A Rush of Wings

15 Whirling into Motion « ^ »

E CREPT DOWN THE hall to Tom-Tom’s room. He pressed himself against the closed door. Was Tommy-boy still asleep? The sun hadn’t set yet, the gray afternoon lingered, sullen sky pissing rain.

E listened. Nuthin’. Not even snoring. Did vampires snore? Was he even in there? What if he stood behind E? Watching? Grinning? E whirled, heart hurdling into his throat, shivs in hand.

Nuthin’.

E stood motionless, staring down the empty hall to the dirty light streaming in through the front window. His heart gradually slowed. With a flick of both wrists, he slid his shivs back into their wrist sheaths.

E swiveled around to face the closed door once again. Still no snoring. If he was in there, he’d be sound asleep. If not, then E didn’t have to worry about noise. His fingers closed around the cool brass doorknob, and turned.

Ronin lay on the bed like a dead man. Fully dressed. Not breathing. Hands at his sides. His eyes were half-open, but all that showed were the whites. E twitched. His skin felt creepy-crawly, like he’d stepped into an anthill. He fought the urge to slap and brush at himself.

He narrowed his eyes. He subtracted the not-breathing assessment. Fucker was, indeed, breathing. Just barely.

E stepped into the bedroom, his gaze locked on Ronin’s stretched-out form, and held his breath. Nuthin’. He stepped further into the room.

E circled the bed. Tilted his head. Mourner viewing corpse. Circled again. A knife across the throat would do it. Maybe not kill the bastard, but all that blood pouring out would have to be a major inconvenience.

Why hadn’t Ronin locked the door? Did he think so little of E’s abilities, his work, that he felt safe? Thought he could handle ol’ E even asleep?

Muscles knotting, belly burning, E popped his shivs into his hands. He inched closer to the bed. Ronin’s face looked almost as smooth as a kid’s, even though he was supposedly centuries old.

How long would it take to kill him? Flat-out flesh-to-skeleton-to-ashes kill him?

He leaned over Ronin, angling a shiv for the soft throat when he remembered the files. E hesitated, tensed, longing to slash. The files—his and Dante’s—he needed those. Needed to know where to find the Bad Seed Mama-Bitch. Needed to know her name. Needed to know why.

He needed to know more about Dante, too—Bad Seed little brother, kindred spirit—more than the shit Tom-Tom spoon-fed him. E summoned Dante’s image, but saw instead Heather’s hunger as her gaze slid along Dante’s body. E shivered, shiv extended, aching, blood boiling, wanting them both. But willing to claim only one.

E forced himself away from Ronin. Straightened and tucked away his shivs. Daylight was burning. Circling to the other side of the bed, E searched the nightstand, carefully pulling open the drawers. Nuthin’.

Crossing to the dresser, he opened one drawer after another. Folded clothes, undies—hmmm, silk—rolled pairs of socks, but no files. Blowing air between his teeth, E leaned against the dresser. He’d seen the files briefly in New York, thick with reports, photos, and CDs. Tommy-boy’d also had a case full of special things—special things for Dante—in case he needed to be restrained.

E headed for the closet, but catching a glimpse of gold out of the corner of his eye, he halted. Crouching, he looked under the bed. Dante’s pretty Goth boy was curled up on the hardwood floor, tucked in with the shadows and the dust bunnies, eyes closed, face white. Wrists handcuffed. One ankle cuffed to a leg of the bed.

E grinned. Tommy’d raided the cupboard and grabbed himself a toy. A snack and a toy. Did Tom-Tom intend to dangle Goth-boy like a bag of blood in front of Dante’s nose? Or was he going to send E out to collect another?

E crawled to the closet, dazzled by Goth-boy’s golden hair, imagining it spun like golden thread, a glimmering coil seeking the warmth of his hands.

E opened the closet. Worn-edged cardboard boxes nestled on the floor among Tom-Tom’s boots and expensive loafers. A zippered black bag sat next to the boxes.

E dug through the boxes, hands trembling, mouth dry, until he found the file marked E and the one marked S. Tucking them under his arm, he scooped up the black bag, then closed the closet door. He swiveled on his knees, expecting to see gold, but all he saw was a lank strand of blond hair.

Let Tom-Tom have him, he thought, elevatoring to his feet. Less likely to notice anything’s missing if he’s busy playing.

E walked from the room and oh-so-carefully closed the door. He strode down the hall and out through the front door into the dying afternoon.

He had a lot of research to do.

WASPS CRAWLED OVER DANTE’S body, heavy abdomens curving as stingers needled venom into his flesh. Paralyzed by Sleep, caught in a nightmare-woven net, he couldn’t move, couldn’t leap to his feet, brushing and slapping at the thousands of busy wasps. Poison snaked beneath his skin, wormed into his veins, burrowed into his heart.

Behind the high-pitched wasp drone, a voice called, Dante-angel? You okay?

He burned.

A wasp wriggled into his nostril. Another jimmied open his lips, scraped down his throat. Stingers pricked his eyelids, but he kept quiet. Screaming equaled straitjacket and restraints. Screaming equaled sunlight slanting across a wooden floor.

His eyelids puffed and swelled. His heart thudded hard against his chest. His throat closed. Air thinned to a trickle. His lungs burned.

He kept silent.

Windows surrounded him. Some he could barely make out, their shape distorted, the glass warped. He looked away, heart pounding—don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook. A few of the windows rippled like water beneath the wind and he looked, even though he knew it’d be bad.

A burning house.

A laughing little girl with red hair, holding a stuffed orca.

A metal examination table loaded down with restraints.

A smiling woman, fangs revealed, reaching for him.

Dante tried to move, but venom and Sleep kept him motionless. Sweat trickled down his temples.

Dante-angel?

The voice, childish and low and familiar, lingered, the words squeezing his heart. Pain blazed through his mind, torched his thoughts. If he kept quiet, she’d live. Then kicking the ass of that thought was another: If he didn’t move, she’d die.

The fresh scent of rain and sage glided across his consciousness and, for a moment, he forgot the pain, forgot his impending, irreversible loss.

For a moment, she’d never died.

For a moment, he’d never killed her.

Then truth doused him in gasoline and tossed a match.

He screamed.

RONIN WALKED DOWN THE hall to the front room. Starry night gleamed beyond the window. He picked up his cell phone and tapped in the number for his New Orleans police contact.

“LaRousse.”

“Thomas Ronin. I watched an interesting exchange of words last night between a vampire named Étienne and Dante Prejean. I believe Étienne has a grudge or two against Dante.”

“You could say that,” LaRousse said. “His home was torched one morning. Burned down to the ground. A handful of Étienne’s nearest and dearest died in the fire and he believes Prejean’s the one who set it.”

“Ah. Why does he believe that?”

“Couldn’t say and don’t care.”

“Can you get in touch with Étienne?”

“I can. What’s this about?”

“Let’s just say an opportunity for payback. Give him my number, Detective. I appreciate your help in this matter.”

Ronin touched the end button. Shaking a slim, black cigarette from the pack on the coffee table, he slipped it between his lips and lit it with a match. He inhaled the sweet-smelling smoke, savoring the rich tobacco taste on his tongue.

Cell in hand, he walked back down the hall to E’s room and pushed open the door. An empty, rumpled bed, but that was no surprise. Although E’s woodworm-bitter scent lingered in the air, Ronin had known upon awakening he was gone. No prickly aura. No wary tension.

Streetlight slanted in through the partially opened blinds, crosshatching the bedroom with lines of light. The room’s darkness felt thick and close and stale, shut off from the untamed night outside.

The instant E had climbed out of his Jeep and walked across the street to Dante’s house, he’d become a liability. Dante’s phone call had made Ronin realize the truth. Peeping Tom and his assistant, Elroy the Perv. A smile flickered across Ronin’s lips. Boy had a way with words—quick-witted and sardonic.

We’ll see how quick-witted he is tonight.

Ronin drew on his cigarette. The gray smoke curled up and away, hazing the room’s still air. E had fucked up, no two ways about it. Ronin wasn’t sure how much longer he could control him and wondered if he ever really had.

A sociopath. A serial killer. A sexual sadist. How pleased Johanna must be. All her hard work coming to bloody and clever fruition. But what was she saving Dante for? Why had he been allowed to slumber? How had he survived all that she’d done to him?

Then again, he was True Blood. Johanna would have centuries to guide him, twist him, trigger him with programming subliminals and implants. Dante was a mere twenty-three years old. He was a child. His gifts, the full extent of his abilities, probably wouldn’t be revealed for decades, perhaps centuries.

What would it take to awaken him? To spring Dante like a hidden trap on his fille de sang, the woman who’d dared to corrupt and twist a True Blood.

The medical and psychological procedures Johanna and the mortal Doctor Wells had performed on Dante’s mind and brain had been conspicuously missing from the Bad Seed files an anonymous donor had sent him. So, in truth, he was experimenting. Ronin had expected Dante’s subconscious to react to the messages, but so far—zip. Maybe a more direct approach—using Dante’s unexpected sentimentality for mortals—would work like a crowbar upside his lovely head.

Ronin stepped inside the room. Sheets and blankets lumped the unmade bed. A book, an ashtray, and an empty glass rested on the nightstand.

Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, Ronin sat on the edge of the bed. Glanced at the book—Inside the Monster’s Heart and Other Poems. The faint scent of whiskey drifted up from the glass. From the bed, he caught a whiff of dark cherries. He followed the faint scent down to the pillow. Reaching inside the pillowcase, he pulled out a black length of nylon. Gina’s stocking, a dream catcher for her killer, tucked close to the monster’s heart. Ronin dropped the pillow back onto the bed.

The cell phone rang. Ronin tapped the on button. “Yes?”

“This is Étienne. I am listening.”