertical line creased Underwood’s forehead between her eyes as she read. “Dear God. He had his son turned.” Her gaze shot up to meet Teodoro’s. “By a vamp from Renata Alessa Cortini’s household? That means he’s in debt to the goddamned Cercle de Druide.”

Teodoro spread his hands, palms-out. “And Prejean is a True Blood . . .”

“Who the Cercle would do anything to protect, no doubt. Shit and hellfire.”

“The director has compromised the integrity of the SB. Sold us out.”

“For his son’s life,” Underwood murmured. She rubbed the bridge of her nose again. “While I can understand that, he should’ve resigned. Looked for a low-level street vamp to bribe and not dealt with a web-weaving Elder. Jesus Christ.”

“You could take this to the Committee,” Teodoro said, nodding at the folder, “and let them deal with Britto. They’d demand his resignation, at the very least. Might have him imprisoned for treason. Or maybe even disappeared.”

Given the cold natures of the mortals and vampires composing the Shadow Branch’s oversight committee, Teodoro imagined that the second option would be Britto’s fate. “But that doesn’t guarantee they’d order Prejean brought in or put down.”

“Why not? He’s a cold-blooded, murdering sociopath with the ability to transform human beings, for God’s sake.”

“He’s still True Blood. And we programmed him. The vamps on the Committee will definitely take all that into consideration. Maybe they won’t allow Prejean to remain free, but his care and confinement will be given over to other vampires. Trust me. They won’t punish him for his sins.”

“Shit and hellfire,” Underwood muttered. She flipped the folder closed. Meeting Teodoro’s gaze, one eyebrow lifted in a cynical arch, she said, “I don’t imagine we’re having this conversation just because you wished to enlighten me. You obviously have a solution to this problem in mind. Let’s hear it.”

“I think I know a way to bring Prejean in and guarantee his death,” Teodoro said, leaning forward against the table’s edge, his hands clasped together on its surface. “But I need Purcell.”

Underwood frowned. “Purcell? He’s in New Orleans on surveillance duty.”

“Officially, yes. But he hasn’t checked in with the regular surveillance team, and they seem to be unaware that he’s even supposed to be in New Orleans. All of which makes me wonder—what did you actually send him to do?”

Underwood looked at him for a long moment, her face unreadable. But her thoughts? Ah, her thoughts were an audio book on Dolby.

Does Díon already know, and is he just playing games with me?

Unexpected questions, intriguing questions. Just what was the SOD up to? Teodoro decided not to waste time ferreting out the truth with an endless exchange of words and go straight to the source.

Underwood’s eyes unfocused, and her lips shaped a startled O as Teodoro delved into her unguarded, unshielded mind. And even though he was capable of ravaging its delicate contents like a black bear pawing open a camper’s food-filled ice chest, his touch was light, his thoughts a gentle breeze fluttering through new wheat.

It took just a split-second to find what he was looking for. It wasn’t hidden. It was forefront in her mind, lacing a skein of darkness throughout her dreams, her memories. Underwood’s dead son, Stephen.

And etched with bitter acid into her memory, a recent headline.

VALERIE UNDERWOOD ACQUITTED IN MURDER-FOR-HIRE CASE; MOTHER OF TWO WEEPS AS VERDICT READ, THANKS JURY.

But Underwood hadn’t believed her daughter-in-law innocent, no. She’d made arrangements for another kind of justice altogether to drop in on her son’s wife—or crawl in through her window in the dead hours of the night, fanged retribution in latex and leather—in a conversation with Purcell.

So you know how Prejean’s programming works? How to activate it?

Yes, ma’am. I do. Anything you’d like me to have Prejean say to your daughter-in-law?

Yes, thank you. Have him tell the bitch that Stephen sends his regards.

Teodoro finished his fruit platter—a plump strawberry—while he thoughtfully regarded Underwood, his mental fingers still deep within her psyche. Her mind was on standby, her face blank, like that of a sleepwalking child.

He had to admit, he admired Underwood’s plan for her murderous daughter-in-law. It’d be next to impossible to tie Underwood to Valerie’s sure-to-be-bloody and terrifying death at the hands—or fangs, actually—of Dante Baptiste. If anything, law enforcement officials might suspect that Valerie Underwood had reneged in the payment for Stephen’s murder and that she’d ended up paying in blood.

Admirable or not, Underwood’s plans interfered with his own. Teodoro had thought—erroneously, it turned out—that Underwood had sent Purcell to New Orleans to snuff Baptiste. Teodoro could’ve worked with that scenario. Could’ve tweaked Underwood’s memories into believing she’d turned the mission over to Teodoro to keep herself safely distanced from any fallout.

But since Underwood was actually avenging her murdered son, Teodoro wouldn’t be able to sway the SOD’s deep-seated desire for payback, to reap a little revenge in her murdered son’s name. Couldn’t tweak it in a way that wouldn’t leave doubt buried in her subconscious like a worm wriggling beneath rain-wet soil.

Her hunger to avenge her son was the driving force rolling her out of bed in the morning and pressing her foot against the gas pedal of her Lexus on her drives in to HQ.

A shame really. He understood that hunger for justice, that fire, well. It was what drove him even now.

Teodoro wanted the young Maker to remember everything that was about to happen to him with exquisite, diamond-cut clarity. But whenever Baptiste’s programming was engaged, he remembered nothing, not even his own actions.

That wouldn’t do.

Teodoro sipped at his coffee and mulled over his options. And realized he only had one. Setting down his coffee cup, he drew in a deep breath of the bacon-greased air and went to work.

A moment later, Underwood blinked, then opened and closed her mouth, confusion twisting a frown across her lips. “What . . . what was I saying?”

Teodoro arranged the proper amount of concern on his face, furrowed his brow. “Are you feeling all right? You seemed to lose focus for a moment.”

Underwood blinked again. She rubbed one temple with her fingers, pain tight at the corners of her mouth. “A bit of a headache. I’ve got some Excedrin at the office.”

“You look a little pale,” Teodoro agreed. “Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

Shaking her head, Underwood picked up her glass of water and drained it. Setting the glass down, she said, “I don’t have time to be sick, so that’s simply not an option.” She gathered up the folder, Teodoro’s questions about Purcell gone from her memory. “Thanks for this, Díon. I’ll make sure the Committee knows that the director has been compromised and that Britto is called on the carpet for it.”

“Glad I could help, ma’am,” Teodoro said, sliding out of the booth and scooping up the meal check at the same time. “I’ll get this. You can get the next one.”

Underwood snorted. “Thank you, but I’m hoping there won’t be a reason for another clandestine meeting.”

Teodoro chuckled. “Me too, ma’am. Me too.”

Teodoro was stepping outside the door when he heard the clatter of dishes against carpet and a panicked cry from the chubby waitress clearing dishes from the last booth on the right.

“Someone call 911!”

Teodoro slipped out the door and strode across the parking lot to his shining cranberry Prius. He didn’t need to look to know that the stroke had left SOD Celeste Underwood facedown on her emptied plate, maple syrup gluing her dark cheek to the stoneware.

Climbing into the Prius, Teodoro belted himself in behind the steering wheel. Through the café’s main window, he watched frantic activity taking place beside the booth he’d just left. He started the car’s engine.

He’d liked Underwood, despite her prickly manner, had enjoyed working with her for the last decade, and he regretted what he’d been forced to do. But in the grand scheme of things, her life meant little. After all these centuries, he finally had an opportunity to take from the Fallen the thing they most wanted—just as they’d once done to him.

Soon the Princes of Gehenna would have no choice but to slay their precious, long-awaited creawdwr as madness reshaped him into the Great Destroyer.

Pulling from the parking lot onto the highway, he aimed the Prius for the Shadow Branch’s underground facilities. He had a gift for Violet—a new box of crayons.

20
HARD NEWS

NEW ORLEANS
CAFÉ DU MONDE
March 28

TAKING A SIP OF his café au lait, Field Agent Richard Purcell folded back the front page of the Times-Picayune and scanned the headlines. A smile stretched his lips when he spotted a paragraph on page 4 detailing the blazing conflagration that had destroyed the home of local rock musician Dante Prejean the night before. One life was lost—that of Simone Martinique.

Purcell remembered how the scene had looked when he’d arrived about an hour after the fire had been doused and the fire trucks had finally left.

The plantation house has burned down to its foundation. A couple of fire-blackened walls poke up into the night like fingers scorched to the bone. Several huge old oaks look like torched skeletons—leaves gone, gnarled and twisted branches crisped black. Smoke hangs in the air, a lung-coating reek of incinerated wood, molten metal, and irretrievable loss. The wet street gleams in the moonlight.

The newspaper stated that witnesses had mentioned hearing shattering glass and explosions, suggestive of Molotov cocktails. The survivors denied hearing anything.

Of course the bloodsuckers denied hearing anything, Purcell mused. They would take care of the problem on their own, leaving blood and ruin in their wake.

And Prejean—the little fucking psycho codenamed S—would bathe in the shit, a knowing smile curving his lips, his pale, pale face incandescent with a devastating beauty.

A beauty Purcell’s heart had hardened against years before. S’s sexy spell wouldn’t work on him. Never had.

The chug-chug-chug of powerful ship engines echoed from the Mississippi, and the cool morning air smelled of river water and mud and sweet pastries as Purcell sat back in his chair, eating his beignet with its liberal dusting of powdered sugar, and watched the pigeons hopping around the café’s covered terrace, heads cocked to one side as if they hoped to force crumbs to the pavement with a hungry pigeon’s version of the Force. Pigeon Jedi mind tricks.

Breaking off a couple of pieces from the beignet, he tossed them in front of the optimistic pigeons. Well, look at that. It worked.

Chuckling, he polished off his beignet and brushed sugar from his hands. He scooted back his chair, scraping it across the pavement and causing a few pigeons to hop away madly. Just as he stood, his cell phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He pulled it free and looked at the caller ID. Unknown. Frowning, he answered the call.

“Purcell. And who is this?”

“It’s Díon, Purcell. Are you sitting down? I have some hard news.”

The fact that a field interrogator was calling him with hard news instead of SOD Underwood shuffled unpleasant possibilities through Purcell’s mind with all the faster-than-the-eye speed of a deck of cards in the hands of a Vegas blackjack dealer. But the ace of spades in that deck was the most likely possibility: Underwood’s little plot had been discovered and she was in deep, deep trouble.

And, maybe, just maybe, so was he. The beignet in his belly turned to stone. He planted his butt back in his chair.

“I’m sitting,” he said roughly.

“SOD Underwood died of a stroke this morning.”

Purcell stared at the splay-toed pigeon prints in the powdered sugar scattered on the pavement. His pulse pounded in his temples. That card hadn’t even been tucked into his deck of possibilities. Underwood, dead?

“A stroke?” he repeated like an idiot, not sure of what to say.

“Yeah,” Díon sighed. “A massive one. The attending doc said she went quick, if that’s any consolation.”

“Fuck.” Purcell trailed a hand through his hair. Now what? Should he continue with the mission, for Underwood’s sake? See her daughter-in-law into her well-deserved grave?

But even as those thoughts were zipping through Purcell’s mind, Díon said, in a low, European-flavored voice, “Underwood told me about the gift for her daughter-in-law that you were going to deliver for her.”

Fear curled a cold hand around Purcell’s guts. He went still. “She did, did she?”

A low, rueful laugh. “I didn’t pluck it from her mind. Christ, Purcell. Why would I even be looking?”

Good question. A damned fine question, and one Purcell was going to examine in minute detail and in every kind of light later. Once he’d figured out what Díon wanted.

“That I don’t know,” he admitted. “So how come you’re breaking the news?”

“So we could discuss mutual concerns.”

“Those being . . . ?”

“Terminating Prejean and fulfilling Underwood’s last request.”

Laughter from tourists strolling along Decatur street headed for the French Market carried like music on the still air. “Keep talking,” Purcell said.

A grin stretched across Purcell’s lips and excitement crackled like crazed lightning through his veins as he listened to Díon’s urbane voice lay out his plan for S and his traitorous FBI squeeze, Heather Wallace.

21
TRUE BLUE AMERICAN

OUTSIDE DAMASCUS, OR
THE WELLS/LYONS COMPOUND
March 28

TIM SHAUNN WAS LYING on his belly in the dirt and scrub beneath rain-dripping pines atop a small rise near what remained of the Wells place. He adjusted the gas mask strapped on over his head, making sure it was snug as a bug in a effing rug.

He had zero desire to die from a stray whiff of the toxic fumes the federal government talking heads claimed was wafting from the mysterious sinkhole that had opened up and swallowed an entire house. Not to mention the poor, doomed souls living inside it—an FBI agent and his family, so the Oregonian said.

And, not only that, the so-called toxic fumes had stolen the lives of several of the nearest neighbors in the sparsely populated hillside community.

A handful of agents wearing tan windbreakers with red letters on the back reading TASK FORCE—and, effing interesting that no particular agency was named, not the FBI or HSA or CDC, just a generic, all-encompassing TASK FORCE—strolled the grounds alongside techs in yellow jumpsuits. A small guest cottage with broken-out windows seemed to be functioning as a command post.

Tim noted that no one was wearing a gas mask or any other kind of air filtration device. Not even the techs standing at the lip of what looked like an enormous mist-blanketed pit, various gadgets and instruments in their gloved hands.

Toxic fumes, my ass.

Tim snorted, and the tinny sound bounced off the mask’s confines and into his ears. Okay, then. No more noise while wearing this effing thing. But the thought of pulling the gas mask off and putting the harmlessness of the air to the test left him cold.

Better safe than too effing dead to be sorry.

Maybe the toxic fumes had been controlled or had ended. Maybe. But on Tim’s fave late-night radio talk show, Mike and Jill Carr Digging for the Truth!, he’d heard a darker, more chilling theory.

The government was killing witnesses to whatever had happened at the Wells/Lyons compound. Too many people near the site had suddenly gone on vacation—without bothering to tell anyone. Or had inexplicably moved, leaving a forwarding address to some faraway vacant lot.

The feds rolled their eyes and explained that some people had been contaminated by the fumes and had been shuttled to a secure location to be scrubbed clean, monitored, then released.

Like quail in front of a pump action shotgun.

Tim’s gut tied itself into hard knots. He finger-wiped rain from the gas mask’s goggles as he reminded himself why he was here risking life and liberty. Mike and Jill Carr’s slogan circled through his mind like a torch held aloft by an Olympic runner: Keep Digging for the Truth!

Americans had the right to know what was going on in their very own country and on their own Grade A USA soil, had the right to know what dirty-assed deeds their duly elected government officials were busy committing and why.

Plus . . . maybe, just maybe, Mike Carr would ask Tim to the studio and have him recount his gritty, dangerous adventure live over the airwaves to a rapt audience. Jill Carr would then declare Tim a hero and a true-blue American and plant a pink-lipped kiss of gratitude on his manly, whisker-stubbled cheek.

A dreamy sigh escaped Tim’s lips, and he caught a pungent whiff of onion and green peppers from his breakfast burrito. His stomach rumbled, wishing for another.

Later, he promised it. First a little sleuthing, a bit of James Bonding, maybe a few photos, a smooth and unseen getaway, then a tasty and well-deserved lunch. Taco Bell was the shit.

Pulling his binoculars from his olive-green knapsack, Tim raised them to his eyes. They smacked against his goggles with a dull thok. His cheeks heated even though no one had witnessed his decidedly not double-oh moment. Sweat prickling against his scalp—damned mask was effing hot!—Tim carefully rested the binoculars against the goggles and peered at the scene below. Or tried to.

He discovered he couldn’t see anything due to the bad combo of binoculars and goggles. He’d have to get closer to ground zero in order to get a better look—oh joy.

Swallowing back his fear, he stuffed the useless binoculars into the knapsack, then pulled out his Fujifilm digital camera and, with a deep breath that he quickly regretted, started belly-crawling across the rain-dampened ground.

Pale mist snaked like dragon’s breath among the wet trunks of the pines, oaks, and fir trees growing thick throughout the property. Rain misted Tim’s goggles. Exertion and rising body temperature fogged them.

Now I can’t see. Effing great.

Tim paused in his exhausting ass-and-elbows crawl to wipe the lenses of his goggles and discovered the fog was on the inside.

Jesus Christ! Does James Bond or Jason Bourne deal with shit like this? No. They do not.

Sweat trickled down Tim’s face. His breath was coming in onion-scented pants. His heart drummed a fast-paced march against his ribs. The feds weren’t wearing gas masks. The air might be perfectly fine. Or . . . they’ve had a special shot that renders them immune to the effects of the toxic fumes.

If the toxic fumes ever existed in the first place.

With his goggles fogged, Tim felt like he was trapped, his head screwed into one of those magician’s boxes. He couldn’t breathe. Fingers fumbling with the straps, Tim ripped the gas mask off his face and shoved it to the top of his sweat-soaked head.

He sucked in a deep lungful of cool, moist air thick with the smells of pine and moss and wet bark. And nearly sobbed in relief when nothing happened—but what if it’s cumulative? Effing shut up!—except the quiet intake of fresh air. He drew in another deep breath as he attempted to calm his racing heart.

Wow. Claustrophobia. Who knew?

Tim wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his army camouflage shirt. As soon as his heart rate dropped into a relaxed saunter, he’d resume his crawl. But his heart never had the chance.

The sound of a round being chambered skyrocketed his heart into high orbit. Tim’s vision grayed and he felt his mouth working like a water-free goldfish’s.

“Throw your weapons away, then put your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers,” a masculine voice ordered.

Feeling faint, Tim rose to his knees and hurled his camera into the wet undergrowth. It thudded against a pine trunk. He put his trembling hands behind his head and folded his fingers together.

“That was a camera, asswipe. Toss your goddamned weapons.”

“I don’t have any,” Tim stammered through a mouth gone dry. “I’m a reporter.” Why the effing hell did you say that? His brain screamed at him. Reporters are the first to die! What was wrong with birdwatcher or nature hiker or just effing LOST?!

“That gas mask tells me that you already knew this area was off limits due to health risks,” the man said with disgust. “Typical fucking reporter.”

See? You just got us killed. Asshole.

“Up on your feet, jerkoff. Let’s go. I’m sure the AIC would love to hear your reason for being here. She needs a good laugh.”

Tim blinked. Not sure he’d heard right, but not wanting to say anything that might correct his understanding of the man’s words—no summary execution, he rose shakily to his feet.

“Can I put my hands down?” Tim asked meekly.

“No, douchebag, you can’t.”

Tim barely heard the pine needles crunching underneath the man’s shoes as he approached. His thundering heart damned near drowned out all sound—but not his thoughts.

So what happens when they find out you’re not a reporter? That you lied?

But Tim didn’t have an answer for his brain’s angry accusation. You work on the problem, he suggested.

Tim held still as the man, an agent in a tan windbreaker, dark brown cords, and hiking boots, holstered his gun, then patted him down with quick, assured slides of his hands. He grunted in satisfaction when his search turned up nothing.

“No guns, but I guess a camera could be considered a weapon in a reporter’s hands,” the agent said. His blue eyes were hard as diamonds. “And give me that.”

The strap snapped against Tim’s ear as the agent yanked the gas mask from the top of his head. Ear stinging, eyes watering, brain no longer screeching, Tim kept silent.

The agent pulled his gun free of its holster again and motioned down the hill. “This way, dickwad.”

Heart pounding out the 1812 Overture inside his chest, Tim had no choice but to accompany the gun-toting agent down through the rain-beaded grass and underbrush to the gravel driveway leading to the damaged guest cottage tucked beneath the oaks and pines, and the pit or cave yawning in the earth in front of it.

Tim thought he heard an echoing rush of water, as though a river pulsed through the pit’s dark heart. The smells of cold water and wet rock and ozone laced the air.

Jumpsuited techs and other agents refused to look at Tim, keeping their gazes fixed ahead of them as though he was a ghost. Cold dread lumped up in his belly.

Dead man walking.

He had the sickening feeling that he was going to find out firsthand, up close and oh-so-effing personal, exactly what happened to the other people who’d stumbled across this quarantined scene.

Tim’s knees jellied and he stumbled, his combat boots slipping in the gravel. A strong hand latched around his shoulder. Kept him upright.

“Keep moving,” the agent said, his voice low. “You’re the one who wanted to be here so bad.”

Square back your shoulders. James Bond your way out of this. Charm him with snappy banter, then strangle him with a bootlace.

Yeah, that’s real helpful, brain. Thanks.

But Tim decided to give the snappy banter a go since he had absolutely zip to lose. “True, but when I booked this vacation, I specifically asked for a hollow volcano hideaway, a few laser-beam toting squirrels, and absolutely no gun-toting government operatives,” he said, his mouth so dry his words clicked.

The agent regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You trying to be funny, asswipe?”

Tim swallowed hard. “Sorta.”

“Christ.” But a smile ticked up one corner of the agent’s mouth for a millisecond. At least Tim was pretty sure he’d smiled. At some point. During his life. Maybe.

Releasing Tim’s shoulder, the agent grumbled, “Move it, comedian. “

Comedian, that’s a good sign, Tim’s brain babbled, grasping at straws as it skittered off a cliff into gibbering insanity. A step up from asswipe or douchebag or dickwad, don’tcha think?

Tim ignored it.

The roar of water intensified as the agent led him across the remains of a ruined lawn that looked as though giant fingers had raked through the grass, and to the pit/cave. Or close to it, anyway.

Crouched at the pit’s edge was a woman wearing a wind-breaker and trim khaki slacks, her wheat-blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She seemed to be peering down into the darkness below.

The agent halted a few feet away from her. Tim came to a reluctant stop as well. Despite the air’s cool touch against his skin, sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eyes. His shoulders ached. He wished he could unlace his fingers and lower his arms.

“Hey, Kaplan,” the agent said. “Look at what I found crawling through the underbrush on his belly like a worm grubbing through the goddamned dirt.”

“Hey back, Slade. And I’ll bet it’s something I’ll wish Gillespie was here to take care of.” She sighed.

“No doubt,” the male agent—Slade—agreed, sympathy tendering his voice.

The female agent rose easily to her feet and swiveled around. She was frowning, her brow furrowed, her expression troubled. She looked at Slade. “Thought I saw something down there,” she said, nodding at the pit/cave.

“Fucking awesome,” Agent Slade muttered. “Was it singing again?”

The female agent—Kaplan—nodded. “Yup. So who’s the idiot?” she asked, directing her attention to Tim.

“Claims he’s a reporter.” Slade held up the gas mask. “Came prepared with this and a camera.”

Kaplan’s clear gray eyes swept over Tim and he felt her take his measure—past, present, and future—with one long knowing look. Under any other circumstances, Tim would’ve appreciated capturing a woman’s attention, but given that this one might order him to die at any moment, he was having a hard time working up any enthusiasm for the encounter, despite her looks.

“He’s no reporter,” she said, studying him. “At least not a field reporter. If he works for a paper or magazine it’s as a mail boy or customer service rep.” A smirk slanted her decidedly delicious-looking lips.

Tim wanted to blurt, Wrong! I’m an IT tech, bee-yotch. So much for your powers of observation, but instead he found himself saying, “I work for the Mike and Jill Carr radio talk show.”

The smirk faded from Kaplan’s lips. “A radio talk show?” She glanced at Slade.

“Even more fucking awesomeness,” Slade muttered. “Yeah, that’s a late-night conspiracy nut and UFO freak show. If they sent him, I betcha they’ll be monitoring everything going on.” He scanned the tree line with narrowed eyes. “Might even have someone watching right now.”

Hope sparked within Tim, tiny flames melting the edges of the ice sheeting his soul. Had he actually blundered into saying the one thing that might save his effing life?

Face grim, Kaplan touched a button on the small comlink attached to the collar of her windbreaker and ordered several agents to scour the tree line for unauthorized visitors.

While she talked, Tim caught a flash of white behind her at the pit/cave’s mouth. But when he looked, nothing was there. An illusion shaped by mist and sunlight, maybe. Thinking he’d seen feathers, he wondered if a dove or seagull had flown into the pit.

When Kaplan finished issuing orders, she focused her attention on Tim once more. “Any ID on him?” she asked.

Slade shook his head. “Nope. Didn’t find any when I patted him down. Douchebag left his wallet at home, apparently.”

Ah, back to douchebag. Effing wonderful.

“So what’s your name, Mr. Talk-Show-Radio-Reporter?” Kaplan asked, folding her arms under her breasts.

Just as Tim opened his mouth to reply—most likely with a fake name, something stupid like Timothy Bond or Jason Shaunn—he caught another flash of feathered white.

But it didn’t disappear this time. No. Unfortunately.

But as he stared at it helplessly, he truly wished that it had.

What he’d glimpsed before hadn’t been a parlor trick of mist and sunlight, or a spelunking seagull. The thing that humped up out of the pit behind Kaplan wasn’t like anything Tim had ever imagined.

Belly curdling, testicles attempting to crawl up as far as possible inside his body, Tim stumbled back a step, unable to wrench his gaze from the awful thing rising up like a pale and monstrous worm behind Kaplan’s wheat-blonde head.

A smell came with it, a reek ripe with decay.

Tim’s stunned brain struggled to process what he was seeing—pale gold fur and white feathers; three human faces, each taking its turn in front like a frame in a slide show; eyes blinking like stars throughout the beast/worm’s torso; rotating mouths opened—then his brain gave up.

Her hand sliding inside her jacket for her gun, Kaplan whirled around to face the thing behind her just as those rotating mouths sang, “Holy, holy, holy . . .”

She screamed.

And the shrill, panicked sound bitch-slapped Tim’s brain into motion. He spun and bolted for the trees as more screams and gun shots cracked through the cool morning air, echoing from the mist-draped hills.

22
BLEEDTHROUGH

PORTLAND, OR
OUTSIDE THE DRIFTWOOD BAR AND LOUNGE
Twenty Years Earlier

Behind her, Shannon Wallace hears a familiar sound. A sound that freezes her in mid-stride like a blast of frigid Arctic air: the ka-chunk of a round being chambered.

“Just get in the goddamned car, Shannon.”

Shannon’s heart batters her ribs. Her booze-fueled buzz evaporates beneath a heated rush of adrenaline. Fear dries her mouth. But when she speaks, her voice is steady, scorn needling ice through her words.

“So you’re Jim’s bitch now. Doing his dirty work so he can keep his motherfucking hands pristine. Figures.”

“Get. In. The car.” The tension in Craig Stearns’s voice spools tighter with each word.

Shannon laughs, her derision dark and razor-edged. “I’m not getting in the car. If your goal is to shoot me and dump my body in the middle of nowhere, then I don’t plan to make it easy for you. You’re gonna have to shoot me, then lug my dead-weight ass to the car and stuff it in the trunk.”

His silence says everything.

Pulse fluttering like a wild thing in her veins, at her temples, Shannon resumes walking, her shoes still in her hands, road grit peppering the soles of her feet, her nylons. She focuses her attention on the neon martini glass winking in the distant tavern’s black-painted window.

Footsteps crunch on gravel behind her, coming up fast, and Shannon breaks into a run, pelting down the night-painted highway, the chilly October air burning in her lungs. But Craig is faster, Academy-trained and in prime lean-muscled shape. He grabs her, his fingers clamping around her biceps, and whirls her around.

She stabs at him with the heel of her shoe, but he ducks and bobs and weaves like a boxer in one of those stupid, bloody fights her father used to watch on TV all the time. And she loses her grip on the shoe and it bounces into the road. She’s not sure what happened to the other shoe, but it’s gone as well.

Shannon catches a glimpse of blurred motion out of the corner of her eye and throws up an arm to shield herself, but something—a hammer or a gun—slams against her skull. Bright pinwheels of light and pain explode through her mind.

She crumples to the road, dazed, the pavement scraping her knees and the heels of her hands. She feels the hot, wet trickle of blood along her temple. Her stunned mind stutters like a jumping film frame and her thoughts stutter with it, flipping up and down, up and down.

The bastard’s actually going to kill me. I’m going to miss Heather’s birthday. The bastard’s actually going to kill me. I’m going to miss Heather’s birthday . . .

She sucks in the mingled odors of car exhaust, sage, and dewed blacktop as she forces air into her lungs and struggles to get back up on her feet, to run before the bastard swings the hammer again, but her muscles won’t respond to her screaming brain’s demands: Get up! Get up! Get UP!

A rough hand latches around Shannon’s arm with bruising strength and hauls her upright again. Craig drags her back to the idling car. Flings open the passenger side door.

“Dammit, Shannon. Goddammit all to hell,” he mutters almost as if to himself, the tension in his voice edged with regret.

Regret? She’d show the motherfucker regret.

Shannon swings up a hand to claw at Craig’s face like a pissed-off tabby—or tries to, anyway. Her movement takes forever, her hand caught in slo-mo molasses-time as if the air has thickened. Craig tilts his head to one side, a slow smile slanting his lips. And bats her hand aside with a casual nudge of his own.

Craig’s face seems to shift, ripple with shadows. His body twists, flesh and clothing undulating. Denting.

Shannon blinks. Her heart clatters against her ribs. The man holds her arm in one hand and a gun—no, not a gun, make that a—

Shiv, baby. Make it a shiv. One just dying to get to know you better.

Shannon stares at the man who used to be Craig Stearns, her insides transforming into a winter wonderland of ice and terror. Thinning hair, sunglasses. A grin loops across his lips.

Behind him, flames lick up into the night sky, snapping the breath-stealing odor of burning wood and seared flesh into the air. A whirlwind of fire devours the tavern. The neon martini glass explodes in an electric shower of blue and red sparks.

Voices scream, high-pitched and raw, until only one remains—a woman’s. Screaming. Burning.

“S and fucking fire. He can’t keep away.” The man shakes his head, then turns it to watch the tavern inferno. Orange/yellow/red reflections flame across the lenses of his shades. “Well, so much for Goldilocks. A shame. She was one smokin’ hot chick.” He looks at Shannon and his grin stretches wide as a shark’s. “Gosh. Guess she still is.”

He’s still grinning as he hurls Shannon into the car through the opened passenger door. She sprawls onto the seat, vinyl squeaking underneath her. The stink of old smoke and nicotine burns the inside of her nostrils. Pain throbs behind her eyes. She tastes blood, thick and coppery, at the back of her throat.

The door clunks shut. Like the final closing of a coffin lid.

As she listens to the footsteps walking—no, skipping —around the car, Shannon grabs the armrest and pulls herself upright. For a second, she considers giving in to the shiv and the shark’s dead grin.

No more pills. No more booze. No more falling through the trapdoor into the unlit basement of her mind as her thoughts turn to lead. No more soaring catapult flights through the upper stratosphere, her consciousness full of fireflies and buzzing with ideas.

For a second.

Then she remembers she’s planned a surprise party for Heather’s twelfth birthday. Heather. Kevin. Annie. She’d be leaving her kids behind with an empty-hearted bastard of a man who had no problem asking his best friend to murder his wife, the mother of his children.

A cynical question corkscrewed through her mind: Wonder what took the motherfucker so long?

Shannon’s fingers fumble for the door handle. Just as she yanks the door open, spilling cool air inside the car, fingers curl into her hair and yank her back across the seat. Pain rips through her scalp. The door thunks shut again.

The man’s face lowers over hers. A fire-scorched metallic wasp crawls along the upper rim of his sunglasses and her heart skips a beat seeing it.

“Your nose is bleeding,” Elroy Jordan says. “That’s kinda sexy.”

23
KEEPSAKES

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28

HEATHER JERKED AWAKE, HER heart thudding against her ribs. She stared up at the unfamiliar and shadowed ceiling, struggling to remember where she was, Jordan’s lust-scorched words haunting her thoughts.

Your nose is bleeding. That’s kinda sexy.

She had the strong suspicion those had been words he’d said to Dante during the time he’d stolen him. Tortured him. Shoved his past down his throat.

Has your father said anything about Bad Seed?

No. Elroy told me. But I can’t hold on to it. No matter how hard I try.

She could only imagine how Jordan had told him. Handcuffs, drugs, and knives. Her throat tightened. Dante’s dreams had somehow bled through into hers—maybe her shields had slipped or his had thinned, but his nightmares—past and present—had reshaped her dream of her mother’s final moments.

How much of her dream had been true? She didn’t want to believe that Stearns had killed her mother. Didn’t want to believe that her father had somehow coerced Stearns—the man who’d mentored her career in the FBI and who’d been more of a father to her than James Wallace ever had—into the murder. Motive eluded her, slippery as a wet bar of soap.

Tainted evidence, this version of the dream. Can’t trust it.

Or, more to the heart of the matter, didn’t want to trust it.

With a soft sigh, Heather looked from the ornamental tin ceiling bordered with ornate crown molding to the French windows curtained in heavy crimson velvet that completely blocked out the sunlight burning beyond.

Where clicked into place. Club Hell. Upstairs. The events of the previous long night—a night that had stretched across two worlds—flashed like a slide show through her mind: pulling the SUV into the driveway of Dante’s home; the gun battle aboard the Winter Rose; the fire and Simone’s death; the shock wave ripping the cemetery apart as Dante punched his way into Gehenna; the pungent smell of his blood as his wings ripped through his back.

Heather’s calming heart kicked into high gear again. Dante’s wings.

She rolled onto her side to face him. He Slept on his back, one arm across his bare, muscle-flat waist, his pale face turned toward her, his black hair trailing across the pillow. Blood trickled from one nostril, stained his lips. Heat radiated from him as though an inner furnace had been stoked to white-hot heat.

His Sleep didn’t look peaceful, and given the creepy and violent alterations to her own dream, she could only imagine the darkness roiling through his.

No escape, no time out. His broken past won’t leave him alone for a moment. Won’t let him rest. Won’t let him heal. Won’t even let him stay here and now.

Heather brushed the backs of her fingers against Dante’s smooth, fevered cheek.

It’s quiet when I’m with you. The noise stops.

I’ll help you stop it forever.

She wished for a way to keep her promise to him. After everything that had happened last night, she realized that she was somehow able to anchor him through their new bond, to hush the cacophony—and worse, the quiet whispers—inside his head. But only for a little while. She needed to find a way to make the silence permanent.

Her finger trailed along the firm line of his jaw. At least the no-whiskers mystery had been solved, she mused. She hadn’t seen a single mustache or beard or any kind of facial hair, not even a soul patch, among the Fallen males in Gehenna, so she figured being whiskerless was a Fallen trait.

Fallen. Heather shifted her gaze to the sigil etched into the white skin above Dante’s heart and gingerly traced the ridged scar with her fingertips. A vow made in blood and fire. But the sigil—both angular and looping—felt cold as winter-iced ground in the shade, untouched by the sunrise of Dante’s fierce heat.

Cold whispered against the skin above Heather’s heart, like crackling frost—until she removed her finger from the sigil. The Morningstar’s words flickered through her memory.

She’s mortal. The pledge won’t affect her in the same way—if at all. At most she might get a whisper, an echo. But as long as you fulfill your promise, neither of you will feel anything.

Seemed the ivory-haired fallen angel had spoken the truth. Or a piece of it, anyway. There was no way to know what the Morningstar—Lucifer, the oh-so-lustrous Prince of Darkness—had left unsaid when he’d seared the sigil into Dante’s flesh.

Heather sighed, hoping that she and Dante wouldn’t find out the hard way.

It’s the only way I know.

Dante’s words, spoken to her during their first conversation at the club over a month ago—a lifetime ago. She was worried those words—about doing it the hard way—were still true.

Dante’s earthy autumn scent curled around her, beckoned her, drew her in. Reawakened heat and hunger. Her fingers slid up from his chest to his throat, lingered on his collar. She looked down along the flat, taut-muscled expanse of his abs to his still unbuckled leather pants and yearned for twilight.

Leaning forward on her elbows, Heather kissed Dante’s burning lips. “Wake up soon, Baptiste,” she murmured. She licked the heady taste of his blood from her lips, then reluctantly rolled off the bed.

She needed a very cold shower. And she needed to check on Annie.

Thinking it felt like afternoon, Heather glanced around the thick-shadowed room for the glowing LED numbers of a clock, but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t see one. She doubted that keeping an eye on the time would’ve been important to the club VIPs and private partiers this room was probably intended for.

But something else caught her eye. What looked like a couple of neat stacks of clothing on top of the dresser nestled against the wall. Frowning, Heather rose to her feet and went to check it out.

She’d been right. Rising from the bureau were two modest towers of clothing with the tags still attached, one tower for her, the other for Dante. And not only that—a gun, along with an extra magazine, two boxes of ammo, and a cell phone rested beside “her” stack.

Heather picked up the gun, wrapping her fingers around the rosewood grip. It was nearly a duplicate of the Colt .38 Super that she’d lost when Alexander Lyons had confiscated it from her in Damascus. Removing the magazine and making sure the safety was on, she put the Colt back down on the dresser.

She flipped through her pile of clothing with a growing sense of astonishment—jeans and black cords, sweaters, blouses and smocks, rock T-shirts, bras, packages of bikini panties and socks. Every tag and label held the correct size.

Heather yanked out a pair of black boot-cut jeans and held them against her hips. Looked like a perfect fit. She grabbed a lavender lace bra. Again, the right size.

Who . . . ?

De Noir’s image flashed in her mind. She remembered how he’d moved her bags into Dante’s bathroom that first time at his place, stealing in and out while she’d slept, curled against Dante’s warmth.

Looks like De Noir did it again, only this time he went shopping too.

And, although Heather was grateful to have clean clothes to wear, she wondered how he’d known what sizes to purchase for her. Did he have a good eye? Had he crept into the room with a tape measure in hand? Or had he simply asked Annie, who probably woke up hours ago, hangover free as usual.

Heather would put her money on Annie. She’d have to thank De Noir when she saw him. And pay him back—as long as the Bureau hadn’t frozen her bank and credit accounts. If they had? Well, she’d figure something out.

Returning the jeans and bra to the stack of new clothes, Heather plopped down in the ivy-patterned armchair—or what looked like ivy in the gloom—tucked into the corner between the bed and dresser. She bent over, unlaced her Skechers, then toed them off.

Peeling off her borrowed socks, Heather dropped them onto the polished mahogany floor. Her hand froze in the air.

Borrowed. She was wearing Simone’s clothes. The only things left of her.

Heather drew in a ragged breath of air. She lowered her hand and carefully picked up the socks, draping them over the arm of the easy chair to make sure she didn’t lose them. The memory of what turned out to be her last look at Simone played through her mind.

Simone touches her fingers to Dante’s face and draws him down into a kiss.

A knot twisted around Heather’s heart at the memory, but this time it wasn’t threaded together from jealousy.

I can’t thank you enough for getting Annie out of the house. I’ll always watch over your brother, Simone, and see to it that he keeps living.

Heather would make sure the clothes were cleaned, the torn fly of the leather pants repaired, then give them to Trey as keepsakes.

She stripped off the rest of Simone’s clothes, folding each piece with reverent care, then padded across the room to the bathroom and the shower beyond.

24
THE HAND OF GOD

NEW ORLEANS
March 28

FORMER FBI ADIC Monica Rutgers gave up on sleeping.

She kicked the twisted and sweat-soaked sheets away from her body and stared at the motel room’s popcorn ceiling as early afternoon sunlight trickled in from around the window shades.

The room smelled stale, dust and sweat and recycled air, restless. But the sharp smell of ozone haunted her nostrils.

The bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey Rutgers had shared with Sam Gillespie after they’d escaped from shattered St. Louis No. 3 coated her tongue and soured her stomach.

She’d learned the hard way that no amount of whiskey could dislodge the images stuck like black burrs in her mind. Or numb her to their ceaseless prickling.

What had she and Sam Gillespie witnessed in the cemetery? Or, more to the point, who had crafted both destruction and doorway?

Rutgers now knew why Gillespie had asked his questions about Prejean in the cemetery as blue flames danced along crumpled tombs and sirens wailed in the night.

What do you know about his father?

Nothing. Prejean’s mother never said word one about who fathered her baby.

And you never wondered about that?

Didn’t seem important.

Got something that’ll change your mind about that. Something you need to see.

And as the images from the center’s stolen security cam disk had flooded her mind with alternating waves of ice and flame, she’d realized a simple truth.

They’d been utter fools.

A figure steps into the corridor and moves into camera view. His waist-length black hair snakes into the air like night-blackened seaweed caught in a current. His wings, black and smooth, arch up behind him, half-folded, as he kneels on the floor and reaches for one of two figures crumpled together on the tile, Dante Prejean and Heather Wallace.

He fixes his gaze on the woman struggling out from underneath Elroy Jordan’s body—Dr. Johanna Moore.

Do you remember Genevieve Baptiste? My son’s mother?

Your . . . son?

Rutgers had shared Moore’s shock. Had stared open-mouthed and helpless at the monitor as the images continued to dance against her eyeballs, her fingers fumbling for the whiskey bottle’s smooth neck.

In all of the information the Bureau had compiled on Prejean’s friends and associates, the essential fact that Lucien De Noir was not only Prejean’s father but a fallen angel had escaped them.

Who knew fallen angels walked among us, let alone existed?

Rutgers had dismissed De Noir as a wealthy entrepreneur with a taste for beautiful, lean-muscled young vampires in eyeliner and leather. Believed him fond enough of Prejean to buy him a home and a club. Believed that Prejean made it well worth De Noir’s money and time.

How long ago did I stop doing my job? When did I start coasting on assumptions and half-truths? Glancing only at surfaces?

Fools, all of us. But I was the worst kind of fool—complacent.

Rutgers rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, and threads of orange light unspooled in the darkness behind her eyes. But the images resumed their chilling flow.

The energy surrounding Prejean shafts into Johanna Moore’s body from dozens of different points. Explodes from her eyes. From her nostrils. Her screaming mouth. She separates into strands, wet and glistening. Prejean’s energy unthreads Moore. Pulls apart every single element of her flesh.

Johanna Moore spills to the tiled floor, her scream ending in a gurgle.

One mystery solved: Moore hadn’t disappeared. She no longer existed.

Avenge your mother. And yourself.

And Prejean rises from the fallen angel’s arms, rises up from the floor, bathed in dim red emergency light, his body tight and coiled, blood smeared across his breathtaking face.

And with a touch of Prejean’s hands, Johanna Moore’s life had been unthreaded.

When would he come for the rest of them?

A cold sweat sprang up on Rutgers’s forehead. Stomach knotting with nausea, she rolled out of bed, her nightgown tangling around her legs, and stumbled to the bathroom. She dropped to her knees on the tile, slammed the toilet lid open, and emptied her stomach into the bowl.

Later, resting curled on the cool floor, pain throbbing behind her eyes, she remembered why she didn’t drink. She had neither the head nor the stomach for it. She felt drained, boneless and hollow.

She hoped Gillespie was suffering too, but given the man was a well-pickled alcoholic, she doubted it. If anything, he suffered hangovers from lack of booze. With a low sigh, Rutgers grabbed the sink’s smooth edge and pulled herself to her feet. She brushed her teeth thoroughly with cool mint toothpaste, scrubbing the taste of bile and acid from her mouth.

Rutgers turned on the shower and yanked her sweat-sodden nightgown off over her head, one sleeve pulling painfully at her curls. She stepped into the shower. The hot water goosebumped her skin. She tipped her face up to the hot spray and allowed the heat to work the tension from her muscles.

A voice whispered up from within the wilderness of her heart. Run. Pack your bags and burn rubber out of New Orleans. Don’t look back. And don’t go home. Take up an anonymous life in some distant place. Maybe if you never think of Prejean again, he won’t find you.

A voice she hushed.

No escape. No anonymous life. No going home.

Not until the monster was dead.

Rutgers wet her hair, slicked it back from her face with her hands. Her heart drummed a fierce rhythm against her sternum.

She hadn’t resigned from the goddamned Bureau just so she could retire to a condo in Miami, play bingo, and write a tell-all memoir.

She’d resigned so she could do the thing that she’d been unable to do as a member of the Bureau—stride into the deep, dark woods to slay the monster at its heart.

She’d resigned so that she’d never have to tell another set of parents that their son or daughter had died carrying out her orders while she sat safe and distant in her tower of concrete and glass.

I deeply regret your son’s loss. He was a fine agent, one you can be proud of.

Rutgers’s chest tightened. Too many bright lives snuffed out or ruined, all because of Prejean.

Now, for reasons Rutgers still didn’t understand, the Shadow Branch had severed the Bureau from their role in Bad Seed and declared Prejean off-limits. No matter how much blood he spilled—agents and innocents alike—Underwood and the Shadow Branch were willing to step back and wave him on.

And warn everyone else away.

Of course, no longer being a part of the Bureau or Bad Seed, Rutgers could go where she pleased, do what she wanted. The Shadow Branch could shove their directives up their collective asses.

As she lathered her skin with perfumed soap, snatches of her whiskey-soaked conversation with Gillespie earlier that morning, after she’d finished watching the disk, drifted through her mind.

Dear God. He’s not only a vampire, he’s the son of a fallen angel.

Fucking spawn of a demon, I think you mean.

Did you know that fallen angels actually exist?

Sure. As a kid I used to watch out my window every night hoping one would fly by so I could make a fucking wish. What the hell do you think?

All right, no need to get snippy. How the hell are we supposed to kill Prejean? He unmade Moore. And what he did at the cemetery . . . We’re out of our league here.

I agree that we’re in way over our heads. But since he can be hurt, he can be killed. We just need to figure out how.

We need help, Gillespie. More information. We’ll only have one chance at this.

I hear you. We blow it and the bloodsucking bastard kills us.

We need to plan if we’re going to succeed. We need to do research on fallen angels. Find an expert to question.

I agree with the planning, but . . . an expert on fallen angel–vampire half-breeds? Good luck with that.

And that was another thing—Rutgers had never imagined working side-by-side with an SB agent, and especially not with Section Chief Sam Gillespie, with his reputation for booze and poor judgment.

A rueful smile tugged at Rutgers’s lips. So what did that say about her own judgment?

Booze hound, obsessed, yes, Gillespie was those things. But she believed the runaway SB chief to be sincere in his desire to end Dante Prejean’s violent life. Gripped with an almost religious fervor to ride with her into those stark and twisted woods with a lance tucked under his arm, ready to tilt with the beast.

Religious fervor.

Remembering the church she’d seen several blocks down from her Best Western motel room, an idea burned bright in Rutgers’s mind. Expert advice.

She hastily finished her shower, dressed in a gray plaid skirt, white blouse, charcoal blazer, and black pumps. Then, tucking her Glock and her cell phone into her purse, she walked out of her motel room.

THE CHURCH WAS NEARLY empty.

Rutgers eased into a smooth wood pew near the entrance. Just a couple of people lingered in the pews, heads bent, while a few others lit candles for the dead, the early afternoon mass over. Sunlight streamed in through the trio of stained-glass windows above the altar, staining the air with translucent color.

The church was fragrant with the smells of incense and beeswax and polished wood. With fragile hope. A charged and holy hush seemed to resonate throughout the church’s interior as though a song had just ended, the last note lingering at the edge of hearing in the quiet air.

Rutgers spotted the priest in a belted black cassock standing beside one of the confessionals, his head bowed thoughtfully as he listened to a parishioner, a middle-aged black woman in a blue velvet pants suit.

Rutgers wondered how the priest would react to her questions. Would he have any answers for her, any insight on how to send Prejean straight to hell, or would he just listen politely, then usher her, the crazy woman from off the street, back outside.

Prejean cups Moore’s face. His hands tremble. Glow with blue light. Blue flame. His hair snakes up into the air. Blue light shafts into Moore’s body . . .

Rutgers stiffened in the pew, blinked the images away. She felt a sudden and troubling desire for a drink.

Goddamned Gillespie.

Another image flared in her mind, but this one was of Heather Wallace as she’d looked the last time Rutgers had seen her—sitting in Rodriguez’s office, her attractive face composed, her intelligent blue eyes calm as still water as she pretended—quite well, Rutgers reflected ruefully—that she knew nothing about Bad Seed.

A smart move on Wallace’s part. It had kept her out of custody and alive.

But now the Shadow Branch hunted her, eager to unlock the mystery she presented—her mortally wounded body healed by Prejean and without using his blood.

Rutgers glanced at the linen cloth–draped altar, her gaze skimming past the grim crucifix to the stained-glass windows above. Could Wallace be saved? She’d chosen Prejean over her career, the Bureau, even her family. She’d even helped him commit murder. Slept with him.

A pang of something close to grief knifed Rutgers’s heart. The dedicated agent who’d yearned to be a voice for the dead was gone, her soul sucked dry by a goddamned vampire. Wallace was beyond saving.

Lowering her gaze from the sun-soaked images of saints and Christ and angels—white, feathered wings, not smooth and black—Rutgers shifted her attention back to the confessionals.

The priest spoke in low tones to the woman in the blue velvet pants suit, an expression of sincere sympathy on his rugged face. He squeezed her hand between his before offering her a warm and encouraging smile.

A cynical smile tugged at Rutgers’s lips. Go and sin no more?

With a murmured “Thank you, Father,” the woman walked away, heading toward the rows of flickering candles.

Rutgers rose to her feet, looped her purse around her shoulder, and strode up the aisle toward the priest. He looked at her as she approached, his brow furrowing as if he saw something in her body language or on her face that troubled him.

Must be the FBI stride—all authority and grim purpose. I’ve forgotten how to walk any other way.

“Excuse me, Father,” Rutgers said, drawing to a halt in front of him. This close, she realized how tall he was, six-four or six-five, his frame well-muscled beneath his cassock. Gray salted the temples of his close-cropped dark brown hair. “I was hoping I could take a little bit of your time. I need information rather urgently.”

“How can I help?” His voice was smooth and soothing, a slow glide up the Mississippi. She’d bet women flocked to his sermons for the sensual sound of his voice alone.

“Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

He regarded her for a long moment with eyes the warm color of sunlit honey. “Of course, Ms . . . ?”

“Monica Rutgers,” she supplied.

“Is this an official visit of some kind, Ms. Rutgers?”

Even though her FBI badge was still tucked inside her purse, Rutgers knew she’d only put the priest on the defensive if she displayed it. “No,” she said finally. “And I appreciate any time you can give me, Father.”

“Aloysius,” he murmured. “Father Aloysius.” He glanced around the church, taking stock of those still lingering in the building, then nodded. “We can speak in my office, Ms. Rutgers.”

“Thank you.”

Father Aloysius’s office was at the back of the church, at the end of a long, narrow hallway. He scooped a pile of what looked like hot rod magazines off the chair parked in front of his cluttered desk.

“Please,” he said, nodded at the chair. Dumping the magazines on the carpeted floor beside his desk, he moved around behind it and seated himself. “You mentioned an urgent need for information. About what?”

Rutgers smoothed the back of her skirt underneath her as she sat down and met the priest’s curious gaze. She drew in a breath of air musty with the smells of books with leather bindings and yellowing pages, of crackling parchment and fresh ink.

“This may sound odd, but, trust me, I’m very sincere,” she said. “What can you tell me about fallen angels and demons?”

Father Aloysius’s eyebrows crawled up to his hairline. Blowing out a surprised breath, he leaned back in his chair, the springs squeaking as it rocked back. “I’ll admit that’s not what I was expecting, Ms. Rutgers.”

She chuckled. “I’ll bet.”

“I thought you were going to ask about all the blasted vampires.”

RUTGERS FOLLOWED FATHER ALOYSIUS down to the basement, bits of their conversation from upstairs ringing through her still partially disbelieving ears.

Unmaking people. Destroying the cemetery. Blasting doorways into Hell. If what you’ve said is true—and I’m not saying it isn’t—we might be dealing with something much bigger and even deadlier than a demonic True Blood/Fallen hybrid.

And that would be?

The Great Destroyer.

Excuse me, the Great . . . what?

Destroyer. Cultures throughout the world have been seeded with prophecies about this angelic being and what his or her appearance means for humanity.

And what does it mean for humanity?

Our end.

Do you mean the Antichrist? But that’s just . . . I mean, even if it’s true, he’s defeated and—

The Great Destroyer, the Unmaker, has absolutely nothing to do with Christianity, Ms. Rutgers . . .

The pungent scents of sandalwood and frankincense permeated the closed-in air as the priest led Rutgers down a narrow, well-lit hallway to what looked like a steel door at its end. She noticed a symbol sketched both on the door and above it in what looked like dried blood.

“Protection sigils,” Father Aloysius explained, following her gaze. “Holy script.”

“And who does it keep out?” Rutgers asked.

“Anything not mortal.”

“And has anything ‘not mortal’ put it to the test?”

“Not yet,” the priest admitted.

“How long have you been doing this . . . killing vampires?”

“Just the last year, but we’re learning with each strike.”

Of all the churches in all of New Orleans, I walk into this one, Rutgers mused. Maybe there really was such a thing as destiny or fate.

A keypad rested on the wall beside the door, a tiny green telltale glowing at its base. Father Aloysius quickly punched in a code. A beep sounded from the pad, then Rutgers heard a solid clunk as the door unlocked. Grasping the handle, Father Aloysius pushed the heavy door open. Air laced with the smells of gun oil and candle wax whooshed out of the room.

The priest ushered Rutgers inside. As she went in and looked around, her pulse picked up speed. Hope blossomed within her.

Weapons of all sorts lined the walls: pistols, assault rifles, shotguns, crossbows, stakes of different lengths. Computers rested on workstations. Books were shelved in cases hugging the lower half of each wall.

A bulletin board displayed photos of vamps beneath two headers: MISSION and ACCOMPLISHED.

Father Aloysius followed her into the room, his cassock rustling, and stood beside her. “We’re called the Hand of God, and we meet every Tuesday and Thursday,” he murmured. “We have access to information—both arcane and practical—all around the world. God bless the Church and the Internet.”

Rutgers looked at him, and a grim smile curved his lips as he met her gaze. “Trust me, Ms. Rutgers. We’ll find a way to kill this Dante Prejean. No matter what he is.”

25
A WISE MAN

DALLAS/FORT WORTH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
March 28

I WISH TO REQUEST a leave of absence, sir, effective immediately.

Slim black briefcase in hand, James Wallace entered the airport terminal from the gangway and strode past the crowd—bouncing up on tiptoes, buoyant expressions matching the enthusiasm demonstrated in their feet—waiting for friends and relatives and loved ones.

Someone else altogether would be waiting for him outside the terminal.

Does this request have anything to do with the situation involving your daughter?

Sir, it’s a personal matter.

After retrieving his champagne-pale Samsonite suitcase and wheeling it through the automatic glass doors leading out into the bright Texas sunshine, James stood at the curb, feeling the moisture practically being sucked from his Pacific Northwest skin in the dry air. A white van marked only with SI in elegant black lettering on the side panel glided to a stop in front of him.

If a man should go looking for a missing daughter during a leave of absence, it’s no one’s business but his own. Wouldn’t you agree, Wallace?

I would, sir.

With a metallic click, the van’s side door hummed open. James slid his suitcase inside, resting it on the floor in front of the empty passenger seats. As the door hummed shut again, James opened the front passenger door and climbed inside. A pine-tree shaped air freshener hung from the rear view mirror, saturating the air with the reek of artificial pine.

Of course, once a man found his daughter, he’d be wise to take her and go and forget about the off-limits male in whose company he found her.

A wise man indeed, sir.

“Good flight?” the driver asked, offering James a thinning of the lips that he most likely believed passed for a smile.

“As good as any flight can be.” James strapped on his seat belt and settled his brief case on the floor beside his feet. He looked at the driver.

Late thirties, with well-creased crow’s feet at the corners of his gunmetal gray eyes, a man who spends a lot of time in the sun and the weather, a thick-muscled and powerful build beneath his black Members Only jacket. Ex-military or law enforcement vibe.

“You must be Stevenson,” James said.

“That would be me, yup.” Stevenson edged the van into the slow crawl of cars, vans, and taxis headed out of the airport. “Do you have a lead on where the bloodsucker took your daughters yet?”

“No, but I imagine New Orleans will be the destination,” James Wallace replied, shifting his gaze to the front windshield and the traffic flow beyond.

“No offense, but I gotta ask, how the hell did this bloodsucker manage to snag both of your daughters?”

Good question.

Heather had been brainwashed. The damned vampire had wormed his bloodsucking way inside her head, inside her heart, into her bed, and taken control of her every thought, every action.

That was the only thing that made sense. Why else would she have thrown away her career, her life?

And Annie? Whether Annie had simply tagged along or been forced to accompany her sister on her cross-country flight, James didn’t know. But he had a strong feeling Annie would call him when she found an opportunity.

“I don’t see that how he managed to grab them matters,” James said. “What matters is retrieving them before he turns them.”

“How do you know that he hasn’t already turned them?”

James’s heart did a slow, painful thump inside his chest. “I don’t,” he admitted. “But again, it doesn’t matter. Turned or not, we extract them.”

“Let me make this very clear, Mr. Wallace, even though you’re in charge of this little operation. The Strickland Institute isn’t equipped to deal with bloodsuckers. And won’t. We only handle human extractions and deprogramming—unhooking people from the grip of a religious cult, a government deep-cover mission, or a bloodsucker’s influence—that’s all. Hell, the majority of our staff don’t even know that vampires exist.”

“I understand all that,” James replied. “And I won’t be asking the institute to deal with my daughters if they’ve been turned—only to pull them out. The rest would be my responsibility.”

“That it would be,” Stevenson agreed, his gaze on the heavy traffic cruising alongside them as they headed for Dallas. “Just as long as we’re clear.”

“Are all the arrangements in place?”

“That they are, Mr. Wallace. All we need is the go-ahead from you.” Stevenson nodded his head at a small paper bag resting on the console between the seats. “There’s the special item you requested. Gotta admit, that particular request was a first. But then again, we’ve never had to deal with a born vamp before either.”

“You and your team won’t be dealing with one at all. I’ll be handling that honor.”

“Bullets filled with the resin from a dragon’s blood tree. Who knew?”

Hardly anyone, as it had turned out.

James’s research had turned up almost zilch on True Bloods and how to kill them or even if a different method other than the usual bullet/stake/ice pick/what-have-you to the heart followed by decapitation and burning was even required.

The Bureau’s files had contained nothing useful regarding born bloodsuckers, and he’d been refused access to SB files. Period.

What little information he’d managed to dredge up online had possessed all the frantic factoid qualities of urban legends—only a silver stake dipped in holy water thrust into the heart at high noon; the heart needs to be cut out and burned on a pyre a la Percy Shelley—until he’d stumbled upon an obscure but enthusiastic website dedicated to nomad culture and their pagan beliefs.

The clan shuvano (shaman; shuvani to indicate a female shaman) favored me with a fantastic tale about a night elemental (born vampire) and her adventures in the ancient world, and how she died unexpectedly in Yemen after spotting a tree bleeding red sap and tasting the resin out of curiosity . . .

Myth? Folktale? Possibly. Yet somehow, the story rang with authenticity.

After more research into the dragon’s blood tree and its history, James had decided to take a gamble, feeling in his gut he had the winning number.

“The resin is medicinal for humans,” James murmured. “Poisonous and usually fatal to born vamps, depending on how much gets into their bloodstream.”

“Does it affect regular bloodsuckers?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Might be interesting to find out.”

“Agreed.”

James scooped up the bag, unrolled the top, and looked inside at the box of .38 caliber ammunition. A warm curl of satisfaction, of upcoming fatherly retribution, spiraled through him.

Dante Prejean had a very big surprise coming his way. Two or three or six bullets in all the right places should guarantee that the bloodsucker wouldn’t be doing anything to anyone’s daughters ever again.

“You’ll like the facility, Mr. Wallace,” Stevenson said. “I’ll give you the big tour when we get there. It’ll be comfortable and cheery for your girls as they undergo their rehabilitation, and ultra-secure. No chance of anyone wandering away.”

“That’s good to know. Annie is talented at breaking out of supposedly secure institutions.”

Stevenson chuckled. “She won’t be breaking out of this one, I can promise you that. And once she’s on medication for her disorder and in therapy, she won’t want to, trust me.”

“Promises and trust mean nothing,” James said quietly. “Only results.”

“No argument here.”

Shifting his attention to the scenery blurring past the passenger-side window, James didn’t voice the other thoughts racing through his mind—that it was Heather he was concerned about, not his youngest child, and it wouldn’t break his heart if Annie quietly disappeared, taking the shame of her disease with her.

And James was certain that Annie was his, despite Shannon’s whoring; he’d discreetly conducted paternity tests on each of his children. Except Heather. He’d never doubted she was his daughter. Her intelligence, her drive, her thirst for justice, all were qualities she’d inherited from him, while Annie had inherited only Shannon’s flaws.

It seemed as though Shannon had deliberately funneled everything he’d hated about her—the drinking, the running around, the ugly mood swings, the screaming fights—into their last daughter as she’d gestated inside Shannon’s womb, just to spite him.

James honestly didn’t expect Annie to live any longer than her mother had.

Kevin? Ah, his son had been more Shannon’s boy than his, a photographer and a boozer, in a committed relationship with another man; he was full of thoughtful silences and adrenaline-fueled action—sky-diving, skiing, and surfing.

But Heather was his flesh and blood, his daughter—mind, heart, and soul.

If only he could remind her of that fact.

The paper bag rustled as James pulled the box of ammo out. Untucking the box’s end flap, he slid out the carton with its neat rows of bullets.

Of course, once a man found his daughter, he’d be wise to take her and go and forget about the off-limits male in whose company he found her.

A wise man, perhaps. But he was a father.

26
FIRE-CRACKED BONES

NEW ORLEANS
March 28

THE SMELL OF SMOKE, burned wood, and water-logged ashes hung heavy in the air. And in the sunshine, the stark sight of the fire-cracked bones of what had once been their home rooted Lucien to the fractured and stained sidewalk like an oak, one hand still grasping the SUV’s door.

Dante’s words, low and husky, whispered through Lucien’s memory.

The fire I told you about? Simone didn’t . . . make it out. She’s gone, mon ami.

The pain and sorrow shadowing Dante’s pale face had told Lucien all the things his son hadn’t voiced. Simone had died hard. And she had died alone.

Lucien’s muscles flexed. Rippled taut under the skin. Metal shrieked as the edge of the driver’s door twisted beneath his hand. Releasing the door, he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath of air, dragging the wet and smoky reek of destruction deep into his lungs.

But underneath, he caught a whiff of Simone’s night-dewed magnolia scent—or imagined he did. Thought he heard her voice, a teasing, Cajun-lilted rhythm, imagined the smile smoldering on her lips.

Such big wings, cher. What does that say about Fallen males?

He laughs: Everything, ma belle femme.

Opening his eyes, Lucien walked up the sidewalk beside the undamaged rock wall to the black iron-piked gate. The yellow crime scene tape stretched across its bars fluttered in the afternoon breeze. He ripped it off, then fed it to the breeze.

The gates creaked as he pushed them open and strode up the driveway, passing fire-twisted oaks and seared weeping willows, their branches black and skeletal. The roses and flowering shrubs that Simone had planted beside the house, the wisteria and scarlet four o’clocks, were gone along with their sun-sweet perfume. Just a few fire-hardened stems poked up from the ground like desiccated fingers.

And the house . . . Lucien’s heart drummed a savage rhythm against his ribs.

Only the charred foundation and one blackened porch column remained of their home, the interior gray and hollow. Dante’s studio, most of his guitars and musical gear, the life and history he’d forged for himself night by night—gone, along with everything else.

But none of that compared to the loss of Simone.

Stepping up onto the foundation, Lucien dropped down into the debris and ash-filled basement. Gray ash puffed up into the air when he landed, dusted his shoes and trousers. Burnt wood cracked and fragmented beneath his feet.

The smoke reek was thicker in the basement’s moist and already moldering depths. Lucien didn’t know what he was looking for, what he hoped to find, but he walked with care, kept his eyes on the rubble beneath his feet.

The police visit had gone as well as possible for an arson and murder investigation. Questions had been asked and deflected.

Who do you think torched your house, Mr. De Noir? Any recent threats?

I have no idea. And no, no threats, recent or otherwise.

What about Prejean? We’ve heard that he has a bit of a fire-bug history . . .

His name is Baptiste, not Prejean, and I believe his juvenile records and all they contain are sealed. I also don’t like what you’re suggesting. This interview is now finished. My attorney shall be contacting you.

And that was another concern twisting around Lucien’s heart—Dante’s slipping sanity. What had happened to Dante, been done to him, during Lucien’s absence?

What Lucien had witnessed in Gehenna—Dante’s inability to remain in the present without Heather’s help—had iced him to the bone.

And a creawdwr bonded with a mortal. Lucien shook his head. However it had happened, it was dangerous for Dante and Heather both. Her very mortality was a threat. If she died . . .

A metallic glint caught Lucien’s eye. Bending, he dug through the charred and broken bits of wood, tiles, glass, furniture, and what looked like a melted recliner, soot and wood oils greasing his fingers black, and fished free a spoon that was bent and scorched.

No treasure. No keepsakes. No hint of Simone. Nothing remained.

They would have to start anew. Just like he needed to do with Dante.

With a soft sigh, Lucien dropped the spoon back into the wreckage. He straightened. Brushing soot and ash from his hands, he returned to the wall, leaping with easy and powerful grace up from the basement and over the foundation.

He walked back to the SUV, straightened the door’s twisted frame as best he could, then slid in behind the wheel. He longed to take to the sky and wing over the broad, brown expanse of the Mississippi in search of Mauvais’s riverboat, the red and white Winter Rose. But he would have to wait until nightfall.

Then, once found, Mauvais and his fille de sang Justine would die slow. Hard.

And each very much alone.

Keying on the engine, Lucien steered the SUV into the street.

27
CROWBARS

NEW ORLEANS,
ABOVE AUNT SALLY’S TAVERN & BBQ
March 28

PURCELL FETCHED AN ICE-COLD bottle of lemon water from the mini-fridge the SB had so thoughtfully provided for the surveillance team. Of course, since the surveillance team had been abruptly recalled to Alexandria, they no longer needed the mini-fridge or anything it contained. Purcell, on the other hand . . .

In a few days, a paperwork snafu would be discovered at HQ and agents would be reassigned to New Orleans, but by then Purcell would be long gone and they’d have two less subjects to watch—Heather Wallace and S.

Purcell returned to the canvas chair parked in front of the window and sat down again, breathing in the tangy aroma of barbeque wafting in from the tavern below. Twisting the cap off the bottle of water, he took a long, throat-chilling swallow of the icy lemon water as he returned his attention across the narrow street to the club with the black iron letters reading 666 above its green shuttered door.

There’d been no movement since Lucien De Noir had walked out the front door an hour or so earlier dressed in well-fitting black trousers and a black button-down shirt clearly tailored for his tall and powerful physique.

Looks like S’s sugar daddy has errands to run, Purcell mused. Wonder if it has anything to do with last night’s fire?

De Noir had folded himself in behind the wheel of a forest green and road-grimed SUV, then driven out of view.

Purcell scanned the club’s empty, ivy-looped balconies, with their baskets full of deep green–leaved ferns and white and purple little flowers hanging from the intricate scrolled ironwork. Heavy curtains masked each set of French doors and windows.

Snatches of conversation swarmed up from the tavern’s outside tables below, buzzing like bees against Purcell’s mind.

You been out there? Seen the destruction? It’s awful. They say it was terrorists.

What kinda terrorists blow up a goddamned cemetery? What would be the point?

Exactly. Maybe it was some kinda scientific project gone awry.

A scientific project in a cemetery? Run by who? George Romero?

I’m just saying. Witnesses talked about seeing a ring of blue fire.

Purcell found it interesting that wherever S went, disaster, ruin, and death seemed to follow like loyal hounds padding behind their pack leader.

The center in D.C., Seattle, Damascus, here. Enough to make a man wonder.

The club’s door swung open and Heather Wallace, dressed in hip-hugging black jeans and a short-sleeved moss green sweater, paused in the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other hand behind her. Purcell had no doubt that a gun was tucked into the back of the FBI agent’s jeans and that her fingers were wrapped around its grip

She studied the street, looking for stakeout vehicles, tourists with the wrong stride, anything or anyone out of place. Her gaze shifted up as she scanned the windows in the buildings on Purcell’s side of the street.

Purcell eased back from the window like a long afternoon shadow. He counted to ten, then chanced another glance.

Wallace had stepped outside and was being followed by a guy wearing faded jeans and a black wife-beater, with tribal-style tattoos black-inked along his neck and sculpted arms, his hair a horse’s mane of red braids. Together, they walked down the tourist-thronged sidewalk to a black and dented van parked against the curb.

Purcell identified the guy as Jack Cheramie, aka Black Bayou Jack, the drummer for Inferno.

Wallace unlocked the vehicle, slid the door open, and hopped inside. A moment later, she shoved a lidded carton with worn seams into the drummer’s muscled arms before jumping out of the van with a carton of her own.

Touching the rim of his networked Ray Bans, Purcell toggled the binocular lenses into place and studied the black marker–scrawled numbers on the cartons, knowing they and everything else he viewed was being transmitted to Díon.

WALLACE, SHANNON, CASE NO. 5123441.

Purcell frowned as he mentally scrolled through his knowledge of Wallace and her family. If he remembered right, her mother had been murdered some fifteen or twenty years ago. He wondered why Wallace was looking into the case file on her long-dead mother and how she happened to be in possession of the files in the first place.

Late afternoon/early evening sunshine sparked fire in Wallace’s red hair as she scanned the street again, across, down, and up. Purcell wondered if the FBI agent was always this careful or if she was feeling particularly paranoid today.

After a moment, Wallace slammed the van’s door shut, re-locked the vehicle with a tap of the smart key, then returned to the club with Cheramie.

Flipping the regular lenses back into place on his sunglasses, Purcell relaxed against the sun-heated canvas back of his chair, the warmth soaking in through his Hawaiian shirt. He plucked the bottle from the window sill and took another long sip of the lemon water.

Díon’s plan was simple.

We’re not going to kill S, we’re going to break him.

He planned to bash S’s sanity to little tiny pieces with several crowbars: Heather Wallace was one, a little girl named Violet Sullivan another, and the skin-peeling, angel-freeing lunatic priest named Matthew Moses was a third.

All Purcell needed to do was wait for the right moment, the perfect opportunity, to grab Heather Wallace, transport her to the Doucet-Bainbridge Sanitarium in Baton Rouge—S’s old stomping grounds—hand her over to angel-freeing Father Moses, then make sure S knew where to find her.

And wait for him to come claim his property.

28
WRITHING WORMS

WASHINGTON, D.C.,
GEORGETOWN
March 28

CATERINA DISABLED THE SECURITY camera nearest the cranberry red Cadillac Escalade with a beam of light from her laser pointer, then crossed the parking garage to the vehicle. She unlocked the SUV with the remote that had once belonged to the late Stephen Underwood, then slipped inside.

Climbing into the back, Caterina sat down behind the driver’s side captain’s chair with its cream-colored leather, her presence hidden by the black tinted side and rear windows. She thumbed the remote, relocking the car, then dropped it onto the carpeted floorboard.

She reached inside her black blazer, pulled her Sig from its holster. She rested it against her black-clad thigh, leather creaking as her gloved fingers curled around the gun’s grip.

As Caterina waited for her mark to arrive, her restless thoughts skipped back to the camera feed from Purcell’s surveillance, the images she’d studied on Díon’s computer.

Lucien De Noir walks out the club’s front door dressed in black trousers and a black button-down shirt, his waist-length hair tied back and gleaming like polished black onyx.

Not dead, after all, Caterina had mused.

Even through the monitor, Caterina had felt the intensity of De Noir’s presence like a hand to her chin, focusing her attention on his face. A sense of childlike wonder had twirled around her for a split second, a wish to see his wings unfurl, a yearning for magic.

I am looking at one of the Fallen.

Then he’d climbed in behind the wheel of the travel-spattered SUV Von had rented back in Damascus and driven away.

Caterina couldn’t help but wonder if De Noir was in on the plan to betray his son, and the thought twisted her muscles tight.

A voice, muffled and faraway, whispered: That makes no sense. Why would he turn against Dante? Why would he use him to gain power—now? He has always known Dante was a creawdwr, shared a bond with him before it was severed. That makes no sense, Caterina.

Pain ashed the voice, and Caterina realized she couldn’t even remember what it had been saying. Pain throbbed at her temples, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

She knew something was wrong. Very wrong. Her mind felt full of writhing worms. But whenever she tried to root them out, to lift them into the light of reason and look at them, they wriggled in deeper.

Caterina drew in a long, slow breath. The air inside the Escalade was stuffy and warm and smelled faintly of apples and cinnamon and leather.

Her headache eased off the throttle, downshifted into a dull, manageable ache, and she felt the tension start to unwind from her shoulder muscles. She released her breath in a low, grateful sigh.

What had she been thinking about?

Writhing worms . . .

She remembered. Protecting her True Blood prince from the treachery of the woman who had claimed his heart. Caterina opened her eyes.

Wallace had me fooled. If Díon hadn’t revealed the truth, I’d still be fooled.

Caterina had promised to guard Dante Baptiste and all he cared for with her life. But the woman Dante cared for was working undercover for the FBI—had been from the very start—and was planning to hand him over. So Heather Wallace was no longer a part of Caterina’s vow. And soon, she would no longer be a part of Dante Baptiste’s life.

Purcell would intercept the lying bitch and transport her to a safe location to be interrogated. Caterina would’ve preferred to simply put a bullet in Wallace’s brain, but Dion had explained that in order to protect the creawdwr they had both dedicated themselves to, they needed to know who else was spying on Dante. Once Wallace had spilled all that she knew . . .

A smile touches Díon’s lips. “Then she’s all yours, Caterina.”

Worms tunneled and writhed inside her head.

Caterina reached up to rub her forehead and was surprised to see her hand trembling. She fisted her hand and lowered it, shaking, to her lap. Fear burrowed in deep like a den-digging badger.

Again, the sense that something was horribly awry sank through her consciousness like a stone into deep water, then vanished.

She had a job to do.

The click-click-clickety-click of heels against concrete echoed throughout the parking garage. Caterina thumbed off the Sig’s safety, eased the slide back ever so quietly, and chambered a round.

A beep-beep rolled like thunder through the garage as the mark unlocked the SUV with her remote.

Lifting the Sig to head level, Caterina waited.

VALERIE UNDERWOOD YANKED THE SUV’s door open, then tossed her purse into the passenger seat. She slid in behind the wheel and thumped the back of her skull against the headrest.

Shit-sucking, money-stealing attorneys.

They were determined to get every last goddamned cent of Stephen’s life insurance money and pension. She’d hoped that her acquittal would dissolve her of any responsibility for legal fees and court costs.

By the time it was all said and done, she’d be lucky if she even had money enough for the girls’ college funds.

I was found innocent. Shouldn’t I sue the state for my legal fees? For my emotional and mental distress? My husband was murdered and I was accused.

You were acquitted, Valerie. I think I’d count my blessings and move on.

Easy for her attorney to say. He’d have the majority of her funds. The cheapest part of this whole ordeal? Hiring Baxter to do the job on Stephen. He’d only cost her 5K and a couple of blow jobs.

Shit-sucking, money-stealing attorneys.

At least she’d had one slice of good news today—a heaping slice. Her ball-busting mother-in-law had dropped dead of a stroke in some diner on her way to work.

She wondered if Celeste had changed her will to exclude her yet.

Sighing, Valerie sat up. She needed to get over to Georgetown and pick up the girls at her folks’. She strapped on her seat belt, then slid the key into the ignition. When she glanced into the rearview mirror, her heart hurtled into her throat.

A woman with dark hair and shadowed eyes aimed a gun at the back of Valerie’s head. “Stephen and Celeste send their regards,” she said, pulling the trigger.

29
WORDS SHE SHOULDN’T KNOW

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28

“THANKS, JACK,” HEATHER SAID as the drummer set the carton down on the bedroom floor beside the one she had carried up from the van. A musty smell wafted up from the cartons. “I appreciate it.”

Jack straightened in the dim light shafting in from the hallway, then shrugged, muscles cording in the shoulders displayed by the black wife-beater stretched across his chest.

“Ça fait pas rien, hun,” he said, his Cajun accent spiced thicker than Dante’s. “Glad to help, me.” He nodded at the time-weathered and stained cartons, the faux hawk of cherry-red colored braids atop his buzz-cut dark blond hair swinging against his shoulders. “Still working on your mama’s case?”

“I hope to—once things have quieted down,” Heather replied.

“If you wait until things quiet down, hun, you might be waiting a long fucking time. Things ain’t never quiet around Dante.”

Kind of what she’d figured, but . . . “Point taken, m’sieu.”

Jack’s gaze drifted over to the bed, his attention on Dante’s Snoozing form. “How’s Tee-Tee doing, anyhow?”

Heather smiled at Dante’s nickname—earned for being the youngest member of Inferno—but her smile faded as she realized what Jack was asking. How’s he holding up? “Blaming himself,” she said quietly.

Jack shook his head and returned his attention to Heather. “Bet he is, him. I was afraid of that. Simone wouldn’t like that, no.”

“You should remind him of that,” Heather said.

“Good idea. I’ll do that, me.”

“Dante and Simone used to be more than friends, didn’t they?” she asked, surprised to hear the question spill from her lips. She knew it didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, not anymore, but still . . . she couldn’t help wondering.

“At the start, yeah, but it was a short-lived thing. Then they became friends.”

“Were they in love?”

Jack snorted. “Nope. Just lust and curiosity. A getting-to-know-you thing.”

“That’s one way to get to know someone, I suppose,” Heather muttered, daggering a glance at the beautiful nightkind stretched on top of the bed, one pale arm across his waist. Her beautiful nightkind. Her man. “Does he do that often?”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. He leaned one shoulder against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. His hazel eyes held hers. “Maybe you should be having this conversation with Tee-Tee, not me.”

Heat crept into Heather’s cheeks. He was right, of course. How would she feel if Dante started quizzing Annie over her past lovers and relationships?

“What you need to keep in mind is that I ain’t never seen Dante look at anyone like he looks at you, Heather. And me, I think you ought to leave the past right where it belongs.”

Claim the present. Forge a future. Together. All the things she was trying to help Dante accomplish with his life and here she was, getting worked up over people he’d gotten to know in the past.

Heather blew out a breath and trailed both hands through her hair. “Christ. You’re right. I’m being an idiot.”

“You’re being human, is all,” Jack said, “I think your feelings are natural enough. Just talk to Tee-Tee. Let him know what you expect from him. He’ll listen, for true.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Heather said. “I’ll do that.”

A soft trill drew her attention to the doorway. Eerie rubbed his furry side against the doorjamb, golden eyes blinking.

“Look who it is,” Jack said, nodding at Eerie. “Hey, minou.” Heather crouched and held out her hand. “C’mere, you. How’s my kitty-boy?”

Eerie padded into the room, tail held high, the tip curving into a question mark. He moseyed around the room, pausing to rub the side of his face against each piece of furniture as he leisurely made his way over to Heather’s hand and bumped his orange head against her waiting fingertips.

Heather scratched behind his ears. “Thanks for gracing me with your presence, oh regal and magnificent one.”

Eerie chirped that she was, indeed, fortunate to have been graced with his feline presence, then sauntered back across the room to the door. He glanced over his shoulder. Mewed.

“Yes, Master. Right away, Master,” Heather said, rising to her feet. “I take it that you need to be fed.”

“I do need to be fed, me,” Jack agreed. “And I appreciate the offer and all, but I ain’t too comfortable with the word master.” A wicked smile curved his lips, sparked mischief in his golden-brown eyes. He winked. “Jack alone will do.”

Heather cocked an eyebrow. “As Dante would say, tais toi. And unless you’d like a heaping bowl of kitty kibble, Mr. Jack-Alone-Will-Do, you can fix your own damned food.”

“Which flavor of kibble?”

“Fake tuna.”

“Yum. My favorite.”

“Mew,” Eerie insisted, managing to sound both impatient and disapproving at the same time. Tail twitching, he disappeared into the hall.

Laughing, Heather and Jack followed him downstairs.

ANNIE SAT ON A stool at the counter, watching what looked like Robot Chicken reruns on the flat screen TV bolted to the wall above the bar, a cigarette smoldering between the fingers of one hand.

As Heather walked around behind the bar, she noticed that her sister was wearing new jeans and an Inferno T-shirt—all courtesy of De Noir—the bandages still secure on her arms.

“Hey,” Annie greeted, taking a sip from a black mug with painted flames licking up from its base. The pungent scent of peppermint and tea leaves curled into the air. But the bottle of Wild Turkey resting on the counter beside the half-empty pack of Camels told Heather that tea wasn’t the only thing her sister was drinking.

You’d think after all the puking and groaning she’d done earlier this afternoon that the last thing she’d want would be more booze.

“Hair of the dog?” Heather asked, lifting one eyebrow. “Doesn’t the bourbon cancel out the tea and peppermint? I thought you didn’t get hangovers.”

Annie shook a wayward lock of blue/black/purple hair back from her eyes and blew a ring of smoke into the air. “First time for everything. And I hope it’s the last. Because this fucking blows.”

“Have you eaten anything? Maybe some toast—”

Annie shuddered. “Dear God, no.”

Heather fetched the bag of kibble and poured a handful into the small plastic bowl sitting beside the water dish on the floor. With a happy chirp, Eerie started crunching tuna-stinky nuggets.

“My hard-earned advice?” Annie said. “Never try to keep up with vampires. Nightkind will drink ya under the table every fucking time.”

“Sounds like a no-brainer, actually.”

“So does not hanging out with someone who can turn fucking fallen angels to stone and cemeteries to slag. But here we are.”

Jaw tight, Heather rolled the top of the kibble bag shut, then slid it under the sink. Gripping the counter’s edge, she locked gazes with her sister. “Don’t. Start.”

Annie rubbed a hand over her face, then sighed. “Shit. I don’t wanna start a fight. That’s not my intention. You’ve both been through hell. Fuck, Dante just lost his house, his friend. Maybe he would be safer in Gehenna with the other fallen angels.”

Heather stared at Annie. “Where did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Gehenna. How the hell do you know that name?”

“I don’t know. I musta heard it somewhere.” Annie took a final puff from her cigarette, blue smoke pluming from her nostrils, then stubbed it out in the butt-brimming glass ashtray. “What fucking difference does it make? The point is, the longer he stays here in our world, the more danger he’s in, right?”

Gehenna. In our world. Words that shouldn’t be slipping past Annie’s lips. Heather was pretty damned sure that neither she nor Dante had mentioned Gehenna in front of her sister, and she doubted that Caterina Cortini was the source of Annie’s disturbing knowledge, since she’d been against Annie knowing anything.

“The thing is,” Annie continued, her blue eyes meeting Heather’s, her expression earnest, “it’s where Gorgeous-but-Deadly needs to be. Gehenna. He could be himself there. He wouldn’t hafta hide who or what he is. He’d be free.”

Heather shifted her weight onto one hip and folded her arms under her breasts as she studied her sister. What game was Annie playing this time? Was it a game?

“Don’t call him that,” Heather said. “His name’s Dante. This is his world. This is his home, where he was born. Why should he have to run?”

Ain’t running. Ain’t hiding.

“I’m not saying he has to run,” Annie said, with a defiant lift of her chin. “But his blue fire mojo is outta control and his past is outta control and that scares the shit outta me. He’s gonna hurt you, Heather. Not because he wants to, but because he can’t fucking help it.”

An image of Chloe sprawled in a pool of her own blood flashed behind Heather’s eyes. Her throat tightened. The words that Dante had spoken to her before Sleep whispered through her memory.

As long as my past is messing up my present, I’m beaucoup dangerous to you and anyone near me. I’ve gotta find a way to always stay here and now.

Heather unfolded her arms, trailed a hand through her hair. “I know the risks. But they’re risks I’ve chosen to take because he’s worth fighting for and because I—”

“Fucking love him and trust him and yada-yada, I know,” Annie interrupted. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t kill you, then hate himself in the morning. Night. Whatever.”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that. But maybe if Dante went to Gehenna and found someone to teach him how to control all the shit in his head and how to keep from turning cemeteries into rock piles, someone like the Morningstar, he wouldn’t be so flipping dangerous.”

Heather’s blood chilled in her veins. “The Morningstar?” she repeated, voice low. “Now how the hell do you know that name? I know you didn’t hear it from—”

Heather felt a sudden intake of breath, felt Dante awaken. His awareness curled warm and inviting through their bond. Heat pulsed through her veins, her body. As much as she ached to race upstairs and fulfill her promise to make Dante pay for falling asleep on her, she knew her skin-on-skin revenge would have to wait for the moment.

Annie frowned. “Dunno. I guess . . . I was just thinking of fallen angels and maybe I remembered the Morningstar from a book I read or something. Fuck. I don’t know.”

Everything in Annie’s expression and body language suggested she was telling the truth—she had no idea why the Morningstar’s name had popped into her head and rolled off her tongue.

A dark possibility brewed in the back of Heather’s mind, a possibility that iced her to the bone. Her thoughts flipped back to Damascus and the discovery that one of the Fallen had broken into their motel room, frying the electronic lock and searing off the door chain, but—after magicking her and Cortini into sleep—had left without Dante. Which had made absolutely no sense.

“Holy fucking hell,” Von mutters. He looks at Dante. “Not that I ain’t glad, but why the fuck would they leave you behind?”

“I don’t think they woulda. We’re missing something.”

The Morningstar had admitted in the cemetery that he’d been following them and had broken into their room in Damascus—I’ve been keeping an eye on you for your father—but she was pretty goddamned sure that he’d lied.

Prince of Darkness. Big surprise, right? Of course he’d lied.

And Heather had the horrible feeling that he’d planted a suggestion in Annie’s dreaming mind or hypnotized her or bewitched her while in their room. Had told her to steer Dante to Gehenna—and to the Morningstar.

Christ. What if Annie’s mind hadn’t been the only one seeded full of suggestions?

<Catin? Everything all right?>

<Define all right. I think I found out what the Morningstar did that morning in our motel room.>

<Yeah? Do I need to turn the fucker inside-out?>

<Possibly. Don’t move. I’ll be up in a bit.>

<What happens if I move?>

<You can always find out.>

Dante laughed, and the mental sound, the feel of his laughter, was a devilish hand trailing fire and wicked promises up Heather’s spine to the nape of her neck.

<You’re gonna hafta catch me first, catin. I’ll see you after I check on Trey.>

Heather’s breath caught rough in her throat when she felt Dante’s lips upon hers in a ravenous kiss, his heated hands cupping her face, his burning leaves and November frost scent enveloping her senses. Everything else faded away—the club, Annie, the Morningstar—beneath the intensity of Dante’s sending.

Then he was gone, his shields in place.

Oh, he’s going to pay for that one too.

Heather became aware that someone was snapping their fingers in her face.

“Hey, fucking Earth to Heather,” Annie said, snapping her fingers once more. “You’ve got that day-dreaming, inward look junkies on the nod get. Or like when I’ve seen Silver mind-chatting with other nightkind. Since I’m pretty sure you ain’t spiking black tar heroin into your veins, I’m guessing it’s that temporary blood link thingie.”

Cheeks flushing, Heather turned her thoughts back outward and focused on her sister. Annie stared at her with an unnerving intensity.

“Sorry about that,” Heather said. “And you’re right, except the link’s no longer temporary and I get caught up in it since I’m not used to it yet.” Of course, Dante hadn’t helped things one bit. She drew in a breath to calm her racing heart.

Annie narrowed her eyes. “You’re saying that you’re fucking permanently linked to him?” she asked, disbelief playing across her face. “How the hell did that happen?”

“We don’t know exactly how it happened. I fell into his dreams or he pulled me in and somehow . . .”

Annie looked away, a muscle flexing in her jaw. “Well, that sucks for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’ll never ever be alone again.”

Sliding off the bar stool, Annie scooped up the pack of Camels and tucked the book of matches inside the cellophane. Grabbing the bottle of Wild Turkey, she said, “Think I’ll see if the guys need any help.”

Heather watched her sister walk away, Annie’s hip swing growing more pronounced with each step closer to the Cage and the three Inferno members setting up equipment inside of it, wondering why she felt like she’d just been slapped and hard.

30
OF GODS AND VAMPIRES

ROME,
THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY
March 28

RENATA ALESSA CORTINI DROPPED down from the moonlit sky with its brushstrokes of pale clouds, landing with easy grace on the cemetery’s gravel path. The high altitude cold had glazed her fingers with frost, iced her nails. She threw back the hood of her black cloak and scanned the cemetery.

Moonlight glimmered on the bristling rows and layers of elaborate marble tombstones. Lambent-eyed cats—the cemetery’s sleek guardians of the dead—prowled the paths between the graves.

Renata closed her eyes and listened. On the old side of the cemetery, beyond the gate, the hummingbird flutter of a mortal heart winged around the slow, measured drumbeat of a vampire’s pulse. She opened her eyes, a smile brushing her lips.

Fionn and his blood gift.

A little calico cat slithered from around a white tombstone, scraping its furry side along the marble, and blinked moonlight-silvered eyes at Renata.

“Buona sera, bella,” Renata greeted with a smile as she walked along the gravel path, past the darkened and closed office, and through the gate into the oldest part of the cemetery. Less crowded, this side—fewer headstones and more lush grass between them.

A warm breeze rustled through the leaves of oaks, pine trees, and cypress, carrying the sweet smells of honeysuckle and roses through the air. Well-fed cats of all sizes and colors—tabby, calico, tortoiseshell—padded among the old graves or watched with lambent eyes from the benches positioned throughout the cemetery.

Renata loved the Protestant Cemetery. RESURRECTURIS was carved deep into the stone above the cemetery’s main entrance, sanctifying it as a place for those who will rise again. Peace and stillness ran deep here, like a river within the earth’s heart.

A sacred place.

Often in the quiet hours of the night, she’d soar over its stone walls and bask in its silence and calm like a cat stretched out in a pool of warm Mediterranean sunlight, the cemetery’s ancient and thick Roman walls blocking out all traffic noise from the streets beyond.

Renata scanned the shadows for Fionn, drawn by the rhythm of his heart, as she followed the stone path meandering around the grounds. She walked past tombstones and weathered monuments, her attention coming to rest on the ancient pyramid looming just behind the short, iron-barred fence and the figures shadowing its stone—one standing, one kneeling.

Renata left the stone path and started across the night-draped grass. A lean figure wearing a long, black coat stepped forward. His shoulder-length hair—gold and honey and red—flickered like flame in the warm breeze. An intricate band of Celtic knot-work was blue-inked across his handsome face, running beneath his light-filled eyes and across the bridge of his nose.

Beautiful Fionn, from Ireland.

Renata nodded in acknowledgment as she drew to a halt in front of Fionn’s tall, muscular form—six-four to her five-two. He wore tight-fitting black leather pants and a white poet’s shirt beneath his long coat.

Fionn was the only member of her privy council within the Cercle de Druide that she truly trusted and the only member she had told that a True Blood—Dante Baptiste—had been found by her mortal daughter, the child of her heart, Caterina.

Now she was about to entrust Fionn with an even more powerful secret—that she suspected Dante Baptiste was much more than a magical True Blood.

Caterina’s words sparkled like fairy dust in Renata’s memory.

The Bloodline still holds, Mama, and a myth from the ancient past now walks the world. I’ve seen him. Fallen and True Blood.

And not just that. A Fallen Maker.

Renata’s blood thrummed with excitement as she considered all the ramifications, all the possibilities. The time of gods and vampires had, at long last, returned.

According to Caterina, Dante Baptiste had rejected the Fallen by turning dozens of them to stone in Damascus, Oregon. And this pleased Renata because, at the heart of the matter, Dante had been born vampire. He belongs to us, not the Elohim. We shall guide him.

“Mo bhean,” Fionn greeted formally, dropping with feline grace to one knee in the grass. He bowed his head, one gold-and-fire side braid swinging against the side of his face. “I seek thy blessing.”

Renata bit her lower lip and hot blood welled, washing away pain’s sting. “Then rise and receive it, mo pháiste.”

Fionn stood and, grasping her shoulders, bent his face to hers and kissed her deeply, drinking in her blessing with his lips and tongue. He smelled of peat and smoky fires, of deep, dark forests.

His warm hands slid away from her shoulders as the kiss ended and he straightened to regard her with eyes the color of a winter sea—blue-gray and full of hidden depths. He licked the last drop of dark blood from his lips with a slow curl of his tongue—and the sight melted the final bit of frost from Renata’s flight-cooled body.

Well. At least I’m no longer cold.

“I brought an offering, my lady,” he said, his lilting voice like musical honey.

Renata glanced at the young mortal male kneeling in the dew-wet grass behind Fionn, his head respectfully bowed. His pulse raced through his veins. Mingled lust and adrenaline and an opium-laced merlot spiced his blood.

“Grazie,” she said with a quick smile. “He smells absolutely delizioso. I shall share him with you, of course. After we talk.”

Fionn nodded, “Have you news of the True Blood?”

“Sì. Troubling news received from my llygad this evening.” Renata crossed the moon-silvered lawn to a bench and sat. A tabby jumped down, deciding it didn’t care to share its perch.

Renata crooked a finger, and by the time she had lowered her hand, Fionn was sitting beside her, fingers absently stroking the ghost-pale fur of a purring cat already snuggled into his leather-clad lap.

“Troubling?” he asked, a frown pinching the skin between his eyes.

“His home was burned down to the foundation last night in New Orleans and a member of his household is believed to have died in the fire.”

When Renata had received word of the fire, uneasiness had trailed a cold finger down her spine. The fact that she’d heard nothing of this from Giovanni—already in place in New Orleans to meet with Dante Baptiste and offer him the support of the Cercle—had left her more than a little disturbed.

“Does Baptiste have any ongoing feuds?”

Renata nodded. “According to my llygad, Dante was accused a year ago of murdering an entire household, but for one survivor, by torching their home. The matter was dropped due to lack of evidence and motive.”

“A household for a household,” Fionn mused. “Sounds like the sole survivor finally decided to take matters into their own hands. Any word about the fire from Guy Mauvais? Since he’s master of the city, he must know something.”

“He knows, sì, since he ordered it done as punishment for his fille de sang’s murdered lover,” Renata said, voice tight. “A matter of personal revenge taken out on innocents. According to Mauvais, Dante admitted to the murder.”

“Then the matter should’ve been settled between them, not taken out on the boy’s household,” Fionn said. “Where is the honor in that?”

“There’s more,” Renata said. “According to rumor, Mauvais kept his llygad away from a meeting he held aboard his riverboat, a meeting that Dante Baptiste was rumored to attend—by force.”

“So anything that happened or was said during this rumored and unverified meeting can’t be confirmed.”

“Exactly.”

Fionn swore in deep-throated Gaelic. “Mauvais knows, then.”

Renata nodded. “That Dante is True Blood, sì, I would imagine so. Given that the meeting was forced, I expect Mauvais took blood by force as well.”

Fionn swore again, causing the ears of the cat curled up in his lap to twitch.

“And one final bit of news—Mauvais’s llygad reported that just before the Winter Rose undocked from the wharf, a strange statue was carried on board. A winged and crouching sculpture that seemed to be falling apart.”

Renata’s heart had danced against her ribs when she’d received that information. Winged stone. Another of the Fallen transformed by creawdwr fire? A chill had touched her spine. Did Guy Mauvais possess one of the Fallen?

And why had she heard nothing about any of this from Giovanni?

Two possibilities snapped like fire through her mind—Giovanni as prisoner, betrayed by Mauvais; Giovanni as co-conspirator for power, standing beside Mauvais.

But she knew from long experience with her fils de sang that a third possibility was more likely: he’d been buried to the hilt inside some lovely little thing, so busy laughing and drinking and fucking that he hadn’t noticed that everything was going to shit around him.

A muscle flexed in Renata’s jaw. She quickly calculated the time difference. It would be nearly seven P.M. in New Orleans. Giovanni should be awake soon, if he wasn’t already. As soon as she finished here, she would have a long conversation with her fils de sang. One he wouldn’t relish.

“Sounds like a gargoyle, a statue,” Fionn said. “Why is that worthy of note?”

“Because it brings us to the heart of why I asked you here, mio amico.”

“I’m listening, my lady.”

“There’s more at stake here than you realize,” Renata said, rising to her feet. “I was waiting until I could verify the information before sharing it with you, but given recent events . . .” She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“More at stake than True Blood?”

“Sì, assolutamente,” Renata held Fionn’s winter-sea gaze. “Dante Baptiste was fathered by one of the Fallen. I also believe him to be a Maker.”

Fionn stared at her, his face shocked clean of emotion, his body held preternaturally still. “There has never been a vampire/Fallen creawdwr,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Never a mixed-blood creawdwr. Period. There hasn’t even been a Maker since Yahweh’s death. How certain of this are you?”

“Almost completely. His being fathered by one of the Fallen is beyond question. My daughter, Caterina, has proof of that. She also witnessed him turning Fallen emissaries seeking to guide him to Gehenna to stone.”

“To stone . . .” Comprehension glinted in Fionn’s eyes. “You suspect Mauvais has one of the transformed Fallen in his possession.”

Renata shrugged. “È una possibilità.”

Fionn scrubbed a hand over his face, his gaze shifting away into the distance. “If this is true, that a True Blood/Fallen creawdwr exists, and he has rejected the Fallen, then we need to claim him before the Conseil du Sang learns the truth.”

“Sì, the Conseil will have no regard for the creawdwr’s spiritual well-being,” Renata said. “They know nothing of gods and will try to manipulate Dante into serving base causes. He is ours.”

“Aye,” Fionn murmured, looking at her again. “That he is.”

“And that’s where you come into this, mio amico,” Renata said. “I want you to bond Dante Baptiste. You have even more centuries than I do. I can’t think of a better teacher to guide him.”

But what she left unvoiced was her prime reason—Fionn would obey her.

Fionn blinked. He scrubbed a hand over his face again, whiskers rasping against his palm. “Why me, my lady? Why not you, yourself?”

“I have too many other responsibilities,” Renata replied. “All of which I would most likely need to give up if I bonded Dante. I have a feeling he would be a full-time job.”

Fionn laughed, the sound low and warm and very amused. “A polite way of saying I have time on my hands?” When Renata opened her mouth to protest, he held up a hand and shook his head. “I have been bored of late. When do you want me to go to New Orleans?”

“Soon. I have a task for Giovanni first—I want him to find and kill Guy Mauvais, then offer his head as a gift to Dante, our creawdwr, as a token of our devotion. I want you there with Giovanni when he makes the presentation.”

“Do you have any images of the True Blood you can share?”

“Sì, let me contact Stefan.”

Renata sent to her llygad and asked him to transmit the most current image he possessed of Dante to her and Fionn.

She felt a touch against her mind, a spiderweb’s delicate tickle, as the llygad pushed for her—and Fionn—to open. Renata inhaled deeply, then closed her eyes and relaxed her shields.

<Dante Baptiste, as seen outside of his Club Hell just prior to dawn on March 28th,> Stefan sent.

An image poured into Renata’s mind in detail so vivid it was as if she were viewing it in real time and through her own eyes.

Even though she’d studied the pictures of Dante that Caterina had emailed her and was acquainted with his lust-stirring looks, her breath still caught in her throat as though she were seeing him for the first time—a sudden intake of air she heard echoed from Fionn’s throat.

But as Renata looked past Dante’s dangerous and moonlit beauty, she noticed the tight set of his jaw, the smear of dried blood beneath his nose, the blue smudges beneath his kohled eyes, the dilated pupils like pools of ink.

He’s in pain. Or had been, anyway.

Shirtless, his white skin practically glowed in the waning night, pale moonlight pulsing through his veins. A ringed collar was buckled around his throat and snug, low-slung leather pants were belted over his hips. Smears of dried blood streaked his shoulders and down along his sides, blood that seemed to radiate out from his back.

Has the child been fighting? Feasting? Perhaps both.

But it was the scar on Dante’s chiseled chest that throttled Renata’s heart into high gear. A looping glyph in angelic script. Either Caterina had never seen it or it was new.

The heart-stopping image of Dante shimmered as though underwater, then vanished as the llygad withdrew it from their minds. Renata opened her eyes.

“A dangerous beauty,” Fionn breathed. “But that looked like a Fallen sigil on his chest.”

“I agree. Perhaps it was placed there by his father,” Renata said, hoping it was true. If he’d been marked by the Elohim . . .

<Another event occurred in New Orleans last night,> Stefan sent. <One of the cities of the dead was shattered in an explosion of unknown origin.>

Renata felt a another gentle touch from the llygad’s mind. Images streamed in.

The strobing lights of rumbling fire engines, police cars, ambulances, and a squat bomb squad van chip away at the night with red, blue, and white spikes of color.

Shards of broken glass in the street. Dented vehicles, cars slanted across the road as though kicked aside.

The cemetery walls, shattered and ruined, have collapsed; tombs, crypts, and statues have been cut in half, their contents spilling onto the ruptured stone paths; the sliced-off tops of cypress and oaks bury chunks of broken stone and masonry, the edges of their leaves curled up and blackened.

Rescue personnel and first responders search the cemetery, their voice perplexed at what they don’t find. A cause for the explosion. Or a reason why the first responders simultaneously fainted an hour earlier.

The thunderstorm scent of ozone lingers in the air.

<That is all.> The flood of images and sensory input wavered, then vanished as Stefan withdrew from their minds once more.

Renata opened her eyes to find Fionn staring at her. She wondered if her expression looked as troubled as his.

“I don’t care for the looks of that,” he said. “Could it be the work of the creawdwr? Perhaps in a fight against the Fallen?”

Renata shrugged. “Troubling things are always occurring in New Orleans, sì? Why be bothered by this one? It may have nothing to do with Dante Baptiste.”

But despite her words, Renata couldn’t help but think that the mysterious explosion was tied to Dante Baptiste. But how and why eluded her.

A sudden thought, a horrible possibility, raised its head as Caterina’s words returned to her.

He’s been damaged, Mama. Monsters seized him the moment he was born and hid him among even more twisted monsters who fed upon his beauty and tried to shatter his spirit.

And did the monsters succeed?

No, I think they failed . . .

But what if Caterina was wrong and the monsters had succeeded in shattering his spirit, his mind? And Dante Baptiste, first True Blood Fallen creawdwr in history, was insane?

Gently shooing the cat from his lap, Fionn rose to his feet and inclined his head at the blood gift. With a smile she didn’t feel, Renata nodded in agreement.

As they feasted together on the young mortal from Naples, his blood pouring hot and well-flavored down their throats, Renata mulled over the relevance of the ruined city of the dead in New Orleans and pondered the possible destruction of the world and all it contained. Opium-birthed visions rippled through her mind.

The night burns, the sky on fire from horizon to horizon.

The Great Destroyer looks up and gold light stars out from his kohl-rimmed eyes.

Sitting back on her heels, Renata studied the runic patterns created on the mortal’s cooling skin in trails and smears and spatters of his own blood. But no matter how long she looked at them, their shape and revelation remained the same—revealing only swords and cracked towers, death and destruction and utter transformation.

Renata felt her heart turn to ice.

31
NO OTHER CHOICE

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28

“GO AWAY, TEE-TEE,” TREY said when Dante walked into the bedroom. “Quitte moi tranquille. Just let me fucking be.” He rolled over onto his side, his dreads slithering across the bed.

Dante caught the bitter alkaloid odor of hunger undercutting the web-runner’s natural Spanish moss-and-still-water scent. Trey’s body wanted to feed, but he was ignoring it, willing himself straight into death’s ravenous heart instead.

Not if I can help it. Ain’t losing him too.

“I think you’re gonna want to hear what I got to say, cher,” Dante said, sitting down on the quilted comforter beside him. “Those motherfuckers who torched the house? I got word that they’re rendezvousing with Mauvais tonight at Lake Pontchar-train.”

Even though he wasn’t moving, Trey’s body seemed to freeze, every fiber of his being listening. “Word from who?”

“Vincent, and he sends his condolences.”

Trey flopped over onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes a lambent gleam in the darkness. “If he’s still an ally of that fi’ de garce Mauvais, he can keep his goddamned condolences. Was he telling the truth? About the rendezvous?”

“Ain’t sure, but I think it can’t hurt to check it out. We’ll be careful. Watch our asses. But if it’s true . . .” Dante lifted his arm and bit into his wrist. Blood welled up, dark and fragrant, on his white skin. “Then you’re gonna need strength.”

Trey’s nostrils flared at the blood’s rich grape-and-pomegranate scent. But he kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “You gotta make me a promise first, Tee-Tee.”

A cold certainty crackled through Dante like winter frost. He shook his head. “No. You can’t ask that of me.”

“Then get the fuck outta here.”

“You want me gone? Fais-moi, you. Get the fuck up off that bed and make me. C’mon, toss my goddamned ass out the fucking door. Kick it all the way down the stairs.”

Trey bolted up on his elbows, fury blazing in his eyes. “Va t’cacher, Dante! Fout moi la prix!”

“Simone would want you to feed. She’d want you to fucking fight.”

“Don’t you tell me what Simone would want! She doesn’t want anything anymore. She’s dead! Nothing but ash!”

Fire scorches her lungs. Blackens her skin. Devours her with relentless teeth.

Throat tight, Dante forced the image and the pain it carried down below. He could only imagine the images Simone’s death had seared into her brother’s psyche. He leaned over Trey, held his furious gaze.

“Her body’s ash, yeah, but Simone ain’t. I fucking refuse to believe that. She’s here.” He touched his left hand to Trey’s T-shirt-covered chest, felt the slow pulse of his heart beneath his fingertips. The fading body heat. “And here,” he added, lifting his right hand and brushing the backs of his fingers against Trey’s temple. “Toujours.”

Trey sucked in a ragged breath. A muscle spasmed in his jaw. He closed his eyes. “I don’t feel her,” he said, his voice rough. “But I still hear her screams.”

“Aw, fuck, cher.” Dante straddled him and wrapped him up in a tight hug. Buried his face in the thick coils of Trey’s dreads. Smelled bitter hunger and raw grief. Felt Trey slipping away from him even as his cold body rested within his arms.

“Von told me once that what you say from the heart has power to reach the ears of the dead,” Dante whispered, his lips beside Trey’s ear. “Told me that a spoken thing or a wished-hard thing takes a shape within the heart. Takes shape and becomes real.”

Trey’s muscles trembled. “But it won’t bring her back.”

“No, it won’t. But you can shape her within your heart, mon ami. Bring her back from pain and ash. Give her a place to dwell.”

Trey laced his arms around Dante, hugging him back, then he cupped Dante’s face between cold hands and looked into his eyes, his own as reflective as black ice. His pale face was composed of sharp planes and angles, all grief and hunger.

“I’ll feed, Tee-Tee. I’ll regain my strength. Then I’m gonna feast on the heart of Mauvais’s fille de sang before I feast on his. I’m only asking one thing of you.”

A muscle flexed in Dante’s jaw. He nodded. “Ask, cher.”

“If I decide to stop living, if I decide to take what’s left of Simone in my heart with me, then I’m asking you to let us go.”

Dante drew in a tight, painful breath. “Trey . . .”

“I’m asking, Tee-Tee.”

“Fuck you. No.”

“Fuck you back,” Trey said, voice coiled. “You’re asking me to live. You’re asking me to avenge my sister. Well, all right, you, but those are my terms.”

Dante grabbed hold of the words if I decide. He searched Trey’s eyes, searched for something beyond his icicle gaze, but only found more ice glittering in the depths.

“If, yeah?” Dante said. “If you decide.”

“Oui. If.”

Not knowing what other choice he had, Dante nodded. “Fuck. All right. Agreed.” He’d just have to make damned sure he gave Trey plenty of reasons to keep living even after they’d put an end to motherfucking Mauvais.

Dante bit into his wrist again, the first bite having closed already. Blood pooled in the fang punctures. Without urging, Trey’s cold fingers latched around Dante’s arm. Hunger had expanded his pupils until they’d swallowed the icy color of his eyes. He fastened his mouth on Dante’s wrist. And fed.

32
LIKE WHITE-HOT STARS

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28

PALE TENDRILS OF STEAM curled out from the partially closed bathroom door. Heather heard water drumming from the shower. She crossed the room to the cracked-open bathroom door spilling light and heated air and the clean scent of soap into the room, and slipped inside.

Dante’s leather pants were tossed on the slate floor in front of the tub/shower and his boots stood underneath the towel rack. His lean silhouette moved behind the white and silver striped shower curtain as he braced his hands against the tiled wall and tipped his face up into the spray of hot water.

Heather stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a semi-neat pile on the toilet tank, her Colt on top. Grasping the rubber edge of the shower curtain, she stepped cautiously into the tub and into water that was hot enough to pleasantly pink her skin and massage the knots from her muscles, but not so hot that it made her squeak and back pedal out of the tub in self-defense.

“That good, catin?” Dante asked.

“Perfect.”

She moved up behind him. Water glistened on his white skin, streamed in rivulets over the hard muscles of his back and shoulders and down to his firm ass. He started to turn around, but she stopped him with a hand to the small of his back.

“Stay put,” Heather said. “You fell asleep on me, Baptiste.”

“Yeah, motherfucking dawn. That sucked for true and not in a good way. Sorry about that, chérie. Let me make it up to you.” He reached back, his hand sliding over her hip to her ass, his fingers trailing liquid fire along her wet skin.

Electricity arced through her belly and farther south, a multiple lightning strike. As much as Heather wanted his hand on her ass and everywhere else he could reach, she slapped his hand away.

“Nope. Stay put and keep your hands to yourself,” she said, her heart racing as the sudden image of Dante doing just that—his hands slide over his own taut flesh—flared behind her eyes. “This is payback. I’m going to be doing all the touching.”

Pushing his wet hair from his face with both hands, he glanced at her from over his shoulder. A heated smile smoldered on his lips. Blue flames flickered deep in his eyes. “Yeah? Ain’t making no promises about staying put or keeping my hands to myself, catin. I want you.”

Heather sucked in a breath, her knees weakening at the raw and primal intensity of those last three words—I want you—both promise and threat in his husky voice, pouring molten through their bond.

“Too bad,” Heather managed to say, pleased her voice was steady, if a little breathless. “You’ll just have to wait.”

“In case you ain’t noticed, waiting and patience ain’t my strong suits.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed, Baptiste. Put your hands on the tile.”

Dante complied, slapping his palms against the slick tiles. She brushed her fingers over his shoulder blades, searching for the outline of his wings, but not feeling anything but satin-smooth skin over steel muscles.

“It’s like you have mini-gates in your back for your wings to fold into,” she mused aloud. “Is it still hurting?”

“Nope.” He chuckled. “Mini-gates?”

“Sounds better than pouches.”

Dante laughed. “For true.”

The memory of her flight a month ago with De Noir through the night-chilled air, tucked tight against his heated body as they flew from Ronin’s house, played through her mind. To do the same with Dante . . .

“Wings.” Heather shook her head, then pushed her wet hair out of her face. “Never saw that one coming.”

“Me either. Still ain’t sure how I feel about it.”

Seeing a few remaining streaks of blood staining his skin, Heather scooped the soap up from its sudsy dish and lathered up her hands. She stroked them over Dante’s back and across his shoulder blades, massaging the hard, knotted muscles underneath her palms. Even wet, his skin was hot to the touch. His breath hissed in.

But it wasn’t pain drawing in his breath. Pleasure funneled through the bond. Heat pooled low in Heather’s belly.

Dante bowed his head. “C’est bon.”

“Good,” Heather whispered, gliding the heels of her hands across his soap-slick back. She felt some of the tension drain from him—but only for a moment. She suddenly felt the muscles beneath her hands bunch and cord again.

Alarm prickled along her spine. Just as she was about to ask what was wrong, she felt Dante’s broken past scrape against her mind like the splintered bow of a ship, pain trailing in its wake. The room took a slow, lazy spin around her.

“Boy needs a lesson,” Dante whispered, his Cajun accent twisted thick. “Boy always needs a lesson.”

Grabbing onto Dante’s hips for balance, Heather closed her eyes against the dizziness. Imagined steel around her mind. “That was never true. Papa lied.”

Heather felt another shift, another splintered scrape, but no pain this time. Her shields were holding. She layered on another circle of steel, then opened her eyes. The twirling had stopped.

“Ain’t letting them touch you. Ain’t letting them take you. I promised.”

Dante’s words, low and harsh, determined, trailed ice down her spine. For a moment she wasn’t sure if he was actually speaking to her or from the past.

“Give Chloe kisses for me, you,” Dante whispered. “Au ’voir, Orem.”

“No good-byes, Baptiste,” Heather said. “You’re not there.”

She molded herself against him and held him tight. And poured a cool rush of white silence through their bond.

“You’re in New Orleans. At Club Hell, and in the shower with me. Come back, Baptiste. Come back to me, cher.”

Dante shuddered within her embrace, his muscles rippling against her. The tension thrumming beneath his skin vanished. The past-storm gusting and shifting and scratching against her shields stopped.

Dante sucked in a breath. “J’su ici, catin,” he said.

Relief flooded through Heather. “Welcome back.”

“This has gotta stop,” Dante said, strain and a desperate undertone Heather had never heard before edging his voice, “this fucking flipping between then and now. It’s too dangerous to you—to everyone near me. If I ever fucking hurt you . . .”

“It’s dangerous to you too, Dante.”

“There’s gotta be a way . . . wait. Do you still have the Bad Seed flash drive that prick Lyons gave you?”

Heather opened her mouth to say yes, then remembered that it had been in the pocket of her jeans. The jeans she’d left at the house just before the fire.

“No,” she replied. “Not anymore. It was at the house.”

“Fuck. I was thinking maybe if I looked, if I knew, I could piece it all together.”

“We’ll figure something out. De Noir had some of the file, maybe he still does. And we can both tell you what we know, what we saw.”

“Yeah, c’est bien,” Dante sighed. “That’d be a good start, catin.”

“So let it go for now and stay right there.” Heather slicked a soapy hand up Dante’s hard abs to his chiseled chest. His breathing quickened. “I’ve got all manner of naughty things in mind for you.”

“I like naughty.”

“Really?” She tugged on the ring in his collar. “Never would’ve guessed.”

She traced a finger along the raised scar the Morningstar had seared into his chest. Memorized the sigil that she’d felt burn like ice against her own heart.

She traced her finger in a wet and lazy circle around his nipple. “Think you can manage to keep awake?” she purred, pinching the hardened nub.

Her only answer was a low, deep growl that sent heated shivers down her spine.

Heather trailed her other hand in a soapy downward glide across Dante’s flat belly, inching ever lower. Grasping him, she stroked his velvety, diamond-hard length, her pulse racing. He burned against her palm. His breath caught in his throat.

Fire pulsed through Heather’s veins, fluttered through her belly. All thought ashed as she continued to stroke him, her wet, soapy hands sliding back and forth with increasing speed. She kissed his muscle-corded shoulder, the nape of his neck. Tasted soap and water and burning leaves.

A shock wave of pleasure—Dante’s—rippled through their bond in ever-expanding blue-flamed rings into her mind, swirling heat through her body, before boomeranging back to him. Song pulsed between them—hungry and dark and passionate—a song of deep and mutual need.

I want you.

Heather didn’t know if Dante whispered those words in a rough voice or sent them fevered into her mind. But they blazed within her like white-hot stars.

“Turn around,” she said. And started to drop to her knees on the porcelain.

He moved, slipping free of her hands and spinning in a heated blur of motion. His hot hands gripped her hips, lifted her up. His arms wrapped around her, cabled steel. Without even thinking about it, she scissored her legs around his waist.

“You’re supposed to stay put,” she whispered.

“Fuck that. Ain’t happening.”

Dante looked into her eyes, his dark, gold-flecked gaze drinking her in, then with one hard, urgent thrust, he was deep inside of her, his momentum knocking them both back against the wet, slippery tile.

Heather cried out, pleasure coiling through her in hot, honeyed loops as Dante drove into her with long strokes. She laced her arms around his neck, twisted her fingers into his wet hair, and yanked.

With a low growl, he kissed her, his tongue slipping between her parted lips, claiming her mouth. She kissed him back with equal intensity, claiming his. Savoring the taste of his amaretto lips.

She felt Dante slip one arm free from her waist so he could brace his hand against the wall as his rhythm deepened, keeping time with earthy song cascading between them like a heated waterfall. Blue flames licked and kissed their wet skin, slid along their entangled limbs.

Dante was here with her, here and now, and Heather would do whatever it took to anchor him in the present, to see him free of the past. To keep her promise to him.

It’s quiet when I’m with you. The noise stops.

I’ll help you stop it forever.

Their breath mingled, harsh and panting, rough with fevered need. Dante’s lips slid along Heather’s throat, his fangs scraping the skin. With a soft yes-yes-yes moan, she arched her neck. His fangs pierced her flesh and she felt the heated pull of his lips as he drank in her blood. He pounded into her with a feral, primal urgency.

Pleasure spiraled through Heather in tighter and tighter loops, spinning her to the cliff’s edge. She decided not to plunge into pleasure’s deep pool alone.

She was taking Dante with her.

Heather surrendered to his pounding rhythm and poured every skin-tingling sensation in her body—the feel of him inside of her, his scent, the taste of his lips, the slickness of his sweat-and-water glistening skin—back through their bond and into him as an intense orgasm throbbed throughout her body in pulsing waves.

<I love you,> she sent.

Heather locked her arms even tighter around Dante’s neck as his muscles stiffened, spasmed, caught in pleasure overload. He came with a low, ragged moan. His movement gradually slowed and, wrapping both arms around her, he rested his fevered face against her shoulder.

“Fuck, catin,” he whispered. “Je t’aime aussi.”

Heather smiled into his wet hair. “Payback, Baptiste.”

“T’es sûr? Two can play that game.”

Easing her off him, he trailed molten kisses from her lips to her breasts and licked each hardened, aching nipple, one after the other.

Then he dropped to his knees, his hot hands curving around to her ass.

Heather sucked in a breath, realizing he was going to make her pay too.

Over and over and over.

33
REAL FUCKING CLEAR

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28

“SO THE ASSHOLE MESSED with Annie, huh? Brainwashed her?”

“I don’t know for sure, of course, but that’s my guess since she knew two names she shouldn’t have—Gehenna and the Morningstar.”

“Motherfucker. Think me and him are gonna have a little chat later.”

Sitting on their rumpled bed, Heather leaned back on her elbows and watched Dante pull on a pair of low-riding black latex jeans. Side laces ran the length of each leg from hip to ankle in double rows of gleaming metal eyelets. The pants fit so well that Heather yearned to peel them off, shove him back onto the bed, and climb on top of him.

Christ, Wallace, quit visually molesting him. Physically is so much better.

Dante glanced at her from beneath his lashes as he threaded a belt through the loops, its triple rows of steel studs glinting in the room’s low light. A smile tilted his lips.

“I heard that, catin.”

Cheeks burning, Heather tightened her shields. “Dammit. I keep forgetting.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll become second nature with time.”

“Well, until it does, could you at least pretend not to eavesdrop?”

“Nope.”

Just as Heather opened her mouth to verbally flip him off, Dante moved in a blur of black latex and white skin. She felt the fevered touch of his hands everywhere at once—along her hips, across her breasts, tracing her sides, brushing her throat, trailing between her legs—then she found herself flat on her back on the bed, Dante propped on his elbows above her, his body pressed against hers. Mischief and heat smoldered in his dark eyes.

“Yup. Physically is so much better,” he said. “But visually ain’t bad either.”

“You cheated. Again,” Heather protested, fire fluttering through her belly. “You said I could cheat the next time.”

“And you can. It just ain’t next time yet.”

She smacked his shoulder. “Fibber. In that case—get off.”

Dante’s eyebrows lifted. “Fibber? That the best you can do?”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire—”

Dante kissed her thoroughly, effectively ending her chant, his tongue promising all manner of wonderful, toe-curling, pants-on-fire-in-a-good-way things, then he pushed himself away and onto his feet.

Heather stared at the tin ceiling for a moment, getting her breathing under control and regretting her decision to insist that he get off her. When—not if, I refuse to accept if—things finally quiet down, I’m going to keep him naked and in bed for a week. Maybe two, if I survive the first week. She sat up, tugging down the hem of her tight, moss green sweater.

Dante sat in the ivy-patterned armchair, strapping on his boots, a smile on his lips. A sexy and wicked smile, damn him. It looked like she needed to start a Dante payback list. Item number one: eavesdropped on my thoughts, then molested me while I was fantasizing about molesting him.

Music thump-thump-thumped up from two stories below as the band inside the Cage launched into a practice song before the actual set. The hard-pounding beat vibrated through the floor, into the soles of Heather’s Skechers, and into her feet. The empty absinthe bottle rattled on the bureau.

A woman’s microphone-amplified voice shouted, “Don’t turn on the fog machine yet!” before dropping into song.

Dante looked up, surprise on his face. “That’s Saints of Ruin. Shit. I was supposed to join in on a couple of songs. I didn’t realize they were playing tonight.” He trailed a hand through his hair, his pale fingers gliding through the glossy black. “I’ll hafta make it up to them.”

“I’ll be honest,” Heather said. “I’m surprised the club’s going to be open tonight. You told Mauvais that things weren’t finished. He might decide to attack first—a preemptive strike or another fire.”

“Mauvais’s an arrogant fi’ de garce, but he tends to play by the rules—even if I don’t. He won’t use fire. Not in the Quarter.”

“Why not?”

“Ain’t allowed. Local nightkind law going back to the city’s first big blaze. Torch one building and everything in the Quarter burns. Huge no-no. Fatal consequences for the asshole responsible, et cetera, et cetera. The club’s safe, chérie.”

“Okay, maybe so,” Heather agreed. “But this rendezvous of Mauvais’s to pick up his minions could be a setup.”

Dante snorted. “Minions. I like that. But yeah, a setup was my concern too.”

Heather frowned. “Was? What changed your mind?”

Dante rose to his feet and went to the dresser. His fingers blurred through the stack of clothes, then plucked a shirt free—fishnet and PVC and metal straps. He tugged it on.

“According to Vincent, Mauvais’s cruising Lake Pontchartrain on his yacht, laying low and playing with some new treasure he picked up. He ain’t even thinking about me.”

Heather frowned. “A treasure? What kind of treasure?”

Dante finished buckling the straps on his shirt and turned around. Like claw marks from some monstrous beast, five slashes cut across the shirt’s left side from above the pec to the hip, revealing glimpses of the fishnet-covered white skin underneath.

His dark eyes held hers. “Something he picked up in a cemetery. A stone statue.”

Heather stared at him. “Holy shit. Loki.”

“That’d be my guess.”

“What happens if Mauvais frees him?”

Dante shook his head. “No idea. Don’t know if he can. Depends on how much I weakened Lucien’s spell. And maybe it doesn’t matter, since I ain’t hiding from the Fallen—” His words trailed away and his gaze unfocused, the pupils swallowing up the brown in his eyes until only a thin ring remained.

Heather’s heart constricted. “Dante?” She hastily tightened her shields, adding another protective layer of visual steel, then stood up and went to him.

“Penance,” he whispered.

Blue fire crackled around Dante’s hands. The smell of ozone thickened the air.

Heart thudding against her chest, Heather jumped back out of easy reach.

Dante squeezed his eyes shut, twisted his knuckles into his temples. Blue light gleamed against his skin, glinted in his hair. Blood trickled from one nostril. “Focus,” he muttered. “Shove it below and fucking focus.”

Keeping a wary gaze on his glowing hands, Heather funneled cool, white silence through their bond. “Baptiste, can you hear me?”

A spasm shuddered the length of Dante’s body, his muscles snapping taut. He stumbled backwards, hitting the wall shoulder-first. The plaster cracked behind him.

Panic iced Heather’s blood as she realized that, if he had a seizure, she’d need to spike him full of morphine while dodging his flame-swallowed hands.

Dante slid to the floor, one burning blue hand sweeping against the absinthe bottle. It tunked to the floor, but instead of rolling away across the hardwood, it flitted into the air on pale green wings, no longer a bottle, but something else altogether.

Heather watched it fly up to the ceiling and bat itself against the overhead light’s white dome—tink-tink-tink. She squinted. Green skin. Dark hair in a pixie bob. Tiny green, glittering boobs.

Is that a fairy? And should I let it—whatever it is—out before it splatters its little green brains all over the ceiling?

Heather dashed over to the French windows, yanked the heavy curtains aside, and flung open the doors. Cool night air smelling of the Mississippi and sizzling cayenne shrimp poured into the room.

The green fairy continued to batter itself against the light. Tink-tink-tink.

“Christ,” Heather muttered.

She sprinted to the switch and flipped the overhead off. The only light in the room radiated from Dante’s hands, bathing everything in a soft, flickering blue glow. The fairy zipped down from the dome, fluttered anxiously around Dante’s hands for a few seconds, then buzzed out the French doors, trailing dust smelling of bitter wormwood into the night.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Heather closed the windows again and locked them. The blue nightlight created by Dante’s hands vanished, leaving her blinking in the darkness until her eyes adjusted to the street light filtering in from outside. Switching on the bedside lamp, she knelt on the floor in front of him.

Dante had drawn his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his forehead against his knees. He looked folded-in on himself. Shut off. Worn out.

“Baptiste?” Heather brushed her fingers against his silky hair. “Let me help. Burdens are easier when they’re shared. You don’t need to carry anything alone, cher. Maybe together . . .”

“Don’t know how to do it any other way, catin. Ça va . . .” His breath caught in his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, raw. “No, that ain’t right. Ça va pas du tout. I think . . . I feel . . . I’m losing ground bigtime.”

Fear coiled around Heather’s heart. “You need time,” she said. “You need to heal, you need to grieve, and you need to be left alone, dammit. Forget about Mauvais for tonight. You’re not ready to face him. Wait until you are.”

Dante lifted his head. Blood was smeared beneath his nose, and his pale, beautiful face was luminescent with loss layered upon loss—Chloe, Gina, Jay, Simone, even his relationship with his father—his heart a funeral pyre.

“I can’t. I’ll lose Trey.”

A sharp pang of sympathy pierced Heather. “Let someone else go.”

“I got Simone killed, cherie, I can’t just sit on the fucking sidelines. Can’t let my friends risk themselves.”

“No. Sorry. You’re not allowed to risk yourself either.”

“Ain’t asking permission.”

“You’re not ready, Baptiste. Give yourself some time.”

“Gorgeous and pigheaded,” Dante murmured.

“Well, there’s the pot calling the kettle black. You’re the captain, the king, the goddamned maestro of pigheaded.”

Dante laughed. “God damn, catin. Tell me what you really feel.”

Opening his knees, he looped his strong arms around her and pulled her between his legs and up against his fevered heat and hard muscles, into his scent of burning leaves and deep, dark earth.

Heather knuckled her fist into his shoulder hard enough to make him grunt. “You’re not ready,” she repeated.

“Je connais,” Dante whispered, his voice stark. “But I gotta do this. I feel like I’m running out of time.”

His words filled Heather with dread. “I refuse to lose you.” She slipped her arms around his waist.

“I refuse to lose you too, catin. Ain’t adding your name—”

“You won’t,” Heather promised, her throat almost too tight for words.

“I’m gonna make sure,” Dante said. “I wanna get the FBI and SB off your ass. You have any contacts in the Bureau you can reach out to?”

Heather pulled back within his tight embrace so she could see his face, study it. Uneasiness prickled against her spine. “Yeah, I do,” she said. “But why?”

Dante met her gaze, his deep brown eyes steady, his expression resolute. Her pigheaded alert sounded a klaxon inside her head.

He’s about to prove me right on the captain, king, and maestro comment, dammit.

Even knowing that, she still wasn’t prepared for his next words.

“I want to set up a meeting with the FBI and SB so I can make my position on the matter of your continued well-being real fucking clear.”

Heather stared at him. “Are you nuts? Have you lost your goddamned mind?” She twisted free of his embrace. “They’ll say yes, then trank the shit out of you when you arrive.”

“Yup. Which is why I won’t be going alone, catin. I’ll be doing something I’ve never done—take a fucking rock star entourage with me. But it won’t be roadies, groupies, and self-appointed ass-kissers, it’ll be nightkind Elders and Fallen muckymucks.” He shrugged, a dark smile tilting his lips. “D’accord, so it is roadies, groupies, and self-appointed ass-kissers.”

“Holy shit,” Heather breathed, hope and possibility blossoming with her like late-blooming roses. “With those kinds of witnesses, that could work. You’d have the Bureau and the SB by the short hairs.”

“Oui. At least I hope so.”

“One thing worries me—you could still be triggered. One quick word and you might be transforming your allies into buttercups.”

Dante nodded. “Ain’t allies. I can’t trust them either, ’cuz they’ll have their own agendas. But yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. That’s where you come in.”

Realization sparked. It was the only thing that made sense. “If they trigger you, or attempt to trigger you, then I trank you, so you can’t be used.”

“Exactement.” Dante touched his forehead to hers. “And then we make sure those fuckers don’t live long enough to trigger anyone ever again.”

“This just might work, Baptiste.”

“Fingers crossed, catin.”

Dante’s lips closed over hers in a deep and tender kiss, and she kissed him back, tasting the sharp tang of his blood, her hands sliding into his hair. The touch of his tongue flooded her with desire, transforming the kiss into an unspoken promise.

This isn’t all. There’s more. J’su ici—always. Ain’t losing you.

When the kiss finally ended, Dante reluctantly released her, then rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. A smile tilted his lips. “Time for my coming out.”

“My boyfriend, the debutante. Who knew?” Heather teased. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

Laughing, Dante walked from the room and Heather watched him go, his autumn scent lingering in the room, his words sitting uneasily in her mind—I feel like I’m running out of time—and wracking her brain for a way to make a liar out of him.

34
NEVER BETTER

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 28

ANNIE ENDED THE CALL, then slipped the cell phone luscious Lucien had given her into her jeans pocket. She sat on the floor in the darkened entrance hall, her back against the black-painted wall, her knees drawn up to her chest. Red light from the neon BURN sign jittered against all the black like electric blood. She sucked in a lungful of smoke, cigarette crackling as it burned.

Fucking Dad.

She’d been an idiot to even think that he might’ve been worried about them. No. Correction. He’d been concerned plenty. About Heather. And about his career and how Heather’s little joyride with Dante had damaged his reputation at the mother-fucking Bureau.

As for herself? Not so much.

Annie, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been worried sick. You need to tell me where you are so I can get help to your sister.

It’s no secret we’re in New Orleans, Dad. And you’re a lying sack of shit.

You quit taking your meds again, didn’t you?

My fucking meds or the lack of my fucking meds have nothing to do with the fact that you’re a lying sack of shit who took something I shared in confidence. You remember me telling you how Gorgeous-but-Dea . . . I mean . . . Dante healed Heather when she got shot?

I remember, Annie. I also remember that I was grateful.

Yeah. In fact, you were so grateful that you went and spilled that little secret to one of those motherfucking federal agencies. And now they’re hunting Heather. They want to dissect her like some fucking biology lab frog. And it’s all my fucking fault because I fucking trusted you. Daddy.

A long pause, then: You are off your meds.

That doesn’t change the fact that you’re a lying sack of shit.

Maybe not. But you need to believe me when I tell you I never betrayed your confidence, sweet pea. Maybe my phone was tapped. Maybe there was a bug in the house. But I’m just as much a victim of all this as you are.

Somehow Annie doubted that.

Welcome to Annie’s list of Most Annoying Shit Ever. Number one on the list? James William Wallace and his “I’m just as much a victim of all this as you are” speech. And just underneath it at the number two position—Heather Wallace and her “we’re linked and we don’t know exactly how it happened” ditty.

Annie blew blue-gray smoke rings into the neon-lit air. She watched the smoky circles expand, then thin, then fall apart. From beyond the club’s entrance, she heard the eager voices of people lining up, waiting for the club to open.

She wondered if any of them had any dope to sell. A little something-something would clear her fucking father’s voice from her mind.

That bloodsucker has your sister under his control. We need to get her free. He’s ruined her career, her life. She isn’t thinking straight.

Then you’re gonna love learning that she’s now mentally linked to him. He’s inside her head twenty-four seven.

Linked? Are you sure?

That’s what she said. How do you know this bloodsucker, this fucking beautiful vampire, isn’t doing stuff to me too? Maybe he’s drinking my blood. Fucking me. Maybe he’s pimping me and Heather out to other nightkind and we have nightly orgies of fangs and hot vampire dicks.

Annie . . .

No, really. How do you know?

Is he?

I wish. Wow. Looks like the lying sack of shit doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Listen to me closely, sweet pea, so I can get you and your sister out of there, safe and sound, and back home again.

Oh, so we can be a family again, Dad? A family like we never were?

Annie, listen now. I need you to make sure the doors are unlocked during the day. Can you do that for me, sweetie?

Sure. But I won’t. So fuck you.

Annie finished her cigarette, stubbing it out against the hallway’s black-painted concrete floor in a little shower of sparks. As she studied the fluorescent graffiti spray-painted on the wall across from her—INFERNO RULES! RANDY SUKS DIK (Go, Randy!) and WE DIE YOUNG—she heard the sound of footsteps heading into the hall. She turned her head and saw her sister walking toward her. Red neon flickered like flames across Heather’s face.

“Hey, there you are,” Heather said, stopping beside her.

“Yup. Here I am.”

“I heard that you’re going to help with soundcheck for the band.”

Annie nodded. “Yeah, I get to play roadie for a night.”

Heather sat down on the floor beside her and rested her head against the wall. She looked at Annie. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said. “You seemed upset earlier, and with the fire and everything . . .”

For a moment, Annie considered telling Heather about her conversation with Dad, then remembered all the secret conversations her sister shared with Dante and decided to keep this one to herself.

Annie shook another cigarette from her diminishing pack and slipped it between her lips. She struck a match, the flame dazzling her sight in the darkened hall.

“I’m good,” she lied. “Never better.”

35
SOMETHING HIDDEN

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28

“HEY, DANTE! HEATHER!”

Dante swiveled around at the sound of Antoine’s voice. The bass player trotted down the Cage’s steps, his arm stretched behind him as he led a chick across the dance floor by the hand, his fingers entwined with hers.

“Who’s that with Antoine?” Heather asked. “She’s beautiful.”

“Betcha it’s his baby-to-be’s mama.”

“Given her belly, I’m betting you’re right.”

Antoine stopped in front of them, a grin on his lips. A chick with loose black curls and skin just a shade lighter than Antoine’s dark brown stepped up beside him.

She stared at Dante with eyes the color of melted dark chocolate, a shy smile on her full lips. Her pregnant belly was so round that it looked like she’d swallowed a basketball. Or two.

And her scent—warm caramel and coffee, with a heady brew of pregnancy hormones bubbling beneath it—reminded him of someone else. But he wasn’t sure who. He tried to trace the olfactory memory, but it eluded him.

“Hey back, you,” Dante said to Antoine with a smile. “This must be Sharika, yeah?”

Antoine nodded, black curls swaying, toffee-colored eyes alight. He made introductions, and Heather shook Sharika’s hand, a welcoming smile on her lips.

“A pleasure, chère,” Dante said, brushing his lips against hers in greeting. “You here for the Saints of Ruin gig?”

“No, I just came by to say good-bye to Toine,” Sharika replied shyly, her voice a silky alto.

“Yup,” Antoine agreed. “She’s on her way to Houston to spend time with her mama before the baby’s born. Since Annie’s helping set up, I thought I’d go to the Amtrak station and keep her company.”

And that’s when the memory hit—who Sharika’s scent reminded him of—and Dante’s eyes widened in disbelief. Holy shit.

Sharika glanced at Antoine from beneath her lashes. “And we should get going or I’ll be late for the train. It’s been nice to meet both of you.”

“Same here,” Heather said. “Have a safe trip.”

Antoine nodded, then they walked away, hand in hand, her belly in the lead.

“Spill it, Baptiste,” Heather said, then deepened her voice. “I felt a disturbance in the Force.”

Dante trailed a hand through his hair, replaying the scent through his memory. Sharika here, Annie in the SUV on the way to New Orleans. He’d noticed something different in her smell, something he couldn’t name.

He looked at Heather. “I think Annie might be pregnant.”

“What?” Heather stared at him. “How do you know?” Her breath caught. She thumped the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Shit. She was puking this morning. I thought it was a hangover, even though she never gets hangovers, but . . . Are you sure?”

“It’s in her scent, catin, but no, I ain’t positive.”

“If she’s pregnant, the father couldn’t be Silver, could it? Can nightkind put a bun in a mortal female’s oven?”

Dante shook his head. “Can’t be Silver. Nightkind can’t knock mortals up.”

His stomach did a slow flip as something occurred to him, something he’d never even considered before, since he’d never had reason to think it applied to him. Turned nightkind couldn’t get a mortal pregnant. But born nightkind could.

Now that he knew he was True Blood . . .

“Fuck,” Dante whispered. Shock iced his blood. “But I can. In theory, anyway.”

Heather’s mouth opened, then she closed it again. Her eyes darkened from twilight to midnight blue. Finally she said, “I’m on birth control, but will it work? I mean, it’s designed with humans in mind, not nightkind . . .”

They stared at each other for a moment, then Heather exhaled and shook her head. “Christ. We’d better use condoms until we find out.”

“I’ll pick some up at the market. I’ll pick up a pregnancy test kit for Annie too.”

“Pick up two kits,” Heather murmured.

Dante felt her concern flow through their bond and thread with his own, a concern he’d never experienced before—what if it was already too late for condoms?

“TEST. TEST,” ANNIE SAID into one of the standing microphones set up in the Cage. A half empty bottle of golden José Cuervo sat on the floor near her feet. “One-two-three. Test. Test.”

Eli and a mortal roadie that Dante didn’t recognize but figured worked for Saints of Ruin were busy tuning guitars and checking equipment behind Annie.

After discussing it with Heather, Dante had volunteered to break the potentially bad news to Annie. It wouldn’t matter to him the same way it would to Heather if Annie got pissed off at the messenger.

Annie shook her blue/black/purple razor-cur hair back from her face. She looked happy and in her element, maneuvering around the musical equipment with an easy confidence Dante hadn’t seen in her before.

She misses it. Music, being onstage, performing, drinking in the energy from the audience—she misses it all. And no wonder, she and her band were fucking musical napalm.

He wondered what it would take to get her back onstage, then thought of the bag in his hand. Whatever it was might have to wait. But picturing her performing with a huge, round, pregnant belly, snarling and flipping off the audience, made him laugh. Fuck yeah.

Stopping at the foot of the steps leading up into the Cage, Dante called, “Hey, WMD frontwoman! When’s the band getting back together?”

Annie spun around on the balls of brand spankin’ new Doc Martens to face the opened Cage door. A pleased smile danced across her lips even as she slanted her dark brows together in a mock scowl.

“Shove off, asshole.”

“Words to make any man hot. Got a minute? Need to talk to you, p’tite.”

Annie shrugged. “Sure, dork.” Crossing the stage, she slipped past the steel-barred entry and bounced down the steps. Her gaze flicked to the paper bag in his hand. “Ooo. You got candy for me?”

“Not exactly.”

She smelled of tequila, and her usual vanilla and cloves, but he caught another whiff of a buzzing hormone undertone. Just like Sharika’s, only less intense.

“Well, that sucks. So what’s in the bag if it ain’t candy or porn?”

Dante nodded at the hallway leading to the restrooms. “Let’s make this a private talk, yeah?”

Annie’s eyebrows lifted. “Now I’m really intrigued. Are you gonna make a play for me? I know I’m fucking irresistible and I’ll bet I’m more bendy than Heather in the sack—”

Dante snorted. “Don’t go there,” he advised. “You ain’t gonna come out ahead, p’tite. Not even close.” Turning, he bee-lined for the dimly lit hallway.

“And you would know this how? You need to give me a whirl before you make up your mind. I promise I’ll be naughty.”

Dante laughed. “No doubt. But it ain’t happening.”

He halted beside the door marked HELLIONS accompanied by the circle-and-cross symbol for females and waited for Annie to catch up.

She joined him with a pout on her bee-stung lips and mischief in her eyes. The low light winked from the piercing at her eyebrow and lower lip. “What’s a girl gotta to do to get laid?”

“In your case, probably not much. Just ask anyone—other than me—and you’ll find yourself on your back in a heartbeat. “Catch.” Dante tossed her the bag.

Opening it, Annie peered inside. She frowned. “Is this a fucking joke?”

“Nope. Look, I noticed something in your scent, something that made me think you might need that.”

Cheeks flushed, Annie crumpled the bag closed again and hurled it at him. He caught it at chest level, then lowered it to his side.

“Go fuck yourself!”

“Annie, I’m not trying to be an asshole . . . much, anyway . . . but if you’re knocked up, you should know, yeah? The booze, the smokes, even meds—all bad for a baby.”

Annie narrowed her eyes. “Even if I was pregnant, what makes you think I’d even fucking keep it?”

“I don’t. And that’s your decision—if you’re pregnant.”

“If I am, it’s probably Silver’s.”

Dante shook his head. “No, it ain’t. You can’t get knocked up by turned nightkind.”

“Then I can’t be preggo cuz I ain’t slept with anyone else. Lately. That I remember, anyway.”

Dante held out the bag. “Go find out. Prove me wrong and you can call me an asshole fifty different ways onstage.”

Annie snatched the bag back from him. “Looking forward to it.” She stalked off to the little female Hellions room and slammed inside.

She returned five minutes later, fury blazing in her eyes, and hammered a fist into Dante’s shoulder. “I fucking hate you. It’s positive.” She pulled back her fist to punch him again, but Dante caught it, her knuckles smacking into his palm.

Just as he parted his lips to say, Sorry, p’tite, a tiny crystalline note tinkled across the edge of his awareness, a ghost finger whispering across a piano key.

Dante went still. Listened. Tuned out the soft shush-shush of the blood racing through Annie’s veins, the chatter of the guys in the Cage, the beating of his own heart.

Another note chimed through his mind, pure and small and clear, drawing Dante’s gaze to Annie’s T-shirt-covered abdomen. “Holy fucking hell,” he whispered.

“What?” Annie said, voice sharp, uncertain. “What are you staring at? You aren’t going to have a fucking seizure or go all blue—Hey, man, what the fuck?” she protested when Dante pressed his palms against her belly.

At his touch, a cascade of tiny, diamond-sharp notes spilled across his consciousness—not quite a song, not yet, but a beginning. A buoyant and busy energy hummed under his hand, nestled deep beneath Annie’s body heat-warmed T-shirt, her flat muscles, a creative pool. Life.

Dante’s song swirled up in response to the happy little melody, and he imagined himself strumming chords and plucking strings, rearranging, fine-tuning, shaping, his fingers sliding along a twisting helix-shaped fretwork . . .

Nononono.

Dante yanked his hand away from Annie’s belly, knotted it into a fist, and squeezed his eyes shut. Fire crackled along his fingertips. Annie gave an alarmed squeak.

Sweat beaded along his hairline as he struggled with the urge—the hunger—to Make. After several tense moments, his song quieted. The electric tingling in his hands vanished.

Dante opened his eyes. Annie was gone. Not that he blamed her. That had been too fucking close. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. He shoved both hands through his hair.

What the hell just happened?

One thing—okay, several things, but one in particular—troubled Dante about the incident: Annie’s not-quite-a-baby-yet had sang to him, Sharika’s hadn’t. And a dark suspicion as to why roosted in the back of his mind, since he had a feeling that non-singing unborn babies were the norm.

Heather’s words trickled through his memory: I think I found out what the Morningstar did that morning in our motel room.

Yeah, me too, catin. Anger surged through Dante. Motherfucker . . .

He glanced down the hall toward the Cage, regretting that he’d ruined Annie’s night and siphoned away the buoyant joy that she’d carried inside the Cage. Sighing, he pushed away from the wall and went to join Von in the courtyard.

36
INEXTRICABLY BOUND

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28

“SUMMONED?” BLUE FLAMES FLARED around Dante’s fingers, snapping the electric smell of ozone into the jasmine and honeysuckle-sweetened air. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at his glowing hands.

Von tensed, sitting up straight on the black wrought-iron bench as Dante paced in front of it, his boots silent against the courtyard’s brickwork.

“It’s not a big deal,” Von said, keeping his voice an easy drawl, “so put out the fire, little brother. I like the courtyard just the way it is.”

Dancing yellow light from the gargoyle candle sconces burnished the ring in Dante’s collar, flashed from his studded belt, the rings on his fingers and thumbs. His burning hands clenched into fists.

“Dante . . .”

“Working on it. It ain’t like flipping a fucking switch. Not yet, anyhow.”

Dante stopped pacing and closed his eyes. Tension seemed to thrum beneath his skin like a plucked piano wire. He drew in a deep breath of air and closed his eyes. The creawdwr flames around his hands winked out.

Von sagged against the back of the bench, his pulse easing off the throttle.

Dante opened his eyes and looked at Von, the intense molten color of his eyes cooling back to brown. He wiped absently at the blood oozing from one nostril.

Boy’s still hurting, dammit.

“So spill. What’s going on? Why are you being summoned back to Memphis?”

Von held Dante’s gaze, realizing a choice he’d never anticipated waited for him in those dark, unguarded depths.

If I tell him the truth, that I went dark—that I chose to go dark—to keep his secrets safe until he was ready to share them, he’ll blame himself for whatever consequences are heaped on my plate.

And that’s the last fucking thing he needs at the moment.

If I lie to him, he’ll walk out of this courtyard unaware that I’ve betrayed his trust, unaware that I decided what’s best for him and what his limits are.

Unaware, for now. He’ll find out eventually. And when he does, there will be no coming back from that. He’ll never trust me again.

He’s had all he can take. Mind and heart.

Von drew in a deep breath, decision made. “I stopped reporting about a month ago. I went dark. They want to know why.”

Dante stared at him, dark brows knitting together. “A month ago?” He shut his eyes and groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ. You went dark because of me.”

“Look, it was my decision to hide your secrets until you chose to share them. I knew the consequences. Withholding information is a llygad’s greatest sin. That and lack of impartiality, and I’m guilty of both—no regrets.”

Opening his eyes, Dante raked a hand through his hair. “Fuck, man, I appreciate it. I do. But I never would’ve asked that of you.”

“I know. Like I said, my decision, my consequences. Right now, all they want is an explanation. Like I said, no big deal.” Von figured it was more likely they’d drum his ass out of the llygaid and cut off his access to the mind-net, but saw no harm in downplaying that particular possibility.

“I can go to Memphis with you, help explain shit,” Dante said. “Whatever I can do to help, mon ami, just let me know.”

“Don’t worry about it, little brother. I think your coming-out gig tonight will do the trick.” At least, he hoped so. Stretching his jeans and leather chaps–covered legs out in front of him, Von crossed his road-scuffed scooter boots at the ankles. “Now since I’ve shown you mine, it’s time you showed me yours—starting with that goddamned mark the Morningstar put on your chest.”

Dante studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “D’accord.” He unstrapped his PVC and fishnet shirt and peeled it off. Candlelight and shadows rippled against his white skin. Glinted in his eyes. “This is still new to me, so hold on.”

New? Von watched him, mystified, his attention fixed on the scar looped on his chest like the ivy on the stone wall behind him. Did the sigil do something?

Face tight with concentration, his dark brows knitted together, Dante flexed his shoulders. Von heard the soft shush of velvet against flesh, then Dante flexed his shoulders again and a whoosh filled the room—like the rush of wings.

Von felt his jaw drop open. He perched on the bench’s edge, the cold iron biting into his fingers as he gripped its edge, his heart kicking against his sternum. He stared at Dante, his mind on pause. “Holy fucking hell,” he breathed.

“Holy fucking shit was my initial reaction,” Dante drawled, dry amusement leavening his voice. “But holy fucking hell works too. But we’re in a rut. We gotta come up with some new expletives.”

“Holy fucking hell.”

“You said that already.”

“Wings. You’ve got wings.”

Dante nodded. “Yup.”

“But . . . how? When?”

“Be easier to just show you,” Dante said, touching a finger to his temple.

“Agreed. Yeah.” Von lowered his shields in anticipation, pried his fingers loose from their deathgrip on the bench, and stood.

Dante took a step closer, but the edge of his right wing brushed a planter full of yellow roses and knocked it to the bricks in a shower of dirt and petals, while the arched tip of his left wing thumped into a branch of the dogwood tree overhanging the bench. White blossoms and green leaves bounced from Dante’s hair and shoulders, slid along his wings to the ground. Wood creaked.

Irritation flashed across Dante’s pale face. “Fuck.” Scowling, he flexed his shoulders until his wings folded behind him. “Jesus Christ.”

Von grinned. “Beauty and grace. Killer combo, little brother.”

“The complete package, yeah.”

“By the way, I noticed the left wing popped out before the right one,” Von commented, stroking his mustache thoughtfully with thumb and index finger. “Having trouble getting ’em up, man?”

“Fuck you,” Dante said, flipping him off. “Oh, wait. Look at what I just found.” He extended his other middle finger. “Fuck you twice.”

Von’s grin widened. “Twice is a good warm-up.”

Dante laughed, tension spilling like water from his muscles. “For true, mon ami.” He sauntered to a stop in front of Von.

“You flown yet?” Von asked.

“Nope. I’m gonna give it a try later.”

Von tilted his head, studying Dante’s gorgeous wings up close and personal. And they were gorgeous—just like the rest of Dante. Blacker than a moonless night and edged with crimson, the blue and purple undersides smelled of wing musk and of Dante—burning leaves and November frost and deep, dark earth.

An image strobed behind Von’s eyes, a dizzying vision of time and chance and destiny. A vision he’d had before.

Tendrils of Dante’s black hair lift into the air as though breeze-caught. Gold light stars out from his kohl-rimmed eyes, He looks up as song—not his own—rings through the air. The night burns, the sky on fire from horizon to horizon.

The never-ending Road.

The Great Destroyer.

No matter which Dante turned out to be—one or neither or both—Von knew beyond even the thinnest whisper of doubt that his fate was inextricably bound to Dante’s. Knew that, no matter what, he would always stand beside him.

To the very end.

“Hey, you ready?” Dante asked.

From inside the club, a woman’s voice cried out over the microphone, “Glad to be back in New Orleans! Here’s a nightmare just for you!” Music exploded into existence, crashing dark and wild against the walls as the band tore into their set.

Von looked into Dante’s dark eyes, looked straight into the intelligent, compassionate, burning heart of him, and nodded. “More than ready, little brother.”

Dante cupped heated hands against Von’s face, then slid his fingertips up to his temples. Von closed his eyes. Images flooded his mind, a violent, churning current of sensory detail that his llygad-trained mind was able to channel and process without tumbling beneath the surface like a hiker swept up in a flash flood.

Dante punches his blue-glowing fist into the tomb . . .

“Jesus Christ,” Von whispered.

37
RUMOR’S END

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28

THE MOURNFUL AIR-RAID SIREN wailing beneath the pensive chords of “End of Days” spoke of impending loss and irreversible disaster, of hearts stripped bare.

Dante stood in the courtyard door, Heather beside him, watching as Saints of Ruin ruled the fetish-and-gris-gris-hung Cage.

Black hair edging her pale face, frontwoman Ruby curled her hands around the microphone. “Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days to end,” she sang, her scarlet-glossed lips almost brushing the microphone in a lover’s kiss. “Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days . . .”

“You sure you wanna do this in front of everyone?” Von asked, eyeing the pulsing crowd of mortals and nightkind packing the club’s floor, the air thick with musky pheromones, sweat, and warring perfumes—patchouli, cherry-vanilla, sandalwood.

“Yup.”

More nightkind than usual were present, threaded like pearls through the mortal throng, and Dante had caught more than one lambent pair of eyes directed his way, burning with a cold and preternatural curiosity.

Waiting to see what I’m gonna do about Mauvais. Gathering like crows. All tilted heads, sharp beaks, and glittering eyes.

No one had said a word about Simone—except for Vincent. And, at the moment, the Magazine Street lord stood at the bar beside Silver and Annie, smoking a Pink Elephant, his gaze on the Cage, glammed to the max in face and body glitter, lipstick, kohl, and dressed in a white faux fur vest and skin-tight silver vinyl pants.

“There will one day be peace,” Ruby sang. “There will one day be light.”

Dante doubted that, but at least the waiting was over. He felt a gentle tap against his shields and recognized Lucien’s touch. He opened to his father’s sending.

<I’ve informed the band that you’re going to do an announcement at the end of this song.>

<Bon. Thanks for letting them know.>

<Remember. No word about your creawdwr gifts,> Lucien reminded. <Not yet.>

<Je connais. One thing at a time. I’m good with that compromise.>

<And here I thought you didn’t even know the word.>

Lucien stood beside the Cage, his hair a loose spill of night down his back, his arms crossed over his black silk shirt. A teasing smile curved his lips.

Arching a touché eyebrow, Dante lifted both hands and flipped him off.

Lucien’s smile deepened.

“One day there will be no more sorrow. Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days to end . . .”

As SOR guided the song to its end, Dante turned, cupped Heather’s face between his hands, and kissed her deeply. “For luck,” he murmured against her lips.

Her fingers brushed against his temples. Her twilight-blue gaze held his. “For luck, Baptiste,” she agreed.

Releasing her, Dante moved through the crowd, Von following in his wake. Lucien unlocked the Cage and swung the steel-barred door open. The crowd screamed and cheered as they realized who was climbing inside. The jockeying for position at the front of the Cage intensified, more than one person took an elbow to the nose.

“Fuck, YEAH!”

“Oh my God! Dante! Dante!”

Ruby looked up, startled, her hands frozen on the mic stand. Tommy Dark spun around, guitar held at his side, light glinting from the stud patches on his black stretch denim pants. The three remaining band members all slanted uncertain glances at Dante.

Looks like Ruby and Tommy mentioned I was nightkind.

Dante greeted Tommy, then Ruby, with a kiss to the lips. Smiling, Ruby wiped her lipstick from Dante’s mouth with a swipe of her thumb. Her midnight blue taffeta dress rustled as she stepped back, relinquishing the microphone.

A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “Merci beaucoup, chère.”

Von took his position in front of the Cage, the crowd melting away from him like ice on a hot sidewalk. Dante waited for the enthusiastic screams and raw-throated shrieks to die down. Once they had, he stepped in front of the mic.

INHALING ANOTHER LUNGFUL OF vanilla-spiced smoke, Vincent watched as Dante climbed into the Cage amid lust-spiked shrieks and screeches and howls from the jam-packed audience. He wondered if the captivating, but sodding exasperating vampire planned to perform a song or two with Saints of Ruin.

Not for the first time, Vincent itched to paint Dante, wondering if he could capture his heat, the sensual promise whispered in every fluid movement of his body, the danger inherent in his dark glance and white skin and coiled muscles. He even had a title for the painting in mind: INCUBUS.

Simone laughs. “No, I won’t ask him for you, chère. He’ll never agree. Never pose. Paint him from memory or a picture. I’d love to see what you could do.”

Vincent’s throat tightened. He blew smoke out from his nostrils. He hoped Dante followed up on the info he’d shared with him, exacting a bit of payback from the bloody wankers who’d torched the house for Mauvais and ended up killing Simone.

Dante curled one hand around the microphone, leaning in just a little, his luscious cupid’s bow lips nearly grazing the mic cover. “This is an official announcement for all you nightkind out there.”

Vincent straightened against the bar, vinyl pants creaking. Was Dante foolish enough to call Mauvais out? He shot Silver a glance, arching an inquisitive eyebrow, but Silver only shrugged, his face carefully neutral.

Brilliant. Little bastard knows what’s up, but isn’t sharing. Vincent returned his attention to the Cage and the feral beauty captured within its steel bars.

“My name is Dante Baptiste.”

Vincent puffed away on his pink-paper wrapped cigarette. Interesting. A new last name or perhaps the right one.

A mischievous light sparked in Dante’s eyes, slanted his lips. “I’m twenty-three, no—almost twenty-four years old—I like long solitary walks along the river, guitar solos, and feasting on kid-slapping motherfuckers. And I’m looking for someone who shares the same interests.”

Laughter rolled up from the crowd. Dozens of hands shot up in the air and waved me-me-me!

Vincent frowned. Twenty-three? Did he mean he’d been turned at twenty-three or he’d been turned twenty-three years ago?

“So . . . all kidding aside, I’m gonna share a few things I’ve learned recently and end the rumors tonight,” Dante said, his voice low and even, all amusement gone. “I’m the Nightbringer’s son and I was born nightkind.”

Vincent froze, stunned into immobility, wondering if he’d heard right. And he wasn’t alone given the silence—lacking only crickets—greeting Dante’s announcement.

But Vincent’s thundering pulse told him that yes, he had heard correctly and his brain was even now processing Dante’s claim—a claim bolstered by the pride gleaming in Lucien De Noir’s eyes, the lift of his chin.

Bloody hell. True Blood and fathered by one of the Fallen. If true . . .

“Just so there’s no confusion,” Dante continued into the silence, “no, I won’t turn you. No, you ain’t getting a taste. No, I ain’t interested in claiming power, your fucking household, or your girlfriend.”

“Bullshit! You’re lying through your fangs!” someone shouted. “You’re just trying to win support against Guy!”

“Yeah, that’s be my thought too, in your place,” Dante said, unstrapping his shirt and peeling it off.

The sight of Dante’s bared torso—all lean, defined muscle and ivory skin—burned away Vincent’s shock. Lusty catcalls scraped through the air. “Don’t stop there! Keep going!”

More laughter.

Dante turned around, giving the crowd his back. He flexed his shoulder and deltoid muscles, then black wings slid out from beneath his white skin in a rush and unfurled, snapping the scent of burning leaves and musk into the air.

Vincent’s cigarette dropped from his fingers.

Silence swallowed the crowd whole, mortal and nightkind alike.

Everything had just changed.

38
A SAVAGE TEMPO

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28

“THAT WENT WELL,” VON said. “Mild hysteria, a handful of screams, and only one person fainted, but I think booze had more to do with the fainting than your wings. As for the filidh verifying your announcement, I ain’t heard back yet.”

“How long does that usually take?”

“A night or two. But your wings stunt will probably accelerate the process, then the word will go out to llygaid around the world, who’ll pass it on to their households.

Following Von past the mortal bouncer filling in for him, out of the club, and onto the crowded sidewalk, Dante shrugged on the black hoodie that Heather had salvaged from the van, the one with the red letters safety-pinned to the sleeves reading: NOT DEAD DO NOT TAKE TO MORGUE.

He slipped on a new pair of shades.

Clubbers and Saints of Ruin fans were still lining up outside—much to the joy of the other businesses on the block, no doubt. Excited whispers rippled the length of the line.

“Look, look, look! It’s Dante!”

“Hey, gorgeous! You looking for blood? You can have a taste of mine.”

“You gonna be in the Cage tonight?”

“Hey, man. Love the new album!”

Dante lifted his left hand and flashed the index finger-and-pinkie-horned devil sign and kept moving, weaving through the tourists and sidewalk traffic with practiced ease.

“I’ll scout the rendezvous site, see if anything looks hinky, then wait for y’all to arrive,” Von said.

Dante nodded. “Lucien’s gonna take a look from the air.” He glanced up at the neon-faded night sky. “He’s probably already on his way.”

“He is,” Von affirmed. “Told me he’d meet me there.”

“C’est bon.”

Hunger scraped at Dante with sharp little rat claws, hollowed him out. He’d given Trey as much blood as he could, probably more than he should’ve. He needed to refuel before they headed for Lake Pontchartrain.

All around him he heard the steady rhythm of hearts, the song of blood through veins, the intoxicating aroma of warm and blood-flushed flesh.

As Dante pulled up the hoodie’s hood and tugged its edges past his face, he caught the faintest whiff of magnolias, a ghost scent. Simone’s scent. It pierced him to the heart. The last kiss he’d given Simone, the last time he’d ever seen her, he’d been wearing this hoodie.

Fire scorches her lungs. Blackens her skin. Devours her with relentless teeth.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Von stopped on the sidewalk beside his parked Harley and glanced at Dante, a deep vertical line creasing the skin between his eyes. “What’s up?”

Joining him, Dante wordlessly held his sleeve up to the nomad’s nose. Von sniffed, nostrils flaring. He met Dante’s gaze, grief darkening his green eyes.

“Is that all that’s left of her?” he asked, voice rough.

Dante lowered his arm. “Think so.” He stripped off the hoodie, folded it, and handed it to Von. “You keep it, mon ami.”

Von looked down at the magnolia-scented bundle of black cloth in his hands. Blinked. “You sure, little brother?”

“Oui. J’su sûr. She loved you.”

“She loved you too.”

“Keep it for luck.”

“People are staring at you.”

“Don’t fucking care.”

Von swallowed hard, then nodded. “Okay then.” He turned to his bike and carefully folded the hoodie into the pack strapped to the sissy bar.

Boisterous zydeco bounced into the evening air from speakers hanging above the front door of a souvenir shop—one of a zillion souvenir shops in the Quarter—across the street.

“What the hell?” Von said, peering at the Harley’s fuel tank, a low and dangerous edge to his voice “Is that a dent? On my fucking bike?”

Dante froze, thinking of the cemetery destruction and the force behind it. Uh-oh.

Von crouched in front of his Harley Fatboy, leather jacket creaking as his fingertips circled a small dent in the fuel tank.

“Shit. I didn’t notice that last night, but, yeah, it’s probably my fault,” Dante said, crouching down as well to examine the damage. “Je regrette, mon ami.”

“You bet you’re sorry. You ever damage my bike again and I’ll kick your ass.”

“Duly noted.”

Von grunted, then rose to his feet. He straddled the Harley Fatboy’s seat and kick-started the engine. As it roared to life, he regarded Dante with a mixture of exasperation and affection. “See you at Lake Pontchartrain after you feed, little brother. Try not to destroy the city in the meantime.”

“Didn’t have citywide destruction on my to-do list, but I do now. And fuck you.”

“Awww. Love you too, you contrary little bastard.”

After a mutual double-handed flipping-off session, Dante watched Von steer his bike into traffic, the Harley’s deep rumble vibrating in through the soles of his boots as the nomad gunned it up Saint Peter toward Royal.

As his hunger guided him to Basin Street and Saint Louis No. 1 with its choice of tourist-mugging predators, Dante mentally replayed the conversation he’d shared with Heather before slipping from the club to hunt.

What happens when we get to Lake Pontchartrain? I’m pretty sure you don’t plan on rounding up those arsonists of Mauvais’s for nightkind cops or nightkind courts.

Nope. Those bastards are dead, they just don’t know it yet.

Simone’s gone and everyone else in the house could’ve died with her, including Annie and Eerie, so I get it, Dante, I do. But what worries me is this: where does it end? Does it become an endless loop of violence and revenge? When do you let go of it?

Never, catin. This is the nightkind world. The tempo is savage—marked out in blood. Grudges are nursed like precious and ailing infants over centuries. It ain’t like the mortal world, it can’t be.

I’ve noticed, trust me. But you can change your role in that world. You can change anything and everything. You could even let go of that endless loop.

Maybe, yeah. But not tonight, catin. Not tonight.

She nods, and her tight-jawed expression tells Dante this conversation isn’t over, not even close; then she pulls her gun free from the back of her hip-huggers and ejects the magazine, checks it, then slams it back home again—an automatic action.

She asks: So when are we going?

Dante was yanked from his thoughts by a panicked scream. A man in an over-sized black hoodie punched a woman in the face, yanking her purse strap from her shoulder. He pelted down the sidewalk in a long-legged stride, the purse tucked like a football against his ribs.

Dante blurred after the mugger in an adrenaline-fueled rush and body-slammed him into the cemetery wall. Slashed his fangs into his sweat-salty throat . . .

<Let Trey and Silver know it’s time to go, chérie, then pick me up at Saint Louis No. 1 in ten. We’ll head out from there.>

<See you in ten, Baptiste.>

. . . and drank deep.

39
PAST THE POINT OF NO RETURN

NEW ORLEANS
LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN
March 28

TREY CAUGHT THEM ALL off guard.

As Heather eased the van, headlights off, to a halt in the lot at Breakwater Park’s far end, Trey slammed open the side door and bolted outside in a dreads-trailing blur. He disappeared into the night-inked park and from view, but Heather didn’t need clairvoyance or a crystal ball to know where he was headed like a fanged, heat-seeking missile—the lakeshore beyond and the arsonists waiting at the distant boat ramps for their ride.

“Fuck!” Dante moved and seemed to vanish from the van.

Lake-chilled air salted with the scents of brine, marsh grass, and decaying wood poured in through the opened passenger door. Dante was long gone.

“Wow. Did not see that coming,” Silver muttered from the backseat, his tone the verbal equivalent of an eye roll. “Trey breaking his promise to wait? I mean, seriously.” He jumped out of the van. “I think he just fucked the plan.”

Heather had to agree.

Since Von and De Noir’s surveillance hadn’t turned up any indication of a trap, just a pair of anxious fire bugs waiting to go home, it had been decided to use them before handing them over to Trey.

The plan had been simple—in theory. Wait for the yacht’s power boat to arrive. Knock everyone out before warning could be sent to Mauvais. Pilot the captive-laden boat back to the yacht with herself, Von, Silver, and Trey aboard. Dante and Lucien would fly, hopefully adding a shock factor to the yacht-storming when they winged down to the deck.

Once we’re on the yacht, cher, they’re all yours—Mauvais too. Just wait until then, so we can catch the fi’ de garce off guard, yeah?

Mauvais’s fille de sang is mine too, Tee-Tee. Promise.

Dante’d bitten his lower lip, then given his promise, his sworn word, in a tender kiss.

If Dante didn’t catch up to Trey before he reached the boat ramp, the nightkind half of the Molotov cocktail–tossing pair would send word of the ambush to Mauvais, making it impossible to get the drop on the Creole lord.

Heather pulled her Colt from her trench coat pocket and chambered a round. As she was reaching for the door, Silver yanked it open, expression tense. Moonlight haloed his anime hero–styled hair. Heather hopped out of the van and he snugged an arm around her waist, bracing her against his hard, lithe body. His fresh, just-sprinkled-cinnamon scent filled her nostrils.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Let’s haul ass.”

Silver moved.

The night streaked past in cool, midnight shades of shadow and moonlight as they blurred across the parking lot, past pale rocks and old splintered logs and into the cool green of the park; blurred through marsh grass and past clusters of palm trees and along a curving stretch of pavement leading to the boat ramps.

“Shit,” Silver said, slowing to a stop at the ramp’s mouth. He removed his arm from around Heather’s waist. “Looks like we missed the party.”

Heather’s fingers tightened around the grip of her gun as she pieced together the scene meeting her gaze.

Two bodies lay sprawled on the ramp. One seemed to be missing its head.

Blood pooled on the concrete, glinted wet in the moonlight. Dripped from Trey’s fingers, his dreads, freckled his expressionless face. And the smell of it, thick and coppery, curled like smoke into the air.

The low throbbing sound of an idling engine drew Heather’s gaze to the sleek power boat bobbing beside the ramp’s end. Dante, his pale face almost luminescent in the dark, hauled a panicked-looking man out of the boat by one arm and tossed him onto the ramp.

The man’s boot soles slipped on the blood-slicked concrete and he would’ve gone down if not for Dante’s hand around his biceps. All color drained from the boat pilot’s face as he realized what he was standing in. He looked at Dante, then froze. His mouth dropped open.

“Hypnotized by beauty,” Silver commented. “Like a rat in front of a cobra. Wish I could do that,” he added.

Heather flicked a glance at Silver, wondering at his wistful tone. His attention was focused on Dante, his expression shadowed and brooding, a teenager’s intense and single-minded want despite the fact that he was actually a year or two older than Dante.

Heather looked away, a wisp of uneasiness curling through her. He has a crush on Dante. And not in a good way. Does Annie know?

“Our quarrel ain’t with you,” Dante said to the boat pilot. “We’ll leave you—”

Blood sprayed across Dante’s face. Fountained into the air from the pilot’s headless neck stump. Spattered the concrete in dark and glistening drops. Trey stood behind the pilot, the man’s open-mouthed head in his hands.

Heather blinked. She hadn’t even seen the web-runner move. Her stomach knotted and she looked away from the head he held.

Dante released the spasming body. It crumpled against the ramp. He wiped blood from his face with his mesh sleeve. “Dammit, Trey! That wasn’t necessary. He was just a fucking servant.”

But Trey said nothing. He simply tossed the head into the dark waters of the lake, the splash loud in the strained silence. The slaughter on the boat ramp had happened with breathtaking speed. Three dead in less than three minutes.

“So much for the element of surprise, doll.” A whiff of gun oil and frost.

Heather jumped. Whirling, she glared at the nomad now standing beside her. “Christ! I need to get bells for all of you.”

Von snorted. “You still wouldn’t hear us coming, woman.”

Thinking of Dante’s silent tread, his soundless motion even with jinglies on his leather jacket, Heather sighed and nodded. “Probably not,” she agreed.

“The question now is, did the nightkind half of this house-torching pair get a warning off to Mauvais before Trey wrenched his head from his shoulders?” Von said, stroking the sides of his mustache with his thumb and index finger.

Heather returned her gaze to the lake where it blended with the starlit horizon and spotted what she believed to be Mauvais’s yacht in the distance, a shape outlined in white pearls of holiday light—La Belle Femme.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “The yacht doesn’t seem to be moving.”

“I’d bet my left rim Mauvais knows we’re here, doll—or that someone is, anyway.”

Heather frowned. “But why wouldn’t he just leave?”

“ ’Cuz he ain’t worried, catin,” Dante said, trailing a hand through his hair. “We’re nothing but a household of snot-nosed kids to him.”

“Exactly,” Von said. “But just because he ain’t worried, it doesn’t mean he ain’t gonna hunt you down later to spank your ass over this. Especially when three of his own—one nightkind and two mortals—are dead.” He glanced at the headless night-kind body. “Well, mostly dead. We still need to burn this bastard.”

“So what now?” Silver asked. “We’ve got the boat. Do we go after the asshole and finish this?”

“Oui, cher, we finish this,” Dante said quietly, his gaze flicking over each of them in turn before returning to Silver. “If we don’t, if we wait for a different night or better odds—it won’t be me the fi’ de garce comes after, it’ll be all of you.”

“So he’ll punish you through us,” Heather said, studying the light-beaded yacht.

“Not if he’s dead,” Trey said, voice flat. “Not if I feast on his heart.”

“Exactement.”

A shadow swooped across the dock and Heather looked up. His black wings extended like a thermal-gliding dragon’s, De Noir glided through the night sky in a slow, lazy spiral on his way down to the ground.

“Von mentioned that Mauvais tasted your blood,” De Noir said to Dante as his feet touched the concrete. “He’ll want more. He might be hoping you’ll come to him.” His wings folded shut behind him with an easy grace. “And he’ll be ready.”

“So he can keep you on tap,” Von speculated, his expression providing a new standard for deadpan. “Chain you up and keep you in the wine cellar to be brought out for those special occasions.”

Dante snorted. “You mean he’ll try. I ain’t planning on letting anyone hold me down this time.”

“You didn’t plan on that last time either, little brother,” Von pointed out.

“Yeah, yeah, blow me. But I get your point, llygad.”

“Wait. You what? Check my pulse, doll. Did my heart just stop?”

“That can be arranged,” Dante growled.

“Tempting as that is, I think I’m gonna pass on the opportunity to become a part of the body count. But thanks for thinking of me.”

Dante rolled his eyes. “Anytime.”

“Excuse me, but is his heart still beating?” Heather asked, pointing at the headless nightkind body on the ramp. Her memory flipped back to the night Dante had killed Étienne in the slaughterhouse.

Wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his wrist, Dante stands. Étienne’s head dangles from his other hand, braids wrapped around his fingers. He drops the head onto Étienne’s chest. The braids jitter with each beat of the heart. The eyes blink.

“Oui, he’s still alive,” Dante replied. “And we need to finish him.”

De Noir joined Dante beside the bodies. “You kill him, Mauvais will feel it and know beyond a doubt something is wrong. There will be no turning back.”

“We’re already past the point of no return,” Dante replied, nodding at the bodies.

“The murdering motherfucker burns,” Trey said. He was staring out across the lake to the yacht, despair hollowing out his eyes. His bloodied hands flexed at his sides. “I don’t give a shit what Mauvais knows or feels or suspects. This murdering motherfucker burns.”

Dante gave De Noir a look, one that seemed to say, that settles it, yeah?

A muscle flexed in De Noir’s jaw, but he said nothing more.

“I’ll check the boat for a gas can or something,” Silver said. He loped across the ramp, jumped into the power boat, then ducked into the cabin.

A stiff breeze, smelling of saltwater and fish, gusted against Heather and she pulled her trench coat tighter, grateful she’d worn it. She tucked her Colt back into her pocket. The yacht remained on the horizon, glittering like a constellation upon the lake.

Von nudged her with his shoulder. “Hell, this’ll probably be our best shot at Mauvais, anyway,” he said. “He wasn’t expecting us when he took to his yacht in the first place, so he can’t have more than a fraction of his household with him.”

“Not to mention a smaller cache of weapons,” Heather said.

Von nodded. “True, darlin’.” He strolled up the ramp toward the bodies.

Dante bent and hooked his fingers into the collar of the headless nightkind’s burgundy silk shirt. Or, at least Heather thought the shirt was burgundy. Maybe it hadn’t been before all the blood.

Von scooped up the head and held it by its short, bleached blond hair, a look of mild distaste on his face. “Picking up severed heads. I’ll never get used to shit like this,” he muttered. “And if I ever do—fucking bring me down in a hail of bullets.”

Heather felt a sympathetic smile twitch across her lips. “As long as you promise to do the same for me.”

“Done, doll.”

Dante hauled the body toward Heather’s end of the ramp, blood painting a dark, wet trail on the concrete behind him. Heather’s shoulder muscles cabled tight as she remembered how Étienne’s body had struggled to escape the flames.

Dante’s dark eyes met hers. Comprehension and sympathy glinted in their depths.

<You don’t need to watch this, catin.>

<I know, and I don’t plan to. But I’m staying. This is part of my world too now.>

Dante’s breath caught in his throat and he stumbled. The shirt collar slid from his grip. The body thumped bonelessly to the concrete. Dante squeezed his eyes shut, his body stiffening with pain and tension.

“Aw shit, little brother.”

Heather’s heart skipped a beat when she saw a dark line of blood ooze from Dante’s left nostril. She felt something jagged and red-hot, like a broken and burning branch, jab against her shields.

Pulse racing, Heather struggled to spin her shields tight, to layer more steel around her mind, but instead she felt something different, something she hadn’t experienced before during the short time of their bond—a thought-blanking, body-numbing arc of electricity, as though a downed and wriggling power line had been jammed into her skull. Her muscles spasmed, locked.

Just before her vision whited out, she caught a glimpse of Dante falling, his body convulsing, heard frantic voices—Von and De Noir—and the high drone of an engine powering away, and smelled the thunderstorm scent of ozone.

Then bolt after searing bolt of lightning struck her, contorting her muscles and reducing her mind to molten slag.

HEATHER TASTED BLOOD, COPPERY and warm, but with an unusual undertone, like just-ripened grapes. Felt it fill her mouth. She turned her head to spit it out, but a strong hand held her jaw closed.

“No, you don’t, doll. You need to swallow it, just like the other mouthful.”

The other mouthful?

Her body hurt all over—muscles throbbing, joints aching—as though she’d been in bed for days with a severe case of flu, and her skin prickled, a pincushion for a million tiny needles.

What happened? Where am I?

“Swallow, darlin’,” Von repeated. “And I totally mean that in a non-dirty way.”

Realizing the blood had to be Von’s, Heather did as the nomad urged and choked down her mouthful. Coughing, she opened her eyes.

Von leaned over her, the skin between his eyebrows creased, worry in his green eyes. Several strands of dark hair had escaped his ponytail and trailed across his face. A relieved smile brushed his lips.

“Hey,” she whispered. “What happened?”

“Hey back, woman. You gave us a scare.”

Heather blinked. Tried to remember where she was. She looked up into the night sky. She smelled brackish water and mud, heard the slap of water against pilings. Then, like a pool being filled with a garden hose, where and when and what trickled into her mind.

Lake Pontchartrain. La Belle Femme. Trey soaked in blood. Mauvais. Severed heads. Dante . . .

Dante.

Heather tried to sit up, but Von pinned her down to the concrete, his hands to her shoulders. “Wait a moment, let the blood do its work, doll. Dante’s okay. Lucien’s with him right now.”

“It was a seizure, wasn’t it?” Heather asked.

“Yup, and Dante ended up taking you along for the ride too.” Von released his hold on her and smoothed her hair back from her face, his road-calloused hands light, gentle.

“My fault,” she murmured. “I didn’t tighten my shields in time. I’d lowered them to send to him and . . .”

“Ain’t nobody’s fault,” Von chided. “It just happened. But we got a big problem. Trey’s on his way to the yacht and he’s got a good five minutes head start.”

Memory clicked—the sound of an engine powering away. “Shit. And Silver?”

“Silver’s still on the boat. He’s been sending to us. He’s tried to reason with Trey, but . . .” Von shook his head. “Boy’s lost to grief and blood-lust and Silver ain’t a match for Trey’s strength—not with Dante’s blood powering through his veins.”

“So what do we do?” Heather asked. “What’s the plan?”

Dante’s voice, husky and urgent, said, “Merci, but let me up.”

Heather heard the creak of latex, the soft bellows-rush of fanning wings, then Dante’s autumn scent—burning leaves and November frost—curled around her as he sank to his knees beside her and gathered her into his arms, into his fevered heat, and held her tight.

“Fuck, catin, goddammit. Ça va? Je regrette—”

Heather silenced him with a finger laid against his blood-smeared lips. She looked into his eyes, troubled by the still-dilated pupils, the pain tightening the line of his jaw.

“Keep your apology, Baptiste. It wasn’t your fault, okay? Let it go.”

His silence and steady gaze triggered a pigheaded alert in Heather’s head: He’s not going to let it go.

“We need to catch up with Trey,” he said finally, “before he gets himself and Silver hurt—or worse.” He rose to his feet with fluid grace, pulling her up with him. Releasing her hand, he tugged off his hoodie, dropped it onto the concrete, then began unstrapping his PVC and mesh shirt.

Heather froze as unfamiliar energy uncoiled through her bloodstream, speed-shifting her pulse into high gear. Steam-cleaned the lingering fog from her mind, fed strength into her muscles. Pumped through her heart. Heat flushed her skin.

Dante glanced at her, nostrils flaring, as he peeled off his shirt. “Von’s blood is kicking in, yeah, catin?”

“Christ, yeah,” Heather breathed. Her pain—aches, throbs, and needle pricks—vanished as though smoothed away by heated fingers. The night brightened, taking on a silver, full-moon hue.

She felt Von’s presence beside her—warm and confident, brimming with strength, and realized they had a temporary link, like the ones she used to share with Dante before their bond. She glanced at the nomad.

Von winked.

Then he bent and scooped up the nightkind’s head, his fingers curling into the short hair, looking for a good grip. “Looks like his lucky night.” He drew back his arm like a baseball pitcher winding up a throw. He hurled the head into the night.

It hit the water with a distant ker-plop. “Again,” Heather said. “What’s the plan?”

Dante flexed his shoulder muscles and his wings unfurled behind him with a soft whoosh. Heather stared with a new blood-heightened appreciation at the beautiful loops and spirals etched on their blue and purple undersides.

De Noir stepped forward, tendrils of his ebony hair dancing in the breeze. His wings flared out, snapping like a canvas sail.

“We’re flying, catin,” Dante said.

40
WITHOUT MERCY

NEW ORLEANS,
THE Winter Rose
March 28

GUY MAUVAIS CHISELED FREE the last bit of white stone from the nude, crouching figure and tossed it onto the wood-paneled floor of the riverboat’s workroom—a floor dusted nearly white with powdered and pebbled stone. A winter scent—fallow earth and cold stone and thin, crackling ice—chilled the air.

Mauvais laid the chisel down on the sturdy wood table and rubbed his dusty hands against the leather tradesman’s apron he wore over his fine French linen shirt and morning gray slacks. He regarded the fruit of his labor, a sense of triumph flitting through his blood.

He’d been right.

Leathery wings, black beneath their sprinkling of dust; taloned fingers and toes; waist-length red hair; mouth open in a silent and endless scream; abstract Celtic designs—concentric circles, triskelions, delicate loops—were inked along the right-hand side of the body, throat, torso, hand; a thick gold torc twisted around the throat; bracers encircled both corded wrists and the right biceps.

One of the Fallen. One clearly in need of rescue.

Mauvais stepped back from the table and frowned. Such an unfortunate and undignified position, and naked, no less. He tsked. Not at all becoming. Who or what had caught this fallen angel off guard and trapped him inside stone?

Returning to the table, Mauvais wrestled the crouching angel onto its back and attempted to straighten the limbs, to no avail—despite the strength burning through his veins from the True Blood’s unwilling, but much appreciated, donation. It was like tugging on a statue’s leg or a mannequin’s, unbending and unyielding. Even though he’d managed to free the angel from his stone prison, whatever spell had locked him inside still held him prisoner.

Mauvais sighed and gave up the cause for lost. He picked up his tumbler of brandy and sipped as he eyed the fallen angel, the liquor as smooth as heated honey. He tapped a finger thoughtfully against his chin.

An urgent sending arrowed against Mauvais’s shields. Recognizing the energy as belonging to one of his own—Stephen, Mauvais admitted it.

<Ambush, my lord!>

An image accompanied Stephen’s sending: a pale face, rage-streaked eyes, dark dreads whipping through the night air, bared and lethal fangs. Mauvais didn’t recognize the vampire attacking Stephen. But as for the figure blurring into view behind the stranger? Ah, that face he knew well, the singular True Blood beauty, Dante Baptiste.

So the child has come seeking payback. Seems he has another lesson to learn.

Stephen’s sending ended in a burst of pain that Mauvais automatically flexed away. Yanking off his apron, Mauvais moved up the stairs, his fingernails striking sparks from the iron railing. He called to his fille de sang.

<Justine, ma belle. Baptiste has attacked Stephen and Patrick. How far are we from the rendezvous?>

Mauvais blurred onto the upper deck. Mortal servants and apprentis bowed their heads respectfully as he strode past them to the railing. Moonlight trailed a pale finger along the night-blackened water of the Mississippi.

<We are much too far, mon père, to be of any assistance since I changed the rendezvous to Lake Pontchartrain and your yacht.>

Mauvais locked his hands around the moisture-beaded wood railing and frowned.

<Without my knowledge or permission? Present yourself, child.>

<As you wish.>

A slow heartbeat later, the thick scent of roses perfumed the air, blotting out the river’s cold scent. Silk rustled, whispered against skin. Then a delicate and pale hand rested on the railing next to Mauvais’s.

Mauvais refused to look at his only blood daughter, refused to allow the sight of her—thick waves of coffee dark hair, white skin, dark eyes, and cherry red lips, his own lovely and heartbreaking Snow White—to cool his simmering anger.

Justine had never countermanded or changed one of his orders before and, he was quite sure, had never before considered doing such a thing. He intended to make sure she never did again.

“Explain yourself,” he said, his voice cold enough to frost the deck.

“Of course, mon père,” Justine said, her tone dulcet and obedient. “I only did what needed to be done. You used Stephen and Patrick to firebomb Baptiste’s home, and I used them to finish the job.”

“Meaning?”

“I knew Dante Baptiste would come for those responsible for the fire and for the death of his silly Simone. Especially if he knew when and where to look. So I used Stephen and Patrick as bait.”

Mauvais’s fingers white-knuckled around the railing. Wood cracked. “Who helped you set them up? Who made sure Baptiste received word of your false rendezvous?” he asked, his voice crackling with icy anger.

“The artist on Magazine Street—Vincent. But he believed he was setting you up, mon père, not that marmot Dante.”

Mauvais nodded, then blew out an irritated breath. Time to clean house once more. An annoying but necessary task repeated every half century or so. Even though Justine had manipulated and used the Magazine Street lord, Vincent would die for his foolish betrayal; his household would be scattered.

Without mercy, he would meet any and all challenges to his authority. As always.

Mauvais watched the dark line of the river bank glide past, shore lights smearing orange, yellow, and white color across the Mississippi’s surface. “Tell me more,” he commanded quietly.

“Everyone aboard La Belle Femme will die tonight. Je regrette, mon cher Guy, but your yacht has been made into a trap.”

“Ah, what have you done?” Mauvais closed his eyes. “Ungrateful child. I gave you your justice. A life for a life.”

“Justice?” Justine laughed. “How could you possibly imagine that one death would atone for Étienne’s murder? For the loss of his entire household at the hands of that True Blood bastard? I am giving Étienne the justice you did not, mon père.”

The bitter accusation, the quiet fury in his fille de sang’s words, opened Mauvais’s eyes and finally turned his head. Justine met his gaze, her chin lifted, waves of lustrous coffee-brown hair framing her beautiful snow-white face. A fierce grief burned in her dark eyes—a poisoned apple that she had devoured to the stem and core.

Just as he’d known it would, the sight of her pierced Mauvais to the heart, sharper and more ruthless than any knife. He remembered turning her, how she’d clung to him, as he’d drained the blood from her body. Remembered her quiet and grateful murmurs.

He would never find another like her.

But she refused to look beyond her broken heart and her empty bed. She would never understand that vampire society, stagnant and collapsing in upon itself, might very well need Dante Baptiste and the chaos seething in his veins in order to survive.

Of course, the trick would be properly guiding that chaos and violence, a trick Mauvais believed he could handle well.

“You gave me no other choice,” Justine said.

Mauvais lifted a hand from the railing and stroked the backs of his fingers against her soft cheek. “Foolish girl, ungrateful child,” he murmured. “You have given me no other choice as well, ma belle.”

Mauvais stabbed his fingers into Justine’s chest, his nails puncturing her silk bodice and pale breast, cracking bone, and seizing her heart. He yanked the pulsing organ free and held it up for her to see.

As Justine’s blood sprayed across his face and fine French linen shirt, Mauvais regretted removing his leather apron. She blinked in shock, mouth opening and closing, her hands fluttering up to her ruined chest belatedly.

With a flick of a sharp-nailed finger, Mauvais sliced away the black velvet choker with its white rose cameo from around her throat, reclaiming his gift. The cameo bounced across the riverboat’s deck. He brushed Justine’s dark and rose-scented tresses aside so he could whisper into the delicate shell of her ear.

“I disown you.”

Justine crumpled to the deck in a spill of blood and silken midnight-blue skirts and creamy skin.

Leaning over the rail, Mauvais dropped Justine’s heart into the river. It disappeared beneath the dark water without a sound. He straightened, then turned and bellowed, “Edmond!”

Edmond hurried from belowdecks, smoothing his black uniform, then paused, wide-eyed, as he took in the situation. Edging carefully away from the spreading pool of blood on the deck, he awaited Mauvais’s instructions.

“Clean up this mess, then toss mademoiselle overboard. She is no longer a member of the household.”

Edmond blinked. “Oui, at once, my lord.”

Mourning his ruined shirt and slacks, Mauvais strode toward the pilothouse. He had a message to send Dante Baptiste, provided it wasn’t already too late; a message that would end with the young True Blood owing Mauvais a very big favor.

But when the operator signaled the yacht, static and silence was the only reply.

41
HOW TO DESTROY ANGELS

NEW ORLEANS,
La Belle Femme
March 28

GUNSHOTS POP-POP-POPPED FROM THE light-pearled yacht below like corks fired from champagne bottles. The power boat bobbed against the anchored vessel, empty. Tiny figures raced across the deck. Some fell. More pops echoed across the lake. Dante’s pulse drummed through his veins, at his temples.

He arrowed himself down toward the yacht, dropping from eight stories above the white-capped water to five, his deltoid muscles burning as his wings slashed through the humid air, the salt tang of brine prickling his nostrils.

More pop-pop-pops.

Trey’s head snapped back, dreads whipping around him almost in slow motion, then he dropped to one knee on the deck. And swayed. Cold fingers latched around Dante’s heart. A streak of black and purple–edged motion, then Silver stood over the mortal shooter’s splayed body, licking blood from his fingers. He looked up, silver eyes brimming with light.

<Hurry, dammit,> he sent. <Trey ain’t listening.>

<On our way down, cher, hold on.>

Trey staggered to his feet. He dashed across the main deck, then darted up a flight of stairs to the upper deck, disappearing inside the cabin. Another series of pop-pop-pops welcomed him. Silver raced after him, face grim.

Dante glanced to his right. Lucien flew close to his wing tip, his hair a streamlined banner of liquid night blowing behind him, Von tucked against one side, Heather the other. Lucien had convinced Dante that he shouldn’t carry anyone on his first flight, not until he had tested the strength of his wings and his landing skills.

I doubt Heather would enjoy a long drop into the lake, Dante, or a crash landing on the yacht. I doubt you’d enjoy it either.

A point Dante hadn’t argued, couldn’t argue; his wings were untested. And after having already knocked Heather on her ass with his fucking seizure . . . A muscle flexed in Dante’s jaw.

As though feeling his gaze, Lucien looked at him from over his shoulder, his golden eyes glinting in the darkness like stars. Dante felt a gentle touch against his shields, Lucien seeking permission.

Dante thinned his shields.

<Time to learn to land, child. Listen.>

Lucien’s wybrcathl rang out in a complicated melody, streaming information into Dante’s mind on wind and speed and rates of descent along with spatial dimensions and perspectives. Images of wing and body positions, of gliding techniques, strobed behind his eyes. He drank in the song and the information embedded within its chiming chords. Pain sparked electric at his temples, then winked out.

The wybrcathl ended in a quiet spill of deep bass notes.

<Got it, mon ami,> Dante sent.

Heather glanced at Dante, wind slashing tendrils of red hair across her face. She touched her fingertips to her lips and kissed them. <For luck. Don’t break anything.>

<Ditto, catin. See you below.>

Dante contracted his delts and worked his wings, tipping to the left as he glided down toward the yacht. Looks like I’m left-handed and left-winged. Shifting his weight more to center, he leveled his descent. But not his speed.

The yacht was coming up fast.

Dante flapped and flexed his wings to slow himself down, and it worked to a small degree, just not as much as he’d hoped. He skimmed over the yacht’s antenna, satellite dishes, and sun deck, his shadow rippling across the jacuzzi’s bubbling water, and aimed himself at the main deck.

People in crisp white uniforms looked up. Dante caught a glimpse of their expressions—stunned disbelief, adrenaline-soaked panic, and terror—as he swooped past and down.

Fanning his wings to slow his descent—nah, make that a controlled plummet—Dante swung his body around to vertical and landed. His boots hit the deck hard and at a run. He slammed into the metal railing, knocking the air from his lungs and nearly catapulting over the side.

“It’s the Fallen!” someone screamed.

“Holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit . . .”

White light strobed at the edges of Dante’s vision, migraine early warning. Pain pricked behind his left eye. Pulsed at his temples. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Dante shoved himself away from the railing and spun around to face Mauvais’s gun-wielding crew, his wings flaring out behind him, muscles spring-coiled.

Most of the crew scattered, pelting away in every direction, skirting around or jumping over the handful of bloodied bodies Trey and Silver had left behind on the teak-paneled deck. Dante heard a loud splash as someone opted for a man-overboard exit strategy.

But three others, two guys and a chick with gel-spiked blonde hair, carefully placed their guns down on the teak deck and surrendered. All three knelt and laced their fingers behind their bowed heads, their faces drained of color.

Dante studied them for a moment, unease prickling along his spine. What’s wrong with this picture? So far, he’d only seen mortals on the yacht. Where were Mauvais’s nightkind guards and crew? Protecting the fi’ de garce and his chienne of a fille de sang while leaving his servants to their own fucking fate?

“Don’t move a muscle,” Dante said, blurring across the decking to scoop up their guns and toss them over the side. “And y’all might live through this.”

Lucien touched down with a graceful flutter of wings. Another loud man-overboard splash greeted his arrival.

“Smooth landing, Baptiste,” Heather murmured, stepping from Lucien’s embrace.

“Almost brought tears to my eyes,” Von agreed.

“Nothing beats an appreciative audience, yeah—and y’all can blow me.”

An unshielded and anxious thought from one of the kneeling trio of white uniformed mortals spiked out into the adrenaline-and-cordite smoked air.

If only M’sieu were on board.

Dante went still. That couldn’t be right. Maybe the thought had been intended to be intercepted, to trick him into believing Mauvais wasn’t here. He closed his eyes and listened, tuning out the fast-paced patter of mortal pulses to focus on the slow pendulum swing of immortal hearts.

From the main deck: BOOM. BOOM. From the upper deck: BOOM. BOOM. Von and Lucien; Trey and Silver.

Dante opened his eyes. No other nightkind were on board. Which meant that either Vincent had lied to him or that Vincent had been lied to—but in either case, Dante had just led everyone he loved into a goddamned trap.

The yacht’s engines rumbled to life.

Justine’s words snaked through his aching mind: Trust me, I’ll make sure you regret every breath you’ve ever drawn.

“Mauvais ain’t here,” Dante said, voice tight, sending his words to Silver and Trey at the same time. “And we’ve been set the fuck up. Get off the yacht tout de suite.”

<Trey still ain’t listening,> Silver sent. <And I don’t think I can drag him out.>

<Split, p’tit. Get outta there. I’ll grab Trey.>

“I’ll make sure the speed boat’s ready to roll,” Von said, tucking his Brownings back into the double holsters beneath his leather jacket and striding for the ladder leading to the lower deck. “Four is too many to be carried, we’re gonna need it.”

Looking at Lucien, Dante tilted his head at the kneeling crew members. “Find out what they know. Then get the hell out of here.”

Lucien nodded, then turned his gleaming gaze on the mortals. But the stubborn set of his jaw and his silence spoke volumes: He wasn’t leaving before Dante.

Dante raked a hand through his hair in frustration.

A firecracker string of muffled pops echoed from the upper deck, then Silver blazed to a stop beside Dante in a swirl of copper and cinnamon-scented air. Blood glistened on his vintage Mad Max T-shirt and smeared his pale face, some of it his own, judging by the scent and the blood-slicked hand he was pressing against his belly.

“Trey’s heading for the pilot house or bridge or whatever the fuck you call the steering place,” he said.

“Haul ass to the boat,” Dante said. “Von’s already on his way.”

Silver nodded.

“And you?” Heather asked. “What about you?”

“I’m gonna fetch Trey.”

“Then I’d put those things away, dude,” Silver advised, eyeing Dante’s wings. “Real tight quarters in there.”

“Shit. Good point, cher.” Dante drew in a breath, then contracted his deltoid muscles. He felt the smooth glide of his wings as they telescoped down and in, with a whisper of velvet against skin. He looked at Heather. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Heather shook her head. Her fingers white-knuckled around the grip of her Colt. “I’m not leaving without you, Baptiste.”

Dante saw steel in her twilight gaze. Remembered his promise to her: We’re in this together, chérie. Back-to-back and side-by-side.

“Then let’s go, catin.” Dante wrapped an arm around Heather’s waist and moved.

DANTE SPED THROUGH THE upper deck—bar, salon, dining room, scrubbed and gleaming stainless-steel galley—following Trey’s bread-crumb trail of bloodied, white-uniformed bodies to the bridge.

Dante slowed to a halt, dread spinning tight in his chest like a wheel on the hatch of a submarine when he heard the rhythmic and muffled beep of a timer.

Time was running out, disaster breathing down its neck.

Heather slipped free of his embrace and did a slow three-sixty of the wheelhouse, gun lifted in a secure two-handed grip.

Trey stood at the equipment console, his fingers blurring across a computer keyboard, dreads dancing against his back and shoulders. Blood streaked the side of his face, saturated the back of his navy blue button-down shirt, the left hip of his jeans, the smell of it thick and heady in the enclosed space.

“You ain’t hiding from me,” Trey was muttering underneath his breath, over and over like a child’s curse/chant. “You ain’t hiding from me. You ain’t. You ain’t.”

“Trey,” Dante said softly, stepping up beside him. Pain chiseled at his concentration as his migraine revved into the red zone. “Mauvais ain’t here. He never was. This is a trap and we gotta go, cher.”

Nautical charts flashed across the computer’s monitor. “You ain’t hiding from me. You ain’t. You ain’t.”

“Trey . . .”

“I heard you, Tee-Tee,” Trey said, his fingers falling silent on the monitor. “Fi’ de garce is laughing at us. Thinks killing Simone was a game, him. Wish I could move like data through the Internet. I’d be on the motherfucker right now.”

“His night is coming, cher—and soon. It just ain’t tonight.”

A dark and furious grief radiated from Trey like the fiery corona of an eclipse. Metal screeched as his fingernails scraped across the console. He lifted his head, then looked at Dante. His eyes drank in the light, swallowed it whole, and gave none back.

“I’m gonna need more of your blood, Tee-Tee.”

“You’ll have it,” Dante promised. “But right now, we need to move our asses.”

Trey said, “See you topside,” then swiveled around, dreads swinging against his back. He moved, vanishing from the bridge in a streak of bloodied blue, and dark coils.

Relief cascaded through Dante and his heart slowed its double-time march against his ribs. As he moved away from the console to join Heather, he felt Lucien’s polite rap against his shields and opened up to him.

<These three know nothing of a trap,> Lucien sent. <However, I just noticed several other crew members—including the captain—boarding a second power boat.>

<Fuck. Abandoning ship after starting the engines. I’m thinking a bomb.>

<As am I. Hurry, child.>

Dante tucked Heather against his side. “Yacht might be a time bomb, catin.”

She stared at him, and he heard her pulse picking up speed. “Shit.”

Dante grabbed her hand and moved. When they reached the lower deck, Trey and Lucien were waiting for them at the stern, beside the ladder leading down to the wave-bobbing boat below. Another boat sped away across the lake, its engine a high-pitched drone, a V of black water rippling in its wake.

Dante waved Lucien and Trey on—go, go, already, we’re right behind y’all—then opened his mouth, but whatever he’d intended to say skated away beyond his recall as red-hot pain drilled through his skull. The yacht deck tilted like a capsizing ship as another image wheeled over it and clicked into place.

Mama Prejean smacks Jeanette as she sets the table, telling her she’s doing it ass-backwards. Papa, with an irritated grunt, backhands the girl and knocks her down.

Dante drops his Metal Scene mag and rises from the floor . . .

Another wheeling image . . .

An electronic beep sounds from the door. A green light reading OPEN scrolls across the lock’s LED screen. The thick door ka-chunks open.

Some douchebag wearing blue scrubs and paper slippers stands at the threshold, a priest’s satin stole draping his broad shoulders. He holds a brown leather carrying case in one hand, a loop of beads in the other. His face is hard and rugged, all weathered angles and planes, the tough mask of a resistance fighter. His blue eyes burn with a fierce light.

“I see you. You are not hidden from me,” he says, unzipping the case. “For our heavenly Father has removed the scales from my eyes. I see you. And I shall free you.”

And another . . .

Orem burns on a torn mattress inside a white padded room, a funeral pyre for a plushie orca and a red-haired princess in a Winnie the Pooh sweater.

Dante’s breath caught rough in his throat, the pain in his heart blotting out the firestorm in his head. Electricity arced through his mind. Fire crackled along his fingers.

The night turned blue.

DANTE STUMBLED TO A stop, his face blanking as though he’d just forgotten where he was going or what he was doing. Alarm prickled along Heather’s spine. Just as she reached for him to steady him, to keep him moving toward the stern, blue flames flared out from around Dante’s clenched fists, engulfing his body in rings of blue fire with breathtaking speed as though he’d been doused in gasoline and lit with a welder’s torch.

Heather jerked her hands away and jumped back a step, her heart hammering against her ribs. A dark and past-frothing current raged against her blood-reinforced shields, then swirled away, leaving her mind untouched.

The smell of ozone electrified the air as Dante’s song raged into the night.

Heather heard the sharp snap of wings as De Noir took to the sky.

Blood streamed from Dante’s nose, spattering the deck in huge, dark drops. Pain rippled across his pale face. He squeezed his eyes shut. Coils of blue light whipped around him, some lashing out into the night, others striking the yacht.

Blue flames devoured a deck chair, twisting it into a sleek seal-creature. Sparks winked from the points of the wing-fin spikes bristling along its spine, glittered in its black eyes. It blinked, then flowed with liquid grace over the railing and into the lake.

A life preserver unfolded into a pale centipede, its hundreds of legs clicking along the deck.

Heather’s mouth dried.

Dante staggered, then fell to his hands and knees, the muscles in his chest, back, and arms taut with strain. The metal decorating his body—the steel loop in his collar, the hoops in his ears, the rings on his fingers and thumbs, the buckles on his belt and boots—burned with a cold blue radiance like distant stars.

Beneath Dante’s glowing hands, the deck heaved, shifted, humped up like whale flesh. A huge dorsal fin rose up like a long-lost island from beneath dark waves.

Heather fumbled for the morphine-filled syringe still tucked inside her pocket. Yanking it free, she eyed the rays of blue fire radiating out from around Dante, and her heart sank. She doubted she could get close enough to even use the syringe—not and remain in her current form—a form she was fond of and wished desperately to keep.

Her belly knotted tight as a fist as she felt their remaining seconds slip away. It might take more time than they had for her to calm the storm raging inside Dante’s mind by funneling white silence through their bond.

But a bullet to the head took no time at all.

Heather’s fingers curled around the grip of her Colt. It won’t kill him. He’ll be hurt, yes, but it’ll snuff the creawdwr fire and it won’t kill him. It won’t.

“Baptiste,” she whispered. Heather lifted the Colt. As her finger flexed against the trigger, three things happened with simultaneous and heart-stopping speed.

The morphine syringe was yanked from her hand; a shape blurred away.

A pool of blue fire washed across the deck, rippling toward Heather’s feet.

Fingers latched onto the collar of her trench coat and hoisted her up and away from the transforming flood racing toward her. Aim spoiled, the gunshot rolled like thunder through the night.

As De Noir wrapped an arm around Heather’s waist, securing her against his side, his wings sweeping through the air, she stared in horror at what was taking place on the incandescent and undulating deck.

Trey stood in the lake of creawdwr fire, the syringe tucked like a cigarette between two long fingers. He knelt in front of Dante, blue flames swarming over his body, flickering along his dreads, gleaming in his eyes. But instead of spiking Dante full of morphine, Trey slid his hands along Dante’s shoulders and lifted him up into an embrace. Whispered into his ear. Then he pulled back and closed his mouth over Dante’s in a tender kiss.

Dante’s burning hands cupped Trey’s face. The web-runner’s shape wavered.

Fear iced Heather’s heart. She swung the Colt up again and aimed carefully, her pulse pounding in her temples. Heated fingers locked around her wrist.

“No. You can’t. It’s too late,” De Noir said, his voice sounding as stunned and shaken as she felt. “You shoot Dante now and whatever’s happening to Trey will be finished, but incomplete. But if you reach Dante through your bond and manage to balance him, then perhaps he’ll be able to reverse the transformation before its done.”

Unspoken: If there’s still time.

Heather closed her eyes. She felt Von’s presence in the mouthfuls of blood coursing through her veins. Felt him feed energy and strength into her shields. Even though she couldn’t speak to him the way she could with Dante, she could still hear the nomad through their temporary link: I’ve got your back and your shields, doll. Hurry.

Drawing in a deep breath of ozone-prickling air, Heather fought to calm and center herself as she called to Dante through their bond, guiding him from the dark and ragged reef of the broken past.

FROM MILES AWAY, DANTE heard someone shouting his name, over and over. A familiar voice. One composed of cool white light and rain-wet lilac and sage and shaped by silence.

It’s quiet when I’m with you. The noise stops.

I’ll help you stop it forever.

You’re not alone. I’m here, waiting for you.

Come back to me, Baptiste.

Heather.

Dante struggled to remember here-and-now. He shoved the pain and the crooning voices below, but it was getting pretty damned crowded in there, packed to the brim.

Heather whispered to him: Lake Pontchartrain, the boat ramp, La Belle Femme, the bomb . . .

The here-and-now slammed into Dante with sledgehammer force: the firebugs waiting on the boat ramp, his first flight through the Louisiana night, the yacht, Trey, the quiet beep of a timer.

Dante tasted blood at the back of his throat, felt it trickle hot from his nose. Pain throbbed at his temples. Creation energy poured through him, wild and unfettered, and he shivered, caught in its flow, his song keeping tempo with the chaos rhythm permeating his heart.

The deck humped up beneath his knees, then dropped back down—a deck that felt more like living flesh. Dante opened his eyes. And his heart leapt into his throat.

He held Trey’s face—a face that flickered and shifted, a face that seemed composed of blue neon ones and zeros —between his blue-lit hands. Trey’s dreads, now gleaming and twisted bundles of wire, snaked into the burning air.

Dante tried to let go, to yank his hands away, but Trey locked fingers ending in what looked like flat and square USB interface tips around one wrist, holding his left hand in place, while his other hand blurred out of view.

Dante felt something prick the skin of his neck. Sensed Trey’s thumb pushing a plunger. A cold, chemical taste iced the back of his throat as the morphine slithered cold through his veins.

“No, let me fix this . . .” Dante whispered. His muscles uncoiled and he slumped onto the breathing deck’s smooth, wet skin. His song faltered, then died, his fire snuffed.

<It’s okay, Tee-Tee,> Trey sent, <It’s all right, for true. You made me into something that ain’t never gonna be stopped by a trap or bullets or distance, something that Mauvais won’t be able to hide from—just like I asked.>

Dante’s thoughts slowed, mired in opium. “Ain’t losing . . . you,” he slurred.

<You ain’t losing me, Tee-Tee. We ain’t done, you and me. Not yet.>

Dante tried to force himself up onto his knees, tried to reach for Trey’s flickering shape, but his body, straitjacketed by morphine, refused to cooperate. He heard a rush of wings above him, felt warm hands grasp his biceps.

<We’ve got you, Baptiste.>

Trey flickered, his body a blue stream of ones and zeroes, then winked out.

“No . . . Trey . . .”

As Dante was hauled up, the night exploded in a blinding burst of light and sound: whoomph. A giant and heated hand slammed against his back, searing his flesh, and slapping him from Lucien’s grip. Dante fell, plummeting into the lake with a hard splash.

Before the water closed over his head, he caught a glimpse of a fireball searing the sky, of fused chunks of leviathan flesh and yacht wreckage raining into the lake, of Lucien tumbling through the air in a fiery trajectory like a falling star, his wings folded protectively around Heather.

Dante sank into the cold black beneath the water and within his heart.

42
FUNERAL BLOSSOM

ALEXANDRIA, VA
SHADOW BRANCH HQ
March 29

TEODORO FINISHED PAINTING THE final sigil in the circle’s outer ring, the mingled scents of the spell components—frankincense, anise, and his own blood—nearly hidden beneath the pungent smell of the paint.

Power tingled against his skin. The hair lifted on his arms, at the back of his neck. The protection sigils tattooed centuries before above his heart and solar plexus threaded cool and insulating energy throughout his body, protecting him from the circle of holding he’d just created on the bare concrete floor of his office with precise strokes of a paint brush and spell-spiked black paint.

Something he hadn’t done in more decades than he cared to count.

Teodoro sat back on his heels and regarded the glyphrimmed circle spanning from just inside the threshold to his desk. The most likely path for the young creawdwr to walk.

Provided he ever got this far. But Teodoro was a firm believer in better safe than sorry. Nephilim didn’t survive long among the Elohim by being careless.

Sometimes they didn’t survive at all.

An image of his daughter’s lifeless white face and her empty purple eyes drifted through his memory like a pale funeral blossom floating on a river’s dark current.

But his grief and anger had burned away to cold gray ash long, long ago. All that remained was a heart scoured clean by deepest loss and lit with a pure flame—that of justice.

Wheels. Circles. Cycles.

Fate was cycling around for the Fallen, and this time it came in the lovely form of a half-blood and damaged creawdwr named Dante Baptiste; the passing seconds of their coming Second Fall marked out in paint on a concrete floor.

Teodoro nodded, satisfied with his efforts, then gathered up both paint can and brush and rose smoothly to his feet. Once the circle had dried, he would tack the carpet and pad back down over it.

In his stocking feet—to spare his fine leather Italian shoes any accidental paint drips—he padded behind his desk. His cell phone bumbled like an angry bee against his desk blotter. Putting the paint can and brush on top of the cloth bag he’d carried them in, he sank into his desk chair and grabbed the phone. A quick glance at the caller ID confirmed the call was one he was expecting—Purcell.

The field agent started speaking without any preamble as soon as Teodoro flipped the cell open.

“I picked the kid up at the Baton Rouge airport and got her all settled at Doucet-Bainbridge,” Purcell said. “She seems happy enough. Especially since she thinks her goddamned psycho angel will be coming to see her.”

“And so he will. Once you’ve fetched Wallace.”

“I gotta admit, seeing that kid was a shock. She looks exactly like Chloe.”

“Looks, yes,” Teodoro agreed. “But Violet is very much herself.”

“All right. I’m heading back to New Orleans. Anything else?”

“No. Just be sure that Wallace dies in front of S. Make sure he watches.”

“Understood.”

A click, then dead air. Purcell had ended the call in the same abrupt manner in which he had started it.

Teodoro tossed his cell onto the desk blotter, then leaned into his chair, the springs creaking comfortably beneath him as he rocked back. He felt a sharp pang of regret as he thought of Violet.

She yearned to see her angel again, unaware that the next visit from her dark-haired savior would most likely result in her death—a live-action replay of a heart-breaking dance in a white-padded room, a hook curving from the ceiling.

According to the memories and knowledge Teodoro had gleaned from Caterina Cortini’s mind, the young creawdwr was struggling for balance, for a handhold in the present, but kept slipping into the past.

Heather Wallace seemed to anchor him. Steady him. Calm him.

Maybe reenacting Chloe’s death wouldn’t be necessary, Teodoro mused. Maybe simply seeing Violet/Chloe in that sanitarium would be enough to tip Dante Baptiste into madness, especially after watching Heather Wallace die.

Thinking of lifeless white faces and funeral blossoms, Teodoro wished with every bit of his heart that it could be so.

He’d always had a soft spot for children.

43
ALL HE CAN TAKE

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 29

DANTE SLEPT ON HIS stomach, his face turned toward the door, black tendrils of hair across his face. But his face wasn’t peaceful and his dreams weren’t pleasant. She’d felt his nightmares scraping against her shields, drawing her up from sleep.

Wearing only a fleur-de-lis T-shirt and panties, Heather sat down on the mattress beside him and held her breath as she gently pulled the sheet back. The skin on Dante’s back was white and flawless again, the third-degree burns healed.

Heather released her pent-up breath in a low, relieved sigh. Dante’s intoxicating scent of burning leaves and November frost filled her nostrils, the gut-wrenching reek of scorched flesh gone.

She didn’t know how long it normally took for injuries as devastating as Dante’s burns to heal, but she had a feeling the blood De Noir had forced past Dante’s lips during their highspeed power boat race across Lake Pontchartrain had helped accelerate the process.

Heather caressed Dante’s sweat-damp hair back from his pale, beautiful face. It hurt to realize that he wasn’t resting, not really, not with his fevered heat, the tight line of his jaw, the blood oozing from his nose, the tension in his Sleep-caught body.

I think he’s had all he can take, doll. Heart and mind. If I knew a way to hide him from the world until he could regain his balance, until he had the chance to face his past on his own terms and reconcile himself to it . . .

Too late. Much too late.

Heather didn’t harbor any doubts that Dante blamed himself for what had happened to Trey. She also knew that he wouldn’t forgive himself for it either.

And she would never forgive Trey.

Heather raked her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair, a red-hot knot of anger burning in her belly. It pissed her off that Trey had used Dante to commit suicide-by-Maker or whatever he’d been trying to accomplish. She wished she knew what the web-runner had whispered in Dante’s ear as he’d embraced him.

Whatever it had been, he’d used Dante—no matter his reasons, no matter his grief or his need to avenge his sister, no matter how wobbly his sanity—he’d wielded Dante like a razor blade to the wrist, and she would never forget that.

She honestly didn’t know if Trey was dead or simply transformed. The web-runner had vanished from the yacht in a blue wink of light, then all hell had broken loose.

Heather locks her arms around De Noir’s neck so he can use both hands to scoop Dante’s drugged form up from the glistening hide of the half-Made heaving and rolling leviathan. De Noir rises with powerful strokes of his wings, Dante clasped between his hands.

Trey flickers like a dying light, then blinks out.

Heather’s alarm klaxons blare as all outside sound seems to vanish, as though the vast lake has sucked in its breath. For a microsecond, the night holds utterly still.

Then a deep, bone-vibrating whoomph shatters the silence as the yacht/leviathan detonates, but Heather never sees the explosion, never sees Dante knocked from his father’s grip. De Noir has already swept his wings around to shield her.

A concussive blast of superheated air hammers into them, bowling them across the sky. Heather clings to the fallen angel with every bit of her Von-enhanced strength, battered even within the shelter of his wings. Her blood chills when she sees an orange glow backlighting De Noir’s wings and realizes he is on fire. And that they are falling.

They hit the lake with bruising force. As Heather sinks, struggling for air and entangled in De Noir’s wings and her trench coat, she hears the water hiss as it douses the flames.

Someone splashes into the water, seizing her with steel-fingered hands, hauling her to the surface and to the waiting power boat. Von. The nomad lifts her up so Silver can pull her in.

Dante lies unconscious in a puddle of water on the boat’s bottom, his back a charred and blistered mess. Heart pounding, Heather sinks down beside him. Her hands sweep over him, seeking other injuries, and she discovers that his latex jeans have melted to his legs in a few spots. Her stomach knots.

De Noir joins them a moment later, his blackened and burned flesh already healing, his hair once more spilling like black silk down to his waist. He is nude, his trousers having burned away, but holds himself with an easy and unself-conscious grace. Heather’s cheeks heat as she realizes Dante has inherited more than just large wings from his father.

De Noir kneels on Dante’s other side. He slices a talon along the inside of his wrist and, as the blood wells up, smears it across Dante’s lips.

KNUCKLES RAPPED ON THE bedroom door. “Heather? You awake?” Annie’s voice.

“Yeah, come in,” Heather replied, pulling the sheet back over Dante.

The door swung open and Annie stepped inside in a swirl of cigarette smoke and cherry-vanilla perfume. She wore a black safety-pinned T-shirt reading Drama Queen in white letters and a purple taffeta skirt over fishnet tights and her Doc Martens.

Heather felt a pang of concern as she took in her sister’s colorless face, the purplish smudges beneath her eyes. Annie still hadn’t said a word to her about the positive pregnancy test—not that there’d been time.

Maybe Heather would have to initiate the conversation herself, take Annie out for a po’boy sandwich and a walk along the river: a sister-to-sister conversation away from all the guys—mortal and nightkind.

“What’s up?” Heather asked.

Annie shouldered the door shut behind her. Her gaze flicked to Dante, then back to Heather. “A couple of people are downstairs asking for you and Gorgeous-but-Deadly. People with that fucking official stink on ’em, y’know?”

Heather sat up straight, her pulse picking up speed. “Did they give names?”

Annie shrugged. “Yeah, Mary something and Emmett Tibbie-something, I think. A black chick with that nightkind vibe and a tall Clint Eastwood–looking guy, but young For a Few Dollars More Eastwood, not old, withered Gran Torino Eastwood.”

“Who’s on duty downstairs?”

“Jack and Eli. And Dante’s hottie dad. Antoine had to go to work.”

“Good. Tell them to keep a close eye on this pair,” Heather said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

With a nod, Annie pirouetted around in a rustle of taffeta and left the room.

Heather leaned down and brushed her lips against Dante’s. Tasted blood and amaretto and brine. “Je t’aime,” she whispered, trailing her finger along his jaw.

Heather winced as she rose to her feet. She hurt all over, her muscles and neck stiff and sore and aching, as though she’d been air-bagged in a high-speed fender bender. She figured she’d be feeling a helluva lot worse if not for Von’s blood and De Noir’s sheltering wings.

She padded over to the French windows and carefully twitched the heavy curtain aside just enough for her to take a peek outside. Rose and purple painted the horizon in soft, silky color. Nearly sunset. She patted the curtain back into place.

She dressed in a hurry, pulling on black hip-huggers and a tailored indigo shirt with silver buttons. She slipped a fresh clip into her Colt, then tucked the gun into her jeans at the small of her back. Glad that she’d already washed up and brushed her teeth, she finger-combed her hair, then strode for the door, Von’s words playing through her memory once more.

I think he’s had all he can take, doll. Heart and mind. If I knew a way to hide him from the world until he could regain his balance, until he had the chance to face his past on his own terms and reconcile himself to it . . .

She intended to block the world from Dante and give him that long overdue chance—before it was forever beyond his reach. Her throat tightened, ached. She could only hope that it wasn’t already too late.

Heather pulled the door open and stepped out, nearly running into someone standing on the other side of the threshold. Heart in her throat, she was already reaching for her gun when she realized the someone was De Noir.

“Jesus Christ! I need a bell for you too.”

He regarded her with amused and very unsurprised black eyes—he’d no doubt heard her crossing the floor—his hand lifted, fingers half-curled as if about to knock. His tall, tight-muscled physique was draped in a nicely tailored purple silk shirt and black slacks.

“My apologies,” he rumbled. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just came up to suggest that I stay with Dante while you’re out of the room.”

Heather exhaled in relief. “I like that suggestion. Yes. Please stay. I don’t want him to wake up alone, not tonight, not after what happened.”

The amusement faded from De Noir’s eyes. He slipped past her and into the lamp-lit room. “Nor do I,” he said, his gaze lighting on her face again. “Go. Do whatever you need to and don’t worry about Dante.”

“Thank you.”

De Noir quietly closed the bedroom door.

Turning, Heather walked away, heading for the stairs.

THE PAIR WITH THE official stink stood together at the bar between Eli and Jack. The drummer, forearms resting on the bar’s polished surface, chatted amiably with the tall, ginger-haired and handsome Clint Eastwood lookalike—Christ, Annie was right on the money about that—both men’s expressions relaxed and full of eye-crinkling smiles. Like long-lost cousins reunited for a Labor Day family barbecue.

The woman leaning against the bar beside Clint Eastwood wore black slacks, a white blouse, and a black suede jacket. She was small and slender, but curvy. Heather would bet she was shorter than her own five-four. She also happened to be gorgeous, with shining black hair pulled back in a high ponytail and smooth espresso-dark skin.

And another thing Annie had been right on the money about?

She was nightkind.

Captured light glowed in her eyes as she swiveled around with a preternatural grace as Heather stepped off the stairs. How is it that she’s up and around and not still Sleeping?

A few mortal heartbeats later, her partner straightened and directed his gaze in Heather’s direction also.

As she crossed the dance floor to the bar, Heather said, “I hear you’re looking for me. Who are you and what do you want?”

The woman glided forward, her boot heels soundless against the wood floor. “I’m Merri Goodnight, and this is my partner, Emmett Thibodaux,” she said, nodding her head at Clint Eastwood. “We’re Shadow Branch field agents—or at least we used to be.”

“Until the mofos decided to mess with our minds and we went on the run,” Thibodaux put in, his voice a soft Louisiana drawl. “Now we’re looking for a way to keep alive and to be of service to y’all in the process.”

“We also have a gift for Dante Baptiste.” Goodnight held up a flash drive between her thumb and index fingers, and Heather’s heart started pounding. “His past.”

44
DROWNING

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 29

YOU AIN’T LOSING ME, Tee-Tee. We ain’t done, you and me.

Not yet.

Dante drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes, pain shimmering in his mind like heat lightning. Before-Sleep images strobed through his memory: stark and unforgiving and utterly unchangeable.

The boat ramp on Lake Pontchartrain. The light-pearled yacht. Trey wavering like water, like dimming light, between his hands.

Pain scraped his heart hollow.

“Trey,” Dante whispered. “Fuck.”

“Trey had a choice last night.” Lucien’s deep voice. “You didn’t. You can’t blame yourself for his decision.”

But Dante knew that wasn’t true. The conversation he’d had a few nights ago with Von in a rain-wet Colorado freeway rest stop steamrolled through his mind.

Like it or not, you’re a creawdwr. There ain’t been one in thousands of years. Everyone’s gonna want a piece of you, from mortals to nightkind to Fallen. And you ain’t ready to face any of them.

I wanna face them. Torch ’em. Burn ’em to the fucking ground. The FBI’s smearing Heather’s name and rep and setting her up to be a future suicide, and the SB wants to take her apart to see what makes her tick—because of me.

You. Ain’t. Ready. To. Face. Any. Of. Them. You have power like no one else in this world. And if you don’t learn how to use it, how to control it, you’ll destroy the world and everyone on it—including Heather.

And Heather’s soft plea from the night before underscored Von’s warning: Forget about Mauvais for tonight. You’re not ready to face him. Wait until you are.

Dante knew beyond doubt that if he’d just listened to Von and Heather, if he’d just shoved aside his stubborn pride and fury, last night never would’ve happened and Trey would now be waking up from Sleep in his room down the hall.

“Ain’t true. Ain’t Trey’s fault, and I ain’t letting you blame him,” Dante said. “I can’t even keep myself in the here-and-now. I knew I was a fucking danger to everyone. And I chose to lead everyone to that goddamned rendezvous and right into a trap.”

“I’m not trying to lay blame,” Lucien said, his voice soothing—the gentle stroke of a hand against a fevered temple. “But you don’t need to either. What happened, has happened. It can’t be changed. Trey stole the boat, raced to the yacht, and we followed to his aid. And when you lost control of the creu tân, he embraced you and allowed you to transform him.” He paused. “Do you know where he is?”

Dante blinked. “What?”

“You transformed him. You didn’t unmake him. So he must be somewhere.”

You made me into something that ain’t never gonna be stopped by a trap or bullets or distance, something that Mauvais won’t be able to hide from . . .

Hope curled like fresh blood through Dante. “Then he’s fucking hunting Mauvais. If I can find him, I can change him back—”

“If he wants it. And not until you’ve learned how to control your power.”

Dante shoved himself up into a sitting position on the bed, the sheet whispering across his thighs. The room spun. He lowered his head and blood from his nose spattered the sheet. He dug his fingers into the mattress as he waited for the world to finish its dizzying pirouette.

He felt Lucien behind him, seated in the armchair, radiating a calm, powerful energy. A soothing presence. Dante drew in a breath, inhaled his father’s earthy scent.

A pang of regret pierced him. I’ve missed him.

Dante’s back muscles suddenly spasmed, his body remembering the explosion, the smell of burning flesh, and the water’s cold touch. Heather shielded by Lucien’s wings.

“Catin,” he breathed and reached for the steady flame of her presence.

<Good evening, cher. I’m downstairs with Jack and Eli. Chatting with a couple of former SB agents who have a gift for you.>

<Yeah? I’ll be right down.>

<Let me handle this. Dante, please. Stay there. This is what I do. I’ll fill you in later.>

Dante threw back the sheet and rose to his feet. He stumbled as the room whirled, spun, and dipped. A heated hand locked around his biceps. Kept him on his feet.

“No, child,” Lucien said. “You’re not ready.”

Dante shut his eyes as the room played carousel, pain throbbing at his temples. <Okay, catin.>

Relief flooded in through their bond. He felt Heather’s soft lips on his, a kiss brimming with blood-stirring promises, then she was gone, her shields tight.

Leaving him breathless.

Opening his eyes, Dante glanced down at the long-fingered hand clutching his arm. “Merci beaucoup, mon ami, but you can let go, I’ve got my balance now.”

“I doubt that,” Lucien said, voice dry. Releasing Dante, he stepped away.

When Dante turned around—carefully, to avoid more carousel action, something soft and black whapped him in the face, then fell to the floor. He looked down. A pair of boxer-briefs. He met Lucien’s gaze and lifted his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“Says you.”

Stepping past the unsolicited underwear, Dante grabbed a pair of black jeans from the bureau, pulled them on, and zipped them up as he walked to the French windows. He pushed the curtains open and looked down into the ivy-draped courtyard.

I ain’t running and I ain’t hiding, no. But I gotta heal, gotta get control, and get my shit together before I do anything else.

Before I destroy everyone I love.

A flicker of blue neon caught his eye, and Dante imagined Trey standing in the courtyard’s shadows, his bundled-wire dreads undulating like flute-hypnotized snakes around his head, his face and body flashing with blue ones and zeroes.

We ain’t done, you and me. Not yet.

Dante rested his forehead against the window’s cool glass, his fingers twisting knots into the velvet folds of the curtains. I hope not, cher.

For a moment, the cold, black tide of grief and guilt receded from his heart, giving him a chance to breathe, to think about how he was going to make things right, or if he even could. Then the tide rushed back in with tsunami ferocity, shoving him down and under into the wasp-droning depths once more. Drowning.

Trust me, I’ll make sure you regret every breath you’ve ever drawn.

Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson.

You’re gonna hurt everyone around you.

That’s my Bad Seed bro.

Rage flashed white-hot, yanking him up to the surface again, and pounding his fists through glass and wood and plaster. Scorching away all thought, except for one—they were telling the truth, every fucking one of them.

As he whirled around, jerking the curtains to the floor as he moved, he became aware of someone shouting his name, but he couldn’t stop. Fury fueled every muscle, torched his heart.

I’ve been lying to myself my entire life.

That’s my Bad Seed bro.

Dante grabbed the now-empty armchair and tossed it across the room. It crashed into the armoire with a resounding thud and a sharp crack of fracturing wood. Heated hands seized his arms, talons biting into his flesh. Dante’s fists smacked into a hard, muscled chest. While a calmer part of him knew it was Lucien holding him, the firestorm raging inside wouldn’t let that calm part of himself back into the driver’s seat.

Dante fought his way free of Lucien’s grip, slashing with his sharp, sharp nails and fangs. He tasted blood on his lips—his own and Lucien’s. As he spun away, someone tackled him, slamming him into the floor. A whiff of frost and gun oil. Another pair of hands pinned his shoulders down.

Dante kicked and squirmed and twisted in a wild attempt to throw off Von and Lucien’s combined weight, his nails scraping the wood floor. He tossed his head as Lucien touched his fingers to his temples, refusing his father’s touch.

As the three of them wrestled together on the floor, Dante became aware that someone was screaming a word over and over, a seething, furious, animal howl—Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!—in his own voice.

And knew it wasn’t meant for Mauvais or Papa Prejean or even the Perv.

It was meant for himself.

45
WISH

NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 29

THE FBI AGENT ABSENTLY brushed strands of wavy red hair away from her face as she ended her conversation with a quiet “Thanks.” Slipping her cell phone into her jeans pocket, Heather Wallace studied Merri with thoughtful blue eyes.

“My contact confirmed your story,” she said. “You and your partner are listed as AWOL, and the SB authorities consider you both renegade and possibly hostile.”

“Ain’t no possibly about it.” Emmett said.

Merri didn’t need to look at him to know that a muscle flexed in his jaw. She heard the tension and quiet fury in his voice. Smelled it sharp as licorice in his scent.

“Truth, brothah,” Merri agreed, blowing out a plume of clove-scented smoke. “Hard to maintain a good working relationship with your agents when you tend to mind-wipe them for things like . . . oh . . . doing their jobs. Often leads to disgruntled agents.”

“Truth, sistah. But only if said agents remember why they’re disgruntled. Otherwise . . .” Emmett shrugged.

Merri couldn’t argue. And it chilled her to the bone to know that if she hadn’t realized what had happened to Emmett, they would both probably be happily working on their next assignment, unaware that certain portions of their memories had been altered.

And who’s to say that it hasn’t happened exactly that way before?

The Cajun drummer with the mane of cherry-red braids—Black Bayou Jack, ma’am, but Jack alone will work—strolled behind the bar, fished around in the fridge, then held up a bottle of Lipton’s unsweetened iced tea. Cocked an inquiring eyebrow.

“I’ll take one, partner,” Emmett said, “But mine’s gonna need to be sugared and lemon slice dunked. Unsweetened.” He shook his head. “That’s just blasphemous.”

Merri held up a hand, refusing the offer.

“I’ll take one, Jack, as is,” Heather said. “Blasphemy and all, though I didn’t realize iced tea was a religion.”

“It is in the south, hun, you heathen, you,” Jack replied, popping caps off bottles and pouring the tea into ice-filled glasses.

Heather shook her head, an amused smile curving her lips. Merri drew in her tantalizing scent, lilacs in the rain, sage after a storm.

Jack set a sugar container, spoon, a small paring knife, and a lemon in front of Emmett before sliding the glasses along the counter. Emmett set to work making his unsweetened tea palatable.

Heather curled her fingers around her glass. “So why are you doing this?” she asked, glancing at the flash drive lying on the counter beside Merri’s ugly-ass floppy-brimmed hat and leather gloves. “And why did you come here instead of heading underground?”

“We’ve got a whole list of reasons,” Merri replied, studying the ash on the glowing end of her Djarum Black. She tapped it into the ashtray. “Betrayal. Conspiracies. Memory-tampering. The near certainty of a bullet to the skull if the SB finds us. Which one do you want first?”

“Let’s start with the one at the top of the list.”

“That would be Dante Baptiste.” Merri lifted her gaze to Heather’s, but the FBI agent’s face gave nothing away, her expression composed.

“We want to offer him his past,” Emmett said, “in the hopes that doing so will help free him from the sorry-ass bastards manipulating him. If we can break his conditioning, his programming—”

“And why do you care?” Heather cut in, her voice edged in icicles. “The SB and the Bureau apparently run black ops programs all the time. That can’t be news to you. Why did you choose to get involved in this one?”

“Dante Baptiste being True Blood is a huge factor,” Merri admitted. “And, yeah, we knew the SB was running black ops, sure. But until I downloaded that file, I had no idea that those motherfuckers were twisting children into sociopaths. And what they did to Baptiste from the moment he was born . . .” She shook her head, remembering nightmarish images from the file that she would never be able to blot from her mind.

Chloe lies in a pool of her own blood, her empty blue eyes staring at the straitjacketed boy dangling from the hook above her.

“And your other reasons?” Heather asked.

Merri stubbed out her clove cigarette in the ashtray, then held up a finger. Light winked from her high-gloss French manicure. “Emmett’s memory was wiped of Damascus and Dante Baptiste. We want to know why.” She displayed a second finger. “We have few other options.” A third finger shot into the air. “We really have few other options. Oh. And.” A fourth finger. “We’d really like to live through all this.”

“And I have a family I’d sure as hell like to return to some day,” Emmett murmured. “But in the meantime, they’re safer with me gone.”

Heather studied Merri for a long moment, then shifted her gaze to Emmett and gave him the same intense scrutiny—as though she could X-ray scan through bone and brain to the mind’s intent and the heart’s dark secrets.

“Seems to me,” she said finally, “that you’d have a much better chance of surviving if you went anywhere but here. Dante’s being hunted. So am I. You’re just putting yourselves in the crossfire.”

“We’re being hunted too,” Emmett said, his voice a low drawl. “And the reasons why all lead right back to Dante Baptiste. Seems to me, we might be better off here with y’all, than out there alone. There’s always strength in numbers.”

Heather sighed, then nodded. “You just might be right about that. Our numbers are kinda slim at the moment.”

“Speaking of numbers,” Merri said. “There was a guy here earlier, Sasquatch-tall, good-looking, with long black hair. His scent wasn’t mortal or vampire.” Green leaves and deep, dark earth, musky incense, and something that whispered, other.

A smile flickered across Heather’s lips. “Sasquatch-tall? I’ll have to remember that one. His name is Lucien De Noir.” She hesitated, then shrugged and added, “And you’re right—he’s not mortal or nightkind, he’s Fallen.”

Heart bashing against her ribs, Merri’s gaze shot over to the staircase De Noir had climbed shortly after she and Emmett had arrived at the club.

Fallen.

“No shit? That was a fallen angel?” Emmett frowned. “Didn’t seem very fallen angel-y. Isn’t he supposed to have wings? The angels we found turned to stone in Damascus all had wings.”

“Trust me, he has wings,” Heather replied.

Merri flashed back to Galiana’s words. I have a suspicion that events beyond the scope of mortals or even vampires might be unfolding.

Merri had a feeling her mère de sang’s suspicions had just been confirmed. Dante Baptiste was keeping company with at least one member of the Elohim—which might explain the events in Damascus. Maybe De Noir had been there too. Maybe he’d magicked the other Fallen into stone.

The sound of Heather’s breath catching rough in her throat swung Merri’s attention around in time to see the redhead’s gaze focus inward.

What do you want to bet Heather’s blood-linked to Dante Baptiste and the True Blood has just awakened?

The thought of finally meeting Dante, seeing him in the flesh instead of just photos, sent Merri’s pulse on a light-speed course through her veins.

Heather closed her eyes for a moment, her body tensing. Her lips puckered as though blowing a kiss. Then she opened her eyes and looked directly at Merri. She nodded at the flash drive. “So what’s that going to cost me?”

“Nothing,” Emmett replied. “It’s a gift. But it’s one we want to hand to Dante ourselves when we meet him. As a kind of handshake, y’know?”

“You’re not meeting Dante,” Heather said, and her tone of voice—calm and resolute and edged with steel—refused argument, refused bargains or pleas. “Not tonight. You’re going to have to wait.” She glanced at the ceiling, sorrow shadowing her face.

Remembering that Dante had just lost one of his household members in the fire that had destroyed his home, Merri thought it likely the young True Blood was grieving.

“I understand,” Merri murmured.

Heather looked at her and shook her head. “No, I don’t think you do. But if you’re willing to come back tomorrow night, you can give the flash drive to him then. And if you’re also willing, we’d love to have you on our security team—as long as you’re willing to allow Dante’s llygad to look you over tomorrow evening.”

Meaning: to scan their minds for deception. An unusual request since lying to llygaid was forbidden and most vampires with things to hide generally avoided contact with the crescent moon-tattooed bards.

It’d be Merri’s guess that someone had lied to Dante’s llygad, and lied well.

“I’m okay with that,” she said quietly. “But maybe scanning me alone would be enough.” She glanced at Emmett. A muscle played in his jaw as he tipped his head back and finished his iced tea. She thought of all he’d lost the last time his mind had been touched. “I think my partner’s had his share.”

A look of sympathy flashed across Heather’s face, but she shook her head. “Sorry, no. I won’t risk it.”

“So what-all does this scan entail?” Emmett thumped his empty glass down on the counter, ice cubes rattling. His gaze lifted to Heather’s.

“Just taking a look to make sure you’re telling the truth.”

Emmett shot a glance at Merri and she nodded. “A llygad would only look, never interfere.”

Emmett blew out a breath. “All right, dammit.”

Giving her attention back to Heather, Merri extended her hand, “We accept.”

ARRANGEMENTS WERE MADE FOR Emmett Thibodaux to join Jack and the guys at the club at noon tomorrow. Then Merri Goodnight would drop by in the evening so both could submit to Von’s mental look-see. After a final handshake, the fugitive pair left to get rooms at a nearby Quarter hotel.

Even though Caterina Cortini had confirmed Goodnight and Thibodaux’s story, something in Heather’s conversation with the assassin had troubled her. It wasn’t anything she could put a finger on—just an off-note in Cortini’s voice, cold and reserved. But for all Heather knew, that was how the woman always sounded on the phone.

Assassin, Wallace. Duh. Warm and confidential aren’t in her skill set.

But what really troubled Heather was the crashing and thumping she’d heard from the rooms above about twenty minutes ago, accompanied by a tendril of fury and despair through her bond with Dante—a tendril that had just as quickly vanished.

As Thibodaux and Goodnight’s gazes had shot to the ceiling, their expressions wary, bodies tensed, it had taken every ounce of Heather’s will power to remain in her seat and talking when all she’d wanted to do was race up to the bedroom.

Leaving her iced tea unfinished, Heather headed upstairs, the promise of the Bad Seed flash drive glittering like a jewel in her mind. She hoped viewing it would help Dante reclaim his past and piece together his shattered memories. But, remembering how he’d been unable to even look at a picture of Dr. Robert Wells, let alone his face, she worried that his programming might make viewing the files at all impossible.

They would know soon, one way or another.

She ran into Von in the hallway outside their rooms. The nomad was buttoning on a deep green shirt over his wife-beater as he strode toward the landing, his nut-brown hair hanging in loose, shining waves to his shoulders.

“Hey, doll,” he said, slowing to a stop. “I was just on my way down to post the club as closed tonight.”

“What the hell happened?” she asked, nodding toward the bedroom.

“Dante lost it. Me and Lucien sat on him until he wore himself out. Let him vent.”

Heather’s heart gave a hard thump. “Is he okay?”

Von raked a hand through his hair and looked toward the closed bedroom door, and his hesitation scared Heather more than anything he could say. “Von?” she urged.

“No. I think he’s pretty far from okay,” the nomad said finally. “But he’s hanging in there. The thing with Trey . . .” He shook his head, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I ain’t none too happy about that.”

Heather stiffened. “That wasn’t Dante’s fault,” she protested. “Trey ran—”

“Yeah, doll, it was Dante’s fault,” Von interrupted gently. His eyes met hers. “He went out there knowing he didn’t have control of his power or his past. He could’ve—should’ve—stayed behind.”

“I don’t remember you advising him of that after his seizure,” Heather said, her nails biting into the palms of her hands. “No, I’m pretty damned sure I never heard your voice saying anything of the sort.”

“I didn’t,” Von agreed. “I fucked up bigtime. I was worried about catching up with Trey, so, yeah, what happened is my fault too. But when I said I was none too happy about that—I was referring to Trey, doll. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew what it would cost Dante too. And he fucking did it anyway.”

“My thought exactly.” Heather’s fingers uncurled from her palms. She drew in a deep breath and smelled wax from the candles burning in the hallway’s gargoyle sconces. “Sorry, I should’ve let you finish.”

“Duh, woman. Duh.”

Heather quickly filled Von in on her conversation with Goodnight and Thibodaux, and Cortini, and their arrangement for the following night. When the nomad agreed to the double mind scan, Heather stepped past him, heading for the bedroom.

A hand latched around her upper arm. “Wait.”

Heather stopped and Von’s hand slid away. She half-swiveled to look at him. Candle light glittered along the crescent moon tattoo underneath his eye. Shadows flickered across his face.

“Dante’s out in the courtyard with his guitar,” he said. “He kinda rock-star trashed the bedroom and Lucien banished him while he cleans the mess up.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, darlin’,” Von began, then paused, trailing a hand through his hair and dropping his gaze to the carpet as though searching for words.

Heather’s pulse slipped into high gear as she stared at Von, his uncharacteristic hesitation once again scaring her more than anything she could imagine him saying.

“Just spit it out,” she said. “Whatever it is.”

Von looked at her, distress in his glowing candle-lit eyes. “You’re a part of him, Heather,” he said. “Whatever happens, don’t let that mule-headed sonuvabitch shove you aside.”

So that was it. Goddamned Trey. More fallout from his decision.

Annie’s words replayed through Heather’s memory: Dante’s gonna hurt you, Heather. Not because he wants to, but because he can’t fucking help it.

She had a feeling Dante now harbored the same belief. And she found herself wondering if her sister had shared those words with him too, and wishing Annie hadn’t—no matter how true they might be.

Heather exhaled in frustration. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” she replied. “But if he thinks he’s going to play the noble I-must-send-you-away-to-save-you card, he’s dead wrong—especially if he thinks I’m going to meekly comply.”

Von blinked. A slow smile played along his mustache-framed lips. “I doubt Dante expects meek, doll—not where you’re concerned.”

“Christ. I would hope not.”

Heather turned and marched down the hall to the opened French windows at its end, and stepped onto the fire escape landing beyond its breeze-fluttered curtains. She climbed down the black iron steps to the courtyard, following the furious, heartbreaking sound of Dante’s guitar.

Dante sat on a wrought-iron bench underneath a flowering dogwood tree wearing jeans and collar and nothing else, his guitar nestled against his thighs, his hands blurring across the strings. The music blazing out from beneath his fingers scorched the night.

Moonlight glinted from the black wing of hair falling across his pale face, glinted from his rings, shimmered against his milk-white skin—a part of him.

She could almost imagine Von saying: He is the night.

Heather side-stepped a fallen planter, dirt and yellow rose petals spilling across the courtyard stones, and sat beside him, heart aching, throat tight as she listened to his wordless song of loss and rage.

He was grieving, his song a violent, defiant prayer.

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

And the only god listening was himself.

After her trip to Gehenna, Heather was beginning to believe that Dante might be, as a Maker, an actual god—or damn near. Did that possibility scare her? Hell, yes. Would it chase her away? Hell, no.

When Dante’s black-painted fingernails strummed the last chord, Heather leaned forward, cupped his fevered face between her hands, and kissed him thoroughly. A kiss he returned, deep and tender, leaving behind the taste of copper and pomegranates, of blood.

“I’m not leaving you,” she whispered against his lips, breathing in his smoky autumn scent. “You can’t make me. It’s my choice and I refuse to let you take it from me. You don’t have the right.”

“Too dangerous, catin. Ain’t risking you.”

“That’s my decision, not yours. I choose you, Baptiste, and everything that comes with you.”

“Can’t let you do that.”

“Dammit! It’s not up to you. If I want to stand beside you completely aware of the danger, you have no right to deny me.”

“Fuck, Heather.” Dante breathed out in exasperation. He shifted, his warm lips sliding away from hers. Heather felt the guitar disappear from between them, then heard a slight thump as Dante rested it against the flagstones. He straightened, his dark and dilated gaze meeting hers, fire smoldering in his eyes.

Heather returned his glare. “I’m standing beside you—like it or not. And I ‘ain’t asking permission.’ “

“So I don’t get a say in this?” he growled, jumping to his bare feet.

“No.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive, dammit! And just as you are. Why the fuck you fighting me on this?”

“Because you’re worth fighting for!” Heather stood, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “I’m willing to take my chances, Baptiste—with you.”

“You’re worth fighting for too, catin, don’t you get it? I would burn the world to fucking ash for you.” Dante looked away. Swallowed hard. His hands flexed into fists. “If I ever hurt you. If I ever killed—”

“You won’t. I trust you.”

“Don’t.” Dante’s head whipped around and a dark, desperate fury simmered in his eyes. “Don’t you dare fucking trust me. Simone trusted me, so did Trey, and Gina and Jay. So did Chloe. And they’re all dead.”

Heather took a half pace forward and pressed her fingers against his lips, silencing him. “No,” she said. “That’s not going to happen. It’s not. The Fallen are going to teach you how to control your power. And you and me, we’re going to work on piecing together your broken past, so you can stay in the here-and-now.”

Dante shook his head, a denial forming on his lips, so Heather touched her other hand to his chest, resting her palm against the fever-hot skin above his heart.

“This is why,” she said softly. “Your heart won me, cher. Won me completely. So I’m not taking no for an answer. Got that?”

“Pigheaded woman,” Dante murmured, kissing her fingers. “T’es sûr de sa?”

“Pigheaded man,” Heather replied, removing her hand and kissing his lips. “And yes, I’m sure.”

Dante wrapped her up in his arms and carried her down to the courtyard’s stone floor. He stole her breath away with hot kisses and hungry hands and his hard body.

After the first time they made love among the dirt and rose petals and cool stone, Heather curled a lock of Dante’s silky hair behind his hoop-rimmed ear, then whispered into it, telling him about Merri Goodnight and Emmett Thibodaux and the gift they planned to give him the next night.

And shared in the buoyant hope she felt rising in his heart.

46
WILD CARD

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 30

JAMES WALLACE WATCHED AS Stevenson, black ski mask bunched on top of his head, bent and went to work on the lock on the club’s green-shuttered door. The man was a pro, less than sixty seconds—his skill learned during his stint in Special Forces.

Stevenson straightened and pocketed his picks. He glanced at James as he stepped back from the door. “It’s all yours.” He touched a finger to the com set curving against his jaw. “Barr’s confirmed that we successfully accessed the security company’s computers and switched off the alarm.”

James nodded. His leather gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers. “Wait here for my go-ahead,” he said.

“Will do.”

Easing the door open, James stepped inside. Fluorescent graffiti was scrawled on the hall’s black walls, and the air reeked of cigarettes and spilled beer. Neon buzzed at the entrance’s mouth, red light squiggling along the floor. A quick stroll down the dark hall, then he found himself standing beneath a sign commanding BURN.

* * *

“YOU WANT ANYTHING TO eat?” Heather asked when Annie slid onto a bar stool. Her sister’s hair stuck out at all angles in blue/black/purple spikes, and shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Heather studied her, worried by her pallor.

Is her lack of color due to the pregnancy, or is Silver feeding on her?

“Sure,” Annie replied. “Do we have bagels? I’d murder and maim for a bagel and cream cheese.”

“You’re in luck. We happen to have both. No murdering or maiming required.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Annie muttered, rubbing her face.

“Lah-lah-lah. Can’t hear you saying potentially criminal things.”

Annie smoked a cigarette in moody silence, one finger twisting a lock of purple hair, while Heather prepared breakfast—toasting a bagel, scooping seeds out of a cantaloupe she’d halved, brewing coffee.

Once a plate holding a cream cheese–slathered bagel had been parked in front of her, she stubbed out her cigarette and said, “I don’t know whether Dante has said anything or not, but it looks like I’m pregnant. Knocked up. With child. Expecting.”

“I’m familiar with the word pregnant, but thanks for all the synonyms,” Heather said, a smile curving her lips. “He’d mentioned that he suspected it, and I knew he’d picked up a pregnancy test kit for you, but he left it for you to tell me.” She leaned her hip against the counter. “So how are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” Annie admitted quietly. “It seems unreal—except for all the puking.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how I feel.”

“We need to get you to a doctor. Verify the results and go over your options if you really are pregnant.” Heather finished her raspberry jam and toast and carried her plate over to the sink. “You don’t need to make any decisions now.”

Turning on the faucet, Heather had just started rinsing her plate off when a voice sounded from the club entrance, a voice she hadn’t expected, not here and not now, a voice that, with two simple words, managed to ice her spine.

“Hey, Pumpkin.”

PURCELL WAS HUNKERED ON the fire escape in the jasmine and honeysuckle-perfumed courtyard behind Club Hell, preparing to break into the building through a pair of French windows, when the authoritative screech of brakes from out front propelled him back up the iron stairs and to the roof.

Crawling across the roof to the other side of the building, Purcell peered down into the sunlit, lightly trafficked street and saw two white vans with NOPD decals on the sides parked at law enforcement angles in front of the club.

But the scene felt hinky to Purcell. For one thing, the license plates weren’t government issue and the NOPD lettering on the vans seemed cheap and hasty.

A man wearing glasses and a tan trench coat climbed out of one and strode for the club’s green-shuttered front door, a guy in a black uniform hot on his heels. After the door’s lock had been picked—not standard law enforcement procedure, a battering ram was more likely—Tan Trench Coat had gone inside the club alone, his squad of black-uniformed goons/agents/mercs waiting near the door for his summons.

Before Tan Trench Coat disappeared from view, Purcell realized he’d seen the man’s face before—in Heather Wallace’s file—and recognized him as her father, FBI agent James Wallace.

Of all the things Purcell had envisioned possibly going wrong with the grab, of all the scenarios he’d played out in his head—someone walks in unexpectedly, S wakes from Sleep or worse, is waiting for him, a smile on his lips—he’d never imagined Wallace’s displeased father showing up and beating him to the punch and dragging his wayward daughter home.

If, indeed, that was what James Wallace had come to do. But considering the armed goons and the vehicles, Purcell felt pretty damned confident that was exactly why the fed was in New Orleans and inside Club Hell.

Talk about a goddamned wild card.

Pulling his cell phone free from his trousers pocket, Purcell punched in Díon’s number and, once the interrogator had answered, filled him in on the glitch in their plans.

“Follow Wallace if he removes his daughter from the club, then confiscate her and proceed with the plan,” Díon said.

“What if Papa Wallace gets in the way of said confiscation?”

“Whatever it takes, Purcell. Wallace’s daughter is intrinsic to our plan.”

“We’ve still got the kid. She might be enough.”

“Might be is not acceptable. We need Heather Wallace. Understood?”

“Yeah, understood,” Purcell grumbled, ending the call. He tucked his cell phone back into his pocket, then peered over the roof’s edge down into the street again.

What he saw sent his pulse skyrocketing through his veins. Two of Wallace’s goons were carrying Heather out of the club on a gurney. Her wrists were flex-cuffed and she appeared to be unconscious, her head turned to the side, her hair a spill of sunlight-sparked orange across her face. They loaded her into the back of one of the vans, then climbed inside the vehicle. It drove away, heading west down Saint Peter.

Purcell fumbled a pen from his jacket pocket and jotted down the van’s license plate number on the inside of his wrist.

Shit, shit, shit.

Things were going south fast and in a big way. He rubbed a gloved hand over his face, wondering if there was still a way to salvage the situation. By the time he climbed down from the roof of Club Hell and sprinted to his car, the van would be long gone and impossible to follow.

But he could always pull up the license plate number and track the vehicle back to its registered owner and, hopefully, to Heather Wallace. He had no doubt Wallace planned to take his daughter somewhere other than home. The man had to be worried about S hunting him down and reclaiming her.

Or not, Purcell reflected as muffled gun cracks echoed from within the building. He counted six shots. Sounded like payback was on Wallace’s agenda and the man was spreading a little bullet love around.

Good luck with that, man.

Purcell shook his head, a smile playing across his lips. He couldn’t blame the man, but it wouldn’t do him much good unless he knew how to kill a True Blood.

Purcell watched as James Wallace—followed by his two remaining henchmen—strode out of the club, his other daughter, Annie, slung like a rag doll over his shoulder. But as Wallace crossed the sidewalk, headed for the remaining van, an outraged shout echoed from down the street.

“Hey! What the hell y’all doing? Put her down, you!”

Hot coffee steamed on the sidewalk as two men tossed aside their to-go cups and raced toward the van, both with guns in hand. One was the heavy-muscled drummer, Jack Cheramie, and the other—Purcell felt a cold shock as recognized the drummer’s tall, ginger-haired companion.

AWOL field agent Emmett Thibodaux.

Well, well, well. What do you know? Wonder if HQ knows this is where their rogue agents landed?

Thibodaux halted, snapped his gun up, and squeezed off a round. The gunshot cracked through the quiet morning like an anvil dropping on glass. The smell of cordite wafted into the air.

James Wallace unceremoniously dropped his daughter onto the pavement and returned fire. From behind the van’s opened doors, Wallace’s uniformed henchmen did the same. Thibodaux shoved Cheramie into the doorway of a pizza parlor, then ducked down behind a rust-pocked old Crown Vic parked on the street.

A heart-pounding possibility lit up Purcell’s mind. Maybe the situation could still be salvaged. Without Heather Wallace, there was no guarantee that S would pay the sanitarium a visit—provided he was still breathing.

And if the little psycho was still breathing, why not just cart his bloodsucker ass to Doucet-Bainbridge and toss him inside instead of trying to lure him to the sanitarium? Bring Mohammed to the mountain, as it were. Or however that saying goes.

Adrenaline pulsed into Purcell’s veins. He liked that idea. Liked it much better than the thought of leaving a Sleeping and wonderfully unguarded S behind while he searched for a woman he might never find.

Everyone seems to be busy, so it’s now or never.

Rising to his feet in a half-crouch, Purcell hurried back across the roof to the fire escape and climbed down to the third floor again. He paused in front of the French windows, deciding there was no need for stealth since everyone still inside was either Sleeping or dead. No need to worry about noise.

Purcell broke one of the window’s panes with his Glock, shattered glass tinkling against the iron stairs, then reached in and unlocked it. He pulled the window open and stepped inside, his gaze riveted by a white figure lying on the floor halfway down the dim hallway.

The pungent smell of gasoline saturated the air. Acrid smoke drifted along the hallway, twisting up from the floors below. James Wallace had apparently ordered the place, and all the bloodsuckers it contained, put to the torch.

Good man. But lousy timing.

Coughing, Purcell hurried down the hall to the white form lying half on his side on the Persian carpet, blood glistening on chest and face, drenching his black hair. A helluva lot of blood.

S. And it looked like he’d taken more than one bullet.

Purcell stepped into the bedroom and grabbed the red velvet comforter from the bed. Something hissed at him, launching his heart into his throat, then an orange streak of fur raced out from underneath the bed and into the hall.

With a twitch of self-disgust, Purcell realized that the orange lightning bolt had been a cat. Just a goddamned cat. Scooping up some clothing scattered on the floor—shirt, pants, boots—Purcell carried everything into the hall.

The smoke was thickening. Purcell drew in careful and shallow breaths, but even those seemed to squeeze the oxygen from his lungs. Pulling handcuffs from his jacket pocket, he knelt, cuffed S’s wrists, then rolled his limp, blood-smeared body into the comforter along with the clothes.

Sweat streaked Purcell’s face, trickled down his temples and into his eyes. Grunting and sweating and coughing, he finally managed to get S draped over his shoulder. He rose to his feet, grateful that the fucking little psycho wasn’t six-three and two-twenty. Small favors.

Once out the window and into the cool, fresh air, negotiating the fire escape with dead weight slung over his shoulder was tricky as hell, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins gifted him with a dexterity he normally lacked.

Slipping out of the courtyard gate with his burden, Purcell carried S to his car, rolled him into the trunk, then slammed it shut. He slipped behind the steering wheel, blood thrumming with adrenaline and exhilaration.

At long last, S would soon be where he belonged.

The Doucet-Bainbridge Sanitarium in Baton Rouge.

Purcell keyed on the engine, pulled the car out of the alley and into the street. As he circled around past the club, he saw De Noir’s black van screech to a slanted halt behind Wallace’s van, blocking it in—at least partially.

Purcell wished James Wallace luck.

47
IN THE CARE OF MONSTERS

NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 30

LUCIEN ABSORBED THE SCENE beyond the windshield, numbering the combatants and their positions in one quick glance as he brought the van to a rubber-smoking stop behind the white NOPD-marked van angled in front of the club.

A van unlike any other NOPD vehicle he’d ever seen.

At the driver’s side door—a man in a generic black uniform and ski mask.

At the passenger side door—another man in generic black uniform and ski mask crouching behind the door along with a middle-aged man in glasses and a tan trench coat. All were sheltering behind the doors and returning fire through the shattered windows.

Up the sidewalk and down a few doors, Jack was pressed up against the narrow doorway of DaVinci’s Pizza. He whirled around, red braids flying, and squeezed off a couple of rounds at the van, before ducking back again.

Emmett Thibodaux popped off a shot as well from his half-kneeling position behind an old rust-tattooed junker parked at the curb, his face a study in cool concentration.

And crumpled on the sidewalk in an utterly motionless tangle of limbs, fuzzy bathrobe, and wild blue/black/purple hair, was Annie. Somehow she’d ended up outside and in the cross-fire. And that somehow was troubling. Lucien could only hope she hadn’t taken more than one bullet or a fatal shot.

But it was what Lucien’s studied glance hadn’t shown him that troubled him the most: Where was Heather? Why wasn’t she in the club’s doorway, gun in hand? Even if she was busy protecting Dante as he Slept, she’d do everything in her power to keep her sister safe as well.

Another dark and chilling possibility pranced uninvited through his mind—Heather lying in a pool of her own blood, her gun on the floor just beyond the reach of her fingers.

I refuse to accept that possibility.

Throwing his door open, Lucien jumped from the van, and moved.

“WE NEED TO LEAVE,” James said, squeezing off a final round into the pizza parlor’s doorway. Brick splintered into the air. “Cops will be showing up soon.” He ejected the magazine from his Colt and pulled a fresh one from the pocket of his trench coat and slammed it home.

“That’d definitely be a FUBAR cherry on top of the tasty FUBAR sundae this mission just became,” Stevenson agreed, his voice almost cheerful, as if firefights on city sidewalks were as ordinary and to be expected as road construction and driving delays. “Time to haul ass, Mr. Wallace.” He ducked into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

A bullet starred the windshield.

Just as James slid into the passenger seat, the sound of screeching tires whipped his head around. A black van had skidded to a stop behind them. The stink of scorched rubber smoked the air.

Prejean’s mysterious friend/mentor/personal ATM machine, Lucien De Noir.

James nodded at Annie. “Grab her,” he said to Zimmer, his fellow door-sheltering companion. “Toss her in back and let’s go.” A heated breeze suddenly blew past James, fluttering his hair.

Zimmer nodded, and that was the last thing he ever did—aside from die. A blur of movement, a sharp snap, then Zimmer dropped to the street, his head canted at an unnatural angle as De Noir released him.

James blinked, his brain trying to process the fact that one second ago De Noir was inside his van, and now he stood over Zimmer’s body, his eyes glowing with a golden and unearthly light.

“Jesus Christ,” James whispered, heart jackhammering in his chest.

De Noir’s nostrils flared as he reached for James, then alarm flickered across his face. He spun away, facing the club’s entrance.

Survival instinct sucker-punched James’s rational brain, duct-taped it, then tossed it into a closet. Grabbing the van’s door, James yanked it shut. He started to lock the door, then, doubting it would do one ounce of good, his hand skittered away from the lock-tab.

“Go,” James urged, keeping his gaze riveted on De Noir. “Go now.”

“What about your daughter?” Stevenson asked, voice shaky.

“Leave her. She’ll be fine. Just go. Now.” James clenched his hands against the urge to shove Stevenson out of the driver’s seat and take charge of the steering wheel himself.

Stevenson yanked off his ski mask and tossed it onto the floorboards. Sweat beaded his face, glistened in his hair. He slammed the transmission into drive, then goosed the van onto the sidewalk.

De Noir whirled around, and James’s heart leap-frogged into his throat. He wondered if his gun with its current crop of ordinary bullets would do anything more than inconvenience De Noir.

But De Noir didn’t come after them as Stevenson bulldozed over baskets of flowers, plowing down newspaper racks and trash cans before bouncing the van back into the street where he floored it. Instead, De Noir scooped Annie up from the sidewalk and out of harm’s way—namely their frantic, pedal-to-the-metal path.

James shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead, feeling sick. He’d just abandoned his youngest child, left her in the care of monsters, and the ironic part? They’d done more to protect her and keep her alive than her own father had.

“I’ll be back for you, sweet pea,” James vowed under his breath. “Count on it.”

TUCKING HIS GUN INTO the back of his jeans, Jack trotted up the sidewalk to Lucien, worry creasing his face. “Is she okay, her?” he asked.

“You’ll have to find out yourself,” Lucien said, shifting the unconscious woman from his arms and into the drummer’s. “I’ve got to go. The club’s on fire.”

Jack stared at him. “What?”

But Lucien whirled away, leaving his question unanswered, and raced up the sidewalk to the club, the acrid smell of smoke and gasoline fumes stinging his nostrils.

Inside, he found the bar and some of the tables ablaze, along with Dante’s bat-winged throne. Fire flowed hungrily along the hardwood floor, gobbling up splashed gasoline trails. Reflected orange light glowed from the Cage’s steel bars as its fetishes burned. A flaming gasoline path snaked up the stairs.

Choking black smoke billowed through the club’s interior. Lucien’s eyes stung.

He looked up at the ceiling. Why weren’t the sprinklers working?

“Goddamn,” a low, grim voice said, then coughed. Thibodaux. “This ain’t good. Where’s your fire extinguishers?”

“The bar, the restrooms, at each wall and on each landing,” Lucien called over his shoulder as he sprinted away to the utility closet stationed in the restroom hallway. A quick check confirmed that the water had been shut off. Lucien twisted the knob back to on and held his breath until water gushed from the ceiling sprinklers, hissing against the flames and soaking him to the skin.

More smoke thickened the air. Thibodaux’s coughing intensified.

Lucien heard a fire extinguisher whoosh, adding a chemical stink to the smoke as the former SB agent tackled the more stubborn blazes, but as far as Lucien could see, the sprinklers were dousing the fire—on all floors.

As Lucien moved upstairs, he blurred through the second floor to make sure no hidden blazes still burned, but found only soaked carpets, soot, and smoke. Hitting the third floor, he paused at Silver’s bedroom, the first off the landing. As much as he wanted to race to Dante’s room and check on his son, he knew Dante would expect him to take care of Silver and Von first.

Silver’s door was wide open. Dread knotted Lucien’s belly. None of them Slept with an open door. A precaution against any accidental sunlight.

Despite the smoke and gasoline stench, and the steady sprinkler rain, Lucien caught a whiff of blood as he stepped into the room. Silver was lying on his side, facing away from the door, curled up underneath the blankets. Blood glistened in his hair, streaked the side of his pale face.

Cold fury iced Lucien to the core.

So they’d been shot as they Slept, then the club torched to finish them.

Wrapping Silver up completely in the blue paisley comforter from his bed, Lucien carried the wounded and Sleeping vampire downstairs and outside to the van, then placed him inside—next to Annie.

Jack had pulled the van up against the curb and was sitting in the passenger seat, his expression anxious, his cell phone in his hand, and a wide-eyed Eerie in his lap.

“You need help in there, you? Is the fire out? Do I need to call 911?” He glanced at Silver’s comforter-shrouded form. “Is everyone all right? It looks like minou here got out okay.”

“No. Mostly. No. I’m not sure, and that’s good,” Lucien replied in answer to his questions. “I do need you to get in the driver’s seat and be ready to take off as soon as I have everyone inside. I want you out of here before the police arrive.”

Sirens rose and fell in the distance, a nerve-tingling banshee’s wail. Death. Disaster. Loss.

“Oui, sure.” Jack scooted over to the driver’s seat, looking relieved to be doing something. “Where will I be taking ’em, me?”

Lucien blinked. Good question. A hotel offered too little privacy or security, and it would take a while to locate a house or apartment to rent.

“My place is in Slidell,” Jack offered.

“Then that’s where you’ll be taking them,” Lucien said, with a relieved smile. “I appreciate that, Jack.”

“Ça fait pas rien.”

“I’ll join you after I deal with the police.”

Lucien moved, racing back up to the third floor. Von’s door was also wide open and the nomad was sprawled belly-down on his bed, the back of his skull a bloody mess. As Lucien covered him with a wine-dark comforter, he caught a faint, but unusual odor, like tree sap or amber—an odor that tickled the underside of his memory.

Can’t quite place it.

Once he had Von safely stowed in the van with Annie and Silver, he hurried back upstairs for Dante and Heather, yelling for Thibodaux to get in the van.

Lucien slowed to a stop a few feet from Dante and Heather’s room, the water-soaked Persian carpet squishing beneath his feet, as he absorbed the scene in front of their open door.

Sunlight shafted in from the shoved-aside curtains on the French window at the hall’s end, glittering on shards of glass near the broken window and glinting from shell casings littered around a large, dark, and ragged circle staining the carpet.

Blood speckled the lower right-hand wall in a high-velocity spray. Lucien crouched in front of the bloodied carpet, pulse winging through his veins. The blood scent was Dante’s—and laced heavily with that tree sap or amber odor he couldn’t quite identify. He picked up and counted the shell casings—six. Lifting them to his nose, he sniffed. More of that odd odor and maybe even its source.

What had been in the bullets?

The amount of Dante’s blood soaked into the now waterlogged carpet alarmed Lucien. Even with six bullets—and the amount of times his Sleeping son had been shot deepened Lucien’s fury—the wounds would’ve closed long before Dante could’ve lost this much blood.

And why had Dante been shot out here in the hall while the others had been shot in their beds?

Something was very wrong with this picture.

Lucien drew in a deep breath; he smelled Dante and Annie and Eerie; a lingering trace of Brut—the cologne the man in the tan trench coat had been wearing—mingling with another cologne composed of ginger and green tea; cordite; mortal sweat and fear.

He counted three mortal scents and one nightkind in front of this room; Heather’s scent was over an hour old. Which again begged the question—where was she?

A gleam of metal in the sprinkler-soaked carpet on the opposite side of the hall caught Lucien’s eye. He reached over and picked up the bit of metal. It was a small dart. Annie’s condition suddenly made sense.

She’d been tranked. Maybe Heather had been as well, but downstairs perhaps.

Lucien straightened, slipping shell casings and dart into his trouser pocket, then went into the bedroom, but found it empty, the comforter gone from the bed. His blood chilled as the meaning of the missing comforter sank in. Had someone wrapped Dante in it to protect him from the sun, just like he’d done with Von and Silver?

After shooting him six times and setting the club on fire?

That made no sense.

And where was Heather? If Annie had been tranked, then carried outside by the Brut team, maybe Heather had already been tucked inside the van. Dante too.

Lucien went back into the hall. He followed the thick scent of Dante’s blood to the end of the hall and the broken French window. Glass crunched beneath his shoes. Beneath the blood smell, he detected a faint whiff of ginger and green tea cologne.

Had one party taken Heather, while a second had nabbed Dante?

Dread sank talons into Lucien’s heart as he stepped out onto the fire escape and noticed several red threads clinging to the iron railing, fluttering in the breeze. The comforter on Dante and Heather’s bed was red.

And below, the courtyard gate yawned open against the ivy-draped wall.

Lucien’s pulse pounded at his temples. His fingers curled around the iron railing.

He reached for Dante’s mind, expecting to brush against the shields guarding his son’s Sleeping mind, but feeling . . . nothing, instead.

Panic blazed up Lucien’s spine. Torched his thoughts.

Even shielded or morphine-drugged, he should be able to hear static at the very least. What he’d just experienced was a psionic flatline.

Meaning Dante was either dead or close to it.

No. Not possible. A mistake, because we’re no longer bonded.

And since they were no longer bonded, Lucien couldn’t trace Dante that way, but he could send to him, find out where he was and who’d taken him and Heather, then go after them. Lucien groaned in frustration. Dante had been Sleeping. He wouldn’t know. Not until he awakened.

If he awakened.

No.

Lucien reached out to Dante’s mind again, and this time he detected a low, but ebbing life force, one lacking the energetic spark of healing. Fear knifed his heart.

Watch over our son, my Genevieve, ma belle ange. Keep him safe until I can find him. In my desire to protect him from the Fallen, I have forgotten to guard him from the treachery of mortals.

I have failed you both. Again.

Lucien curled his fingers around the fire escape’s railing and stared into the shaded courtyard. Dante and Heather were gone and he had no idea where to look for them except, perhaps, in Annie’s tranked mind.

Or he could go to Gehenna and ask the Morningstar for his help.

The iron railing groaned and screeked beneath his hands.

48
VIOLET’S ANGEL

BATON ROUGE
THE DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM
March 30

VIOLET WAS COLORING THE pretty balloon she’d drawn on the white padded wall purple—they said she could!—when she heard excited voices from out in the hall. Just as she turned around from the wall and her picture, she heard the door schunk open in the room next to hers.

Her heart fluttered like a happy fairy in her chest.

He was here! Her angel was here.

The man with the blond hair—Mr. Purcell, Violet remembered—who’d picked her up at the airport and driven her here (while sneaking glances at her and pretending not to) had told her that her angel would be living in the room next to hers.

Mr. Purcell had never said so, but Violet could tell he didn’t like her nighttime angel. His lips would twist like he tasted something pickle-sour every time he said the word angel. The little voice in her tummy told her that Mr. Purcell was not a nice man. He stared too much. And kept making the sour-pickle face. She’d been happy to see him leave.

And even though she missed her mommy very, very much, she looked forward to seeing her pretty angel with the gold eyes and black wings again.

Violet carefully put her crayon back in the box, then hurried across the room to her bed so she could climb on it and look through the window into the next room.

A special room, the nice doctors in their white lab coats had told Violet. So you and your angel can see each other any time you want. Once her angel had arrived, they promised to take good care of him and make him happy. Just like they were making her happy in her little room with the soft white walls and the TV and coloring books and Wii games.

Violet just wished her mom was here too. But she was still sick in the hospital deep underground.

Bouncing onto the bed, Violet pressed her hands against the window, and looked into the other room. A doctor in a white coat and a nurse in green scrubbies stood in the center of the room along with Mr. Purcell. It looked like they were arguing.

A big red blanket—no, it was thick, silly, so it was a comforter—was piled on the concrete floor. Violet noticed a tendril of black hair peeking out of the comforter, and one white hand. Violet smiled. The fingernails were painted black. It was her angel.

Her smile faded as she watched. Why was he in the blanket? Was he asleep? And why was everyone waving their hands around and looking upset? Their voices were muffled through the thick-paned window, but Violet held her breath and listened.

But the words she heard made her heart beat fast, fast, fast in her chest.

Shot. Won’t stop bleeding. Not healing.

The nurse in his scrubbies knelt beside Violet’s angel and pulled back the comforter. His white skin was covered in red stuff, his face and hair too, like someone had splashed him with a bucket of ketchup. She could only see to his tummy, but everything she saw was wet and red.

Violet’s breath whooshed out, and her tummy did a strange, twisting roll. Her heart beat faster and faster.

Blood, her little voice said. That’s blood and he’s dying.

But he can’t die. He’s an angel.

He can if the bad people get to him.

Oh. I didn’t know that. How do I help him?

Be his angel.

“Okay,” Violet whispered.

The nurse flipped the comforter back over Violet’s angel and shook his head. He looked at the doctor in her white coat and they talked about surgery and feeding. Mr. Purcell just paced back and forth, looking like his face had turned into a storm cloud.

Another nurse in scrubbies wheeled in one of those little beds that roll around—a gurney, that’s it!—and they picked Violet’s angel up, comforter and all, and rolled him out of the room, the doctor and nurse following.

Violet stared at all the blood gleaming on the floor. Big wet smears. Her tummy did another flip-flop. She swallowed hard.

Mr. Purcell stopped pacing. He turned and looked at her, his eyes widening as though surprised, then he shook his head. Violet looked back, wondering if he was the one who had hurt her angel and made him bleed.

She heard him laugh, then say something like: Not Chloe. Then: It might be your lucky day, kiddo.

He walked out of the room and, after a moment, Violet jumped off the bed and ran to her coloring table and grabbed the black crayon from her box. Going to the white wall, she started drawing a pair of wings while she waited for her angel to return.

If she was to be his angel, then she would need wings.

49
ECLIPSE

DALLAS, TX
THE STRICKLAND INSTITUTE
March 30

HEATHER OPENED HER EYES, blinking until her vision cleared. A ceiling dotted with soft, recessed lights met her gaze. She blinked again. Where am I? A tiny ribbon of icy fear curled through her when she realized that she didn’t know. She tried to think, to push her mind back to before she’d fallen asleep, but drew a blank. Cotton seemed to muffle her thoughts.

Her father. Something about her father. And Dante.

Heather tried to sit up, but the restraints strapped around her wrists pulled her back down onto the mattress with a metallic tunk-tunk. Looking down, she saw restraints also looped around her ankles.

Her icy ribbon of fear twisted into a waterfall of pure dread.

A quick glance around the room—yellow roses in a vase, bed table, metal railings, visitor chairs—suggested she was in a hospital. But why was she restrained?

<Baptiste?>

Her sending skipped away like a rock tossed along the surface of a endless lake, vanishing into forever. It hadn’t bounced back, unheard. It was simply gone as though nothing had been in its path to receive it or stop it.

No shields. No mind. No Dante.

Pulse pounding, a cold sweat beading her forehead, Heather closed her eyes and focused on their bond. Ripped and tore through the cotton shrouding her mind, finally unburying the light that was Dante’s presence.

Relief flooded through Heather in a heated rush, but quickly cooled as she realized that something was very wrong—instead of burning bright and steady as usual, Dante’s flame was guttering, a dim and ghostly flicker.

Fear closed cold fingers around her heart. She was losing him.

She had a feeling—no, more than that—a realization that Dante was not only badly hurt, he might actually be dying—or close to it.

I feel like I’m running outta time.

I refuse to lose you.

But she was.

“No, no, no,” she whispered. “Hold on, Baptiste.” She tried funneling energy into their bond, but the cotton surrounding her mind soaked it up instead.

But she kept trying, pouring everything she had into their bond, or trying to, anyway. Hold on, Baptiste. Hold on, please. Don’t leave me.

“Pumpkin.”

With that one word, the morning’s events—was it still the same day?—rushed back into Heather’s mind, sieving through the cotton.

You’re lying to yourself, Pumpkin, you’ve chosen nothing. That’s just what Prejean or Baptiste or whatever name the blood-sucking bastard goes by, wants you to think. But I’m going to put an end to that.

Get out of here, Annie! Find Jack . . .

Heather opened her eyes.

James Wallace stood in the doorway of her room, his care-worn face concerned, his eyes hidden behind the reflections glimmering on the lenses of his glasses.

In that moment, she knew she would never call him Dad again.

“What have you done to Dante?” she asked, her voice tight. “And Annie? Where’s Annie?”

Regret flickered across James’s face. He shook his head. “I was forced to leave your sister behind. But I plan to go back for her. As for Prejean, what was done to him was nothing that he didn’t deserve,” James replied, walking into the room, the warm scent of his aftershave preceding him. “But he’s no longer your concern, Pumpkin. He never will be again.”

“Go to hell, you sonuvabitch,” Heather snarled. “Where is he?”

“You need to focus on your own life, Heather. You need to reclaim it. And once we’ve freed you of that damned bloodsucker’s influence, once we’ve scrubbed the taint of his touch off you, you’ll be my daughter again, the brilliant FBI agent.”

Heather stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

A nurse in blue scrubs padded into the room behind James, carrying an IV bag, which she started to connect to the stand positioned beside the bed.

“You’ll feel much better once the drugs start to work,” the nurse assured Heather. “It’ll make the therapy easier, as well.”

“Welcome to the Strickland Deprogramming Institute,” James Wallace said, his lips parting in a warm and reassuring smile.

“Keep away from me,” Heather warned the nurse. “I’m here against my will. You need to release me and let me up right now.”

“Oh, honey,” the nurse chuckled good-naturedly. “That’s what they all say.”

“Let me up and I won’t file any criminal charges against the institute,” Heather said, yanking at her restraints and keeping a wary eye on the nurse, flinching away whenever she approached. “Or you,” she added.

“That’s all right, honey. I know you don’t mean it.”

“Let me up!” Heather screamed, jerking against her restraints in an adrenaline-pumped frenzy of motion, slamming them against the bed rails. Tunk-tunk-tunk. Tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk.

She screamed until she was hoarse and wrenched at her restraints until she fell back, exhausted and panting, her heart drumming against her ribs.

And, in the end, a beefy orderly with a pleasant smile whisked into the room and held her down while the nurse threaded the IV into the vein on the back of Heather’s hand and spun open the dial.

As Heather’s vision tunneled down, her father’s smiling face was the last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her.

50
HOME

BATON ROUGE
THE DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM
March 30

PAIN ICICLED DANTE’S MIND, prickled thorns of frost behind his eyes, his temples, shivved his heart with ice. He shivered, chills wracking his body, spasming his muscles. He coughed, and fresh pain ripped through his chest.

He slivered open his eyes. Light needled into them and he snapped them shut again. But he’d seen enough to know that he lay sprawled on an institution-style mattress in a white padded room, his hands cuffed behind his back.

A room that looked beaucoup familiar.

Wasps droned. Crawled sluggishly beneath his frozen skin. His pulse throbbed at his temples. Each breath slivered ice into his heart.

He struggled to remember before Sleep. Struggled to remember his name.

Dante, yeah? Dante . . .

A woman’s voice, low and warm, whispered through his memory. Baptiste.

His eyes flew open again and he ignored the pain.

Heather.

Annie’s frantic words raced through his memory, Heather’s in trouble.

<Catin.>

But pain exploded through Dante’s head as the sending reverberated through his skull, unsent, drumming additional hurt through his aching mind. “Shit.” He squeezed his eyes shut again.

He couldn’t send, his mind felt as through endless shards of glass impaled it and every thought was snagged and shredded like stray threads on the sharp points.

Dante tried to shove the pain below and focus, but the pain shoved back, stealing his breath with its intensity.

Consciousness spun away.

Dreams of Heather brought him back, her rainstorm scent of lilac and sage deep in his lungs. In that quiet moment, Dante felt her presence in his mind, but it was distant, foggy, as though her end of their bond was sandwiched in an institution-style mattress just like the one he was lying on.

Slivering his eyes open again and wincing in the light, Dante looked down at himself. Panic pulsed through him, amped his heartbeat. Not only was he wearing blue scrubs and paper slippers, but draped across the foot of the mattress, a straitjacket waited, buckles glinting, back open, an open invitation for his arms.

Dante’s mouth dried.

Forcing his gaze away from the straitjacket, he struggled up into a sitting position. Black specks poked holes in his vision. Dizziness spun him around like a child on a merry-go-round. “Fuck.”

Dante lifted his head, shaking his hair back from his face, then froze. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

A little girl with long red hair and blue eyes watched him through a window, her freckled face worried. She wore the purple Winnie-the-Pooh sweater he’d given her. Dante-angel, she mouthed through the window. She pressed her palms flat against the glass.

The past slipped around Dante like a straitjacket and strapped him in tight.

Just you and me, princess. Forever and ever . . .

The intercom speakers crackled, then a man’s voice said, “Welcome back, S. We’ve missed you.”