A Rush of Wings

23 Firestorm « ^ »

She stands beside him, little fingers clasped around his hand, stuffed orca tucked under her other arm. Her blue eyes are too direct for an eight-year-old. Red hair tumbles beside her freckled face.

I’ll send them to hell, Chloe. Promise.

And you? What about you?

I’m already burning.

Chloe’s body wavers, her image fades. Her warm fingers slip from his grasp.

That’s not enough, Dante-angel.

“I know,” Dante whispered, shifting the MG into fourth gear. His foot smashed the gas pedal to the floorboards. The engine whined. Headlights blurred, blue-white streamers streaking the night.

He didn’t remember getting in the car. Didn’t remember keying it on. Didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t recognize the road. But he knew one thing:

The voices no longer whispered.

You can still save him, True Blood.

Mon ami, I’m so sorry…

How does it feel, marmot?

He wondered if he could travel faster than sound.

A horn blared, a long, angry wail. Beyond the windshield, a double yellow line disappeared beneath the MG. Light circled ahead, expanding, brighter than a UFO. Another horn bleated. Dante yanked the steering wheel to the right, swerving back into his own lane.

Sweat trickled down his temples. The night blurred past the MG. The gearshift vibrated against Dante’s palm. He tasted blood.

You look so much like her.

A fist clenched around Dante’s heart. His breath rasped in a throat suddenly too tight. He pushed away the image of Lucien’s face. Tried to forget the sight of him sprawled and broken on the cathedral floor.

Good thing he’s restrained…fuck! What’s he screamin’?

The yellow lines dividing the highway blurred then doubled. Eyes burning, Dante blinked. A blue neon rectangle shimmered against the windshield. Fractured. Twinned. Letters and characters squiggled within the rectangles, but Dante couldn’t make any sense out of them.

He’s making a very loud, very clear, demand.

“Kill me.”

Dante squinted, trying to make out the wriggling letters inside the expanding blue rectangle. Words. A sign.

So do it. He’s too dangerous. Little fucking psycho.

The blue rectangle morphed into a neon roadside sign proclaiming: TAVERN.

Say that again and I’ll give you to that little fucking psycho.

Swinging the steering wheel to the right, Dante downshifted the screaming MG into the tavern’s parking lot. Gravel and dust sprayed out from beneath the tires. A couple of pickups, gear-laden nomad bikes, and an old flame-painted Chevy huddled in front of the weathered building.

AS THE CROW FLIES flickered in red over a flapping neon crow.

Dante parked the MG across from the other cars, skidding in sideways. He switched off the engine. Pocketed the keys. For a moment, all he heard was his pounding heart. For a moment, he thought he could board up the broken window, nail it shut with rage and blood. For a moment, he thought his heart was caged and guarded with fetishes.

I knew you’d come for me.

You look so much like her.

For a moment.

Then the boards rotted and the nails shifted into wasps. The cage crumpled, the fetishes false.

Shhh. Je suis ici.

Blood dripped on his hand, trickled down his throat. His head ached. Squiggles of white light bordered his vision.

The pain needed to be more.

I’m already burning.

That’s not enough, Dante-angel.

Scooping a pair of shades out of the glove box, Dante slipped them on, then stepped out of the MG. A drink. Need a drink. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. As he walked toward the tavern’s front door, it opened, spilling light into the parking lot.

Two nomads stepped out wearing dusty road leathers and disgusted expressions. Laughter and bouncing zydeco music followed them out into the night.

“Motherfucking squatters,” the horse-maned male muttered, then spat into the dirt. Silver gleamed at his eyebrow, his ears, his throat. A black bird-shaped V was tattooed on his right cheek.

Clan Raven, Dante thought, remembering what Von had taught him. Ravens and Nightwolves often traveled together, guarding each other’s flanks.

The dreadlocked female, bird V inked on her right cheek, glanced at him. She looked him over, head to toe, then back again. A smile curved her lips. Light sparked in her eyes.

“Not your kind of place, nightwalker,” she said, stepping off the porch. Her smile vanished as she got a closer look at him. “You hurt?”

Dante caught the door before it closed. Warmth and booze and tobacco and sweat-laden air curled against him. His head throbbed.

“Maybe,” Dante said. Then he stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him. A moment later, he heard the deep, throaty roar of the bikes as the nomads tore out of the parking lot, flinging gravel behind them.

“Terry, look at that, wouldcha! Do ya think he’s lost?”

“Kee-rist! First nomads, now Bourbon Street gutter trash. What the hell’s this place comin’ to?”

Dante glanced at the speakers, two mortals in baseball caps and work-stained T-shirts hunkered at a table toward the rear of the bar. A haze of cigarette smoke hung motionless over the table. One of the mortals leaned back in his chair and met Dante’s eyes, his tight smile daring him to say anything.

Two other mortals stood at a pool table, cue sticks in hand as they stared at Dante, game interrupted. One had a beer gut and the other was muscled like an athlete. Brutal energy spiked with an overdose of testosterone rippled around the athlete.

“Look at the collar, will ya?” Athlete said to Beer Gut. “Don’t see no leash. Musta gotten away. Better call the pound.” He laughed, pleased with his wittiness, and nudged Beer Gut. “Call the pound. Get it?”

Dante looked away and weaved past empty tables to the bar. The bartender looked up as he approached, a mixture of concern and wariness on her face. She was pure New Orleans with her brown skin, green almond-shaped eyes, and curly black hair. Haitian, Spanish, French, Chinese, whatever. The true heart of Louisiana.

The bartender touched a hand to the bar rag slung over her shoulder. Bottles of booze lined the shelves behind her, fancy labels and fascinating colors.

Dante stopped at the counter, gaze flicking over the bottles.

“Can I help you?” the bartender said. The badge on her black AS THE CROW FLIES t-shirt read: Maria.

“Tequila. Bourbon. Whatever’s closest.” Dante reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled-up old bills, tossed them onto the bar.

“You all right? Your nose is bleeding.”

“Got a place to wash up?”

“Sure.” Maria pointed to a short hall on the right.

Pushing himself away from the bar, Dante followed the arrow sign reading RESTROOMS to a grungy men’s room featuring stained porcelain, graffiti-etched walls, and the reek of old piss.

A small window sat high above the urinals, too small to squeeze out on your tab or your bad-ass date. Dante stepped over to the chipped sink and turned on the faucet. He slipped off his shades, tucked them into the front of his shirt. He rubbed his hands together under the stream of water, then bent over the sink and splashed water on his face.

He burned. He half expected the water to hiss and turn to steam when it touched him. Instead, it was so cold it stole his breath. Dante gripped the sides of the sink, as bloodstained water swirled down the rusty drain.

Dante? I’m cold. Can I get in bed with you?

C’mere, princess. Snuggle close. I’d hold you, but…

How come Papa Prejean handcuffs you at bedtime?

Cuz I don’t sleep at night. The prick thinks I’ll murder everyone in their beds.

Wouldcha?

Yeah. Probably.

Dante-angel, if I found the key and let you go, wouldcha take me with you?

A spreading pool of blood surrounds Chloe’s pale face like a halo. Her half-open eyes stare sightlessly at the orca just beyond her reach.

I’d never leave without you, princess. Just you and me—

Meat hook, chain-wrapped ankles, bare feet. Light flashes from the hook.

Forever and ever.

Water splashed into the sink, spattering against Dante’s knuckles. His muscles coiled. He stared into the sink.

She trusted you, kid. I’d say she got what she deserved.

Pain torched him. He lifted his head and looked in the mirror. He didn’t recognize his reflection; the pale face and smeared eyeliner and damp, tousled hair were his, sure, but the expression was cold and distant and unforgiving, eyes red-streaked with fury.

Is this what Lucien just saw?

He dropped his head, shaken. No, the pain stabbing his temples wasn’t nearly enough. Not by a long shot. But like he’d promised, he wouldn’t burn alone. Peeping Tom, among others, would join him in the flames. Étienne was already ash.

He wiped his face dry with a brown paper towel, then slid on his shades and walked out of the men’s room. As he approached the bar, he caught a familiar scent, Brut and soap, and yet another—smelling of dry cleaner’s chemicals and deep, dark secrets. He slowed. Remembered a lazy smile and a wink.

Take him in. Lock him up. He’ll be asleep in no time. I guarantee.

What the hell are they doing here? No coincidence. No fucking way.

Dante walked past without glancing at either detective. He stopped at the counter. Maria poured something golden into a shot glass.

“Y’all left nearly eighty bucks on the bar.”

“Keep twenty for yourself,” Dante said, picking up the shot glass. “Let me know when I’ve drunk up the rest.”

“Sure thing, sugar.” Maria tapped a finger under her nose, looked meaningfully at Dante, then handed him a napkin.

He took the napkin from her, pressed it against his nose. It came away red.

“Fuck.” He tossed back the shot. Tequila. It burned down his throat, cleared out the lingering blood. He felt sweat trickle along his temple.

Dante-angel?

Forever and ever, princess. Forever and ever and ever—

A smooth voice drawled, “Abita for me and Davis, darlin’. And lookee here! If it ain’t a small fuckin’ world.”

Dante set the empty shot glass on the bar.

“How’s it hangin’, rock god? Comment Ça va, eh?”

As Maria poured Dante another shot, he glanced to his right. Perched on a stool, Dickhead LaRousse leaned against the bar, a smirk tilting his lips. He held what looked suspiciously like an arrest warrant in one hand.

“Talk about luck,” Dickhead said. “We were on our way back from your place. Seems you weren’t there. Then we saw your car in the parking lot.” He slapped the warrant down on the counter. “You here all by your lonesome?”

Dante lifted his hand and flipped him off. Shifting his attention to the refilled shot glass, he picked it up, tossed it back.

“Dirtier than original sin, this boy, believe you me,” Dick-head said to his partner, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “The shit I found in his juvie records. No wonder they sealed ‘em.”

Dante carefully set down the empty shot glass. He grasped the edge of the bar to keep his hands from trembling. Even he didn’t know what was in those records. His memory only tracked back a handful of years and even then there were gaps. Hell, he didn’t even know how old he was.

“Christ,” Maria said, a hint of anger in her voice. “If y’all are going to arrest him, do it outside.”

“A word to the wise, sugar,” Dickhead said, his voice all Southern charm. “Mind your own fuckin’ business.”

Maria glanced at Dante from beneath her lashes as she filled a stein at the tap. He met her gaze and shook his head.

“Sixty foster homes, two stints in the loony bin,” LaRousse said, his tone conversational, his voice on the verge of a chuckle. “Words like schizophrenia and homicidal tossed around. A missing little girl and…oh, yeah!…the last foster home burns to the ground with the foster parents still inside. That’d be the Prejeans.”

Turning his head, Dante met LaRousse’s gaze. The detective stared at him, handsome face hard, cold light glinting in his eyes.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Dante said. His hammering heart said maybe not.

“That right?” Dickhead leaned in closer. “So tell me, does that good-looking FBI bitch know she’s balling a stone-cold psycho?”

Dante slammed his fist into LaRousse’s nose.

“WHO MADE YOU?”

Simone glanced at Heather, her pale face tinted green by the van’s dashboard lights, then returned her attention to the road in front of them.

“Nightkind, oüi? That’s what you’re asking?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m asking.”

Heather had never imagined having this conversation, never imagined vampires existed outside of horror movies or outside of Goth clubs. Never imagined the undead lived, worked, and fed alongside those who weren’t.

But after watching Dante, after shooting Ronin, after witnessing parts of Étienne’s body try to escape the flames consuming him, her skepticism, her doubts, had ended and her understanding of the world altered. She didn’t want to look out the passenger window into the night. Didn’t want to know what might look back from deep within the shadows alongside the road, eyes full of moonlight, mouth full of sharp teeth.

Simone sighed. “A friend of the family turned me, just after Papa’s funeral.”

“Was it something you wanted?”

The blonde shook her head. “No. But she didn’t offer me a choice.”

Shadows flickered across Simone’s face. Her hands were relaxed on the steering wheel. No bitterness edged her voice. If a family friend had done the same to her, Heather would’ve tracked her down and…what? Killed her? Forced her to take it back? Maybe Simone had had time to come to terms with the situation.

How did one come to terms with being made into a vampire? How did a mortal adjust to immortality?

“And your brother?”

“He was all the family left to me,” Simone said, her voice low, taut. “I gave him a choice. If he’d a said no, I probably woulda set myself on fire.”

“You turned your own brother?” Heather asked, surprised.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of watching him grow old and die.”

Heather thought of Kevin, of Annie. Could she have done the same to them? Siphoned off their humanity? Or let them age? Bury them one after the other next to Mom? Her throat constricted.

“So, how does this undead stuff work? Dante’s skin is warm. He has a pulse. He’s intensely alive.”

The corners of Simone’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Oüi, Dante’s intensely everything.”

Heather stared at her, shoulders tight. Remembered Dante leaning over Simone on the dais steps, whispering in her ear, and touching her hair. She had a strong suspicion they’d been more than just friends once. Were they still?

“We’re not undead,” Simone said. “We’re a separate species. We’ve always lived alongside mortals.” She looked at Heather and smiled.

“And Dante? Do you know who made him?”

Simone’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “No. He’s never said.” She glanced at Heather. “I don’t think he knows. Maybe it’s lost to him.” Sorrow sharpened the planes of her face.

“Like so much else,” Heather said. “Hidden behind his headaches.” Or was he what Ronin had called him—True Blood? Born vampire?

Her name was Chloe and you killed her.

Ronin’s smooth, commanding voice wormed through Heather’s thoughts. What if Dante didn’t remember his past because he’d done terrible things? Things he couldn’t bear to remember?

Were Ronin’s attempts to awaken Dante a desire to trigger him, to wind him up and turn him loose? But if Dante could be triggered, wouldn’t that mean he’d been programmed? And wouldn’t that mean his memory had been deliberately crippled? Would certain questions trigger protective subliminals like migraines? Unconsciousness? Madness?

Heather’s heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the sound of the road rushing beneath the van’s wheels, beating cadence for the thoughts pulsing through her mind—black ops ran mind experiments, had for decades. Government funded and Bureau protected.

She heard Stearns’s voice: He’s no longer your concern. But that meant he was someone’s concern. Whose? And which agency? How deep did this go?

Heather looked out the passenger window. Her reflection, pale, pensive, and weary, hid the night beyond. The shadows and what they might contain no longer seemed so scary. Not compared to the place her suspicions had brought her—a place both very dark and very real.

And Dante was caught in the middle—lost, maybe. Heather’s hands knotted in her lap. Not if she could help it.

And her investigation? If Ronin and Jordan together were the Cross-Country Killer, the evidence would nail them, give a clear voice to their victims. The dead would finally speak.

Link the DNA evidence. Nail Jordan. Prove the CCK hadn’t died in Pensacola. But what about Ronin? Could a human court even touch him? If she suggested he was vampire, the case would be thrown out of court and her career’d be over.

Would nightkind care if one of their own butchered mortals? Dante cared, but was he an exception?

Maybe she’d have to settle for Elroy Jordan.

The van slowed and Heather opened her eyes. Simone parked in the gravel drive curving in front of the house. Heather glanced at the dark windows. “Is your brother home?” she asked, pulling the door latch.

“Oüi.” Simone opened the driver’s door and slipped out of the van. “He just doesn’t need light.”

Heather climbed out of the van and into the chilly, humid night. The air was sweet with the scent of wild roses and cherry blossoms and moss.

“Wallace.”

Heather froze. She recognized the voice. She’d listened to it for years. Been guided by it. The fact that he was in New Orleans was enough to ice her blood. The fact that he was at Dante’s house scared the shit out of her. She slid her right hand into her trench. Reached for her .38.

“I wouldn’t.”

Heather turned around, pebbles from the path crunching beneath her shoes. Stearns stood beside the van’s driver’s side door, a silencer-equipped pistol pressed to Simone’s left temple. He held the vampire’s arm in a tight-fingered grip.

“We need to talk,” he said.

DICKHEAD’S NOSE FLATTENED. He fell off the stool, mingled pain and surprise flickering in his eyes. He hit the floor, blood spurting from his nostrils.

His sidekick, Davis, blinked, his mouth half-open. He reached inside his jacket, but Dante stepped forward and back-fisted him with his blood-smeared left hand. Seizing the stunned detective by the back of the neck, he pounded Davis’s face against the bar’s polished surface. The detective crumpled to the floor.

Standing between the two downed mortals, Dante glanced up to see Maria pressed up against the bottle-lined shelves, eyes wide, a hand to her mouth. Movement on the floor caught Dante’s attention.

LaRousse struggled to his knees, eyes watering, nose swelling. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun—looked like a nine mil.

“You ain’t walkin’ from this—” LaRousse’s words, blood-thick and harsh, ended abruptly when Dante kicked the nine mil out of his hand. The detective’s wrist snapped, bent at an unnatural angle. He screamed through gritted teeth.

Dante crouched in front of LaRousse. Pain prickled along his temples, behind his eyes. His vision blurred. Latching onto the detective’s shoulder, he forced LaRousse’s head up and to the side with a hand to his chin. Blood pulsed fast and frantic within the mortal’s arched throat.

Baring his fangs, Dante lowered his face to LaRousse’s warm, reeking flesh.

“I work for Guy Mauvais. I have his protection,” Dickhead said, his voice a strained whisper.

Dante let go of LaRousse’s shoulder and tore at his tie and shirt buttons. A button flew through the air. The shirt ripped. There, glimmering in the hollow of the detective’s throat, iridescent, was a rose; visible only to the eyes of nightkind.

“Hey! Asshole! What the fuck you think you’re doin’?”

Dante glanced at the speaker. The athlete from the pool table charged toward him, face tight and glowering, pool cue reversed and brandished like a baseball bat. Dante shoved LaRousse away hard. The detective slid across the hardwood floor and slammed against the wall.

Dante straightened from his crouch, hands intercepting and seizing the pool cue as Athlete swung it down. Dante stepped past Athlete in a rush of air and wrenched the pool cue from his grasp. Athlete’s expression shifted from righteous rage to confusion. He stared at his empty hands.

How does it feel, marmot?

Whirling, jaw clenched, Dante whacked the pool cue across Athlete’s back. Athlete stumbled forward, body arched. A quick stride stood Dante in front of the off-balance pool player. He smashed the pool cue against Athlete’s temple, canting his head to one side. The cue snapped in half. One splintered end pinwheeled through the air and crashed against the wall phone behind the bar, knocking it from the wall. It exploded against the floor, dinging once.

As Athlete slumped to the floor, Dante swiveled and looked at Maria. She’d turned her face away from the flying spear of wood, shielding herself with one hand, the other still outstretched toward the now useless phone.

A raw-throated scream of rage spun Dante around again, the other half of the pool cue still clenched in his hand. Good Ol’ Boy Terry lunged at him, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a hunting knife. Beer Gut followed, red-faced and sweating, hot on Terry’s heels, cue stick clutched in both hands.

“C’mon, Ernie! Let’s take out the motherfuckin’ trash!”

But Terry rushed forward alone. Dante noticed Good Ol’ Boy Ernie had stopped to scoop something up from the floor.

Dante swung one arm up to grab Terry’s knife hand as he slammed the broken pool cue across Beer Gut’s belly. Beer Gut’s breath whoofed out from his lungs and he fell to his knees. His cue stick dropped from his hands, clattering against the floor.

An image of Lucien slumped on his side across broken pews, plaster and gold flecks of paint dusting his hair, a length of splintered wood impaling him, flickered through Dante’s mind.

Mon ami—

You look so much like her.

Sudden searing pain fractured Dante’s thoughts, scattering the fragmented images and half memories. Terry’s hunting knife plunged through his palm and out the back of his hand. Wasps droned. Stung. Venom poured through Dante’s veins. Snarling, he yanked his arm back, jerking the knife hilt from Terry’s grasp.

“Yeah!” Terry crowed. “Take that, mother—”

Dante swiped the back of his impaled hand across Terry’s work-grimed throat. Blood sprayed Dante’s face and shades, hot and fragrant. He licked it from his lips. He tugged the knife from his hand and dropped it on the floor.

The frenzied drumming of Terry’s dying heart sucked Dante in and, unable to resist the pungent blood scent, he wrapped his arms around the man, pressed his parted lips against the gashed throat. Blood poured into his mouth. Together, Terry and Dante dropped to their knees.

You were wrong, boy. I’ve had more than a taste.

You can still save him, True Blood.

As Dante drank the diminishing flow, he heard whispers, whispers not from within. “Aim for the head and don’t…fuck in’…miss.”

Dante moved—diving to the floor and then rolling to his feet—as fire flashed from a gun’s muzzle. The bullets slammed into Terry’s still crumpling body—one, two, three.

“Shit!” Davis cried.

Dante scooped up the broken pool cue half and hurled it at Davis, hitting him in the temple as he pulled the trigger again. The shot went wild, hitting—

“Wayne!” Ernie screamed.

Dante slammed his fist into Davis’s chin, snapping his head back. At the same moment, he seized the cop’s gun hand and wrenched the pistol from it, tossed it away. He punched the cop again. Stumbling, spitting blood and teeth, Davis grabbed at a table for balance, but missed. As he went down, the back of his skull connected with the edge of a chair with a loud crunch. He slumped onto the floor, eyes half-closed. The smell of blood and shit curled into the air like smoke.

Dante winced as a hoarse scream behind him pierced his ears, his aching head. It was followed by klik-klik-klik-klik. He turned.

Ernie held Dickhead’s nine mil in a white-knuckled, two-handed grip, his eyes squeezed shut. On the floor at his feet, Beer Gut—Wayne—had toppled, a bullet hole in his temple.

Dante jerked the gun out of Ernie’s trembling grasp and saw that the safety was on. He looked up from the nine mil, caught a glimpse of his reflection in Ernie’s ever-widening eyes. Then both eyes rolled up to the back of Ernie’s head as he crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

Tucking LaRousse’s gun into the back of his pants, Dante swiveled in time to see the detective scuttling along behind the bar, headed for the restroom hallway. Dante started after the detective, but a low, harsh sob stopped him at the bar’s edge.

He vaulted over the bar, landing in a crouch in front of the black-haired bartender. She’d huddled down against the counter. Terror rippled across her face when she saw Dante and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Gaze locked on him, she groped for the baseball bat propped against the counter. Dante swatted it out of her reach. It tunked to the floor, then rolled away.

“Mother Mary, Papa Legba, protect me from this angry loa,” she whispered.

She smelled of jasmine and deep water, but fear edged her scent, stealing the sweetness from it. Dante lifted his shades to the top of his head. Tears spilled over her dark lashes. He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. He wiped away one of her tears with his thumb, smearing blood across her dark cheek.

He thought of red hair and cornflower-blue eyes and creamy skin. Remembered a friend saying, I’m your backup.

Dante pulled back. Stood. Lowered the shades over his eyes again.

Dante walked past the counter and down the hall. He paused at the men’s room door and listened. Dripping water. Crossing the hall, he walked into the women’s room. No urinals, but just as graffiti-etched and grungy as the men’s room. Dante strode across the stained floor.

Dickhead stood beneath the no-escape window, smoothing his sweat-damp hair back with his hands. Bruises darkened the skin around the detective’s eyes and across the bridge of his smashed nose. He watched Dante warily, but made no move to run.

“Wallace’s boss is looking for her. He called.”

Dante seized LaRousse by the lapels of his jacket and jerked him close. Only an inch separated their faces. Reeking of blood and beer, LaRousse stared at him, fresh sweat beading his forehead.

“Whatcha tell him?”

“To look for you.” A sardonic gleam lit LaRousse’s eyes. “That you had her all hot and bothered. That’s what you do, right? Stir people up. Suck them dry.”

The detective stank of envy and frustration.

Prick thinks I’ll murder everyone in their beds.

“Who you working for?” Dante asked, voice low. “Besides fucking Mauvais?”

“Look, I can spy for you, if you want. I—”

Fingers still latched onto the detective’s lapels, Dante shook him. “Who else?”

Wouldcha?

Yeah. Probably.

All color drained from Dickhead’s face. “The writer, Ronin.”

“Whatcha do for him?”

“I helped him contact Étienne—”

Vision blurring, Dante flung LaRousse into one of the stalls. The door whanged against the metal side. The detective landed on the toilet, his head and shoulders thumping against the tiled wall. Pain contorted his face.

Is the rock god over there good for it?

We gotta go, sexy. Tomorrow night?

Shhhh. Je suis ici.

You can still save him, True Blood. All you have to do is—

“Wake up,” Dante whispered. The drone of the wasps died.

Walking into the stall, Dante pinned LaRousse with a hand to one shoulder and a knee snugged against his crotch. He forced the detective’s head to one side, baring his throat. The rose tattoo sparkled under the fluorescents.

“You never cared who killed Gina,” Dante said, lowering his head, listening to LaRousse’s galloping heart. “You only wanted to nail me.”

“I have Mauvais’s protection—”

“Not from me, you fuck. Not. From. Me.”

Dante tore into the detective’s throat. LaRousse screamed.

HEATHER WRAPPED HER FINGERS around the .38 in her pocket. Stearns’s tousled hair and shadowed eyes told her he hadn’t slept in a while and his steady hand told her he’d pull the Glock’s trigger without hesitation.

“Let go of her,” Heather said. “If you want to talk to me, fine. Since when do you need hostages?”

“I don’t think you understand the situation,” Stearns said. His gaze flicked to Simone. “Or what you’ve allied—”

Simone twisted and ducked with mind-boggling speed. The silenced Glock went off with a hushed thffft at the same moment she seized Stearns’s gun hand and wrenched it back. The Glock dropped into the dew-glistening grass.

“Down. Or I snap it,” Simone said.

Eyes squeezed shut, hissing in pain, Stearns dropped to his knees. The blonde eased up on his wrist, but kept it in a firm grip.

Heather scooped the Glock up from the grass and pocketed it. She pulled her .38 free of the trench and aimed it at Stearns. “What are you doing here?”

He opened his eyes. A wry smile stretched his lips. “Rescuing you.”

“Are you involved in the cover-up?” Heather asked. Her aim didn’t waver. “The Pensacola murders?”

“No. But I know who is. And I know what they’re protecting.”

She stared hard at the man who’d guided her career, who’d attended her Academy graduation, and who’d helped her with Annie when her father refused. Stearns held her gaze, hazel eyes steady. Stubble darkened his face. Unshaved. Sleep-smudged. Wired. A man on the run?

All through my career, he’s had my back.

Would that change if the Bureau asked it of him?

Heather lowered her .38. If so, I’d already be dead. She nodded at Simone. With a dry tsk and a toss of her head, Simone released him. He stood, wiping at the wet, grass-stained knees of his trousers.

“Where’s Dante Prejean?” he asked.

Heather stared at him. “Why? What does he have to do with this?”

Stearns looked at her for a long moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw, then he glanced away. “He’s not what you think he is.”

“And what do I think he is…sir?”

“Human.”

“I know what he is,” Heather said quietly. She lifted the .38 again. “Nightkind. Maybe True Blood.”

“True Blood…?” Simone whispered.

Stearns stared at Heather, his hands motionless at his side. She thought she saw a sudden spark of fear in his eyes, then it was gone, swallowed by the shadows.

“He’s also an experiment,” Stearns said finally. “I have a file in the car and a CD that you need to see. Then you’ll know exactly what Dante Prejean is.”

“His name’s not Prejean,” Heather murmured.

Simone circled Stearns. “I’ll never let you near him,” she said. Moonlight gleamed in her narrowed eyes and from her revealed fangs.

The whoosh of massive wings drew Heather’s attention to the house.

Moonlight shimmered along De Noir’s huge black wings as he landed on the roof above Dante’s bedroom. His long black hair spilled unbound to his waist. Pale blue light flickered around his shirtless form and glimmered from the pendant at his throat.

He dropped into a crouch, wings folding behind him. A breeze stirred his hair, but otherwise he was motionless. Twin points of golden light starred the night as he stared into the darkness.

Heather’s breath caught in her throat. Fallen. Étienne’s voice slid through her thoughts: Nightbringer.

“Good God,” Stearns whispered.

“You see, sir,” Heather said. “I know exactly who I’ve allied myself with.” She turned. Looking into Stearns’s stunned eyes, she added, “Right now, I trust them more than I trust you.”

RONIN WATCHED AS A female face, pale and stark with fear, bolted from the tavern. She ran full-out for the flame-painted Chevy, fumbling keys out of her pocket. Unlike terrorized females in movies, she didn’t trip, didn’t fall down, and her Chevy roared to life the first time she turned the key. Throwing it into reverse, she nearly backed into the black MG parked at a slant across from her. She stomped on the brakes, slammed the gearshift into first and peeled out of the parking lot.

Interesting. What mischief is my little True Blood up to? Although True Blood is no longer accurate, is it? Born vampire, fathered by one of the Fallen.

Excitement curled through Ronin. To pit himself against a True Blood/Fallen hybrid…what greater test of his abilities existed? Especially after he trained the child?

Leaving the engine running, Ronin slid out of the Camaro. He kept his shields tight and his own energy tamped down. The last thing he wanted was for Dante to sense him—to come for him before he was ready.

Ronin glanced at his reshaped left hand. Definitely not in the boy’s file. After he’d split from CUSTOM MEATS, he’d sat down and followed the fading wormhole created by Dante’s touch. His fingers weren’t merely gone, they’d been plucked from his genetic code.

The best part? Johanna had no idea that Dante had managed to keep a secret from her. A world-altering secret.

The tavern door flew open and a mortal in a baseball hat, grubby T-shirt, and jeans rushed into the parking lot. Nearly tripping over his own two feet, he skidded across the gravel to one of the pickups. He yanked the door open, then spotted Ronin.

“Mister!” he cried. “Don’t go in there! There’s a vampire inside! An honest-to-God fucking vampire.”

Ronin smiled.

The mortal shrieked, eyes wider than a cat’s, and practically threw himself into the pickup. He started the engine, but it died. The pungent smell of gasoline wafted through the air. Flooded. Throwing anxious glances over his shoulder, the mortal tried to start the pickup again. The engine caught, sputtered, then evened out into a low chug-chug.

Ronin stood in the parking lot, arms crossed over his chest, wondering if the mortal would give it too much gas again when he backed up.

Grinding gears as he shifted into reverse, the mortal slammed the gas pedal. The pickup lurched backward a couple of yards, then sputtered and died.

Ronin was considering putting the mortal out of his misery when the driver’s side door flew open and the mortal jumped out. He ran across the parking lot, through the bushes and weeds at the edge of the road and onto the highway. He pelted away into the night, his work boots clumping against the pavement.

Shaking his head, Ronin walked to the tavern’s front door. He curled his fingers around the handle, then listened. Silence. He eased the door open. Peeked inside. Bodies littered the blood-smeared floor. He counted four.

Dante’s been a busy boy. Or maybe I should say S.

A throat-scraping scream sliced through the silence, then stopped abruptly. Ronin adjusted the body count to five. He wondered how many bodies Dante had left on the floor of CUSTOM MEATS. Wondered if Agent Wallace still breathed.

Ronin closed the door. He’d seen enough. He returned to the Camaro. Time to get things ready for Dante’s homecoming.

Flipping open his cell, he speed-dialed E’s number. Instead of the voice mail message he’d been receiving all night, Ronin heard the sullen mortal’s voice.

“Yeah?”

“Where have you been?”

“Out. What are you? My daddy?”

“It’s time. Trade the Jeep in for a van. Remember the specifications?”

“Duh. Got Dante, huh?”

Ronin remembered the scream he’d heard inside the tavern. “Oh, yes.”

DANTE’S BLOOD-GRIMED HAND LOCKED around the handle of the gas can sitting in the back of the pickup. Voices clamored and screeched. Renewed pain burned through his mind. He walked back into the silent tavern. Splashed gasoline on the tables, pool table, and bar. The heady smell went straight to his head, dizzied him. He poured a trail of gasoline down the hall and to the women’s room.

He’s quiet now. The drugs must be working. I’ll take him down.

He saw a quick glimpse of a pale face framed by short blonde hair, then pain shattered the image. Dante staggered against the restroom door, hand to his temple. He struggled to remain upright. This pain he couldn’t transcend or use. This pain devoured.

Sucking in a deep breath of gasoline-laden air, Dante and his gas can strolled back through the tavern. He pulled a bottle of tequila from the booze-lined shelves behind the bar. He paused at the table where the Good Ol’ Boys had parked their dusty butts and picked up a pack of smokes and a book of matches.

Still sloshing gasoline behind him, he stepped out through the door and onto the porch. He tossed the empty can into the tavern. It hit the floor with an echoing clang.

Shaking out a cigarette from the pack, Dante stuck it between his lips, then lit it. He smoked a while, enjoying the tobacco, trying not to listen to the voices inside.

And…oh, yeah!…the last foster home burns to the ground….

Liar.

White light dazzled Dante’s vision. Pain pulsed. He flicked the half-smoked cigarette inside the gasoline-doused tavern. It lit with a whoommf sound that sent shivers down his spine. Flames licked up into the air.

Tell me, what does that anarchy symbol mean to you?

Heather’s face filled his vision. Her hair flickered like fire. Pain needled his heart. She’s gone. Safe.

Do you still love me, Dante-angel?

Never stopped, princess. Just forgot for a time.

Dante walked to the MG. Leaned against the trunk, tequila bottle in hand. He watched the blazing tavern, his insides all knotted up and twisted like barbed wire, but his heart, uncaged and unprotected, soared.

Tell me, what does that anarchy symbol mean to you?

Rage. Firestorm. Truth.

“Freedom,” Dante whispered.