Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (17 page)

D
ANTE OPENED HIS EYES
. Candlelight flickered white and gold on the ceiling. Shadows shimmied. He smelled vanilla-scented wax and tasted blood at the back of his throat. His head throbbed, but the pain was distant as though numbed by morphine or eased by Lucien's cool hands.

It hurt to swallow. The blood he tasted was his own. Another headache? Another nosebleed? What
night
was it? He tried to think back, to remember what he'd been doing before Sleep, but hit a big blank wall.

Sudden vivid images swirled through his thoughts—a wasp, chains dangling from a meat hook, a bloodied baseball bat—morphing his consciousness into waking nightmare.

Barbed-wire thorns bit. Wasps droned. Dante shook his head. He felt Trey nudging gently at his shields. Sucking in a deep breath, Dante let him in.

<
A message for you on club e-mail.
>

<
Oui.
>

<
“I know where your pretty plaything's been stashed. He's alive and mostly well. Play nice and he'll stay that way. I'll leave word for you
at the club.” Traced the message back to a net café. Blind credit. Dead end.
>

Pulse racing, Dante sat up. Blood pounded in his temples.

“Agent Wallace phoned while you were Sleeping,” Lucien said, stepping into the room. “The killer is
not
dead and she advised you to stay home.”

“So, she was right,” Dante said. “But I ain't staying. I got a promise to keep.”

<
You trust this information?
>

“Fuck, no. But it's all I got right now.” Dante threw aside the sheets and stood.

I'm coming for you, Jay. Keep breathing. Keep fighting.

H
EATHER SUCKED IN A
deep breath of Hell's patchouli-, clove-, and sweat-reeking air and plunged into the crowd. As she weaved and pushed between hot and sweaty bodies, she kept her gaze on Dante.

He sat on the edge of his bat-winged throne, muscles tensed, body coiled. He wore leather pants and a metal-strapped latex shirt. Light flashed from the rings on his fingers and from the ring on his bondage collar. A black-haired Goth princess nestled against his leg, her fishnet-covered arms wrapped around his calf, a smile on her bloodred lips.

Dante's fingers stroked the Goth chick's hair, the gesture absentminded but gentle, his dark gaze on Heather. His pale face revealed nothing. No hint of welcome. Just watchful.

Music battered and rib-kicked the moshing crowd. The heavy bass beat vibrated the walls and mist-shrouded floor, the sound like a defibrillator to the heart.

Not bad
. Heather thought, raising a forearm to fend off a crowd surfer.
Reminds me of Annie's old band.
Hands shoved and bounced the surfer off to Heather's left. She lowered her arm. She'd half turned to shoulder in when she realized someone had stepped directly in front of her, blocking her path. Frowning, hands knotting into fists, Heather looked up—and her heart skipped a beat.

“You know how to handle yourself,” Dante said. A half smile tilted his lips.

“Yeah, well, my sister used to front a band,” Heather shouted. Looking at him now, she saw welcome in his dark eyes, and some of her tension unraveled.

“Which band?”

“WMD.”

A circle cleared around them as the crowd suddenly realized who stood among them. Hunger of all kinds dilated their eyes. Voices whispered. Trembling fingers reached. Heather's gaze jumped from one person to the next, wondering if a killer moshed among them. She jerked when a hand gripped her shoulder. Dante leaned in, his lips beside her ear.

“You don't need to shout,” he whispered. “I can hear you fine. And WMD were among the fucking best.” He straightened, his fingers lingering on her shoulder for a moment.

“They were.” Heather held Dante's gaze, only half-aware of the whispers buzzing and droning around them like flies.

A thin young man in dreads and camo shoved an Inferno CD—the new one,
Deliberately Set
—and a Sharpie at Dante.

“Dudeifyoucouldit'dbetotallyawesome,” he blurted, eyes wide.

Dante handed the signed CD and the Sharpie back to Camoboy.

He blinked. “Uh…thanks.”

Heather hadn't seen Dante take the CD and sign it either. She'd caught a blur of movement, his hands, maybe, but nothing else. Dante glanced at her. Held out his hand. She took it, wrapping her fingers around his warm palm.

Dante led her through the crowd. A path opened before them and Dante's name rippled through the moshers, every murmur another tossed stone. Yearning glances followed him. Fingers brushed against him. Pleading. One honey-haired young man in an old-fashioned frock coat was bold enough to step in front of Dante. He closed his kohl-lined eyes, spread his arms wide, and offered up his lips.

Dante stopped, surprising Heather. Still holding her hand, he stepped forward until he was face-to-face with the young man, until just a breath of air separated their bodies, and kissed the offered lips.

A pining sigh gusted through the watchers. Heather stepped beside Dante, scanning each sweating, painted face near him. A few wept, tears black with eyeliner and mascara streaking their faces.

They adore him. Utterly. Is it his looks? Who he is?

Or what he's
supposed
to be?

The kiss ended. The honey-haired young man staggered back, then bowed, sweeping one arm across his waist while extending one leg. An elegant gesture unmarred by his trembling hands.

“Merci beaucoup, mon ange de sang.”
He glanced up, face flushed, dazed. “You honor me.”

“Pour quoi? Sa fini pas.”

Heather heard strain in Dante's voice.
He hasn't had time to grieve
, she thought.
So much has happened in the last couple of days.

Still bowing, the young man stepped out of Dante's path. The sighs and murmurs intensified. Dante resumed walking, his fingers locked around Heather's hand. The path merged behind him and disappeared. When they reached the steps to the dais, Dante squeezed Heather's hand, then released it.

She followed him up the steps, past the Goth lords and Goth princesses curled on the steps like contented cats. The black-haired lap kitty who'd been snugged against Dante's leg earlier perched on the edge of the dais, her hungry gaze fixed on his face. Behind the throne, De Noir stood in a crimson shirt, the X-rune pendant glittering at his throat, his face impassive.

Dante knelt on one knee beside the waiting Goth chick. Skimming his fingers along her jaw, he bent and spoke into her ear.

Heather noticed how black Dante's hair was in the club's low lights, black as the deepest part of night; natural and glossy—not flat like the dyed hair of the girl listening to his whispered words.

The Goth princess lowered her eyes; her lower lip quivered. Dante tipped her face up and kissed her. She laced her arms around his waist.

Most people shake hands. Dante kisses. Could get
real
interesting at a company picnic
. Heather folded her arms over her chest.

When the kiss ended, the fishnet queen reluctantly released Dante, her hands sliding over his hips as she did. Smiling, she smoothed her thumbs over his lips, wiping away the lipstick. She glared at Heather as she scooted down a step, her disdainful gaze sweeping her from head to toe.

Heather smiled and stepped past her.

Dante sat cross-legged on the dais in front of the throne, motioning for Heather to do the same. She did, slipping her purse strap over her head and around her opposite shoulder so she didn't have to worry about it disappearing.

Music pounded and throbbed. It pulsed up Heather's spine and into the back of her skull. Someone in the Cage howled in pain. Feedback squealed through the amps. Heather winced. Her gaze flicked to the fetish-hung Cage. The band kicked and pried at the hands clutching the downed front man. Fingers waved in the air, blood-streaked, holding aloft torn pieces of material and long strands of red hair.

Finally the band freed their front man, who scooped up the mike, rolled to his feet, and resumed singing, blood trickling down his face.

“Dark Cloud 9 from Portland,” Dante said, leaning forward to speak into her ear.

“He isn't dead,” she said.

“Lucien told me. You were right. Whatcha gonna do now?”

“Guard you.”

An amused smile quirked up the corners of Dante's mouth.

“Oh, you don't think you need it? Mister Indestructible Vampire?”

“I never said I was indestructible.”

“You must believe it, though,” Heather said, locking gazes with him. “You didn't stay home. What the hell are you doing here?”

Dante's smile faded. “I have a promise to keep.”

“A promise? How about promising to play it safe?”

“Fuck, Heather,” Dante muttered. “I never promised you anything. But I
did
promise Jay I'd protect him and I mean to do it.”

“Jay's dead, Dante, it's too late,” Heather said, touching his knee.

“No, he's not. The body they fished outta the river wasn't his. I checked.” Fire gleamed in Dante's dark eyes. “I got a message tonight. Someone knows where Jay's stashed. Said they'd leave word for me here. I'm waiting.”

Heather stared at him, speechless. What had Dante said last night? Bait the hook? But there was a difference between that and tossing the bait into the shark's jaws. And wasn't it interesting that the message wasn't sent until
after
she'd left New Orleans?

“The only one who could
possibly
know where—”

Dante held up a hand and glanced across the bobbing crowd toward the entrance. Heather fell silent. Following Dante's gaze, she looked across the room.

“Peeping Tom's here,” Dante said. He uncoiled and stood, the sudden movement graceful and fluid. “And he wants a moment of my time.”

Heather eased to her feet, apprehension curling in her belly. The moshing crowd parted like an amoeba as two figures strode from the entryway onto the dance floor. Von led the way in loose, long-legged strides, fight-scarred hands at his sides. His leather jacket bulged slightly, and she realized he wore a double shoulder holster underneath.

Her gaze skipped behind Von to the man following in his wake. Thomas Ronin. She'd seen pictures of him online and on book jackets, but this was the first time she'd seen him in the flesh. She'd expected a striking man—tall, athletic stride, skin just a shade lighter than night under the house lights, short-cropped hair, trimmed beard—but she hadn't expected his
presence
. Even from across the room, he commanded attention, drew the eye.

The journalist's gaze flickered over Heather. Surprise flashed across his face. Surprise and recognition.
He knows who I am
, she thought.
And he didn't expect me to be here.
She nodded. A tight smile skimmed Ronin's lips, then vanished.

Von climbed the steps to the dais. He paused in front of Dante. The crescent moon tattoo under the nomad's eye seemed to vibrate beneath the dim lights.

“C'est bon,”
Dante said.
“Gètte le.”

With a quick nod, Von stepped past Dante, then stood at his right hand, but at a slight angle as though he needed to watch everyone.

Ronin stepped onto the dais. Turning, he half bowed to Von. “An honor to be escorted by you,
llygad
.”

Von didn't react to the journalist's words. He stood motionless, legs apart, hands at his sides.

Apparently, Ronin hadn't expected a reply, because he turned to face Dante without waiting for one. His gaze slid past Dante to De Noir standing behind the throne, then back.

“I'm surprised to see you still here, Agent Wallace,” Ronin said, voice smooth.

“And why is that?”

Ronin shrugged. “I read in the paper that the CCK had been nailed in Pensacola. The Bureau and local authorities say the case is closed.”

“So why aren't
you
in Pensacola following up like a good journalist?” Heather thumped her hand against her temple. “Oh. I forgot. You're
not
a good journalist.”

Ronin smiled, arched an eyebrow, and said, “Ouch.”

“You got your moment, Peeping Tom,” Dante said.

“Tell me if this means anything or if it's just bullshit.” Ronin reached a hand into the inside pocket of his denim jacket.