A Rush of Wings (28 page)

The pain needed to be
more
.

I’m already burning
.

That’s not enough, Dante-angel
.

Scooping a pair of shades out of the glove box, Dante slipped them on, then stepped out of the MG.
A drink. Need a drink
. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. As he walked toward the tavern’s front door, it opened, spilling light into the parking lot.

Two nomads stepped out wearing dusty road leathers and disgusted expressions. Laughter and bouncing zydeco music followed them out into the night.

“Motherfucking squatters,” the horse-maned male muttered, then spat into the dirt. Silver gleamed at his eyebrow, his ears, his throat. A black bird-shaped V was tattooed on his right cheek.

Clan Raven, Dante thought, remembering what Von had taught him. Ravens and Nightwolves often traveled together, guarding each other’s flanks.

The dreadlocked female, bird V inked on her right cheek, glanced at him. She looked him over, head to toe, then back again. A smile curved her lips. Light sparked in her eyes.

“Not your kind of place, nightwalker,” she said, stepping off the porch. Her smile vanished as she got a closer look at him. “You hurt?”

Dante caught the door before it closed. Warmth and booze and tobacco and sweat-laden air curled against him. His head throbbed.

“Maybe,” Dante said. Then he stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him. A moment later, he heard the deep, throaty roar of the bikes as the nomads tore out of the parking lot, flinging gravel behind them.

“Terry, look at that, wouldcha! Do ya think he’s lost?”

“Kee-rist! First nomads, now Bourbon Street gutter trash. What the hell’s this place comin’ to?”

Dante glanced at the speakers, two mortals in baseball caps and work-stained T-shirts hunkered at a table toward the rear of the bar. A haze of cigarette smoke hung motionless over the table. One of the mortals leaned back in his chair and met Dante’s eyes, his tight smile daring him to say anything.

Two other mortals stood at a pool table, cue sticks in hand as they stared at Dante, game interrupted. One had a beer gut and the other was muscled like an athlete. Brutal energy spiked with an overdose of testosterone rippled around the athlete.

“Look at the collar, will ya?” Athlete said to Beer Gut. “Don’t see no leash. Musta gotten away. Better call the pound.” He laughed, pleased with his wittiness, and nudged Beer Gut. “Call the pound. Get it?”

Dante looked away and weaved past empty tables to the bar. The bartender looked up as he approached, a mixture of concern and wariness on her face. She was pure New Orleans with her brown skin, green almond-shaped eyes, and curly black hair. Haitian, Spanish, French, Chinese, whatever. The true heart of Louisiana.

The bartender touched a hand to the bar rag slung over her shoulder. Bottles of booze lined the shelves behind her, fancy labels and fascinating colors.

Dante stopped at the counter, gaze flicking over the bottles.

“Can I help you?” the bartender said. The badge on her black AS THE CROW FLIES t-shirt read: Maria.

“Tequila. Bourbon. Whatever’s closest.” Dante reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled-up old bills, tossed them onto the bar.

“You all right? Your nose is bleeding.”

“Got a place to wash up?”

“Sure.” Maria pointed to a short hall on the right.

Pushing himself away from the bar, Dante followed the arrow sign reading RESTROOMS to a grungy men’s room featuring stained porcelain, graffiti-etched walls, and the reek of old piss.

A small window sat high above the urinals, too small to squeeze out on your tab or your bad-ass date. Dante stepped over to the chipped sink and turned on the faucet. He slipped off his shades, tucked them into the front of his shirt. He rubbed his hands together under the stream of water, then bent over the sink and splashed water on his face.

He burned. He half expected the water to hiss and turn to steam when it touched him. Instead, it was so cold it stole his breath. Dante gripped the sides of the sink, as bloodstained water swirled down the rusty drain.

Dante
?
I’m cold. Can I get in bed with you
?

C’mere, princess. Snuggle close. I’d hold you, but…

How come Papa Prejean handcuffs you at bedtime
?

Cuz I don’t sleep at night. The prick thinks I’ll murder everyone in their beds
.

Wouldcha
?

Yeah. Probably
.

Dante-angel, if I found the key and let you go, wouldcha take me with you
?

A spreading pool of blood surrounds Chloe’s pale face like a halo. Her half-open eyes stare sightlessly at the orca just beyond her reach
.

I’d never leave without you, princess. Just you and me—

Meat hook, chain-wrapped ankles, bare feet. Light flashes from the hook
.

Forever and ever
.

Water splashed into the sink, spattering against Dante’s knuckles. His muscles coiled. He stared into the sink.

She trusted you, kid. I’d say she got what she deserved
.

Pain torched him. He lifted his head and looked in the mirror. He didn’t recognize his reflection; the pale face and smeared eyeliner and damp, tousled hair were his, sure, but the expression was cold and distant and unforgiving, eyes red-streaked with fury.

Is this what Lucien just saw
?

He dropped his head, shaken. No, the pain stabbing his temples wasn’t nearly enough. Not by a long shot. But like he’d promised, he wouldn’t burn alone. Peeping Tom, among others, would join him in the flames. Étienne was already ash.

He wiped his face dry with a brown paper towel, then slid on his shades and walked out of the men’s room. As he approached the bar, he caught a familiar scent, Brut and soap, and yet another—smelling of dry cleaner’s chemicals and deep, dark secrets. He slowed. Remembered a lazy smile and a wink.

Take him in. Lock him up. He’ll be asleep in no time. I guarantee
.

What the hell are
they
doing here
?
No coincidence. No fucking way
.

Dante walked past without glancing at either detective. He stopped at the counter. Maria poured something golden into a shot glass.

“Y’all left nearly eighty bucks on the bar.”

“Keep twenty for yourself,” Dante said, picking up the shot glass. “Let me know when I’ve drunk up the rest.”

“Sure thing, sugar.” Maria tapped a finger under her nose, looked meaningfully at Dante, then handed him a napkin.

He took the napkin from her, pressed it against his nose. It came away red.

“Fuck.” He tossed back the shot. Tequila. It burned down his throat, cleared out the lingering blood. He felt sweat trickle along his temple.

Dante-angel
?

Forever and ever, princess. Forever and ever and ever—

A smooth voice drawled, “Abita for me and Davis, darlin’. And lookee here! If it ain’t a
small
fuckin’ world.”

Dante set the empty shot glass on the bar.

“How’s it hangin’, rock god?
Comment Ça va
, eh?”

As Maria poured Dante another shot, he glanced to his right. Perched on a stool, Dickhead LaRousse leaned against the bar, a smirk tilting his lips. He held what looked suspiciously like an arrest warrant in one hand.

“Talk about luck,” Dickhead said. “We were on our way back from your place. Seems you weren’t there. Then we saw your car in the parking lot.” He slapped the warrant down on the counter. “You here all by your lonesome?”

Dante lifted his hand and flipped him off. Shifting his attention to the refilled shot glass, he picked it up, tossed it back.

“Dirtier than original sin, this boy, believe you me,” Dick-head said to his partner, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “The shit I found in his juvie records. No wonder they sealed ‘em.”

Dante carefully set down the empty shot glass. He grasped the edge of the bar to keep his hands from trembling. Even
he
didn’t know what was in those records. His memory only tracked back a handful of years and even then there were gaps. Hell, he didn’t even know how old he was.

“Christ,” Maria said, a hint of anger in her voice. “If y’all are going to arrest him, do it outside.”

“A word to the wise, sugar,” Dickhead said, his voice all Southern charm. “Mind your own fuckin’ business.”

Maria glanced at Dante from beneath her lashes as she filled a stein at the tap. He met her gaze and shook his head.

“Sixty foster homes, two stints in the loony bin,” LaRousse said, his tone conversational, his voice on the verge of a chuckle. “Words like
schizophrenia
and
homicidal
tossed around. A missing little girl and…oh, yeah!…the last foster home burns to the ground with the foster parents still inside. That’d be the Prejeans.”

Turning his head, Dante met LaRousse’s gaze. The detective stared at him, handsome face hard, cold light glinting in his eyes.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Dante said. His hammering heart said
maybe not
.

“That right?” Dickhead leaned in closer. “So tell me, does that good-looking FBI bitch know she’s balling a stone-cold psycho?”

Dante slammed his fist into LaRousse’s nose.

***

“WHO MADE YOU?”

Simone glanced at Heather, her pale face tinted green by the van’s dashboard lights, then returned her attention to the road in front of them.

“Nightkind,
oüi
? That’s what you’re asking?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m asking.”

Heather had never imagined having this conversation, never imagined vampires existed outside of horror movies or outside of Goth clubs. Never imagined the undead lived, worked, and fed alongside those who weren’t.

But after watching Dante, after shooting Ronin, after witnessing parts of Étienne’s body try to escape the flames consuming him, her skepticism, her doubts, had ended and her understanding of the world altered. She didn’t want to look out the passenger window into the night. Didn’t want to know what might look back from deep within the shadows alongside the road, eyes full of moonlight, mouth full of sharp teeth.

Simone sighed. “A friend of the family turned me, just after Papa’s funeral.”

“Was it something you wanted?”

The blonde shook her head. “No. But she didn’t offer me a choice.”

Shadows flickered across Simone’s face. Her hands were relaxed on the steering wheel. No bitterness edged her voice. If a family friend had done the same to her, Heather would’ve tracked her down and…what? Killed her? Forced her to take it back? Maybe Simone had had time to come to terms with the situation.

How did one come to terms with being made into a vampire? How did a mortal adjust to immortality?

“And your brother?”

“He was all the family left to me,” Simone said, her voice low, taut. “I gave him a choice. If he’d a said no, I probably woulda set myself on fire.”

“You turned your own brother?” Heather asked, surprised.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of watching him grow old and die.”

Heather thought of Kevin, of Annie. Could she have done the same to them? Siphoned off their humanity? Or let them age? Bury them one after the other next to Mom? Her throat constricted.

“So, how does this undead stuff work? Dante’s skin is warm. He has a pulse. He’s intensely alive.”

The corners of Simone’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “
Oüi
, Dante’s intensely
everything
.”

Heather stared at her, shoulders tight. Remembered Dante leaning over Simone on the dais steps, whispering in her ear, and touching her hair. She had a strong suspicion they’d been more than just friends once. Were they still?

“We’re
not
undead,” Simone said. “We’re a separate species. We’ve always lived alongside mortals.” She looked at Heather and smiled.

“And Dante? Do you know who made him?”

Simone’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “No. He’s never said.” She glanced at Heather. “I don’t think he knows. Maybe it’s lost to him.” Sorrow sharpened the planes of her face.

“Like so much else,” Heather said. “Hidden behind his headaches.” Or was he what Ronin had called him—True Blood? Born vampire?

Her name was Chloe and you killed her
.

Ronin’s smooth, commanding voice wormed through Heather’s thoughts. What if Dante didn’t remember his past because he’d done terrible things? Things he couldn’t bear to remember?

Were Ronin’s attempts to awaken Dante a desire to trigger him, to wind him up and turn him loose? But if Dante could be
triggered
, wouldn’t that mean he’d been
programmed
? And wouldn’t that mean his memory had been
deliberately
crippled? Would certain questions trigger protective subliminals like migraines? Unconsciousness? Madness?

Heather’s heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the sound of the road rushing beneath the van’s wheels, beating cadence for the thoughts pulsing through her mind—black ops ran mind experiments, had for decades. Government funded and Bureau protected.

She heard Stearns’s voice:
He’s no longer your concern
. But that meant he was
someone
’s concern. Whose? And which agency? How deep did this go?

Heather looked out the passenger window. Her reflection, pale, pensive, and weary, hid the night beyond. The shadows and what they
might
contain no longer seemed so scary. Not compared to the place her suspicions had brought her—a place both very dark and very real.

And Dante was caught in the middle—lost, maybe. Heather’s hands knotted in her lap. Not if she could help it.

And her investigation? If Ronin and Jordan together were the Cross-Country Killer, the evidence would nail them, give a clear voice to their victims. The dead would finally speak.

Link the DNA evidence. Nail Jordan. Prove the CCK hadn’t died in Pensacola. But what about Ronin? Could a human court even touch him? If she suggested he was vampire, the case would be thrown out of court and her career’d be over.