Beneath the Skin (6 page)

Where's my dad?

Von's fingers skipped over the purple and blue bruise stretched across the left side of Dante's rib cage. "Musta happened when the goddamned house exploded."

"Or during a seizure," Heather said, joining the nomad at the bed.

"Yeah, maybe." Von gently rolled Dante onto his side, his fingers sliding along the pale skin, flakes of dried blood falling onto the sheets from the healing spear puncture in his back. "Were they using him for target practice or something?" the nomad growled.

"The
or something
option," Heather replied. "Lyons's sister stabbed Dante when he was helping Annie escape."

"The sister Lyons wanted Dante to heal?"

Heather nodded. "Yeah, well, apparently she didn't feel the same way."

Von shook his head, his face grim. He eased Dante onto his back again, then unbuckled his belt. He glanced at Heather. Nodded at Dante's leather pants. "He got anything on under these, doll?"

"No."

Von snorted. "Why ain't I surprised? Well then, let's leave 'em on in case he has another seizure. The leather ain't all that wet and, hell, if it was me, I'd hope someone would safeguard my modesty if I was too unconscious to do it myself. If I had any modesty to safeguard, that is." He brushed damp tendrils of black hair from Dante's pale face. "Sleep tight, little brother," he said. He straightened, then swayed. "Whoa."

"You okay?" Heather asked.

"Yeah, doll. Just Sleep coming." Von looked her up and down, his green eyes Sleep-dilated. "What 'bout you? Boy was drumming you hard during that last seizure in the car. You should get your pants off," he said, yawning.

As Heather opened her mouth to protest, he held up a placating hand, palm out, while he finished his yawn--a jaw-stretching one that revealed his fangs, his molars, and even his tonsils. "That didn't come out quite right, doll. I meant so I could see how much damage Dante did to you."

Heather pushed her wet hair back from her face, struggling not to smile. "Just bruises, doofus, and I think I'll keep my pants on, thanks."

"Just what every man wants to hear."

The chains on Von's leather jacket jingled as he shrugged the jacket off, revealing the double shoulder holster strapped on over his black, button-down shirt and the butts of his Brownings tucked into them. He undressed quickly, stripping down to damp royal blue boxers.

Tattoos inked in blue Celtic designs--dragons, antlered hunters, and ravens among them--swirled up from beneath his shorts to just under his pecs, and flowed around his sides, twining up around his spine to his shoulders.

"Are those clan markings?" Heather asked, too tired to truly appreciate the tall, lean-muscled view the nomad presented.

"Yup, rites of passage--from when I was mortal." A smile flickered across his lips as he traced a finger along an intricate Celtic knot near his right hip. "My first ride as a clan scout."

The tight, defined muscles in Von's chest and shoulders rippled as he gathered up his wet clothing and draped it piece by piece over the foot of the bed to dry. He hung his jacket on the back of the desk chair.

Leaning against the waist-high dresser, his gaze skipped from Cortini to Heather. He smoothed his mustache with thumb and forefinger. "Since I figure y'all would come to blows over who'll get to sleep beside me, I'll make it easy on everyone and share the bed with Dante. I know you're disappointed, but, hey, I'm trying to be fair here."

"It's kind of you to spare the loser like that," Heather said, keeping a straight face. Kicking off her mud-caked Skechers, she sat on the bed beside Dante.

"Ouch, woman. I said 'get to' not 'hafta.' Just for that, I ain't gonna leave room for you to snuggle up and snooze beside your man."

"That's okay," Heather said. "Given my sister's concerns, I think having one bed for nightkind and one for mortals might be best." Best, maybe, but she yearned to curl up beside Dante, to hold him close while he Slept, fevered and lost to darkness, to whisper into his ear,
You're not alone. I'm here, waiting for you.

Von glanced at the closed bathroom door, the humor fading from his face. The sound of shower spray drumming against glass drowned out the whir of the fan. "Anything I should know?" he asked.

"No," Heather replied. "She was tossed into the deep end of the pool, but I've got ahold of her. She'll be fine."

Von searched her eyes and she knew what he was thinking: in which direction was the bipolar carousel horse Annie rode headed? Up or down?

Heather sighed and shook her head.

"I hear ya, doll."

Von tugged the elastic tie free from his wet hair, then slipped it around his wrist for safekeeping. He finger-combed his wet shoulder-length hair--hair that would be a deep, glossy brown when dry--smoothing it back from his face. A vertical line creased his forehead between his eyebrows, his
thinking-deep
line.

"Got a question for you, Cortini," he said, gripping the edge of the dresser behind him. The muscles in his arms corded.

Cortini slid from her perch on the easy chair and stood beside it. She met Heather's gaze for a moment before settling her attention on Von.

"A sniper outside the house shot the shades right off my face." Von touched one of the small, rapidly healing cuts peppering his face. "Whatcha know about that? One-a your guys?"

Surprise flickered across Cortini's face. "No. My handlers only sent me."

"Great." Von sighed. "So we've got other players on the field."

"The shooter must've set up after I arrived," Heather said. "Or maybe he was just waiting to take down whoever came out of the house."

"He was hell-bent on keeping me from going in," Von said, "so I'm betting he didn't set up until after you arrived, doll. I'm also betting he followed you."

"I agree," Cortini said. "The SB instructed the Bureau to drop their surveillance on you and Dante Baptiste. Someone disobeyed orders," she said. "And I think I know who."

"Do you think it was ADIC Rutgers?" Heather asked. FBI Assistant Director in Charge Monica Rutgers had offered her a choice just a few days ago: accept a promotion and become a marionette for the FBI or have her career and reputation shredded.

Words whispered through Heather's memory, a warning from Stearns, her late supervisor and mentor, just a few weeks before in New Orleans, a day before he died:

You've been marked for termination. Me too.

How high up does this go?

I think it's best to behave as though it goes to the top.

"Yes," Cortini confirmed.

Well, she couldn't claim to be surprised. Heather closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Weariness siphoned her strength; she was running on empty.

"I can understand Rutgers disobeying orders by keeping the surveillance going," Cortini said, her brow furrowed. "But why would she jump from surveillance to murder? What am I missing here?"

An image flashed into Heather's mind of Dante standing in Rodriguez's living room, Brisia Rodriguez tucked behind him as he guarded her. Remembered her own words just hours earlier:
"That's not Chloe. She's long gone."

Dante sucks in a breath. Touches trembling fingers to his temple. More blood trickles from his nose. Heather takes a step closer. Lifts the trank gun and aims.

He lifts his burning gaze to Heather's and the desolation she glimpses in the dark depths of his eyes breaks her heart. His muscles flex. "Run," he whispers.

"Dante's programming was triggered," Heather said quietly. She lowered her hand to her side and opened her eyes. "Lyons used him to kill an FBI agent."

Move away from me,
cherie.
Get outta reach.

"Holy fucking hell," Von breathed. His gaze lit on Dante's pale face. "Mother
fuckers."

"He gave himself for Annie," Heather said, voice low, "knowing they were going to use him. He didn't even hesitate."

A smile ghosted across Von's lips. "He wouldn't."

"What happened to the sniper outside the house?" Cortini asked. "Did you kill him?"

Von shook his head. "Nah. I put a bullet in his leg to keep him from going anywhere so we could question him later, but between the house exploding and the frickin' Fallen popping out of the sky, I lost track of him."

"Probably long gone," Cortini agreed.

"Hell," Von muttered. "I suppose it's too much to hope the fucker bled to death. We're gonna hafta continue this later." He glanced at Heather, then nodded at Cortini. "Think you can work with her while I Sleep?"

"You tell me," Heather said.

Von crooked a finger. "C'mere, Cortini. Time for a little heart-to-heart."

Cortini padded across the carpet to where Von stood in front of the dresser, her footsteps almost nightkind-silent. And no wonder--she'd been raised by nightkind, a mortal in a household of vampires.

Von's words, spoken not even an hour ago in the pouring rain, curled through Heather's memory:
a child of the heart.
She couldn't help but wonder what that meant exactly, what it entailed, and what had happened to Cortini's mortal parents.

Cortini knelt on one knee in front of Von.
"Llygad,"
she said, bowing her head, her shoulder-length hair swinging forward to frame her elfin face in dark, rain-damp strands.

The fact that Von was wearing only his boxers made the scene a little surreal, but didn't lessen his rough dignity one bit. The crescent moon tattoo beneath his right eye glittered like moonlit frost.
Llygad.
Keeper of history. Poet warrior bard. Nomad. Nightkind.

Von was all of these things and much more. Heather remembered what he'd told her the night before ... the long, heartbreaking, furious night that had just ended.

We're the keepers of nightkind history, the impartial Eyes of truth.

"I need to take a look inside," Von said, tapping a finger against his own temple. "Wanna know if I need to shoot you or not so I can Sleep."

Heather stared at him, hoping he was kidding, but his face remained deadly serious. No hint of a smile tugged at his mustache-framed mouth.

"I understand,
llygad."
Cortini lifted her face, shook back her hair. Her gaze, steady and open, held Von's. "All my life, I've walked the tightrope between the mortal and vampire worlds," she said. "But that changed yesterday when I learned that a True Blood prince and Fallen Maker had been born. Then hidden and abused. Programmed." Cortini's body remained still, but Heather heard the edge in her voice, each hard word stropping that edge razor-sharp. "I'll guard Dante Baptiste, and all those he cares for, with my life."

Fire sparked in the green depths of Von's eyes. "We'll see, darlin'."

He leaned over and tipped Cortini's chin up with a finger. She drew in a deep breath, then closed her eyes. Von's gaze unfocused as he dipped into the assassin's mind.

Cortini's breath caught in her throat. She swayed as though dizzy. Shivered. After a few moments, she touched fingertips to her temple, and opened her eyes.

Von's gaze refocused and then he nodded. "C'mere," he said to Cortini. She rose to her feet in a single, graceful motion and followed him to the bed Heather sat on beside Dante's Sleeping form. Von pulled one of the Brownings free of the double holster slung over the bedpost.

Heather's heart kicked hard against her ribs. She couldn't just let him execute Cortini. "Wait, she's got info on--"

Von handed the gun to Cortini. He glanced at Heather, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Ain't gonna shoot her." His gaze flicked back to Cortini. "Not yet, anyway," he drawled.

He pulled the Browning's twin from the holster and handed it to Heather. "Extra ammo's in my jacket pocket. But I'm hoping to hell you ain't gonna need it."

"Me too." The pistol's weight felt good in Heather's hand and a bit more of the tension uncoiled from her muscles. She checked to make sure the safety was on. She missed her Colt, and mourned its loss along with the purse and cell phone Lyons had stripped from her.

Cortini tucked the pistol into the back of her black jeans, snugged it against the small of her back. "An honor,
llygad."

"Name's Von, darlin'."

Von's gaze shifted to Dante's Sleeping form. His brows slanted together. "I sure as hell wasn't expecting him to have another seizure after we spiked him fulla morphine. That worries me, doll."

Heather shivered, her wet clothes clinging to her skin, cooling the hot ache in her battered thighs. But more than wet clothes chilled her. She remembered what Dante had said, words whispered and broken, just as the morphine took him the first time.

Her name was Chloe. She was my princess. And I killed her.

"He's remembering things," Heather said, fighting to keep her voice level. "Lyons and his sister kept showing him images from Bad Seed, kept trying to shove his past down his throat and he was having seizures over and--"

A creak of bedsprings, a whiff of motor oil and frost, then warm hands cupped her face. Callused thumbs wiped away the tears from her cheeks, tears she hadn't even known were there. "Hey, hey, hey," Von murmured.

Heather bit down on the underside of her lip to keep from bawling like a baby. She was too drained, too exhausted, to feel embarrassed.

"We'll get him through this, doll, whatever it takes." Von's voice, low and rough with emotion and thick with coming Sleep, brushed against her aching heart like fingers against her cheek. "We ain't gonna lose him to those fuckers."

"He never stopped fighting," Heather said.

"And he ain't gonna quit now." Von released her face to wrap her hands up in his. "You know why?"

"Because he's pigheaded?"

"Like a goddamned mule."

Heather felt a smile tug at her lips. "A pig-headed mule?"

"Thanks for that mental image, doll." Von smiled, squeezed her hands once, then released them.

"How is Lucien's death going to affect him?" Heather asked. "To have that dumped on top of everything else ..."

"Not good." Von rubbed his face with his hands. "I still can't believe Lucien's dead. I don't know how the severed bond's gonna affect Dante. If it was gonna kill him, I think it woulda done so the moment it was cut."