A Rush of Wings (3 page)

“What’s your last name, Von?”

Arching an eyebrow, he murmured, “Sharp ears.” He shrugged again. “Smith. Or maybe Jones. Mama lost track. But if you get it figured out, doll,” he said, looking at Heather from over the tops of his shades. His green eyes seemed to glow. “Call me.”

“Count on it,” Heather said.

***

VON WATCHED THE FED disappear into the club.

<
Law coming in. Pretty trenchcoat with no-nonsense eyes
.>

As always, Lucien’s mind felt busy, structured, somehow alien. But receptive. Von felt the activity pause, then his thought was allowed in. <
She wants Dante
.>

Lucien’s thought arrowed into Von’s mind with an intensity that sometimes unnerved him, especially when he reflected on the fact that Lucien’s reply was
gentle
.

<
She’ll have to settle for me
.>

Good enough. Two surprises so far and the night was young. The fed had been
numero dos
. A nightkind stranger—a bearded black dude wearing jeans, untucked pearl-buttoned blue shirt and snakeskin boots, and trailed by a geeky-looking mortal—had been
numero uno
.

An honor
, llygad, the stranger had said as Von patted him down. But his rigid body language had totally disagreed with that statement.

As had his mortal buddy’s amused grin.

Von’s attention returned to the line. He smiled at two pretty young things clutching each other, laughing and peering at him with drug-dilated pupils. He smelled them—sandalwood, vanilla, and chemical tang. He listened to the blood pulsing through their veins.

With a half bow, he unhooked the rope barrier and gestured them through. The first one, honey-haired and dark-eyed, grasped his hand, then kissed it. Her soft lips lingered, warm against Von’s skin. Her kiss tingled up his arm and down the length of his spine.

She looked at him with adoring eyes. “Nightkind,” she sighed, blowing him a kiss as her giggling girlfriend grabbed her hand and led her into the club.

Hunger unwound within Von. The honey-haired mortal’s warm vanilla scent tugged at him. Sucking in a deep breath, he slid his hands over the next person in line. He scanned the bobbing crowd, looking and sensing for someone else who was out of place. Feds rarely worked alone. He tamped down his hunger. He had to stay sharp. Tonight was not a night to dream of warm flesh and hot blood and sexy giggles. Not with a fed inside.

And a nightkind stranger.

***

GINA’S HEAD RESTED AGAINST Dante’s shoulder as he bit into her pale throat. Blood, hot, rich, and laced with cocaine, trickled into his mouth. He drank her in carefully, in measured swallows. He slid his hand into her unlaced bodice, caressing and cupping her firm, warm breast. Her nipple stiffened against his palm. She moaned, then gasped. Dante slipped his arm around her waist, holding her even tighter.

Gina arched her hips, and Dante glanced down the length of her reclining body to where Jay, kneeling on the floor at the edge of the bed, eased his hands under Gina’s bare ass and buried his face between her thighs.

Dante felt himself stir, harden. He closed his eyes and drank. Gina’s moans increased in frequency and urgency. He listened to the rasp of her thigh-high stockings against the chenille bedspread, listened to Jay’s muffled breathing, listened to Gina’s pounding heart, listened to the creak of his own leather pants as he shifted on the bed.

A soundless voice—a wordless song—touched his burning thoughts, rousing him from the heady flavor of Gina’s cocaine-laden blood. Concern whispered into his mind.

Dante opened his eyes and stared into the candle-and-neon-lit room.

<
Lucien
?>

<
Stay put, child. Feed. Play with your
tayeaux.>

Dante lifted his head from Gina’s throat. She glanced up at him, her heavy-lidded eyes puzzled. Then she gasped as Jay slid a finger inside of her. Her eyes closed again.

<
What’s wrong
?>

<
Nothing
,> Lucien sent. <
Just business
.>

Sudden pain needled Dante’s left temple. His breath caught in his throat as the pain intensified, then faded. Muscles knotted, he held Gina tight, closing his eyes and listening to her uneven breathing as Jay brought her ever closer to climax. He listened to Gina and ignored everything else.

Including the whispers left behind in the pain’s wake.

***

HEATHER WALKED DOWN A crowded hall with black-painted walls scrawled with graffiti in fluorescent paint. Her gaze skipped over a few of the messages: INFERNO RULES! and RANDY SUKS DIK and WE DIE YOUNG.

People lined either side of the passageway, holding drinks, smoking—embers glowing as they breathed in—kissing, feeling each other up. The sweet odors of clove, pot, and wine mingled uneasily with the smells of vomit and warring perfumes.

Black lights glowed purple from bared male torsos and from nude, glitter-dusted breasts; shimmered from nipple piercings, NightGlo tattoos, and fluorescent body paint.

Music pounded like a sledgehammer and Heather regretted leaving her earplugs at home in Seattle.
Didn’t think I’d be clubbing
.

Looking from face to face and wondering if a killer was among them, Heather worked her way through the crowd to the entrance proper. A glowing red neon sign hung above the entrance.

Burn

HEATHER PAUSED BENEATH THE flickering sign as dry ice mist swirled around her legs. What if she was wrong? What if DaVinci’s courtyard being chosen, that particular wall being written on, had been coincidence?

Heather didn’t believe in coincidence. She passed the sign and stepped into Hell.

***

STANDING BEHIND DANTE’S STONE bat-winged throne, Lucien shifted his gaze from the black, bearded nightkind stranger at the bar and his sallow-skinned mortal companion, to keep a watch on the entrance.

Silver and Simone sat on the stairs leading to the throne, their heads close together, talking and laughing. The crowd beyond them bobbed and jumped, dancing to the music blasting from the Cage.

Why was the law asking for Dante again? They’d already been here regarding the murder next door. His hands curled over the top edge of the throne, the stone gritty beneath his fingers.

Even more disturbing was the piercing pain he’d felt from Dante a few minutes ago. But there was no time to go to him now. No time to cool the hurt away—even temporarily.

Stone dust fell from beneath Lucien’s fingers, powdering the black velvet cushion. He yanked his hands away from the throne. As he did, his gaze locked onto a woman standing in the entrance, one hand holding onto the strap of the purse looped over her shoulder. Lucien noticed that one side of her trench-coat hung just a little lower than the other. Gun, he mused.

Pretty trenchcoat with no-nonsense eyes
. Apt description. Lucien took in her rain-darkened auburn hair, her petite frame, her confident posture. Apt, indeed.

Now to get her out of here
.

Lucien stepped from around the throne and started down the stairs.

***

THE DANCING, THRASHING CROWD filling the dance floor held Heather’s attention. A band played inside a steel-barred cage while the audience stalked them, seeking ways inside. Some climbed the cage, reaching in as they did, trying to grab a sleeve, a lock of hair. Without missing a note, the band kept playing as they dodged and skipped out of reach.

A young woman standing on the mesh top of the cage held out her arms, threw back her head and stepped off. The crowd caught her. As she was passed from one set of arms to another, hands slipped under her dress, inside her top, feeling her up as she was passed to safety.

Heather forced her tensed muscles to relax. She looked away from the thrashing dancers. Small circular tables lit by candles dotted the other side of the club. Immediately to her left was a long polished bar and directly in front of her a…throne.

The bat-winged throne stood on a dais reached by four stairs. A couple perched on the uppermost stair. They both suddenly looked her way, fixing on her as though synchronized.

The boy was pretty, punked out, and way too young to be in the club. A half-empty glass of wine rested beside him on the step.
Sixteen
? Heather wondered. The woman wrapped her arms around her upraised knees. Her long, spiraled hair gleamed like gold against her black tights. Both her eyes and the boy’s seemed to catch and reflect the club’s low light.

Movement above them caught Heather’s eye. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a white long-sleeved shirt and black trousers stepped out from behind the throne and took the steps in two strides. Light winked from a pendant or chain at his throat. As he walked through the crowd, people parted for him without prompting, following his progress across the floor with gazes that Heather could only describe as awed.

Heather stepped aside from the entrance and waited for him, certain he was Lucien De Noir. As he drew nearer, she realized he was unusually tall.
Six seven
?
Six eight
? She straightened, determined to make every inch of her five feet four count.

“Good evening,” he said, stopping before her. “I’m Lucien De Noir, club owner. May I help you?”

Heather met his gaze. His black hair was tied back, his clothing neat and crisp. A sterling-silver, rough-edged X on a black cord hung just below the hollow of his throat. He radiated power, oozed strength. A slight smile curved his lips. A handsome man, she realized, one, no doubt, who knew when to turn on the charm.

Flipping open her badge for De Noir, Heather returned his smile. “I’m Special Agent Wallace. I’d like to see Dante Prejean. I understood this was
his
club.”

De Noir scrutinized her badge for a long moment before motioning for her to put it away. “His name is simply Dante,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “And I’m afraid your information is mistaken. But, in any case, Dante isn’t here tonight.” De Noir’s smile widened, warmed. Gold glinted in the depths of his eyes. “Perhaps I can help you.”

“Do you know anything about the murder next door? Or the victim?”

De Noir shook his head. “Only what I’ve heard from the police and on the street.” The gold lights in his eyes vanished. “And I’d imagine that Dante would know even less. He doesn’t keep up with the news.”

“It looks like it hasn’t hurt business, anyway,” Heather said, offering another smile. “Is there somewhere quieter we can talk?”

“The courtyard outside,” De Noir said, turning away and stepping into the crowd. His tied-back hair, black and gleaming, reached to his waist.

Knowing there had to be an office on either the second or third floor of the building, Heather wondered why she was being ushered out the back. So to speak. But, for once, she didn’t have a problem with that; she
wanted
to see the courtyard that adjoined DaVinci’s.

Slipping her badge back into her purse, Heather followed De Noir onto the dance floor and through the parting crowd.

***

DANTE EASED OUT FROM behind Gina and slid to the edge of the rumpled bed. The black lace curtains framing the opened French windows twisted in the cool night breeze. The smell of rain and Mississippi mud filled the room. Dante trailed his fingers through his hair.

Still kneeling beside the bed, his hands resting on Gina’s thighs, Jay watched him with interest.

“What’s wrong, sugar?” Gina said, sitting up.

Dante didn’t have to look at Gina to see the pout on her lips. “I’ve gotta go,” he said. Candlelight flickered orange across the shadowed walls, across his leather pants, his boots. Pain flickered in his mind.

Gina’s fingers wrapped around Dante’s belt. She tugged. “Looks to me like you’re all hot and bothered. Looks to me like you need to stay,” she murmured. “Just lie down and we’ll—”

Gently plucking Gina’s fingers free from his belt, Dante stood. He shook his head. “Later. Play without me for now.”

“Dante,
mon cher…
” Jay’s hand slid from Gina’s thigh, reached for Dante.

Dante pushed away Jay’s hand, then seized a handful of the mortal’s blond hair and yanked his head back. Jay’s breathing became rough, uneven. Bending down, Dante kissed him deeply. The honey, musk, and salt taste of Gina on Jay’s tongue and lips damn near changed Dante’s mind. But a familiar, dangerous restlessness burned within him. He
couldn’t
stay.

Finishing the kiss, Dante released Jay’s hair and trailed a finger along his jawline, then straightened and strode from the room. He heard Gina advising Jay to let him be.

Out in the hallway, Dante leaned against the wall. Eyes closed, he thumped his head lightly against the plaster. He waited for his hard-on to subside, wishing the dark, writhing things inside would subside as well. But knew they wouldn’t. Pain prickled at his temple.

Fuck
!
Focus, dammit. Something’s troubling Lucien. Zero in on that
.

But Lucien’s shields were up and he couldn’t get through. In fact, it almost seemed as though Lucien was keeping him out deliberately. Dante opened his eyes and shoved himself away from the wall.

***

HEATHER GLANCED AT THE people sitting on the stairs as she weaved through the crowd behind De Noir. They watched her progress with something close to envy or maybe disbelief on their powder-pale faces. De Noir edged past them, seemingly oblivious to the shining gazes, the half-parted lips, and the whispers:

“Lucien. Will
he
see us?”

“Is
he
coming down?”

“Lucien Nightbringer. Lucien…”

Earnest, desperate, hungry.

Heather stepped past their outstretched fingers, disturbed by De Noir’s silence. She wondered why he didn’t say anything, why he didn’t even glance at them.

De Noir stood aside and opened the door to the courtyard, gestured for Heather to enter. She looked into the ivy-draped clearing. Protected within gargoyle sconces, candles cast eerie windblown shadows across the stone walls. Her gaze was drawn to the wall where a killer’s message had been smeared in blood on the other side. For a moment, she saw the blood seeping through the stone, letters forming in reverse. Her gut told her: Not by chance or coincidence. This wall had been
chosen
.