Etched in Bone (45 page)

They would know soon, one way or another.

She ran into Von in the hallway outside their rooms. The nomad was buttoning on a deep green shirt over his wife-beater as he strode toward the landing, his nut-brown hair hanging in loose, shining waves to his shoulders.

“Hey, doll,” he said, slowing to a stop. “I was just on my way down to post the club as closed tonight.”

“What the hell happened?” she asked, nodding toward the bedroom.

“Dante lost it. Me and Lucien sat on him until he wore himself out. Let him vent.”

Heather’s heart gave a hard thump. “Is he okay?”

Von raked a hand through his hair and looked toward the closed bedroom door, and his hesitation scared Heather more than anything he could say. “Von?” she urged.

“No. I think he’s pretty far from okay,” the nomad said finally. “But he’s hanging in there. The thing with Trey . . .” He shook his head, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I ain’t none too happy about that.”

Heather stiffened. “That wasn’t Dante’s fault,” she protested. “Trey ran—”

“Yeah, doll, it
was
Dante’s fault,” Von interrupted gently. His eyes met hers. “He went out there knowing he didn’t have control of his power or his past. He could’ve—
should’ve
—stayed behind.”

“I don’t remember you advising him of that after his seizure,” Heather said, her nails biting into the palms of her hands. “No, I’m pretty damned sure I never heard your voice saying anything of the sort.”

“I didn’t,” Von agreed. “I fucked up bigtime. I was worried about catching up with Trey, so, yeah, what happened is my fault too. But when I said I was none too happy about that—I was referring to Trey, doll. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew what it would cost Dante too. And he fucking did it anyway.”

“My thought exactly.” Heather’s fingers uncurled from her palms. She drew in a deep breath and smelled wax from the candles burning in the hallway’s gargoyle sconces. “Sorry, I should’ve let you finish.”

“Duh, woman. Duh.”

Heather quickly filled Von in on her conversation with Goodnight and Thibodaux, and Cortini, and their arrangement for the following night. When the nomad agreed to the double mind scan, Heather stepped past him, heading for the bedroom.

A hand latched around her upper arm. “Wait.”

Heather stopped and Von’s hand slid away. She half-swiveled to look at him. Candle light glittered along the crescent moon tattoo underneath his eye. Shadows flickered across his face.

“Dante’s out in the courtyard with his guitar,” he said. “He kinda rock-star trashed the bedroom and Lucien banished him while he cleans the mess up.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, darlin’,” Von began, then paused, trailing a hand through his hair and dropping his gaze to the carpet as though searching for words.

Heather’s pulse slipped into high gear as she stared at Von, his uncharacteristic hesitation once again scaring her more than anything she could imagine him saying.

“Just spit it out,” she said. “Whatever it is.”

Von looked at her, distress in his glowing candle-lit eyes. “You’re a part of him, Heather,” he said. “Whatever happens, don’t let that mule-headed sonuvabitch shove you aside.”

So that was it. Goddamned Trey. More fallout from his decision.

Annie’s words replayed through Heather’s memory:
Dante’s gonna hurt you, Heather. Not because he wants to, but because he can’t fucking help it.

She had a feeling Dante now harbored the same belief. And she found herself wondering if her sister had shared those words with him too, and wishing Annie hadn’t—no matter how true they might be.

Heather exhaled in frustration. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” she replied. “But if he thinks he’s going to play the noble I-must-send-you-away-to-save-you card, he’s dead wrong—especially if he thinks I’m going to meekly comply.”

Von blinked. A slow smile played along his mustache-framed lips. “I doubt Dante expects meek, doll—not where you’re concerned.”

“Christ. I would hope not.”

Heather turned and marched down the hall to the opened French windows at its end, and stepped onto the fire escape landing beyond its breeze-fluttered curtains. She climbed down the black iron steps to the courtyard, following the furious, heartbreaking sound of Dante’s guitar.

Dante sat on a wrought-iron bench underneath a flowering dogwood tree wearing jeans and collar and nothing else, his guitar nestled against his thighs, his hands blurring across the strings. The music blazing out from beneath his fingers scorched the night.

Moonlight glinted from the black wing of hair falling across his pale face, glinted from his rings, shimmered against his milk-white skin—a part of him.

She could almost imagine Von saying:
He
is
the night
.

Heather side-stepped a fallen planter, dirt and yellow rose petals spilling across the courtyard stones, and sat beside him, heart aching, throat tight as she listened to his wordless song of loss and rage.

He was grieving, his song a violent, defiant prayer.

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

And the only god listening was himself.

After her trip to Gehenna, Heather was beginning to believe that Dante might be, as a Maker, an actual god—or damn near. Did that possibility scare her? Hell, yes. Would it chase her away? Hell, no.

When Dante’s black-painted fingernails strummed the last chord, Heather leaned forward, cupped his fevered face between her hands, and kissed him thoroughly. A kiss he returned, deep and tender, leaving behind the taste of copper and pomegranates, of blood.

“I’m not leaving you,” she whispered against his lips, breathing in his smoky autumn scent. “You can’t make me. It’s my choice and I refuse to let you take it from me. You don’t have the right.”

“Too dangerous,
catin
. Ain’t risking you.”

“That’s my decision, not yours. I choose you, Baptiste, and everything that comes with you.”

“Can’t let you do that.”

“Dammit! It’s not
up
to you. If I want to stand beside you completely aware of the danger, you have no right to deny me.”

“Fuck, Heather.” Dante breathed out in exasperation. He shifted, his warm lips sliding away from hers. Heather felt the guitar disappear from between them, then heard a slight thump as Dante rested it against the flagstones. He straightened, his dark and dilated gaze meeting hers, fire smoldering in his eyes.

Heather returned his glare. “I’m standing beside you—like it or not. And I ‘ain’t asking permission.’ “

“So I don’t get a say in this?” he growled, jumping to his bare feet.

“No.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive, dammit! And just as you are. Why the fuck you fighting me on this?”

“Because you’re worth fighting for!” Heather stood, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “I’m willing to take my chances, Baptiste—with you.”

“You’re worth fighting for too,
catin
, don’t you get it? I would burn the world to fucking ash for you.” Dante looked away. Swallowed hard. His hands flexed into fists. “If I ever hurt you. If I ever
killed
—”

“You won’t. I trust you.”

“Don’t.” Dante’s head whipped around and a dark, desperate fury simmered in his eyes. “Don’t you
dare
fucking trust me. Simone trusted me, so did Trey, and Gina and Jay. So did Chloe. And they’re all dead.”

Heather took a half pace forward and pressed her fingers against his lips, silencing him. “No,” she said. “That’s not going to happen. It’s not. The Fallen are going to teach you how to control your power. And you and me, we’re going to work on piecing together your broken past, so you can stay in the here-and-now.”

Dante shook his head, a denial forming on his lips, so Heather touched her other hand to his chest, resting her palm against the fever-hot skin above his heart.

“This is why,” she said softly. “Your heart won me,
cher
. Won me completely. So I’m not taking no for an answer. Got that?”

“Pigheaded woman,” Dante murmured, kissing her fingers.
“T’es sûr de sa?”

“Pigheaded man,” Heather replied, removing her hand and kissing his lips. “And yes, I’m sure.”

Dante wrapped her up in his arms and carried her down to the courtyard’s stone floor. He stole her breath away with hot kisses and hungry hands and his hard body.

After the first time they made love among the dirt and rose petals and cool stone, Heather curled a lock of Dante’s silky hair behind his hoop-rimmed ear, then whispered into it, telling him about Merri Goodnight and Emmett Thibodaux and the gift they planned to give him the next night.

And shared in the buoyant hope she felt rising in his heart.

46
WILD CARD

N
EW
O
RLEANS
C
LUB
H
ELL
March 30

J
AMES
W
ALLACE WATCHED AS
Stevenson, black ski mask bunched on top of his head, bent and went to work on the lock on the club’s green-shuttered door. The man was a pro, less than sixty seconds—his skill learned during his stint in Special Forces.

Stevenson straightened and pocketed his picks. He glanced at James as he stepped back from the door. “It’s all yours.” He touched a finger to the com set curving against his jaw. “Barr’s confirmed that we successfully accessed the security company’s computers and switched off the alarm.”

James nodded. His leather gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers. “Wait here for my go-ahead,” he said.

“Will do.”

Easing the door open, James stepped inside. Fluorescent graffiti was scrawled on the hall’s black walls, and the air reeked of cigarettes and spilled beer. Neon buzzed at the entrance’s mouth, red light squiggling along the floor. A quick stroll down the dark hall, then he found himself standing beneath a sign commanding
BURN
.

* * *

“Y
OU WANT ANYTHING TO
eat?” Heather asked when Annie slid onto a bar stool. Her sister’s hair stuck out at all angles in blue/black/purple spikes, and shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Heather studied her, worried by her pallor.

Is her lack of color due to the pregnancy, or is Silver feeding on her?

“Sure,” Annie replied. “Do we have bagels? I’d murder and maim for a bagel and cream cheese.”

“You’re in luck. We happen to have both. No murdering or maiming required.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Annie muttered, rubbing her face.

“Lah-lah-lah. Can’t hear you saying potentially criminal things.”

Annie smoked a cigarette in moody silence, one finger twisting a lock of purple hair, while Heather prepared breakfast—toasting a bagel, scooping seeds out of a cantaloupe she’d halved, brewing coffee.

Once a plate holding a cream cheese–slathered bagel had been parked in front of her, she stubbed out her cigarette and said, “I don’t know whether Dante has said anything or not, but it looks like I’m pregnant. Knocked up. With child. Expecting.”

“I’m familiar with the word
pregnant
, but thanks for all the synonyms,” Heather said, a smile curving her lips. “He’d mentioned that he suspected it, and I knew he’d picked up a pregnancy test kit for you, but he left it for you to tell me.” She leaned her hip against the counter. “So how are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” Annie admitted quietly. “It seems unreal—except for all the puking.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how I feel.”

“We need to get you to a doctor. Verify the results and go over your options if you really are pregnant.” Heather finished her raspberry jam and toast and carried her plate over to the sink. “You don’t need to make any decisions now.”

Turning on the faucet, Heather had just started rinsing her plate off when a voice sounded from the club entrance, a voice she hadn’t expected, not here and not now, a voice that, with two simple words, managed to ice her spine.

“Hey, Pumpkin.”

P
URCELL WAS HUNKERED ON
the fire escape in the jasmine and honeysuckle-perfumed courtyard behind Club Hell, preparing to break into the building through a pair of French windows, when the authoritative screech of brakes from out front propelled him back up the iron stairs and to the roof.

Crawling across the roof to the other side of the building, Purcell peered down into the sunlit, lightly trafficked street and saw two white vans with NOPD decals on the sides parked at law enforcement angles in front of the club.

But the scene felt hinky to Purcell. For one thing, the license plates weren’t government issue and the NOPD lettering on the vans seemed cheap and hasty.

A man wearing glasses and a tan trench coat climbed out of one and strode for the club’s green-shuttered front door, a guy in a black uniform hot on his heels. After the door’s lock had been picked—not standard law enforcement procedure, a battering ram was more likely—Tan Trench Coat had gone inside the club alone, his squad of black-uniformed goons/agents/mercs waiting near the door for his summons.

Before Tan Trench Coat disappeared from view, Purcell realized he’d seen the man’s face before—in Heather Wallace’s file—and recognized him as her father, FBI agent James Wallace.

Of all the things Purcell had envisioned possibly going wrong with the grab, of all the scenarios he’d played out in his head—someone walks in unexpectedly, S wakes from Sleep or worse, is
waiting
for him, a smile on his lips—he’d never imagined Wallace’s displeased father showing up and beating him to the punch and dragging his wayward daughter home.

If, indeed, that was what James Wallace had come to do. But considering the armed goons and the vehicles, Purcell felt pretty damned confident that was exactly why the fed was in New Orleans and inside Club Hell.

Talk about a goddamned wild card.

Pulling his cell phone free from his trousers pocket, Purcell punched in Díon’s number and, once the interrogator had answered, filled him in on the glitch in their plans.