A Rush of Wings

22 Ange De Sang « ^ »

LUCIEN’S SONG SMOLDERED WITHIN Dante, its rhythm faint and faltering, dying embers of a fire that had burned hot and steady for hundreds—no, thousands—of years. He rushed up the cathedral’s steps to the locked double doors. He looked up. Shutters blinded the windows.

The image of an arched chamber—SANCTUSSANCTUSSANCTUS—strobed within Dante’s mind, then flared into a golden burst of color. He touched his link to Lucien, but it was closed. He pushed. The seal held.

Voices whispered and droned. Wasps crawled.

Lucien, mon cher ami—

Jay’s green eyes, steady and full of trust, even as the light went out of them, filled Dante’s mind.

I knew you’d come for me.

Would he fail Lucien, too? Would he watch the life ebb from his eyes?

White light etched mysterious glyphs at the edges of Dante’s vision. Blood dripped onto the concrete beneath his feet. Voices shouted and shrieked and murmured behind him, none of them making any sense. He grasped the door handles and pushed.

Dante didn’t have to look behind him to know that mortals circled the MG parked at the foot of the cathedral’s steps; he smelled them, blood and sweat, booze and desperation. He heard their hearts, pounding and hammering and pulsing; a disjointed rhythm threading through the night beneath the buzz of their voices.

With an echoing snap, the locks broke. Dante swung the heavy doors open and stepped into the golden chamber he’d seen in his mind before pain, white hot and not his own, had stolen his breath and his song.

A gold cherub stood in the aisle near the dark, gleaming pews. The smell of incense and candle wax, sharp and fragrant—sandalwood, rose oil, and sorrow—drifted through the cathedral. Silence as thick as cotton muffled the sounds from outside, but amplified the beat of Dante’s heart.

Dante glanced up. Painted in amber across an arched ceiling beam were the words SANCTUS SANCTUS SANCTUS. A jagged hole marred the gold ceiling, destroying one of the painted oval images of Christ or Mary or some fucking saint. He dropped his gaze to the shattered pews on the left side of the aisle. The tip of one black wing poked up beyond them like a distant sail.

Dante ran up the black-and-white-tiled aisle to the cathedral’s center, then slid to a stop beside the ruined pews. Sprawled on his side across part of a broken pew, one tattered wing against the floor, long black hair veiling his face, Lucien lay motionless.

Dante’s breath caught in his throat. A splintered shaft of wood impaled Lucien—in through his lower back and out through his sternum. Blood stained the shaft’s tip. It quivered with each slow beat of Lucien’s heart. Light gleamed on the X-rune pendant at Lucien’s throat.

Dante dashed up the wood-and-plaster-littered aisle and knelt beside Lucien’s unmoving form. He stretched out his hand to brush his friend’s hair aside. His fingers trembled. His hand shook. Jaw clenched, he reached—and images exploded in his mind, vivid and searing—

Gina, black stocking knotted around her slender throat, her glazing eyes fixed on the empty doorway: Tomorrow night?

Jay, blood spreading like dark wings beside him: I knew you’d come for me.

Chloe, choking on her own blood, hand reaching for Orem, her plushie orca: My Dante-angel. Pain shafted through his mind and that brief image-memory shattered and vanished.

Dante’s vision cleared. He sat on the debris-littered floor, his hand frozen over Lucien’s hidden face, heart hammering, head aching.

Promise me you won’t follow.

“Fuck you,” Dante whispered, and brushed Lucien’s hair aside.

Blood trickled from several small cuts on Lucien’s face and from a gash along his throat. Dante touched fingers to his cheek, surprised his hand held steady. The skin felt hot beneath his fingers.

Leaning over, Dante pressed his lips against Lucien’s, tasted tears and blood.

<I won’t lose you.> The thought bounced back, unheard. “I won’t.”

Dante rose to his knees. Seizing the bloodstained spear of wood, he yanked. The broken length of wood slid free and blood gushed from the wound, so dark it looked black. Dante tossed the wood shaft aside. It clunked against a pew, the sound echoing through the cathedral.

Dante wrapped his arms around Lucien, gathered him close. He’d expected his friend to be heavier and he nearly tipped them both over onto the debris-strewn floor. Then he remembered how effortlessly the angel would launch himself from the balcony into the night sky, black wings unfurling.

Lucien cradled in his lap, Dante pressed his hands against the chest wound. Blood seeped hot and sticky between his fingers. Lucien’s heartbeat slowed. The dying embers of his song cooled, the fire of its rhythm dimming.

Dante brought his arm to his mouth, bit into his wrist, then lowered it over Lucien. Blood spattered against Lucien’s lips, spilled untasted and unswallowed from the corners of his mouth.

“Drink, damn you. Don’t you dare—” The words withered in Dante’s throat. Pain jabbed his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut. His chest hurt, like he’d taken a brass-knuckled punch to the sternum. Pain hooked around his heart.

I’m not gonna sit on my ass and watch someone else I care about die.

But he had.

I knew you’d come for me.

Dante opened his eyes, raised his healing wrist to his mouth again, slashed it with his fangs. Drank in his own blood until it filled his mouth. Bending over Lucien, he kissed him, parting the angel’s cool lips with his tongue. His blood poured like mulled winter wine into Lucien’s mouth.

Dante breathed into Lucien, fanning the embers of his song into red-hot life again. His own song flowed into Lucien, dark and wild and pissed, twisting through the angel’s veins, his nervous system, flooding him with pale blue light.

He remembered Lucien’s wings, black and velvet smooth, a hint of dark purple underneath. Remembered the strength of his bones. The thickness of his talons. He remade Lucien as he remembered him; wove blue light into the fabric of his being, pulled loose threads and braided them together.

Remembered that first night on the wharf—sinking his fangs into the winged stranger’s throat, his pain fading—then waking up in Lucien’s arms as he flew through the night.

You will never be alone again, child.

Pain twisted like a screwdriver behind Dante’s left eye. His song blazed and he burned with it. Flesh knitted itself whole. Bones snapped back into place, unmarred; holes vanished in wing membranes.

Healed? Remade? Dante didn’t know.

He ended the kiss, drained and shaking. As he lifted his head, Lucien opened his eyes. Wonder lit his black eyes.

“Genevieve.”

A name Dante had never heard before, but it didn’t matter; Lucien’s heart beat strong and slow, life sparked golden in his dark eyes.

“Mon ami,” Dante whispered.

“You look so much like her,” Lucien murmured dreamily, trailing a finger along a strand of Dante’s hair.

“Like who?” Dante stared at Lucien, suddenly cold, his joy clotting up like old blood.

“Your mother.”

HEATHER GOT OUT OF the cab on the corner of Royal and St. Peter. She pushed through the crowd jam-packed in the street, breathing in the odors of sweat, beer, and Dentyne as she forced her way through the revelers.

The door to the club swung open. The faint bass beat exploded into full-on screaming sound. Von strode out, Simone beside him, her face tight with concern. Von stopped, his shaded gaze seeming to lock onto Heather. He lifted his hand. No wolfish grin this time, just a crooked c’mere finger.

Heather angled across the street to the sidewalk, her hope that Dante had returned fading with each step. It scared the shit out of her to think of him cruising the streets alone looking for Ronin, pissed and hurting and out of his head. She’d promised to stick with him, to be his backup, and she’d failed him.

Dante hadn’t walked out of CUSTOM MEATS with Jay and she hadn’t walked out with Dante.

Run as far from me as you can.

She had a feeling Dante had been running all his life.

Heather stepped onto the sidewalk beside the tall nomad. Light flickered and flashed across his shades, his leather jacket. It glimmered on the crescent moon tattoo below his eye. Simone nodded in greeting, but Heather noticed her tension, her half-clenched fists.

“Dante’s not here, is he,” Heather said.

Von’s eyebrows drew down together. “Fuck. I was afraid you were gonna say that. Me and the others, we’ve been feeling some bad shit.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Then…nothing. What happened?”

Disappointment sliced into Heather and her remaining strength bled out. She bit her lip, looked away. “Ronin set him up,” she said finally. “Jay’s dead. Dante—”

“Mon Dieu,” Simone whispered.

“That sonuvabitch!” Von spat. “He fucking lied in front of me.” His muscles flexed, then coiled, snake tight. Fury and contempt radiated from him.

Von was much more than a bouncer, more than a strapped nomad vampire—and that alone was enough to spin Heather’s thoughts. What had the others called him? Lew god? What was his role in nightkind society?

An honor to be escorted by you, llygad.

“Where’d Dante go?”

Heather shook her head. “He killed Étienne.” The nomad and Simone exchanged glances at that name. “Then he took off. I don’t know where. He was half out of his mind…Jay…” Her words trailed away as a pang of regret pierced her.

She’d walked out of CUSTOM MEATS and left Jay lying on the concrete floor in a pool of his own congealing blood, still locked inside the blood-spattered straitjacket. She’d walked into the alley and searched it until she’d found her cell phone.

She stares at the cell. She needs to call the bodies in. But she can’t wait for the cops. Can’t wait around to make a report. She needs to find Dante. Nightkind or not, he was in no shape to take on Ronin.

The air reeks of Étienne’s torched body, his burned dreads. The stench clings to her like rank incense, settling into her trench, her hair.

Caught in the moonlight, her badge sparkles like mica in the dirt. Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. Her throat tightens. She punches in Collins’s number. When he answers, she reminds herself he doesn’t deserve to be dragged through the shit. Her finger hovers over the end button.

“Wallace?”

“There’s been a murder at 1616 St. Charles, inside the Custom Meats building. Two bodies.”

“Okay, hang on. I’ll get some units there—”

“I can’t wait. I can’t prove it…yet, but one vic was killed by Thomas Ronin.”

“Whoa! Ronin…the journalist? That Ronin? Evidence? Witnesses?”

“Yes. A witness, but I’ve got to go find him before Ronin does.”

“Don’t tell me. Prejean.”

“I think the CCK is a tag team—Ronin and Elroy Jordan.”

“Wallace, hold on. You said two bodies.”

“Right.”

“Is Ronin good for that one, too?”

“No…parties unknown. I’ll catch up with you later.” Her finger touches the end button, then switches off the ringer. She slides the cell into her purse.

She’s surprised that it was so easy. Her heart isn’t pounding. Her palms aren’t sweaty. Her head is clear.

She walks down the alley to her badge, bends over and picks it up. She brushes the dirt from it, shakes the gravel from the holder. Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. She wraps her fingers around her badge.

She remembers the raw sound of Dante’s scream.

Something stings Heather’s eyes. She blinks until the sensation is gone. Dropping her badge into her pocket, she walks from the alley. She has a promise to keep.

A hand squeezed Heather’s shoulder. She tensed, startled, and looked up into summer green eyes. Von peered at her from over the tops of his shades.

“Did you hear me?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. No.”

The nomad released her. “Did Dante say anything?” he asked.

Yes. Run from me as far as you can.

“He mentioned De Noir, but I don’t know why.”

Simone sucked in her breath. A muscle flexed in Von’s jaw. “We’ve lost contact with Lucien,” he said, face grim.

“He also said sanctus several times,” Heather said. “I think it’s Latin for holy, but I don’t know why he said it. He was dazed, hurt.”

Von glanced down the street, a finger stroking his mustache. He tilted his head as though listening. After a long moment, he said, “Dante asked Trey to do a search on lying Mister Ronin and his creepy friend.” He fixed his attention on Simone. She met his shaded gaze, her pale face still, listening.

They’re communicating somehow. Heather looked from one to the other, feeling cut off, out of the loop. And alone.

Simone nodded. She shifted her gaze to Heather, and smiled. “We should go to the house and speak to mon frère. He’ll know where Dante went.”

“Can’t you call him?” Heather said. “Or speak to him?” She tapped her temple.

Simone laughed. “You’ve changed since we last spoke. No. He doesn’t listen when he’s online. Come.”

“Shit.” Heather rubbed her face, weariness blurring her concentration. “Okay. But we’re gonna get Ronin’s address, right? And go after the bastard?”

Fire flickered in Simone’s dark eyes. Her lips parted, revealing the tips of her fangs. “Oh, yes,” she said.

“YOU KNEW MY MOTHER?”

Dazed by the creawdwr energy still prickling through his body, Lucien looked into Dante’s disbelieving, gold-flecked eyes and realized he’d spoken aloud, that he hadn’t been dreaming when he’d opened his eyes and seen his son’s beautiful face.

Dante shook free of his hand and, sliding out from under him, rose to his feet. Blood trickled from his nose. His muscles trembled. Fury spiked his aura; exhaustion smudged it nearly black.

“Child, listen, I was—”

“You knew her all this time? And you never said anything?”

Lucien struggled to his knees, his wings fluttering behind him. His healed—or remade—flesh was tender. He tasted Dante’s blood in his mouth, sweet and dark, intoxicating.

Child, how much of yourself have you poured into me?

“I was waiting for the right time,” Lucien said.

“How ‘bout the night we met?” Dante said, voice husky, edged with rage. “Huh? Why not then?” His gaze dropped to the pendant hanging at Lucien’s throat. “Fuck!” He looked away, his jaw muscle jumping. He wiped absently at his nose, smearing blood across his face and the back of his hand.

Wings flapping, Lucien stood. Cool night air, caught by his wings, breezed through the chamber. The thick smells of incense and beeswax faded for a moment.

Lucien remembered the pain that had blasted through his mind and dropped him from the skies; remembered the rage and grief that had poured in through the link. And remembered with heart-stopping clarity: Dante’s shields had been breached.

But how? Had it been some one or some thing?

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“You were dealing with so much at the time,” Lucien said, voice low, soothing. “I didn’t want to add to your concerns.”

Dante squeezed his eyes shut, shuddered.

“Let me take you home,” Lucien said, stepping toward him. Wood snapped beneath his feet. “You’re hurting, exhausted. Dante, s’il te plaît.”

Dante looked at him then, his eyes blazing, pale face cold. He backed up the aisle. “What was her name? Genevieve…what?”

“Later, after you’ve Slept. I don’t think you know how much you’ve been hurt.”

“No!” Dante shouted. “Tell me, damn you! What’s my name?”

Lucien sighed. “Baptiste.”

“Baptiste,” Dante repeated. The fire ebbed from his eyes. He swayed, then grabbed the back of a pew. “Genevieve Baptiste.”

“Let me take you home.” Taking another step forward, Lucien held out his hand.

Dante looked at him, and Lucien’s heart constricted. He saw the hungry, hurting stranger from the wharf; the beautiful and deadly boy, ready to drain him of every drop of blood without a second thought.

His friend, his child, his companion was gone. The X-rune pendant burned against his skin like ice.

“Did you know my father, too?”

“Dante…enough. Not now.”

A rush of rain-damp air, smelling of clove and old leather, whirled into the cathedral. Von suddenly stood next to Dante. The nomad looked up at the hole in the cathedral’s ceiling and whistled.

“Holy shit! Someone sure ain’t gonna be happy about the new ventilation.”

Von’s gaze skipped from the shattered ceiling to the blood-speckled pews, then to Lucien. He stroked the sides of his mustache thoughtfully. He held Lucien’s gaze for a long moment, and Lucien had no doubt that the llygad sensed and smelled the tension between him and Dante. Questions glimmered in the nomad’s eyes, questions he didn’t voice.

Von glanced at Dante. “You okay?”

Dante shook his head. “Je sais pas.”

“I heard about that lying bastard Ronin,” Von said. “And Jay. I’m sorry, man.”

Dante glanced away, jaw tight, body coiled, practically vibrating with checked rage. Blood trickled from his nose.

Lucien straightened, startled by the nomad’s words. What had happened since he’d winged down into St. Louis No. 3 and dealt with Loki? Had Ronin breached Dante’s shields? Awakened Dante’s memories?

Brow furrowed, Von touched a hand to Dante’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“I could burn forever, llygad, and it wouldn’t be enough.”

Lucien felt Von reach for Dante’s unshielded mind. “No!” he cried.

Von jerked his hand from Dante’s face and stumbled back a step. Sweat beaded his forehead. He touched a trembling hand to his temple. He stared at Dante, face stricken.

Dante met his gaze. Mingled streaks of gold and red slashed his dark irises. Stepping forward, he squeezed the llygad’s shoulder with a blood-smeared hand.

“Later, mon ami.”

To Lucien, he said nothing.

Dropping his hand, Dante turned and walked down the aisle. As he strode toward the wide-open double doors, he stretched his arms out to either side and trailed his fingers over the tops of the pews.

Lucien watched, throat tight. Dante’s wintry, unrecognizable gaze had iced his heart. Unforgiven, he wouldn’t be able to teach Dante how to use his creawdwr gifts. Unforgiven, he wouldn’t even be able to teach his son to hide those gifts. He’d hoped for more time. Or, more exactly, the right time. But Loki’s appearance meant that time had run out. But even forsaken and unforgiven, he’d still do everything possible to protect and hide Dante from Elohim eyes.

Von whirled and started after Dante.

“Wait,” Lucien said. “Let him go. He needs to be alone.”

“Are you kidding? He’s all fucked up.”

Lucien clamped a hand onto the nomad’s shoulder. Pressed with his talons. And stared. His talons seemed thicker, and shot through with deep blue. He looked up as Dante reached the doors and the crowd gathered at the threshold.

Fervent mortal voices whispered, “L’ange de sang. L’ange de sang.”

“Let him release his rage,” Lucien murmured. “Then go after him. Take him home and to Sleep.”

Dante slipped through the mortals crowding the doorway as though they were insubstantial, the last tattered dream before waking. The mortals watched him as he descended the steps and climbed into his MG. They watched, perplexed, but awed. He’d walked through them like a true immortal. Like True Blood.

And they loved him for it.

Von twisted free of Lucien’s hand, leaving strips of leather clinging to his talons. He looked at Lucien, green eyes wondering. Candlelight and shadows flickered across his face. He glanced at the yawning hole in the vaulted ceiling again.

“Musta been a hell of a fall,” he said.

Lucien’s fingers curled around the X-rune pendant. He nodded. “It was.”

The nomad nodded as well, then turned and strode down the aisle to the doors. He breezed through the crowd—who stared in wide-eyed wonder at the black-winged creature standing beneath the cathedral’s shattered ceiling—then disappeared from view.

Lucien’s fingers gripped the smooth curving back of a pew. He could find Dante through the link, whether the boy responded to him or not. He’d told Von the truth: Dante needed to be alone. He needed to unleash his rage. But now was also the time when he needed someone most—to guide him through his rage, to help him survive it.

But it wouldn’t be Lucien. Maybe never again.

With a sharp echoing crack, the pew splintered beneath Lucien’s hand.