A Rush of Wings

27 Penance « ^ »

“I’VE LOST CONTACT WITH my people in New Orleans,” Gifford said quietly. “I’m afraid they may have failed.”

Johanna’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Finish it yourself. If you find Stearns and Wallace together, make it a murder-suicide.” She glanced at the bedroom window. Dawn glimmered behind the curtains. Sleep pressed down upon her.

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Since E’s gone off the grid, I think we need to conclude his part of the project.” Johanna’s head nodded. She jerked it up. Forced her eyes open.

“And S?”

“Let him be. For now.”

HEATHER AWAKENED, HEART POUNDING, mouth dry. She stared at the shadowed ceiling as the nightmare’s stark images faded: the recurring dream about her mother’s last stumbling walk, and the ride she’d accepted. Or at least the way she imagined it might’ve been.

Suddenly aware of the arm around her shoulder, the body nestled against hers, Heather turned her head. Dante slept, lashes dark against his skin, black hair tousled, his breathing so low she slid her hand over his heart. After a moment, she felt a reassuring thump against her palm. She trailed her fingers up past the bondage collar, past his lips, to his smooth cheek.

No whiskers, she mused. Can’t be just a nightkind thing, Von has a mustache and Ronin a beard.

Heather traced her hand down his chest, the skin cool beneath her fingers, to his flat belly. She longed for twilight, longed to awaken him with kisses, with her hands, her mouth.

Sighing, Heather glanced at her watch. 2 p.m. She had work to do. Bad guys to catch—without Bureau help or blessing. A file to read. And if it was bad? A knot formed in her stomach and she pushed the thought away. She climbed over Dante, pausing to kiss his cool lips.

“Très belle, yourself,” she murmured before easing off the futon.

The floor creaked beneath her feet as she pulled the blankets up and over Dante. He didn’t stir. Heather had a feeling she didn’t need to worry about being quiet. He’d sleep no matter what.

Must be nice, she thought, half stepping and half skipping over the CD cases and clothes on the floor on her way to the adjoining bathroom.

She flipped on the light. The room was painted black and lavender. Several things cluttered the counter: eyeliner tubes and pencils, black lipstick, a brush, toothpaste, soap, an MP3 player.

Toothpaste? Weren’t vampires immune to cavities?

Clean, plush towels hung from the rack, and shampoo and conditioner stood on a shelf in the shower. And beneath the towels, her overnight bag.

Who…? Then she realized it must have been De Noir. The others would’ve been sleeping like Dante, hibernating in the daylight.

Turning on the water in the shower, Heather let it warm up while she looked at herself in the mirror. She glanced at her throat, touching the spot where Dante had bitten her. No visible mark, no tenderness. Fire flared within her again, kindled in her belly, as she thought of him drinking in a part of her. She closed her eyes.

Playtime’s over. Focus on the case. Focus on keeping alive—if you’re dead, who will speak for Jay and all the others?

Unbidden and unexpected, an answer disrupted her thoughts: Dante would. Somehow that felt right to her—heart-true.

Opening her eyes, Heather stepped into the shower and closed the door. As hot water sluiced across her neck and shoulders, she realized Dante had become the case, that in her struggle to keep him alive, she hadn’t noticed that the game had changed; she no longer knew if the Ronin-Jordan team wanted Dante dead or wanted him to join them.

Her name was Chloe. And you killed her.

She’s been creating sociopaths for years.

It’s quiet when I’m with you.

Turning around, Heather braced her hands against the water-slick tiles and tipped her face up to the shower spray. She hoped the water would ease the sudden kinks out of her shoulders, would loosen the tightness constricting her breathing, melt away the fear frosting her guts.

She remembered the thought she’d shouted at Dante: I won’t walk away from you.

Her breath caught, ragged, a sob. A fist closed around her heart. Her chest ached. She realized she was scared, scared of what she’d discover in the file, scared of what she might be forced to do.

DRESSED IN A ROYAL blue blouse and khaki slacks, Heather walked down the stairs, shoes in hand. The house was silent, hushed. Feeling like she was in a church, she resisted the impulse to tiptoe. Dante’s whispered words circled through her mind: Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.

Treading down the hall, she paused beside the computer room. The recliner was empty, the computer off. Coiled cables rested on the table beside Trey’s goggles. She suddenly thought of Annie, drugged and peaceful as she slept in a hospital bed, her restraints removed and curled up on the night-stand.

Shaking the image from her head, Heather continued down the hall, walking into the kitchen. She sat at the table and, bending, laced on her shoes. The briefcase still stood beside the chair; her purse and Stearns’s keys rested on the cobalt-blue tablecloth.

She grabbed her purse, dug out her cell phone. She flipped through the caller log, noting several calls from Collins. She felt a pang of guilt. She’d left him pretty much out in the cold, no word, no explanation. Could she trust him? She didn’t know where she stood anymore, and a few hours of sleep hadn’t made the situation any clearer.

Rogue agents, Bureau-ordered hits, mad-scientist experiments in psychopathology, vampires and fallen angels and a slicing-dicing serial killer: the world and her understanding of it had spun one-eighty degrees in a few days time. The only thing she was certain of was her promise to the CCK’s victims, the slaughtered dead—a voice and justice.

And her promise to Dante? Pain clenched around her heart again. She still felt him against her, inside of her, remembered the feel of him, hard muscle and hot skin, saw herself reflected in his dark eyes.

It’s still quiet. Stay here, chérie.

I won’t walk away from you.

Promises were made to be kept, not broken. She’d believed that as a kid and she believed it now. Nothing had changed. She’d do everything possible for Dante, keep him close and alive. And if the file proved Stearns right? If Dante was a voice needing to be silenced?

Was it even that simple anymore? She’d stepped into a world colored in shades of gray—a twilight world more layered and complex than she’d ever imagined.

You’ll see him for the monster he is.

She knew that was a statement she’d have to examine and soon. But first, she had a pair of monsters—one nightkind, the other mortal—that she needed to stop before they killed someone else, someone Dante loved.

Highlighting one of Collins’s missed calls, Heather hit send. He answered on the first ring. “Wallace, where the hell have you been?” Strain edged his words.

“Tied up. Look, I’m sorry. I know I should’ve gotten back to you—”

“We need to talk. In person. All kinds of shit’s coming down.”

Apprehension curled around Heather’s guts. “What kinda shit?”

“In person. Didn’t you say there were two bodies at that slaughterhouse?”

“Yeah.”

“We only found one. The kid in the straitjacket.”

Heather went still. She’d watched Étienne burn. “Can you pick me up?” she said. She gave Collins the address.

“ ’Kay.” He paused, then asked, “Is this Prejean’s address?”

“When will you get here?”

“Twenty, thirty minutes.”

“See ya then.”

How could Étienne’s body be gone? Unless nightkind had auto-recall in case of death, it meant someone had come for his remains or he’d walked away. Either proposition was unpleasant.

Heather pulled her .38 out of the trenchcoat’s pocket and, despite the fact that she’d reloaded it last night, checked to be sure the clip was still in place. It was. She didn’t know who’d emptied it before—Jordan, probably, after he’d awakened on the sofa.

Slipping on her trenchcoat, Heather slid the .38 back into the pocket. She slung her purse over her shoulder and, after a moment’s hesitation, dropped Stearns’s keys into her purse. She picked up the briefcase and walked into the front room.

“Anything you wish me to tell Dante?” a deep voice said.

Startled, Heather whirled. De Noir sat in the easy chair, back straight, eyes closed, his body language alert and attentive. The X-rune pendant gleamed at his throat.

“I thought everyone was asleep.”

“And so they are,” De Noir said, opening his eyes. His gaze shifted to the briefcase, then back to her face.

“I left a message for him,” Heather said. “Can you keep him here?”

Gold glinted in the depths of De Noir’s black eyes. “As I said before, Dante does as he wishes.”

“Then ask him to wait for me.”

“Patience is not his strong suit, but I’ll ask.”

“I appreciate it.”

Heather crossed to the door, pulled it open and stepped outside into afternoon sunshine, the briefcase in her hand a black-barred shadow across her thoughts.

E STOWED THE LAST of his gear into the new van, tucking his satchel o’ tricks beside the narrow air bed installed in the back. Humming, he knelt and made the bed, smoothing a long section of plastic over the sheets. Should keep the worst of the blood off the sheets. He folded the blankets at the foot of the bed. One pillow or two? E opted for one and placed it at the head of the bed. Sitting on his heels, he glanced at the black-tinted, UV-protected windows. Totally groovy. Hope Dante appreciates the effort. All for you, bro.

E strode into the house, sliding the van’s keys into his jeans pocket. He closed the door and locked it. He walked through the curtained gloom, heart jittering, thoughts ping-ping-pinging through his skull. He grinned. He couldn’t help it.

Tom-Tom still slept, the day not yet dead. E paused outside the bloodsucker’s room. Golden light flared around his body, spiked the hall with his radiance. He touched the knob, twisted. Locked.

E’s grin widened. Could it be that Tommy-boy was afraid? Of a god seeking retribution for the desecration of his altar?

That stocking was fucking mine.

Locked door. No problem. A god was always prepared. E tugged his lock-picking kit from his back pocket and opened it. Selecting a bobby pin, he inserted it into the knob’s hole and pushed. The push-in button on the opposite side of the knob popped out. E’s grin widened. Returning the bobby pin to the kit, he zipped it shut and tucked it into his back pocket.

E turned the knob, then stepped into the bloodsucker’s darkened bedroom. Golden tentacles of light whipped through the room, illuminating Tom-Tom stretched out on his bed, hands at his sides, eyes closed.

E dropped into a squat and peered under the bed. No pretty blond toy curled among the dust bunnies. All gone. Except for the dust bunnies. Sighing, he rose to his feet, walked to the closet, and opened the door. The cardboard boxes and zippered black bag were missing.

E’s heart thudded against his chest. Whirling, shivs sliding into his hands, he faced the bed. Tom-Tom slept, his position unchanged. E wiped at the sweat beading his forehead.

Motherfucker knows.

E’s golden light ebbed to a dim glow. His fingers touched the Band-Aid on his neck. He couldn’t track me. Of course he knows.

E circled the bed, wondering where Tommy-boy’d hidden the goodies. He studied the bloodsucker’s snoozing form, his gaze stopping on the jeans. Keys. The Camaro. E bent over the bed and touched Ronin’s left front pocket. His fingers slid across denim. Empty. Walking around to the other side of the bed, E bent again, his fingers groping the right pocket.

Score! A hard shape took form beneath his fingers. E wriggled a couple of fingers into Tom-Tom’s pocket—Don’t mind me. Oops. Is that it? Guess I shoulda called you Tiny Tom.—snagged the keys, and pulled them free. Golden light once again flooded E’s veins as he straightened, keys in hand; he glowed, incandescent.

Time to say bye-bye.

A voice inside insisted—No! Not yet! Make sure, first—but E reminded it that a god didn’t need permission. Bending over Tom-Tom, he slashed a shiv across his throat.

The bloodsucker’s eyes opened.

HEATHER NEARLY CHOKED on the last bite of her Cajun-blackened burger. “Dead?” she managed to say after swallowing the spicy mouthful. “LaRousse?”

“And his partner, Davis,” Collins said. He looked worn and tired.

Heather and the detective sat at a picnic table set up beneath an aluminum awning beside a drive-up food place, the HERE ’N GO. They were alone, the other picnic tables empty. The aroma of hot grease and frying meat filled the air.

“What the hell happened?” Heather asked, dipping fries in ketchup.

Collins shook his head. “A fire—arson—at a tavern. There were three other bodies besides those of LaRousse and Davis.”

“I’m sorry, Trent. I didn’t like LaRousse, but the man didn’t deserve to die hard.”

A wry smile lit Collins’s face. “Yeah, he was an asshole, but man, did he clear cases. He was a good detective. And he was one of ours.”

“What do you know so far?”

“Not much,” Collins said, running a hand through his hair. “The question is, was it something simple, like a robbery that went outta whack, or was it planned?”

“People lose their tempers. People panic,” Heather said. “Shit spins out of control. Have the state cops checked employees and regulars?”

“See who didn’t burn last night and why?”

She nodded. “Was LaRousse on or off duty?”

“On.” Collins paused a beat before continuing. “In fact, they’d been out to Prejean’s with an arrest warrant, but…” he shrugged. “Not home.”

Heather pushed the remains of her meal away, appetite lost. “Arrest warrant? What the hell for?”

Collins held up a placating hand. “To bring Prejean in for DNA samples. LaRousse still thought he was good for the girl’s murder.”

“Gina,” Heather said, voice level. “Her name was Gina Russo. LaRousse knew Dante had nothing to do with her death; I’d already vouched for him.”

“I don’t know what LaRousse’s beef with Prejean was,” Collins said. “I’m just laying out the facts.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“There’s more,” Collins murmured. He wadded up his burger wrapper and tossed it into the dark-plastic-draped trash can behind the picnic tables. “There’s been another murder.” He glanced at Heather. “Bad.”

The detective’s haunted expression surprised her. She leaned across the picnic table and touched his hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just a long fucking day.”

Heather squeezed his hand, then released it. “So tell me, how bad?”

“Victim had been cut apart. The killer placed parts of him throughout the room.” Collins paused, swallowed. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Go on,” Heather said, voice soft. She tensed. Waited for the guillotine to drop.

“I’m pretty sure it was the CCK,” Collins said. “No anarchy symbol…fuck…mean, there could’ve been but we just didn’t recognize…I’ve never seen…” He looked away. “There was a message. On the wall. In blood.”

The day’s warmth slipped away with the sinking sun.

“What did it say?”

“Does it matter?” Collins replied, looking at Heather. Anger burned the hollow look from his eyes. “That investigation’s officially closed. Word from headquarters is ‘copycat.’ No contact with you is allowed.”

“Trent, what did the message say?”

“ ‘S is mine.’ ”

Heather fumbled her cell phone from her purse. She punched in Dante’s number. The phone rang and rang.

Not recruitment, no. S is mine. Dante had been claimed.

SLAMMING THE MOTEL ROOM door open, Gifford lunged into the room, swinging his gun right, then left. The room was empty. He did the Bureau-standard enter and sweep: closet, bathroom, flipped on lights. Stearns was gone.

Gifford lowered the .45 to his side. He glanced around the room. Suitcase on the chair. Laptop on the desk. Bottle of scotch and a glass on the night table. Stearns intended to come back, given all he’d left behind. Wait for him?

A wastebasket beside the bed caught his attention. He dumped the wadded-up papers onto the rumpled bedspread and smoothed the first sheet. The name ELROY JORDAN appeared. Scanning the sheet, he recognized the dates and places for what they were—CCK murder dates and scenes.

When he unfolded the second sheet, his mind shifted into overdrive. THOMAS RONIN. What was Johanna’s père de sang doing in New Orleans? At the same time as E? Glancing at the address on the printout, Gifford decided not to wait for Stearns.

Gifford gathered up the papers and rushed out the door. He got inside his Hertz rental and punched the Metairie address into the car’s mapping system.

Johanna had been right from the beginning. No coincidence.

Throwing the car into reverse, Gifford peeled out of the motel parking lot.

BLOOD SPRAYED HOT AGAINST E’s face, spattered his shades. Tom-Tom’s hand locked around his wrist; something snapped and pain shotgunned up to his shoulder. A shiv dropped into E’s other hand.

Fucker broke my wrist!

That thought ended in colored bursts of light—blue, green, and purple—as a sledgehammer smacked into E’s temple. He flew off the bed and slammed against the wall. Pieces of plaster rained onto E and the carpet. Vision graying, E glanced at his hand. The shiv was gone.

Done scared me shivless.

Dizziness spun through his mind. Tweaked his gut. But adrenaline kicked his pain, kicked his ass, and kicked him up onto his feet again. Bracing a shoulder against the wall, E tugged another shiv from the sheath at his calf under his jeans. Blinking his vision clear, he looked at the bed.

Rivulets of blood poured from the bed and pooled on the carpet. The room stank of blood. Tommy-boy choked on the shit, spasming on the bed, hands at his throat, attempting to stem the flow. Grinning, E staggered to the bed. The bloodsucker’s gleaming gaze fixed on him, killing him a hundred different ways.

But not today. Today, E was a god, golden and powerful. The truest killer who’d ever walked the earth.

E raised the shiv into the thickened air. Air like honey. Like amber. The shiv plunged into Ronin’s beating heart.

“Plans have changed, asshole.”

LUCIEN CLIMBED THE STAIRS, Dante’s pain flickering like a candle in his mind. His child still Slept, but fire and shadows had fractured his dreams, stolen his peace. Lucien stepped into Dante’s bedroom. The mingled smells of sex and fading pheromones lingered in the air.

He knelt beside the futon and rested a hand upon Dante’s forehead. Heat baked into his palm. Blood trickled from one of the boy’s nostrils. Lucien closed his eyes and poured energy into Dante, icing his pain and strengthening his partially restored shields.

He is remembering. His past has set him on fire. Consumes him.

Dante stirred beneath his hand, pale face troubled. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. The fever faded. Smoothing Dante’s hair back, Lucien bent and kissed his forehead.

Let him hate me. I will keep him alive and hidden.

And sane?

The muscles in his chest tightened. He stood. I will do what I must.

He crossed the floor to the French windows and drew the curtains aside. The last glimmer of sunset lit the room deep red; spilled blood. Lucien stood at the windows, listening to the others awakening in the rooms down the hall, listening to the night’s primeval pulse, and listening to the rhythm of his own dark heart.

On the futon behind him, Lucien heard his child drawing in a deep breath of air. Heard the anhrefncathl—a Maker’s chaos song—awakening within his son’s soul.

Without looking, he knew when Dante opened his eyes.

“We’ve some things to discuss,” Lucien said.

DANTE STRETCHED, SILK SHEETS sliding beneath him, muscles uncoiling. Tattered dreams slipped past his recall. Before-Sleep images sparked in his mind—Heather beneath him, lips parted, face lit with pleasure; the tavern ablaze, LaRousse’s sardonic smile; Jay—

Opening his eyes, Dante sat up, heart pounding. Reddish light poured in through the French windows, illuminating Lucien’s tall form.

“We’ve some things to discuss,” Lucien said.

Dante caught his breath as memory whirled through him—the cathedral, Lucien impaled, his whispered words: You look so much like her.

Untangling himself from the sheets, he rose to his feet. “No, we don’t,” he said. “Not ever again.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, child.”

Lucien unlatched the French windows and pushed them open. He stepped out onto the wrought-iron balcony. The deepening twilight shadowed his face.

Scooping up a pair of black jeans from the floor, Dante tugged them on and zipped up the fly. He strode out onto the balcony. Lucien’s gaze was fixed on the last shimmer of light on the horizon.

“You can’t go after Ronin,” Lucien said.

“Can’t? You’re telling me I can’t? Fuck you.” Dante’s fingers curled around the cold metal railing.

“Ronin will awaken your past. It will break you,” Lucien said, turning his face to meet Dante’s gaze. “Find another way to do penance for Gina and Jay.”

“You no longer have any say in what I do.”

“Did I ever? Does anyone? You’re headstrong, child.”

“I listened to you,” Dante said, throat tight, aching. “You, more than anybody.”

An image strobed into his mind: a little girl huddled in a corner, plushie orca hugged to her chest, her face tear-streaked and scared.

Dante-angel?

He staggered as pain lanced through his head. Chloe. Penance for Chloe. Strong arms wrapped around him. Supported him. “Let go,” he murmured, pushing at Lucien’s arms. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

Stumbling into the bedroom, Dante made his way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He sank to the floor, head in his hands, eyes closed. He struggled to keep the images of Chloe in his mind, but they slipped away from him.

He saw her huddled and scared, then lying in a pool of blood, but he never saw what happened in-between. The unseen in-between left him shaken.

Her name was Chloe. And you killed her.

Sweat trickled down his temples. He slid his hands up from his face and through his hair. Thumped his head back against the wall. The pain receded. Didn’t leave, no, but backed off enough to think.

A thought pressed against his shields, a thought belonging to Simone. He opened to her touch. <Heather is on the phone. She wants to talk to you.>

I’m on my way.>

Rising to his feet, Dante turned around and twisted on the sink’s cold water faucet. He looked into the mirror. In the twilight gloom, he recognized letters smeared across its surface.

WAIT FOR ME. In black lipstick.

Dante smiled and touched a finger to the message. Heather’s scent clung to him—lilac and sage—and he didn’t want to wash it away. Not yet. After splashing his face with cold water, he opened the bathroom door.

Lucien waited for him, golden eyes glittering in the dusk. “Are you going after Ronin?”

“None of your business,” Dante said, walking past him.

Dante caught a glimpse of peripheral movement and sidestepped, too late. Lucien seized his shoulders, talons piercing his skin—the pain needle-sharp. He felt the warm trickle of blood down his back. He hissed, but Lucien refused to release him.

“Itis my business,” Lucien said, steel edging his voice. “It will always be my business. You are my son.”

Dante stared at Lucien, stunned, mind reeling. His son? “Let go.”

Lucien lifted his hands. Blood glistened on the tips of his talons. “I should’ve told you from the start—”

“Yeah, but you didn’t,” Dante said, voice husky. “And now it’s too late.” He whirled and strode from the room.

Dante sprinted down the stairs, muscles taut, heart pounding against his ribs. He struggled for air. He needed blood. He needed truth.

Penance. Maybe everything he knew and everyone he loved would be stripped away until he paid what was owed.

He found Simone in the front room, curled up on the sofa beside Von. Her eyes widened and the llygad straightened, brows knitted.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, handing him the phone.

Dante shook his head. Tried to calm his breathing. “Oüi, chérie?” he said into the phone.

“Wait for me,” Heather said. Static crackled across her voice. “I’ll be there soon.”

Would she be stripped from him as well?

“Don’t. I won’t be here,” he said. His thumb slid across the end button. The phone slipped from his hand, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.

In the sudden silence, Dante heard the whoosh of wings, then the ceiling creaked as Lucien perched on the roof. His father. Fallen.

What are you afraid of, True Blood?

Rage burned through Dante, poured white-hot through his veins. “Not you, Peeping Tom,” he whispered. “Not you.”