A Rush of Wings

Lucien fought the desire to launch himself into the sky, wrestled with the need to go to Dante, gather him into his arms and carry him home. His wings flared and flapped, but he remained perched on the roof like a night-chained gargoyle, listening.

Waiting.

HEATHER RATCHETED THE SECOND cuff shut around the chair leg. The other cuff encircled Stearns’s right wrist. She straightened, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

“This isn’t necessary,” Stearns said. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Coffee?” she asked, crossing to the kitchen counter and the coffeepot. The coffee’s aroma, strong and dark, filled the kitchen.

As she poured fresh-brewed coffee into the same cup she’d used last night, her throat tightened. Twenty-four hours plus since she and Dante’d sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and brandy. Talking about the serial killer stalking him.

And who’d found him.

Her muscles knotted as she thought of Elroy Jordan stretched on the sofa in the front room, most likely the killer she’d been hunting for three years. Thought of him standing over her as she slept. Thought of him claiming his cell phone and leaving her and everyone else untouched.

“Go to my car, get the file and take a look; you’ll see Dante for the monster he is.”

Heather turned, hands grasping the counter behind her. Stearns scooted his chair around so he could see her. His face went blank at what he saw in her eyes.

“Monster? I saw monsters tonight,” she said, voice husky, strained. “Two of them.” The memory of Jay lying in a pool of his own blood burned bright in her mind. “Dante may not be human, but he’s no monster.” She locked gazes with Stearns. “I’d stake my life on that.”

“You already have,” Stearns said. “You just don’t know it.” He glanced away. “I came here for you, Heather.”

“For me? Or for Dante?”

Stearns looked back at her, his beard-shadowed face open, weary. “For you. You’ve been marked for termination. Me too.”

Even though she’d expected something bad, real bad, ever since learning about the cover-up, hearing it stated was like a slap to the face. Picking up her cup, she walked back to the table and sat across from Stearns. “Because someone wants to protect the CCK? Or because the investigation led me to Dante?” She spooned sugar into her coffee with a steady hand even though she felt like she’d been gutted.

Marked for termination.

“Both. Dante’s part of the same project that produced the CCK.”

Heather sucked in a sharp breath. Gut-punched again. WAKE UP S. The pieces tumbled into place and the forming picture scared the hell out of her. “His project name,” she murmured. “Who heads the project?”

“Johanna Moore.”

“Doctor Moore? Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. She’s been creating sociopaths for years. To study.”

Heather felt like she’d flipped into an alternate reality: everything looked the same, but underneath, everything and everyone were dark, tweaked opposites of their counterparts in her reality—negative images.

That or she’d fallen asleep and plunged headlong into darkest nightmare.

No such luck.

Stirring her coffee, Heather thought back to her days at the Academy and dredged up memories of Dr. Moore—tall, blonde, charismatic, and brilliant. Her courses in forensic psychology had always intrigued. Her grasp of the sociopathic personality had been uncanny. Her profiles had never missed.

But to create sociopaths?

“She was behind the Pensacola ruse,” Stearns said. “You were getting too close.”

Heather met Stearns’s gaze. Cold certainty cascaded through her, an icy river that chilled her to the bone. He spoke the truth. “How high up does this go?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Stearns replied, shaking his head. “But I think it’s best to behave as though it goes to the top.”

Heather took a sip of coffee, her thoughts whirling. Elroy Jordan and Thomas Ronin—together creating the Cross-Country Killer. And Dante? Why would one part of the project be stalking another? Was Dante a failed experiment? One marked for termination, like herself? Like Stearns?

But what if he was exactly what he was supposed to be—a sociopathic killer?

Pushing her chair back from the table, Heather stood. Fatigue washed through her and her vision darkened. She grabbed the table’s edge for balance.

“We’ll discuss this later,” she murmured as her vision cleared. “I’ve gotta find Dante.”

“Take five minutes,” Stearns said, voice urgent. “Get the file. Look at it.” Reaching into his coat pocket with his uncuffed left hand, he tossed a set of keys onto the table. “Heather, please.”

She stared at the keys, wondering if the file would contain the secrets of Dante’s hidden past. And if so, could he be freed of migraines and nosebleeds? Would the truth have saved Annie from slashed wrists, meds, and institutions?

Maybe, Heather thought, scooping up the keys. She slid them into her pants pocket. Maybe it still would. Stearns opened his mouth, but she shook her head. “Not another word, Craig.”

Heather walked from the silent kitchen and into the hallway. Her overnight bag and laptop rested against the wall. Further down, a faint blue light spilled onto the autumn-etched carpet from a door near the stairway. She heard the faint murmur of Simone’s voice as she spoke to her brother in rapid, musical Cajun.

Heather remembered Dante standing in the locker’s doorway at CUSTOM MEATS, hands braced against the threshold, his dark eyes streaked with deep red; remembered the strain in his voice: Run as far from me as you can.

As she walked down the hall toward the spill of blue light, Heather also remembered Étienne’s head dangling from Dante’s blood-smeared hand; remembered the hot touch of Dante’s lips against her throat, twisting fear and fire through her guts; remembered the wonder in his voice as he spoke her name.

Even if everything Stearns said was true, Dante struggled against whatever had been programmed into his fractured mind. He loved others, something a sociopath was incapable of. Dante’s willingness to sacrifice himself for Jay was all the proof she needed.

But Ronin’s voice snaked through her thoughts.

Her name was Chloe. And you killed her.

Dante struggled now, but had he always?

She shoved the doubt away, knowing she’d examine it closer at another time. For now, she was Dante’s partner, his backup, and she wouldn’t leave him to face Ronin alone.

Pushing open the door to the computer room, Heather looked at Simone kneeling beside her plugged-in and connected brother. Trey reclined in a lounger, his goggled gaze on the ceiling, his capped fingers moving data through the blue-lit air as he searched for the information she’d requested: A search for Elroy Jordan’s movements over the last three years.

Dante-angel?

Chloe tugs on the handcuffs, the chain tunk-tunk-tunking against the bedpost. Wake up! Papa took the curtain away. Dante-angel, wakeupwakeupwakeup—

Dante opened one eye. Light shafted in, piercing his already aching head. He shut his eye again. In the MG. Easing his head back against the headrest, he massaged his temples. The car’s interior stank of blood, gasoline, and tequila.

“Fuck.”

Something hard pressed into the small of Dante’s back. Wincing in the fluorescent light, he leaned forward and reached back to the waistband of his leather pants. His fingers wrapped around a smooth, cylindrical shape and tugged it free.

Dante stared at the gun—nine mil, a voice whispered—in his bloodstained hand. His breath caught in his throat as images strobed through his bruised mind. The sudden rush of violence—vivid, stark, intoxicating—slammed his heart into overdrive.

“The tavern…” he whispered.

Another dizzying montage of images: A broken pool cue spinning through the air; a knife plunging through his hand; a black-haired woman crouched behind the bar, terror on her face; an iridescent rose tattoo.

The taste of LaRousse’s bitter blood.

The gun tumbled from his fingers to the floorboards. Dante squeezed his eyes shut. Touched his fingers to his temple. Shaking, muscles taut, he pushed past the pain, but the images whited out. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the flood of broken memories; couldn’t control them, couldn’t even hold onto them.

Dante opened his eyes. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He breathed in the smell of wet concrete and mildew and soap. But beneath that, he caught the stench of old slaughterhouse blood.

Pain ice-picked his mind. CUSTOM MEATS. Ronin and Étienne. Jay, bound and hanging from a meat hook. Ronin’s fangs piercing his throat. Heather kneeling beside Étienne, her gun pressed against his chest.

I knew you’d come.

You can still save him, True Blood.

Liar. Liar.

“Liar!” Dante screamed. He screamed until he was scraped raw inside, until his mind was empty and no more sound would come. He slumped back against the seat, drained, but still burning.

“Hey, little brother.”

Dante glanced at the now opened driver’s side door. Von knelt on the concrete, one knee in a rainbowed puddle of oil and water. He cupped a road-rough hand against Dante’s face, pushed his hair back with long fingers.

“It’s good to get that shit out,” Von said, voice low. “Festers if you leave it inside.”

“Yeah?” Dante whispered, looking into the nomad’s green eyes. “How come I ain’t never heard you screaming?”

Von snorted. “Nothing inside, man. I travel light.”

“Bullshit.”

Von’s hand dropped from Dante’s face to his chest. He pressed his fingers against the latex shirt. “You got a good heart, little brother. That’s why I stay. No regrets.”

“How can you know that when I don’t?”

Von touched a finger beneath the crescent moon tattoo under his eye. Tapped it. Arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah, llygad. Got it.”

Von lifted his hand from Dante’s chest, but Dante caught it and folded his fingers between Von’s. Dante leaned forward and kissed him. The nomad tasted of smoke and road dust. He listened to the steady thump of Von’s heart and his mind flashed back to Lucien, to the taste of his blood, to the sound of the song thrumming through him—Dante tried to block all thought of Lucien, but it was too late.

You look so much like her.

Rage rekindled, bonded with the fire burning deep inside.

You knew all this time? And you never said anything?

Sliding his hand from Von’s, Dante eased out of the MG. He took in his surroundings, realizing for the first time he stood in a car wash. Glancing down at his blood-caked clothing, the location suddenly made sense.

“Gotta clean up.”

“Good idea,” Von said. “That hot little FBI darlin’ is at the house. She sees you like this, she’s gonna think you shower in blood.”

Dante went still. “Heather’s at the house? Is she…okay?”

“Fuck, yeah. She’s wiped out, like you, but fine. Sleep’ll do you both good.”

Dante nodded, then shrugged out of his leather jacket. He tossed it, metal jingling, into the MG. Spotting his shades on the passenger seat, he grabbed them, then slid them on. The fluorescent glare dimmed. His headache toned down a shade. He unstrapped his latex shirt, then walked to the car wash controls.

Patting his pockets—an image of dollar bills wadded up on the tavern’s counter popped into his mind—Dante glanced at Von. “Got any money?”

“Yeah,” the nomad said, digging in his jacket pocket. He looked at Dante as he pulled a spike free, lifted his eyebrow. “So what was your plan? Wait for someone to overlook your sorry-ass state and load your palms up with quarters?”

“Fuck you. Twice.” Dante pulled the wand from its metal sleeve.

Grinning, Von slid the swipe through the price slot. “Choose your poison.”

Dante clicked the dial over to light rinse and pressed the on button. Water sprayed from the wand. Turning the wand around until the high-pressure stream hit his torso, Dante edged it up and down, washing blood from his clothes and skin. The cold water stung.

“Listen to me,” Von said, stepping out of spray range. “You’re exhausted. You’re fevered. You need Sleep.”

“Ronin’s waiting for me.”

“Let him wait. Dawn’s a few hours away. He’s gotta Sleep, too.”

Sudden weariness coiled through Dante and he leaned a shoulder against the smooth concrete wall. Bloody water swirled into the grated drain in the stall’s center. His temples throbbed with dull pain. He scrubbed at a stubborn stain on his leather pants, the water sluicing past his fingers. Setting the wand on the floor, he peeled off his latex shirt. Tossed it onto the MG’s hood.

A small voice whispered his name—

Dante-angel.

Shutting his eyes, he leaned a bare shoulder against the wall. His right hand pressed against the concrete, the touch tentative, seeking…what?

Behind his closed eyes, a corona of light surrounded a key, puzzle-fractured and spider-webbed with black lines.

Is this the right one? Will it work on the handcuffs?

“Hey, Dante.” The sharp sound of snapping fingers. “Hey, little brother.”

Dante opened his eyes and looked up into Von’s concerned gaze.

“You okay?”

Nodding, heart pounding, Dante picked up the still spraying wand and started washing himself again.

“What happened between you and Lucien, man?”

Dante looked at Von for a long moment, then resumed washing. “Are you asking as mon ami or llygad?” He suddenly thought of Heather—her gorgeous face half-shadowed in the club as she said, I’m both, Dante. Friend and cop.

“Friend.”

“He lied to me.” The spray slowed to a trickle, stopped. Dante straightened, shaking his wet hair back from his face. He slid the wand back into the sleeve.

Von whistled, then reached into the MG and grabbed Dante’s jacket. Tossed it to him. “If Lucien lied to you, there musta been—”

“He knew my mother. All this time. He never said one word. Never said shit.” Dante tugged the jacket on over his wet skin, leather creaking, metal clinking.

Memory flared one more time, Lucien’s face, dark wonder in his golden eyes, his finger reaching up to stroke Dante’s hair.

Genevieve…

The world spun suddenly—cathedral, car wash, slaughterhouse, gleaming pews, wet concrete walls, swaying hooks—and Dante grabbed the open car door to keep from falling. Pain spiked behind his eyes. His vision grayed out for a moment, then cleared.

He realized that Von had latched a hand around his biceps, steadying him. Dante glanced at the nomad. Von returned his regard, face troubled.

“Merci,” Dante said.

Von released his hold, his posture tense, reluctant. “Go home, little brother. Sleep. Ronin’ll still be waiting for you come evening. Go home. Please.”

But Dante heard the thought behind Von’s words, saw it in his eyes: You’re scaring me.

“I plan on it, mon ami,” Dante said, climbing into the MG. “I need to talk to Heather.” Need to make sure she’s all right. He keyed the engine on. It rumbled to life, the sound echoing against the concrete walls.

A smile quirked up one corner of Von’s mouth. “So he can see reason.” With a gentle push of his fingertips, he swung the driver’s side door shut, then strode away.

Dante shook his head, amused, and shifted the MG into first. His amusement faded as darker thoughts circled through his mind. Why the hell don’t I remember my past? And why has that never bothered me?

And darker still: What if it’s never bothered me because it ain’t supposed to?

Darkest: What if it’s never bothered me because I don’t want to remember?

Again he heard Ronin’s knowing voice: What are you afraid of, True Blood?

Fingers clamped around the steering wheel, Dante drove the MG out of the stall. Not you, Peeping Tom. Or what you know. But he wondered just how Peeping Tom had come by his knowledge.

Troubled, Dante hit the gas, shifting into second, then third. He was missing something, forgetting something important, but the memory—like so many others—refused to come.