A Rush of Wings (19 page)

E opened the closet. Worn-edged cardboard boxes nestled on the floor among Tom-Tom’s boots and expensive loafers. A zippered black bag sat next to the boxes.

E dug through the boxes, hands trembling, mouth dry, until he found the file marked
E
and the one marked
S
. Tucking them under his arm, he scooped up the black bag, then closed the closet door. He swiveled on his knees, expecting to see gold, but all he saw was a lank strand of blond hair.

Let Tom-Tom have him
, he thought, elevatoring to his feet. Less likely to notice anything’s missing if he’s busy playing.

E walked from the room and oh-so-carefully closed the door. He strode down the hall and out through the front door into the dying afternoon.

He had a lot of research to do.

***

WASPS CRAWLED OVER DANTE’S body, heavy abdomens curving as stingers needled venom into his flesh. Paralyzed by Sleep, caught in a nightmare-woven net, he couldn’t move, couldn’t leap to his feet, brushing and slapping at the thousands of busy wasps. Poison snaked beneath his skin, wormed into his veins, burrowed into his heart.

Behind the high-pitched wasp drone, a voice called,
Dante-angel
?
You okay
?

He burned.

A wasp wriggled into his nostril. Another jimmied open his lips, scraped down his throat. Stingers pricked his eyelids, but he kept quiet. Screaming equaled straitjacket and restraints. Screaming equaled sunlight slanting across a wooden floor.

His eyelids puffed and swelled. His heart thudded hard against his chest. His throat closed. Air thinned to a trickle. His lungs burned.

He kept silent.

Windows surrounded him. Some he could barely make out, their shape distorted, the glass warped. He looked away, heart pounding—
don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook
. A few of the windows rippled like water beneath the wind and he looked, even though he knew it’d be bad.

A burning house
.

A laughing little girl with red hair, holding a stuffed orca
.

A metal examination table loaded down with restraints
.

A smiling woman, fangs revealed, reaching for him
.

Dante tried to move, but venom and Sleep kept him motionless. Sweat trickled down his temples.

Dante-angel
?

The voice, childish and low and familiar, lingered, the words squeezing his heart. Pain blazed through his mind, torched his thoughts. If he kept quiet, she’d live. Then kicking the ass of that thought was another: If he didn’t move, she’d die.

The fresh scent of rain and sage glided across his consciousness and, for a moment, he forgot the pain, forgot his impending, irreversible loss.

For a moment, she’d never died.

For a moment, he’d never killed her.

Then truth doused him in gasoline and tossed a match.

He screamed.

***

RONIN WALKED DOWN THE hall to the front room. Starry night gleamed beyond the window. He picked up his cell phone and tapped in the number for his New Orleans police contact.

“LaRousse.”

“Thomas Ronin. I watched an interesting exchange of words last night between a vampire named Étienne and Dante Prejean. I believe Étienne has a grudge or two against Dante.”

“You could say that,” LaRousse said. “His home was torched one morning. Burned down to the ground. A handful of Étienne’s nearest and dearest died in the fire and he believes Prejean’s the one who set it.”

“Ah. Why does he believe that?”

“Couldn’t say and don’t care.”

“Can you get in touch with Étienne?”

“I can. What’s this about?”

“Let’s just say an opportunity for payback. Give him my number, Detective. I appreciate your help in this matter.”

Ronin touched the end button. Shaking a slim, black cigarette from the pack on the coffee table, he slipped it between his lips and lit it with a match. He inhaled the sweet-smelling smoke, savoring the rich tobacco taste on his tongue.

Cell in hand, he walked back down the hall to E’s room and pushed open the door. An empty, rumpled bed, but that was no surprise. Although E’s woodworm-bitter scent lingered in the air, Ronin had known upon awakening he was gone. No prickly aura. No wary tension.

Streetlight slanted in through the partially opened blinds, crosshatching the bedroom with lines of light. The room’s darkness felt thick and close and stale, shut off from the untamed night outside.

The instant E had climbed out of his Jeep and walked across the street to Dante’s house, he’d become a liability. Dante’s phone call had made Ronin realize the truth. Peeping Tom and his assistant, Elroy the Perv. A smile flickered across Ronin’s lips. Boy had a way with words—quick-witted and sardonic.

We’ll see how quick-witted he is tonight
.

Ronin drew on his cigarette. The gray smoke curled up and away, hazing the room’s still air. E had fucked up, no two ways about it. Ronin wasn’t sure how much longer he could control him and wondered if he ever really had.

A sociopath. A serial killer. A sexual sadist. How pleased Johanna must be. All her hard work coming to bloody and clever fruition. But what was she saving Dante for? Why had he been allowed to slumber? How had he survived all that she’d done to him?

Then again, he was True Blood. Johanna would have
centuries
to guide him, twist him,
trigger
him with programming subliminals and implants. Dante was a mere twenty-three years old. He was a child. His gifts, the full extent of his abilities, probably wouldn’t be revealed for decades, perhaps centuries.

What would it take to awaken him? To spring Dante like a hidden trap on his
fille de sang
, the woman who’d dared to corrupt and twist a True Blood.

The medical and psychological procedures Johanna and the mortal Doctor Wells had performed on Dante’s mind and brain had been conspicuously missing from the Bad Seed files an anonymous donor had sent him. So, in truth, he was experimenting. Ronin had expected Dante’s subconscious to react to the messages, but so far—zip. Maybe a more direct approach—using Dante’s unexpected sentimentality for mortals—would work like a crowbar upside his lovely head.

Ronin stepped inside the room. Sheets and blankets lumped the unmade bed. A book, an ashtray, and an empty glass rested on the nightstand.

Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, Ronin sat on the edge of the bed. Glanced at the book—
Inside the Monster’s Heart and Other Poems
. The faint scent of whiskey drifted up from the glass. From the bed, he caught a whiff of dark cherries. He followed the faint scent down to the pillow. Reaching inside the pillowcase, he pulled out a black length of nylon. Gina’s stocking, a dream catcher for her killer, tucked close to the monster’s heart. Ronin dropped the pillow back onto the bed.

The cell phone rang. Ronin tapped the on button. “Yes?”

“This is Étienne. I am listening.”

16
Blood Sworn

«
^
»

D
ANTE OPENED HIS EYES. Candlelight flickered white and gold on the ceiling. Shadows shimmied. He smelled vanilla-scented wax and tasted blood at the back of his throat. His head throbbed, but the pain was distant as though numbed by morphine or eased by Lucien’s cool hands.

It hurt to swallow. The blood he tasted was his own. Another headache? Another nosebleed? What
night
was it? He tried to think back, to remember what he’d been doing before Sleep, but hit a big blank wall.

Sudden vivid images swirled through his thoughts—a wasp, chains dangling from a meat hook, a bloodied baseball bat—morphing his consciousness into waking nightmare.

Barbed-wire thorns bit. Wasps droned. Dante shook his head. He felt Trey nudging gently at his shields. Sucking in a deep breath, Dante let him in.

<
A message for you on club e-mail
.>

<
Oüi
.>

<“
I know where your pretty plaything’s been stashed. He’s alive and mostly well. Play nice and he’ll stay that way. I’ll leave word for you at the club
.”
Traced the message back to a net café. Blind credit. Dead end
.>

Pulse racing, Dante sat up. Blood pounded in his temples.

“Agent Wallace phoned while you were Sleeping,” Lucien said, stepping into the room. “The killer is
not
dead and she advised you to stay home.”

“So, she was right,” Dante said. “But I ain’t staying. I got a promise to keep.”

<
You trust this information
?>

“Fuck, no. But it’s all I got right now.” Dante threw aside the sheets and stood.

I’m coming for you, Jay. Keep breathing. Keep fighting
.

***

HEATHER SUCKED IN A deep breath of Hell’s patchouli-, clove-, and sweat-reeking air and plunged into the crowd. As she weaved and pushed between hot and sweaty bodies, she kept her gaze on Dante.

He sat on the edge of his bat-winged throne, muscles tensed, body coiled. He wore leather pants and a metal-strapped latex shirt. Light flashed from the rings on his fingers and from the ring on his bondage collar. A black-haired Goth princess nestled against his leg, her fishnet-covered arms wrapped around his calf, a smile on her bloodred lips.

Dante’s fingers stroked the Goth chick’s hair, the gesture absentminded but gentle, his dark gaze on Heather. His pale face revealed nothing. No hint of welcome. Just watchful.

Music battered and rib-kicked the moshing crowd. The heavy bass beat vibrated the walls and mist-shrouded floor, the sound like a defibrillator to the heart.

Not bad
. Heather thought, raising a forearm to fend off a crowd surfer.
Reminds me of Annie’s old band
. Hands shoved and bounced the surfer off to Heather’s left. She lowered her arm. She’d half turned to shoulder in when she realized someone had stepped directly in front of her, blocking her path. Frowning, hands knotting into fists, Heather looked up—and her heart skipped a beat.

“You know how to handle yourself,” Dante said. A half smile tilted his lips.

“Yeah, well, my sister used to front a band,” Heather shouted. Looking at him now, she saw welcome in his dark eyes, and some of her tension unraveled.

“Which band?”

“WMD.”

A circle cleared around them as the crowd suddenly realized who stood among them. Hunger of all kinds dilated their eyes. Voices whispered. Trembling fingers reached. Heather’s gaze jumped from one person to the next, wondering if a killer moshed among them. She jerked when a hand gripped her shoulder. Dante leaned in, his lips beside her ear.

“You don’t need to shout,” he whispered. “I can hear you fine. And WMD were among the fucking best.” He straightened, his fingers lingering on her shoulder for a moment.

“They were.” Heather held Dante’s gaze, only half-aware of the whispers buzzing and droning around them like flies.

A thin young man in dreads and camo shoved an Inferno CD—the new one,
Deliberately Set
—and a Sharpie at Dante.

“Dudeifyoucouldit’dbetotallyawesome,” he blurted, eyes wide.

Dante handed the signed CD and the Sharpie back to Camoboy.

He blinked. “Uh…thanks.”

Heather hadn’t seen Dante take the CD and sign it either. She’d caught a blur of movement, his hands, maybe, but nothing else. Dante glanced at her. Held out his hand. She took it, wrapping her fingers around his warm palm.

Dante led her through the crowd. A path opened before them and Dante’s name rippled through the moshers, every murmur another tossed stone. Yearning glances followed him. Fingers brushed against him. Pleading. One honey-haired young man in an old-fashioned frock coat was bold enough to step in front of Dante. He closed his kohl-lined eyes, spread his arms wide, and offered up his lips.

Dante stopped, surprising Heather. Still holding her hand, he stepped forward until he was face-to-face with the young man, until just a breath of air separated their bodies, and kissed the offered lips.

A pining sigh gusted through the watchers. Heather stepped beside Dante, scanning each sweating, painted face near him. A few wept, tears black with eyeliner and mascara streaking their faces.

They adore him. Utterly. Is it his looks
?
Who he is
?

Or what he’s
supposed
to be
?

The kiss ended. The honey-haired young man staggered back, then bowed, sweeping one arm across his waist while extending one leg. An elegant gesture unmarred by his trembling hands.

“
Merci beaucoup, mon ange de sang
.” He glanced up, face flushed, dazed. “You honor me.”

“
Pour quoi
?
Sa fini pas
.”

Heather heard strain in Dante’s voice.
He hasn’t had time to grieve
, she thought.
So much has happened in the last couple of days
.

Still bowing, the young man stepped out of Dante’s path. The sighs and murmurs intensified. Dante resumed walking, his fingers locked around Heather’s hand. The path merged behind him and disappeared. When they reached the steps to the dais, Dante squeezed Heather’s hand, then released it.

She followed him up the steps, past the Goth lords and Goth princesses curled on the steps like contented cats. The black-haired lap kitty who’d been snugged against Dante’s leg earlier perched on the edge of the dais, her hungry gaze fixed on his face. Behind the throne, De Noir stood in a crimson shirt, the X-rune pendant glittering at his throat, his face impassive.

Dante knelt on one knee beside the waiting Goth chick. Skimming his fingers along her jaw, he bent and spoke into her ear.

Heather noticed how black Dante’s hair was in the club’s low lights, black as the deepest part of night; natural and glossy—not flat like the dyed hair of the girl listening to his whispered words.