A Rush of Wings

12 An Unremembered Past « ^ »

DANTE IN HIS ARMS, De Noir walked with innate grace across the darkened bedroom, stepping around and over the CD cases, clothes and books cluttering the floor. The bed, a futon, was unmade and rumpled, the bedding and sheets all black—or maybe dark blue, Heather thought, following De Noir into the room.

He knelt beside the bed and eased Dante onto the sheets, then tipped Dante’s head back against the pillows and wiped at the blood trickling from his nose with a dish towel he’d scooped up in the kitchen. Moonlight softened De Noir’s angular features, changed his grim expression to one of sorrow.

Heather tilted her head, studying De Noir as he tended to Dante, watched his large hand skim delicately against Dante’s hair, brushing it back from his face. What was it between them?

“Is he going to be all right?” she asked. “Does he have medication for his headaches? A doctor?”

“All he needs is rest,” De Noir said.

“Didcha ask him about his past?” a voice said from the doorway. “That’s usually when he gets ‘em real bad like this.”

Heather glanced over at Silver. He leaned in the doorway, one foot braced on the threshold behind him, his silver eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

“I only asked a few basic questions,” Heather said.

“Dante was raised by the State of Louisiana, Agent Wallace,” De Noir murmured. He held out the bloodied dish towel.

“Yeah, yeah,” Silver muttered. Uncoiling from the doorway, he slouched into the room and took the dish towel. Then he was gone.

Heather blinked, startled. Superhuman speed seemed to be a common thing in this household. Taking a deep breath, she refocused on De Noir.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “He was raised in a foster home by the Prejeans.”

Lucien shook his head. “That was only the last one. He was shuffled from foster home to foster home for years.”

Heather went still. De Noir had just given her information that hadn’t been in Dante’s file. Why had only the last foster home been listed?

“The past is something Dante does not remember well,” De Noir said quietly. “And perhaps it’s best that way.” He held out his hand.

A cool rush of air blew past Heather, fluttering her hair. Silver appeared in front of her and placed the dampened dish towel in De Noir’s waiting hand. With a quick, sharp-toothed grin, the boy disappeared again.

“Maybe he needs to remember,” Heather said. “Maybe that’s what causes the migraines.”

“No,” De Noir whispered. He daubed at the slowing trickle of blood beneath Dante’s nose with the damp towel. “No.”

A sudden pang of sympathy sliced through Heather’s weariness and she realized in that moment that De Noir loved Dante, and that it was regret that shadowed his face and roughened his voice.

Regret. For what? An unremembered past that needed to remain unremembered? No matter the cost?

“Dante told me he was a vampire,” she said.

De Noir closed his eyes. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Do you believe vampires exist, Agent Wallace?”

“No. But I’ve got a feeling Dante does.”

De Noir’s eyes opened. Gold light flecked his eyes. “Indeed,” he murmured. He unbuckled Dante’s boots, then tugged them off his feet. Each hit the floor with a dull thud.

“He thinks he’s invulnerable and that’s gonna get him killed,” Heather said, crossing to the futon.

De Noir said nothing. The hand at Dante’s temple trailed back through his tousled black hair, then away. De Noir unfolded from the floor and stood.

“I won’t let that happen,” De Noir said. He turned away from her.

She stared at him, stunned by his dismissive attitude. Stepping forward, she seized De Noir’s forearm. It felt hard and cool as marble beneath her fingers. But fire flared within her, tightening her muscles.

“There’s a man out there who wants…who’s looking forward to torturing him,” she said, voice low and hard. “Rape. Mutilate. Kill. It’s not a thing you can control. You don’t have a say in it.” She released his arm.

De Noir stood still for a long moment, tendrils of his long hair snaking into the air. Barely visible blue light sparked around his body. Heather’s skin tingled. The sharp smell of ozone cut through the air. Dante stirred on the futon, suddenly restless, pale face troubled. Silver straightened in the doorway, gleaming eyes wary.

Then, like a sudden clap of thunder or an implosion sucking all the air from the room, it was gone. No blue light. No snaky hair. Just a tall man standing motionless beside a bed. Étienne’s voice whispered through Heather’s memory: Fallen.

“I won’t let it happen,” De Noir said again. Bending, he pulled the blankets up over Dante, then sat on the futon’s edge. He touched a hand to Dante’s temple.

“Good night, Agent Wallace,” De Noir rumbled.

Heather stalked from the room, brushing past Silver, her body as tight as her fists. She’d told Dante she’d stick with him. She meant it. De Noir could cram his good night up his ass. She trotted down the stairs, one hand gliding along the polished wood banister.

When Heather walked into the front room, Simone looked up from the easy chair, a book in her lap. Jordan was still sprawled on the sofa, one hand dangling on the floor, his mouth slightly open.

“Thank you for keeping an eye on him,” Heather said.

Simone closed her book, then stood. “I’ve been looking for time to read,” she said with a shrug. “How’s Dante?”

Heather shook her head. “He’s out cold, but at least the nose-bleed stopped. De Noir seems to think all he needs is rest.”

“Ah,” Simone breathed. Concern tightened her face. “It’s not rest he needs,” she murmured. She walked toward the hall.

“How long have you known Dante?” Heather asked.

“Three, four years.”

“Are his headaches getting worse?”

Simone paused at the threshold. “Oüi. Why do you ask?” She glanced over her shoulder, her face watchful and closed.

“He needs help—”

“We will help him,” Simone said. “You can’t. He told you true, m’selle. He’s nightkind.” Simone walked from the room.

Sighing, Heather sank into the chair opposite the sofa and buried her face in her hands. They were all mad. Delusional.

Or they were all vampires. How would she even write that up on a report?

The subject refuses to submit to protective custody because he’s a vampire. When I informed the subject that serial killers are quite capable of pounding a stake through his heart, he laughed. “Bait the hook,” he said.

Heather’s hands dropped from her face. She stared at the floor, pulse racing. Bait the hook. Vampire or not—and she wasn’t ready to admit to anything but the possibility—would it work? After three years, could she lure the bastard in? Reel him in and net him? If it worked…

And if it didn’t work? If her perp wiggled through the net with Dante in his jaws? She rose to her feet and headed for the kitchen. She pushed the door open, then paused, her gaze on the brandy-and-blood spattered floor. Dante’s strained voice curled through her memory: Let him have me.

What if her bad guy believed Dante was a vampire?

Most of Inferno’s fan sites seemed to adhere to that belief. Interviewers asked and Dante walked away, the question unanswered.

Wake up. Wake up S.

What did he want Dante to wake up to? And what was S—the first letter of Dante’s true surname? Did he think it time Dante lived up to his vampiric reputation? Did he want the answer the interviewers never received?

Edging around the blood stains out of habit, Heather hurried to the table and her purse. She pulled out her cell phone. As she returned to the living room, she flipped the cell open. No bars. And her charger was at the hotel. Maybe someone here had a charger she could use—

Her gaze fell on the snoozing Jordan’s cell phone on the floor beside his wallet. Crossing to it, she bent and scooped the cell phone up. Four bars. She plopped back into the chair and tapped in Collins’s number.

Collins picked up on the second ring. “Collins,” he said, voice curt. “Who’s this?” Heather realized that his phone would’ve IDed the incoming call as Elroy Jordan.

“Collins, it’s Wallace. I had to borrow a phone.”

“Goddamn, Wallace,” he replied, relief evident in his voice. “I’ve been trying to reach you—”

“Listen,” Heather bulldozed right over the detective’s words, eager to share her discoveries. “I found Dante Prejean and I’m staying close to him in case our perp puts in an appearance.”

“But—”

“No, listen, did you go to Lafayette and talk to the Prejeans—get some history on Dante? Did the Prejeans and the Spurrells ever come into contact with each other?”

“Didn’t need to,” Collins said. “Our perp won’t be targeting anyone ever again.”

“What?” Heather sat up straight.

“I take it you haven’t talked to your supervisor,” Collins said. “The bastard was nailed in Pensacola.”

“Pensacola?” Heather repeated. “That’s impossible. He’s here. At least he was this morning when he murdered—”

“Traveling man, Wallace,” Collins said. “That’s why he was called the Cross-Country Killer, right?”

“Right, right. You said he’d been nailed. Do you mean as in dead?”

“Yeah. Another agent happened to catch him in the act.” Collins paused a moment, paper rustled in the background. “Victim didn’t make it, though.”

“Was there another message?”

More paper rustling. “No, but he never finished, ya know?”

Dead. And in Florida. How could she have been so wrong? Her thoughts spun—Lafayette, anarchy, Club Hell, Dante—all of the connections felt true.

“Are they positive it’s him? I mean, they wouldn’t have the all the lab work back yet and—”

“I’m flying to Pensacola in the morning,” Collins said. “I figured you’d want to go too, so I reserved a seat for you.”

Heather smiled. “Good man,” she murmured. “I’ll meet you at the airport. What time?”

“Eight in the a.m., sunshine,” Collins said. “See you there.” He ended the call.

Heather thumbed the cell off, then switched it back on. Punching in more numbers, she called Stearns. No answer. Just voice mail. Maybe the damned caller ID had screwed her again. “It’s Wallace, sir,” she said after the beep. “I’m heading to Pensacola in the morning to check out the dead suspect and look over their evidence. I’ll be in touch soon after.”

Heather slumped down in the chair, placing the cell on the armrest. She ran a hand through her hair. She wanted to tell Dante the turn of events. She also wanted to have a little chat with Mr. Jordan about the dangers of window-peeping for prime tabloid shots.

She closed her eyes. Weariness weighed her down like concrete overshoes. Pensacola. After murdering Gina shortly before dawn? Killing another woman the same day?

Jack the Ripper had done two in one night—a double event—not even an hour apart. Jack had never been caught—at least officially.

She strongly suspected that the Cross-Country Killer hadn’t been caught either. Officially or otherwise.

Heather sank into a black ocean, her concrete overshoes dragging her to the bottom. Somewhere in the darkness, Leigh Stanz sang, his husky voice rippling beneath the waves.

I long to drift like an empty boat on a calm sea / I don’t need light / I don’t fear darkness…

You should, Heather thought, sinking and sinking and sinking—

She staggers along the highway’s edge, thumb out, peering into the darkness. Her car won’t start and she’s left it in the tavern parking lot. She really has to get home. She only stopped in for a few drinks while out on errands. The kids were at soccer practice or guitar lessons or Scouts and she had a few moments to herself.

The next thing she knows, it’s dark and the moon’s high in the sky. Her new friends try to talk her into staying and, for a moment, she considers it. But she pulls free of her friends’ beseeching hands and escapes into the chilly October night. She can’t find her cell phone. Did she leave it at work? In the tavern?

She abandons the car and decides to thumb a ride home. She stumbles, her heel catching on the asphalt’s ragged edge. She giggles. Good thing she isn’t driving. Point in her favor. She licks the tip of a finger and strokes an imaginary line in the air. Sliding off her shoe, she peers at the heel.

Headlights pierce the night. She sticks out her shoe instead of her thumb, cocking her weight onto one hip and smiling. The car pulls over, tires crunching on gravel, the muffler streaming a plume of exhaust, the heady smell of gasoline in the air.

She wobbles as she tries to put her shoe back on. She hops backward before sprawling onto her ass. She throws her head back and laughs. Good thing she isn’t walking the line for a cop. Another point in her favor. She draws another imaginary line in the air. Slipping off her other shoe, she climbs to her feet, stumbling only a little. She’s brushing the dirt off her hind end when the driver’s door opens.

A man slips out of the purring car. Something gleams in his hand.

Dante stood in the doorway, hands braced against either side of the threshold. Wallace—Heather—slept slumped in the easy chair, her head turned to the left. Her red hair tumbled across her cheek, edged her half-parted lips. Her breathing was slow and easy. Candlelight flickered orange and gold across her face.

Beautiful, he thought. Easy to forget she was a cop.

He padded barefoot into the front room. Scooping a folded blanket up from the back of the empty sofa, he shook it out, then spread it over her. His bracelets clinked against each other with the movement, but she didn’t stir.

Dante sat cross-legged in front of the chair. She’d stood up for him—in front of other cops. Had even tackled the chicken-shit bastard with the gun. Why would she stand up for me? What gives? He breathed in her fresh rain scent, detecting a hint of lilac and sage laced beneath. He listened to the deep, steady beat of her heart.

Asleep, she looked even younger than the twenty-eight or thirty years he pegged her at. Asleep, curled and warm, she wasn’t a cop or an FBI agent, but a woman with heart; a woman with steel for a spine. A woman, so far, true to her word.

Trust me. I’m asking you to trust me.

How many times had he heard those words? Spoken by mortals and nightkind alike, the words empty, void: Trust me.

But not with Heather. He’d looked into her and she’d met his gaze, her own open and steady, hiding nothing. For a moment, as he’d looked into her blue eyes, the voices raging inside had hushed.

And so he’d put his hands behind his back and let her handcuff him.

The ceiling creaked. Lucien stirred on his rooftop perch, watching the night. Listening to a rhythm that Dante heard at times, felt it pulsing in sync with the blood in his veins.

Heather shifted in the chair, a slight frown on her lips. Her heart rate picked up speed. Bad dream? Rising to his knees, Dante leaned in and brushed her hair back from her face. Adrenaline spiked her scent. Her brows drew together, face troubled, maybe scared. Beads of sweat sprang up along her hairline.

“Heather.” Dante gently shook her shoulder. “Heather, wake up.”

She jerked awake, eyes wide. She sat bolt upright, knocking Dante’s hand aside, the blanket sliding from her lap and puddling on the floor. She brought up both hands together as though she held her gun.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t get in the car…”

“Hey,” Dante said. “It’s okay.”

At the sound of his voice, Heather shuddered, then leaned forward, elbows to knees, head to hands. She drew in a long breath. The frantic pounding of her heart gradually slowed.

After a moment, she lowered her hands. Her face was night-kind-white, her eyes dilated and rimmed with brilliant blue.

“T’est blême comme un mort.” Dante said. “Nightmare?”

Heather glanced at him. Her heart double-thumped. Her breath caught in her throat. Dante tensed, his fingers curving in toward his palms. He almost looked away, not wanting to see the frustrating mix of adoration, lust, and wonder that lit the eyes of most who looked at him. But she held his gaze, her heart calming, her breathing evening out. She looked in.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Nightmare.”

“I know about nightmares.”

Heather tilted her head and looked at him intently. “I bet you do,” she said. “How’s your head?” She touched a finger to her own temple.

“I’m good,” he murmured, shrugging.

Heather glanced about the room, her gaze stopping at the sofa. “Where is he?” she said, jumping to her feet.

“Peeping Tom’s perv assistant?” Dante asked, looking up at her. She nodded. “He was gone when I came downstairs.”

“So are his things,” she said. “The stuff you took from his pockets.”

Heather searched the chair she’d been sleeping in, sliding her hands between the cushion and the chair, kneeling to look underneath. “So’s his cell phone,” she said, pushing her hair back from her face. Color flushed her cheeks. “I had it on the arm of the chair.”

Dante caught her meaning. “So he stood over you while you slept.”

Lips pressed together, Heather nodded. Frustration and renewed weariness tightened her face. “I was going to recommend that he find a less sleazy boss, but…”

“Bon à rien, both of ‘em,” Dante said, standing. “A perfect match.”

Heather smiled, then it faded from her lips. Her mind was unshielded, wide open, and he could go in and snag every single thought—if he wanted.

But if someone were to go into his mind unwelcomed—force their way in or seduce their way in—and take what they wanted…he tensed. He had no desire to look into Heather’s unguarded mind.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Can we go somewhere private?”

Dante nodded. “Sure.”

“Looks like you’re recovering from that cooperation problem.”

He snorted. “Keep thinking that.”

She smiled again.

Dante led Heather out of the front room and down the hall to his studio. Just as he opened the door, Trey rushed out of the web room, goggles swinging from his hand. He stopped in front of Dante, reeking of adrenaline.

Sudden fear spiked into Dante when he saw the look on Trey’s face.

“Bad news, mon ami,” Trey said, his voice even more Cajun-spiced than his sister’s. “They pulled Jay from the river. Throat slit.”

Dante leaned against the wall, stunned. “Fuck,” he whispered.

“That’s not all,” Trey said. He hesitated, his gaze on Dante, his mind fluttering against Dante’s shields.

“I’m okay,” Dante said.

Trey nodded, but he looked unhappy. He swallowed. “The cops think you’re good for both murders.”

HEATHER STEPPED BACK WHEN Dante, dark eyes blazing, whirled and punched his fist through the wall. Plaster and dry-wall tumbled to the floor in chunks and ragged pieces.

“Did you hack into the NOPD’s system?” she asked Trey.

He shrugged, then nodded. “Oüi.”

Like she’d been conjured, Simone suddenly appeared beside her brother, her troubled gaze on Dante. Above them all, the ceiling creaked and groaned, then fell silent. Heather heard what sounded like the powerful rush of wings. Very large wings.

She looked at Dante. He stood motionless, every muscle taut, his fist still inside the hole he’d punched, his other hand braced against the wall. Head bowed, face veiled by his black hair, he seemed to vibrate with rage.

“I’m sorry about Jay.” Heather touched his shoulder. “They’ve got nothing. You didn’t do it. And they know it. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

A blizzard of plaster fell to the floor when Dante pulled his fist free of the wall. Lifting his head and tossing back his hair, he looked at her. Fury and anguish mingled within his dark eyes. His muscles flexed beneath her fingers. She stared into his eyes, unable to look away, drawn in and sucked down, caught in a whirlpool of emotion.

Dante looked into her, his dark gleaming gaze as warm as a wanted caress. Releasing him, she looked down, face burning.

“Then talk to me,” he said.

The front door opened, then clicked shut. De Noir. “Alone,” Heather said, stepping into the room he’d led her to. Dante followed, closing the door behind him.

Heather’s gaze skipped around the room—studio, she amended. Several different keyboards, a synthesizer, a mixing board, amps, computer, and monitor crowded the space. A black guitar was propped in one corner. A half-empty bottle of French absinthe stood on the computer table surrounded by headphones, scattered papers, and lyric sheets.

Her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. Spray-painted on the wall in the color of dried blood was the anarchy symbol.

The image of the symbol scorched into Daniel Spurrell’s flesh flared to life in Heather’s mind. The killer—whether it was the CCK or not—was trying to prove that he and Dante were kindred souls sharing the same beliefs. But instead of painting the symbol on walls, buildings or squad cars, the killer etched it into unwilling flesh.

Gina’s murder was meant as a slap in the face to Dante. A challenge. Look how far I’m willing to go. Can you top this? Have you got the guts to live up to that symbol? If the killer now felt superior to Dante, if he felt like he was in control, then it meant he’d also feel comfortable enough—strong enough—to claim Dante and make him his own.

But, if he was dead…then, no threat. Wrenching her gaze away from the wall, Heather glanced at her watch. 4:34 a.m. Pushing her hair back from her face, she turned to face Dante.

“I found out a few hours ago that our suspect’s been killed in Pensacola,” she said. “I don’t understand it, but—”

“You don’t think it’s him, do you?”

“I’m on my way to Florida to find out.”

Dante stepped past Heather, his body brushing against hers. “You don’t know what he looks like,” Dante said, picking up a pair of shades from the computer console. He slid them on. “How will—”

“I’ve studied his…work…for three years,” she said. “I’ll know.”

Dante stepped closer. “Is that what you dream of?”

Caught off guard, Heather looked away. Too close. Way too close. Lifting her head, she met Dante’s shaded gaze. “What does that anarchy symbol mean to you?”

Dante shrugged. “Besides a general ‘fuck you’ to society?”

Heather shook her head. “You can do better than that.”

Dante lifted his shades. Streaks of red slashed his dark irises. His gaze, intense, direct, and dead serious, locked with hers. “Okay then. Rage. Firestorm. Truth.”

“Truth?”

“Yeah. Freedom is the result of rage.”

Heather stared at him, throat tight. Spoken like a true survivor of any state-run foster home system. Spoken with intelligence and conviction. And that planted a seed of doubt in her belly.

What had created that rage? Fueled it?

Dante lowered the shades back over his eyes. “So now what?”

She sighed, trailing a hand through her hair. “I want you to play it safe until you hear from me.”

A smile quirked up one corner of Dante’s mouth. “That’d be a first.”

“Try,” Heather said. “I’d like you to keep breathing.” Her gaze shifted to the anarchy symbol behind him. For one heartbeat, he was a part of the symbol—a sharp black dagger piercing the heart of chaos, night-wrapped and unpredictable.

No way the killer would’ve left New Orleans without Dante dead or beside him. Whoever lay on that tray in the Pensacola morgue wasn’t her perp. But she had to be sure. Collins would be expecting her at the airport and she still had to stop at her hotel.

“Walk with me,” she said, turning and opening the studio door.

She felt Dante behind her in the hall; his silence unnerved her, even with bare feet and carpet, he should’ve made some sound.

“What happens if it ain’t your guy in Pensacola?”

“Then I’ll be back.”

HEATHER UNLOCKED THE SUBARU, then slid inside. Starting the engine, she turned the defroster and heater up to high. Dante stood beside the open driver’s side window, barefoot in the late-February chill, sunglasses perched on top his head.

He’s got to be cold. Heather thought. I know I’d be freezing.

“I’ll call you as soon as I know something,” she said.

Dante bent down and held out a piece of paper. Heather took it, pulling it free from between his fingers. She glanced at it. Phone numbers. Written with a lefty’s slant; one marked CLUB, one marked HOME. She looked up at him.

Arms folded over his chest, Dante shrugged. “In case,” he said. His gaze skipped past her. “That’s my jacket.”

“Huh?” Heather shifted in her seat and glanced in the direction he was looking. Dante’s leather jacket was crumpled in the passenger seat. “Oh! Yes.” She picked up the jacket, then passed it through the window to Dante. “I’ve been holding it since you were arrested.”

Dante shrugged on the jacket. Metal jingled. “Merci,” he said. “Did you go through the pockets?”

Heather smiled. “What do you think?”

“I think…” He paused and looked at her for a moment. “Yeah. I know I would.”

Heather’s smile widened. “You seem pretty experienced in rifling pockets.”

He grinned, and Heather caught a flash of slender, curving canines. He was either delusional or undead, so why did he make her feel like a teenager swooning over her first sullen and leather-jacketed bad boy?

“Look, when this is over…”

“Yeah?” Dante leaned in even closer. Faint green light from the dash streaked the steel ring on his bondage collar.

She could smell him, crisp autumn leaves and dark earth—a warm bed, the scent of sex. Her cheeks burned as heat fluttered through her belly. “Uh…I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” Forcing a smile onto her lips, she rolled up the window.

He straightened, then backed up a pace as she stepped on the gas.

She followed the curving driveway carefully, passing the van and the MG. The Harley was gone. I was going to ask if I could see him again. So much for objectivity. So much for professionalism. She glanced into the rearview mirror. Dante still stood in the driveway, watching as she drove away. A breeze blew strands of hair across his night-shadowed face.

A figure suddenly appeared beside Dante. Heather hit the brakes. The Subaru screeched to a stop. The red glow from her taillights wasn’t enough to see well by, and she was on the verge of throwing the car into reverse or stepping out and drawing her .38, when Dante slipped his arm around the other figure’s shoulders.

A cloud drifted free of the moon. Southern-winter moonlight frosted the trees, the iron gates, the looming mansion, and Silver’s gel-spiked hair and shining silver eyes. Moonlight gilded the boy’s smile. He snugged an arm around Dante’s waist.

Releasing her breath, Heather wrenched her gaze away from the rearview. Too much adrenaline and too little sleep had left her feeling shaky and weak-limbed. She stepped on the gas and drove through the opened gates.

Maybe she’d baited the hook simply by leaving.

In that bleak moment, she truly wished Dante was a vampire.

Maybe then he’d have a chance of surviving if the killer took the bait.