A Rush of Wings (34 page)

No whiskers
, she mused.
Can’t be just a nightkind thing, Von has a mustache and Ronin a beard
.

Heather traced her hand down his chest, the skin cool beneath her fingers, to his flat belly. She longed for twilight, longed to awaken him with kisses, with her hands, her mouth.

Sighing, Heather glanced at her watch. 2 p.m. She had work to do. Bad guys to catch—without Bureau help or blessing. A file to read. And if it was bad? A knot formed in her stomach and she pushed the thought away. She climbed over Dante, pausing to kiss his cool lips.

“
Très belle
, yourself,” she murmured before easing off the futon.

The floor creaked beneath her feet as she pulled the blankets up and over Dante. He didn’t stir. Heather had a feeling she didn’t need to worry about being quiet. He’d sleep no matter what.

Must be nice
, she thought, half stepping and half skipping over the CD cases and clothes on the floor on her way to the adjoining bathroom.

She flipped on the light. The room was painted black and lavender. Several things cluttered the counter: eyeliner tubes and pencils, black lipstick, a brush, toothpaste, soap, an MP3 player.

Toothpaste? Weren’t vampires immune to cavities?

Clean, plush towels hung from the rack, and shampoo and conditioner stood on a shelf in the shower. And beneath the towels, her overnight bag.

Who…? Then she realized it must have been De Noir. The others would’ve been sleeping like Dante, hibernating in the daylight.

Turning on the water in the shower, Heather let it warm up while she looked at herself in the mirror. She glanced at her throat, touching the spot where Dante had bitten her. No visible mark, no tenderness. Fire flared within her again, kindled in her belly, as she thought of him drinking in a part of her. She closed her eyes.

Playtime’s over. Focus on the case. Focus on keeping alive—if you’re dead, who will speak for Jay and all the others
?

Unbidden and unexpected, an answer disrupted her thoughts:
Dante would
. Somehow that felt right to her—heart-true.

Opening her eyes, Heather stepped into the shower and closed the door. As hot water sluiced across her neck and shoulders, she realized Dante had
become
the case, that in her struggle to keep him alive, she hadn’t noticed that the game had changed; she no longer knew if the Ronin-Jordan team wanted Dante dead or wanted him to
join
them.

Her name was Chloe. And you killed her
.

She’s been creating sociopaths for years
.

It’s quiet when I’m with you
.

Turning around, Heather braced her hands against the water-slick tiles and tipped her face up to the shower spray. She hoped the water would ease the sudden kinks out of her shoulders, would loosen the tightness constricting her breathing, melt away the fear frosting her guts.

She remembered the thought she’d
shouted
at Dante:
I won’t walk away from you
.

Her breath caught, ragged, a sob. A fist closed around her heart. Her chest ached. She realized she was scared, scared of what she’d discover in the file, scared of what she might be forced to do.

DRESSED IN A ROYAL blue blouse and khaki slacks, Heather walked down the stairs, shoes in hand. The house was silent, hushed. Feeling like she was in a church, she resisted the impulse to tiptoe. Dante’s whispered words circled through her mind:
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus
.

Treading down the hall, she paused beside the computer room. The recliner was empty, the computer off. Coiled cables rested on the table beside Trey’s goggles. She suddenly thought of Annie, drugged and peaceful as she slept in a hospital bed, her restraints removed and curled up on the night-stand.

Shaking the image from her head, Heather continued down the hall, walking into the kitchen. She sat at the table and, bending, laced on her shoes. The briefcase still stood beside the chair; her purse and Stearns’s keys rested on the cobalt-blue tablecloth.

She grabbed her purse, dug out her cell phone. She flipped through the caller log, noting several calls from Collins. She felt a pang of guilt. She’d left him pretty much out in the cold, no word, no explanation. Could she trust him? She didn’t know where she stood anymore, and a few hours of sleep hadn’t made the situation any clearer.

Rogue agents, Bureau-ordered hits, mad-scientist experiments in psychopathology, vampires and fallen angels and a slicing-dicing serial killer: the world and her understanding of it had spun one-eighty degrees in a few days time. The only thing she was certain of was her promise to the CCK’s victims, the slaughtered dead—a voice and justice.

And her promise to Dante? Pain clenched around her heart again. She still felt him against her, inside of her, remembered the feel of him, hard muscle and hot skin, saw herself reflected in his dark eyes.

It’s still quiet. Stay here
, chérie.

I won’t walk away from you
.

Promises were made to be kept, not broken. She’d believed that as a kid and she believed it now. Nothing had changed. She’d do everything possible for Dante, keep him close and alive. And if the file proved Stearns right? If Dante was a voice needing to be silenced?

Was it even that simple anymore? She’d stepped into a world colored in shades of gray—a twilight world more layered and complex than she’d ever imagined.

You’ll see him for the monster he is
.

She knew that was a statement she’d have to examine and soon. But first, she had a pair of monsters—one nightkind, the other mortal—that she needed to stop before they killed someone else, someone Dante loved.

Highlighting one of Collins’s missed calls, Heather hit send. He answered on the first ring. “Wallace, where the hell have you been?” Strain edged his words.

“Tied up. Look, I’m sorry. I know I should’ve gotten back to you—”

“We need to talk. In person. All kinds of shit’s coming down.”

Apprehension curled around Heather’s guts. “What kinda shit?”

“In person. Didn’t you say there were two bodies at that slaughterhouse?”

“Yeah.”

“We only found one. The kid in the straitjacket.”

Heather went still. She’d watched Étienne burn. “Can you pick me up?” she said. She gave Collins the address.

“ ’Kay.” He paused, then asked, “Is this Prejean’s address?”

“When will you get here?”

“Twenty, thirty minutes.”

“See ya then.”

How could Étienne’s body be
gone
? Unless nightkind had auto-recall in case of death, it meant someone had come for his remains or he’d walked away. Either proposition was unpleasant.

Heather pulled her .38 out of the trenchcoat’s pocket and, despite the fact that she’d reloaded it last night, checked to be sure the clip was still in place. It was. She didn’t know who’d emptied it before—Jordan, probably, after he’d awakened on the sofa.

Slipping on her trenchcoat, Heather slid the .38 back into the pocket. She slung her purse over her shoulder and, after a moment’s hesitation, dropped Stearns’s keys into her purse. She picked up the briefcase and walked into the front room.

“Anything you wish me to tell Dante?” a deep voice said.

Startled, Heather whirled. De Noir sat in the easy chair, back straight, eyes closed, his body language alert and attentive. The X-rune pendant gleamed at his throat.

“I thought everyone was asleep.”

“And so they are,” De Noir said, opening his eyes. His gaze shifted to the briefcase, then back to her face.

“I left a message for him,” Heather said. “Can you keep him here?”

Gold glinted in the depths of De Noir’s black eyes. “As I said before, Dante does as he wishes.”

“Then ask him to wait for me.”

“Patience is not his strong suit, but I’ll ask.”

“I appreciate it.”

Heather crossed to the door, pulled it open and stepped outside into afternoon sunshine, the briefcase in her hand a black-barred shadow across her thoughts.

***

E STOWED THE LAST of his gear into the new van, tucking his satchel o’ tricks beside the narrow air bed installed in the back. Humming, he knelt and made the bed, smoothing a long section of plastic over the sheets.
Should keep the worst of the blood off the sheets
. He folded the blankets at the foot of the bed. One pillow or two? E opted for one and placed it at the head of the bed. Sitting on his heels, he glanced at the black-tinted, UV-protected windows. Totally groovy.
Hope Dante appreciates the effort. All for you, bro
.

E strode into the house, sliding the van’s keys into his jeans pocket. He closed the door and locked it. He walked through the curtained gloom, heart jittering, thoughts ping-ping-pinging through his skull. He grinned. He couldn’t help it.

Tom-Tom still slept, the day not yet dead. E paused outside the bloodsucker’s room. Golden light flared around his body, spiked the hall with his radiance. He touched the knob, twisted. Locked.

E’s grin widened. Could it be that Tommy-boy was afraid? Of a god seeking retribution for the desecration of his altar?

That stocking was fucking mine
.

Locked door. No problem. A god was always prepared. E tugged his lock-picking kit from his back pocket and opened it. Selecting a bobby pin, he inserted it into the knob’s hole and pushed. The push-in button on the opposite side of the knob popped out. E’s grin widened. Returning the bobby pin to the kit, he zipped it shut and tucked it into his back pocket.

E turned the knob, then stepped into the bloodsucker’s darkened bedroom. Golden tentacles of light whipped through the room, illuminating Tom-Tom stretched out on his bed, hands at his sides, eyes closed.

E dropped into a squat and peered under the bed. No pretty blond toy curled among the dust bunnies. All gone. Except for the dust bunnies. Sighing, he rose to his feet, walked to the closet, and opened the door. The cardboard boxes and zippered black bag were missing.

E’s heart thudded against his chest. Whirling, shivs sliding into his hands, he faced the bed. Tom-Tom slept, his position unchanged. E wiped at the sweat beading his forehead.

Motherfucker knows
.

E’s golden light ebbed to a dim glow. His fingers touched the Band-Aid on his neck.
He couldn’t track me. Of course he knows
.

E circled the bed, wondering where Tommy-boy’d hidden the goodies. He studied the bloodsucker’s snoozing form, his gaze stopping on the jeans. Keys. The Camaro. E bent over the bed and touched Ronin’s left front pocket. His fingers slid across denim. Empty. Walking around to the other side of the bed, E bent again, his fingers groping the right pocket.

Score! A hard shape took form beneath his fingers. E wriggled a couple of fingers into Tom-Tom’s pocket—
Don’t mind me. Oops. Is that
it?
Guess I shoulda called you Tiny Tom
.—snagged the keys, and pulled them free. Golden light once again flooded E’s veins as he straightened, keys in hand; he glowed, incandescent.

Time to say bye-bye.

A voice inside insisted—
No
!
Not yet
!
Make sure, first
—but E reminded it that a god didn’t need permission. Bending over Tom-Tom, he slashed a shiv across his throat.

The bloodsucker’s eyes opened.

***

HEATHER NEARLY CHOKED on the last bite of her Cajun-blackened burger. “Dead?” she managed to say after swallowing the spicy mouthful. “LaRousse?”

“And his partner, Davis,” Collins said. He looked worn and tired.

Heather and the detective sat at a picnic table set up beneath an aluminum awning beside a drive-up food place, the HERE ’N GO. They were alone, the other picnic tables empty. The aroma of hot grease and frying meat filled the air.

“What the hell happened?” Heather asked, dipping fries in ketchup.

Collins shook his head. “A fire—arson—at a tavern. There were three other bodies besides those of LaRousse and Davis.”

“I’m sorry, Trent. I didn’t like LaRousse, but the man didn’t deserve to die hard.”

A wry smile lit Collins’s face. “Yeah, he was an asshole, but
man
, did he clear cases. He was a good detective. And he was one of ours.”

“What do you know so far?”

“Not much,” Collins said, running a hand through his hair. “The question is, was it something simple, like a robbery that went outta whack, or was it planned?”

“People lose their tempers. People panic,” Heather said. “Shit spins out of control. Have the state cops checked employees and regulars?”

“See who didn’t burn last night and why?”

She nodded. “Was LaRousse on or off duty?”

“On.” Collins paused a beat before continuing. “In fact, they’d been out to Prejean’s with an arrest warrant, but…” he shrugged. “Not home.”

Heather pushed the remains of her meal away, appetite lost. “Arrest warrant? What the hell for?”

Collins held up a placating hand. “To bring Prejean in for DNA samples. LaRousse still thought he was good for the girl’s murder.”

“Gina,” Heather said, voice level. “Her name was Gina Russo. LaRousse knew Dante had nothing to do with her death; I’d already vouched for him.”

“I don’t know what LaRousse’s beef with Prejean was,” Collins said. “I’m just laying out the facts.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“There’s more,” Collins murmured. He wadded up his burger wrapper and tossed it into the dark-plastic-draped trash can behind the picnic tables. “There’s been another murder.” He glanced at Heather. “Bad.”

The detective’s haunted expression surprised her. She leaned across the picnic table and touched his hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just a long fucking day.”

Heather squeezed his hand, then released it. “So tell me, how bad?”

“Victim had been cut apart. The killer placed parts of him throughout the room.” Collins paused, swallowed. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Go on,” Heather said, voice soft. She tensed. Waited for the guillotine to drop.