Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (6 page)

H
ER NUDE BODY LAY
face-up on the rumpled bed, her hands cuffed to the bedposts, legs spread, a black stocking wrapped and knotted around her throat. Stab wounds punctured her breasts and stomach. Long dark hair partially veiled her face, which was turned toward the door. Blood and foam flecked her lips and her tongue protruded slightly. Mascara and eyeliner and dried tears streaked her face. Her half-lidded gaze seemed to stare straight at Heather.

Carved into each milky-white inner thigh was the anarchy symbol.

Blood dripped onto the carpet. Heather's gaze followed the blood up to the soaked sheets, then up blood-streaked forearms to the vertically slit wrists. Her vision narrowed down to the falling drops of blood.
Just died. Minutes? A half hour—tops?

On the wall behind the bed, a message had been scrawled in blood, the uneven, slanting letters smeared across most of the wall.

“Gina,” Dante whispered.

Heather looked at him sharply. “You
knew
her?”

Dante nodded, disbelief, shock, and something Heather couldn't quite name shadowing his face. He fumbled for the sunglasses on top of his head, slipped them on.

Shifting her .38 to her left hand, Heather retrieved her cell phone from her purse and thumbed in the number for the Eighth District. “Agent Wallace,” she said into the phone. “There's been a homicide at 666 St. Peter. Club Hell.”

Switching off the phone, Heather slid it back into her purse, her gaze fixed on the rain-damp curtains beside the open French windows.

Maybe the killer had left as they'd entered the club. Or—

Heather shoved Dante against the door frame. “Stay there.”

Or maybe he'd never had the chance.

.38 extended in both hands, Heather crossed the room, edging past the bed, to the French windows. Stepping out onto the balcony, she slid low and to the left, gun aimed at the opposite end of the rain-slick balcony. Empty. She leaned against the black iron railing, gun lowered.

She looked down into the street below. A few pre–Mardi Gras revelers staggered along the wet sidewalk. Laughter drifted up like smoke.

Wiping rain from her face, Heather closed her eyes for a moment. Two deaths in one location.
Another
broken pattern. The violence was escalating. Why now? And why here?

The sound of a car engine opened Heather's eyes. Two squad cars raced down the narrow street, followed by a blue-light blinking unmarked. All three screeched to a halt in front of the club. As the uniforms climbed out of the squad cars, Heather waved.

“Upstairs,” she called. “Door's open.”

Looking up, one of the cops waved back.

Heather pushed aside the curtains and stepped back into the room. Dante hadn't stayed put. He sat on the blood-soaked bed beside the girl's body, his leather jacket spread over the victim's
—Gina, he said her name was Gina—
body.

Heather couldn't see Dante's face; his attention was fixed on the victim's slashed wrists. His hands knotted into fists. The blood stench, the lingering echoes of violence and fear, the girl's stark, glazing stare; none of it frightened Dante. Most people wouldn't be able to stay in the same room with a friend's body, let alone sit beside it on a blood-soaked bed.

But Dante had put aside whatever he was feeling in order to cover her, to give her back some dignity.

“She's still warm,” he said.

Squatting beside the bed, Heather touched Dante's arm. “I know this is hard,” she said. “I
know
. But you have to remove the jacket. I need to secure the scene—”

Dante turned to look at her, his gaze hidden behind his shades. “He took everything from her,” he said, voice low and harsh. “The jacket stays.”

“I understand,” Heather said. Had anyone done the same for her mother? Or even
wanted
to? “And I wish I
could
leave it with her. But you might be destroying evidence.”

From the hall, she heard New Orleans's finest pounding their way up the stairs. Dante stood. Heather reached over and plucked his jacket from the body.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Dante took the jacket from her. “Y'know, I believe you are.”

Heather touched his elbow. “Let's talk out in the hall,” she said, voice level and, she hoped, soothing. “You can't be in here and I have some questions to ask.”

She wished he'd take off the shades. Unable to read his eyes, his expression was lost to her. But his tight jaw and tense, agitated body language spoke volumes. She didn't want to force him out of the room, but would, if necessary.

With a curt nod, Dante stepped out into the hall. He glanced down the hall toward the stairs. Breathing in relief, Heather followed.

“What questions?”

“When did you see Gina last?”

“Last night.”

Heather stared at Dante, feeling as though someone had just dumped a bucket of ice over her head. “Last night? You sure?”

Another broken pattern. The CCK—
if
it was the CCK—always kept his victims for several days. Intuition whispered,
It's him, all right
.

“Yeah, I'm sure,” Dante said. “We were even in this room.”

No coincidence.
Dante
was meant to find her. Heather glanced at the blood-smeared wall behind the bed. WAKE UP S. Last time, it had simply read Wake Up. What did the
S
stand for?

Could an obsession with Dante be the reason for the broken pattern? The messages meant for him? Lafayette. The cigarette-lighter-burned symbol on Daniel Spurrell's chest. The images of a hooded Dante wearing the anarchy symbol around his throat, then around his wrist. If he'd been meant to find the body…her pulse raced.

He's communicating. With Dante.

She was close to the killer. Closer than she'd ever been.

“Does ‘Wake Up S' mean anything—”

Heather turned as two uniformed officers rounded the corner from the landing. “Special Agent Wallace, FBI,” she said. “I'm reaching for my identification.” As she slid a hand into her purse, the first cop, flushed with excitement and adrenaline, zeroed in on Dante and dropped a hand to his holster.

“You!” he barked at Dante. “On the floor! Now!”

“Tell your partner to back off,” Heather said, displaying her badge to the second officer, a man older, thicker, and more certain than the one yapping like a terrier at Dante. “He's the club owner. He knows the victim.”

“Jefferson,” the cop sighed. “Enough. Leave off.” Shaking his head, he stopped in front of Heather. “Manning,” he said. Nodded toward his partner. “Rookie and still green as a gator's hind end.”

Heather smiled. “No kidding.”

She glanced at Dante. He stood at ease, pretending to ignore the now-silenced rookie. He even yawned. She wasn't fooled, however; she read the tension in his shoulders and noted the wound-up-ready-to-spring tautness of his muscles.

“Oh, Jesus.”

Heather looked over at Jefferson. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the bound body, the message on the wall, his mouth open as he sucked in the reek of blood and death and shit. Jefferson blanched. Swallowed hard.

“Don't puke in here, asshole.”

Two men stepped from the landing and into the hall. The speaker pushed past Jefferson and walked into the room. His low-voiced rebuke, rumpled suit, and easy, confident stride told Heather the newcomer was a detective, as was the man following him. Partners, no doubt. His bored gaze scanned the scene, his lids shuttering like a camera lens, capturing every detail, etching every shadow and blood trail into memory.

His partner nodded at Heather, an unlit cigarette between his lips, a camera in his hands. He stepped into the room, stopping just inside the door. The camera whined as he snapped shots of the scene.

Manning and his rookie partner stood at either side of the door, guarding the scene. Jefferson's complexion was greenish and he kept his gaze on the floor.

“You must be the fed Collins told me about,” the first detective said.

“That's right,” Heather said. She walked into the room, edging past the cameraman. “Special Agent Heather Wallace. And you are…?”

“LaRousse,” he said, turning to face Heather. “Homicide.” He tilted his head in the direction of his partner. “That's Davis, over there.”

“Hey,” Davis said, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. He slipped the camera strap around his neck. Reaching inside his jacket, he withdrew a notepad with a pen clipped to it. He began taking notes, his pen scratching across the pad.

LaRousse's gaze slid the length of Heather's body, his lids shuttering several times. “Collins never mentioned that you were a looker.” He winked. “Guess he was keeping that info to himself.” Smiling, he shook his head, brown hair falling over his eyes in an aw-shucks kind of way.

“Must be the professional in him,” Heather said, voice level. “Could be he's a little more interested in collaring bad guys than hooking up.”

LaRousse's smile vanished. He jerked a thumb in Dante's direction. “Is the rock god over there good for it?”

Heather glanced at Dante. He stood in the doorway, jacket hanging from one hand, his shaded gaze on her and LaRousse.
Could
he have killed the girl before De Noir had brought him home in the van? Could that be the reason De Noir had lied about his presence in the club?

She's still warm.

Blood dripping onto carpet.

The stunned look on his pale, pale face.

Too much time had passed between Dante's arrival at the plantation house and their return to the club. The windows had been left open. Cold air would've chilled the body; the blood would've congealed in the hours between. No, Gina'd been killed as Heather drove Dante into New Orleans.

Heather's gaze shifted to LaRousse and his wintry eyes. All his down-home friendliness had frozen over, his gaze pale-blue ice. “No,” she said. “But I
do
want a statement from him.”

Digging out a microrecorder from her purse, Heather clipped it to the collar of her trench. “Dante, why don't you wait downstairs? I want—”

“Let's go one better,” LaRousse interrupted, jabbing a finger at Dante. “Manning, run Prejean to headquarters. I think we can dig up a couple of old warrants.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Heather stared at LaRousse in disbelief.

“Criminal mischief. Vandalism,” LaRousse said, gaze fixed on Dante. A hard smile twisted his lips. “Spray paints that damned anarchy symbol everywhere.”

Dante dropped his jacket. It hit the carpet with a muffled jingle. “Nothing like having your priorities straight,” he said. His gloved hands curled into fists.

“Hold on a minute—” Heather began, but LaRousse nodded at Manning. The uniformed cop unhooked the cuffs from his belt and reached for Dante.

Dante
moved
.

At least, Heather had a glimpse of movement; then Manning flew across the room and slammed into the wall. His head cracked against the plaster, denting it. The handcuffs tumbled from his grasp. Expression pained, dazed, Manning pawed at his holstered pistol.

Dante stood in the doorway, one hand still lifted, body tensed.

“Freeze, motherfucker!” Jefferson screamed, swinging his pistol up.

Dante's shaded gaze locked on Jefferson. He lowered his hand, then knotted both into fists. His head ducked down just slightly. Heather'd seen enough street fights to know he was going to rush the rookie.

Stretching out a hand, Heather cried, “No! Wait!” Not sure if she spoke to Jefferson, Dante, or both.

She hurtled forward, but everything slowed down. Her vision narrowed into a long, dark tunnel ending in Jefferson's gun. His finger spasmed against the trigger. Pulled it back. Catching peripheral movement—Davis and LaRousse helping? hindering?—Heather lunged for the gun.

She knew the moment she did that she'd never make it.

Jefferson fired.

E
TOOK ANOTHER SIP
of whiskey, then set the chilled glass down on the nightstand beside the half-empty bottle of Canadian Hunter. Ice clinked. He stretched out on the bed, worrying his head and shoulders against the piled pillows until he'd made a comfortable hollow.

E crossed his ankles and picked up his bloodstained book of poetry,
Inside the Monster's Heart and Other Poems
by Juan Alejandro Navarro, and resumed reading. He read the same stanzas over and over without taking anything in. After a few more minutes of staring at the page without turning it, E slammed the book shut and tossed it onto the bed.