A Rush of Wings

33 Homecoming

« ^ »

I’ll be right here, Dante. Right here.

Dante drew in a deep breath and awakened. Behind his closed eyes, his vision of Heather fell away, her hair streaking the night with flames. Waiting for him. He still felt the soft, warm touch of her lips, tasted her on his tongue.

Dante opened his eyes. Darkness, warm and close. His heart jumped within his chest. Adrenaline surged through his veins. Before-Sleep images, fractured and random, strobed through his mind.

A knife hilt sticks up from his chest.

Someone calls his name. He turns.

The Perv reads to him, voice low, coiled with excitement.

A blood-grimed hand gropes along his body, unbuckles his belt.

Lucien looks down at him, gold flecks in his black eyes. My son.

“I’m still here,” Lucien said. His voice rumbled from in front of Dante.

Dante reached up and pushed away the darkness. A blanket. Sitting up, he shook his hair back from his face. Still in the van, he thought, taking in his surroundings. But the air bed was gone and the Perv—

Dante touched a hand to his slashed and blood-stiff T-shirt. Felt the healed, still tender flesh underneath. His muscles tensed beneath his fingers. He remembered the shiv punching into him again and again.

Dante parted the curtain. Night smudged the sky. Lucien drove the van, his gaze fixed on the snow-covered road, on the glowing red taillights of the traffic in front of him. Dante glanced at Elroy, at his wrist cuffed to the grip above the passenger window. Breathed in his ripe odor of old sweat, blood, and bitterness. The smell stirred the embers of Dante’s rage to life.

“Where are we?” Dante asked, his attention still focused on Elroy.

“D.C.”

Elroy glanced at Dante. “Oh, goody. You’re awake.” Shadows cast by signs and streetlights flitted across the Perv’s face.

Dante remembered the adrenaline-sharp taste of his blood. Hunger stirred.

“J’ai faim,” he said, his gaze lingering on the Perv’s bruised throat.

“Feast, then,” Lucien said. “He has no other use.”

Elroy went still. Dante caught the heady smell of fear.

“I’ve got Gina’s last words,” the Perv said. He pressed himself against the passenger door, his gaze fixed on Dante. “You promised. Not till after.”

“S promised,” Lucien said. “Not Dante.”

“Hey, you said there was no S,” Elroy protested. “No S, just Dante.”

Lucien shrugged. “Believe everything you hear?”

Voices echoed, like words spoken across a chasm. Dante closed his eyes.

We cool?

A pound or two or three of flesh, right?

Still gonna kill me?

“Oüi,” Dante said. He opened his eyes. Elroy stared at him. “But not till after.”

The Perv nodded. “Yeah. That’s right.”

Dante pulled his gaze away from Elroy, tried to shut out the sound of the blood rushing through his veins. Wind buffeted the van, slanting snow across the windshield.

<I dreamed of Heather,> Dante sent to Lucien. <I’m pretty sure Moore has her.>

<Do you know where?>

Dante sent an image of a white padded room. His heart double-timed. Wasps droned. But memory skittered away from his grasp.

<Ah. The research center, no doubt.>

The city looked emptied and desolate. Traffic signals swung in the wind, flashing red, yellow, and green lights across the snow drifts. Icicles dangled from stark tree limbs, sparkled from the edges of buildings.

The van crawled along the street, tires scrunching across the snow. Dante glanced at the green-lit map screen on the van’s console. Almost there.

<Hang on,> he sent, not sure Heather could still hear him, their link blood-forged and temporary. <I’m coming for you.> He’d said the same words to Jay. Would he fail Heather, too?

Penance.

Dante-angel?

Hush, princess. Go on back to sleep. I ain’t gonna fail her like I failed you.

Promise?

“Promise,” he whispered as Chloe slipped through the cracks in his memory and disappeared. He tried to summon her image, tried to remember her face. He hit a wall at light speed. Pain pierced his temples. He sniffed and tasted blood at the back of his throat. Watched it drip onto his hand.

Fuck. Not now!

Dante tipped his head back against the seat. As the minutes stretched past, his pain eased, edged into the background behind his thoughts. The van stopped. A hand grasped his knee.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Why did you stop?”

“We’re there.”

Dante lifted his head and looked past Lucien to the window. Snow fell hard and fast. He made out a building hunched in the darkness beyond the snow. Light spilled from the windows.

Reaching into his jeans pocket, he tugged free the handcuffs key. He climbed up between the front seats and stretched across Elroy to unlock the cuff. He heard the Perv’s heart rate pick up speed. Felt him shiver. Dante turned the key.

The cuff dropped free of the emergency grip. “I’ll give you Gina’s words when we’re inside the building,” Elroy said, lowering his arm. “Then may the best Bad Seed bad-ass win.”

“This ain’t a fucking contest.” Dante slid across the rest of the way and opened the door. Icy air and snow gusted into the van as he hopped to the ground. The snow-covered pavement felt slick under his boots.

Elroy shivered again, this time from the cold.

Dante tucked the key back into his pocket. “Get out. You run, I’ll catch you. I catch you, I’ll kill you.”

Elroy’s jaw tightened. His brows slanted down. He looked away, but before he did, Dante saw the mask slip; saw the grinning monster, his eyes bottomless pits that sucked in every scream, memorized every etched line of pain, captured each second of fear and despair.

It was the face Dante had seen as the shiv had punched into him, over and over and over. Red flashed through his vision. Grabbing Elroy by his shirt collar, Dante yanked him out of the van and into the snow.

Elroy hit the snow-covered pavement on his shoulder. Grunted in pain.

Dante bent, locked a hand around the Perv’s arm and hauled him to his feet. Wind whipped through Dante’s hair, iced his skin, his face. He felt Lucien’s heat-radiating presence beside him.

Dante remembered Heather saying that her killer was mortal, all DNA evidence human. Remembered Elroy’s hands sliding along his body, groping, fondling; remembered the stab wounds on Gina’s body; remembered the anarchy symbols cut inside her thighs.

“I fucked up,” Dante said. “You lied to me. You killed Gina. Not Ronin.”

“I still have her last words,” Elroy managed through chattering teeth.

“Not anymore.”

Dante shoved Elroy down into the snow and sat on him. Twisting the Perv’s head aside, he bent and sank his fangs into the monster’s bruised throat. Blood pulsed hot into his mouth. Elroy shrieked.

Dante plunged into his mind.

The Perv’s thoughts and memories rushed into Dante’s mind like a dark and dirty flood—corpse-ridden, sexed-up, spiked with sharp shivs and hard dicks. Diving deep, Dante searched for Gina.

Thunder boomed through the night. Thunder or a shotgun.

“I OFFER YOU A rare and priceless gift,” Johanna Moore said. “Just think of what you could do with it. The justice you could render.”

Heather kept her back to the wall and her eyes on Moore. “And if I say no, you’ll give me the not-so-rare gift of a bullet to the head.”

Moore’s shoulder lifted in an apologetic half shrug. “I’ll have no choice.”

“Is that how you justify what you do?” Heather said. Again she measured the distance to the door. “Do you think you’re aiding society by murdering mothers and twisting their children into killers?”

“Ah. Stearns gave you the file, after all.” Regret flickered in Moore’s eyes. “So you know what S is.”

“I know Dante’s willing to risk his life for his friends,” Heather said. “I know you failed with him.”

Amusement lit Moore’s face. “Failed? I don’t think so.”

Heather tensed, preparing to run. Better to die trying than not to try at all. “You’re a vampire. How could you do what—” An image spun into Heather’s mind, slamming aside her thoughts. She saw Dante’s face and words rang like crystal through her mind: Hang on.

The image vanished and she stumbled, dazed, heart pounding. Dante was close. She looked up into Moore’s wide blue eyes, watched as comprehension took root.

“You didn’t go back to New Orleans for E,” Moore said slowly. “You went back for S…for Dante. You slept with him. He drank your blood, didn’t he?”

Heather grabbed for the Glock, but even stunned and musing, Moore moved, yanking her gun hand out of reach and closing her free hand around Heather’s throat, knocking her back into the padded wall. Gasping for air, Heather pulled at the fingers clamping into her throat and cutting off her air. Moore’s fingers felt like steel. Spots flecked her vision.

“And now he’s coming for you. Not me.” Disappointment edged Moore’s voice.

Moore’s hand dropped away. Heather slid down the wall to a sitting position. She sucked in air, coughing. Tears blurred her vision.

“Should I let him have you?” Moore murmured. “Should I take you from him? Should he do it himself?”

“He’s no longer a little boy,” Heather said, throat aching, voice hoarse. “He won’t fall for your tricks. He’ll see through them.”

“Will he?” Moore whispered. “I don’t think so.”

A voice issued from a speaker near the ceiling: “Doctor Moore. We’ve got guests in the parking lot.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Moore hooked a hand under Heather’s arm and hauled her to her feet. A smile twisted her lips. “I guess you have a little time to mull things over. Consider this—say yes and I’ll give you back to Dante.”

Heather jerked free of Moore’s grip. “He won’t listen to you.”

Moore laughed. “He never did.” She strode from the room, the door shutting behind her. A red telltale lit up. LOCKED.

THUNDER BOOMED AND ROLLED across the sky.

Suddenly, Dante’s weight was gone and E gasped in a breath of cold air. Rolling to his feet, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The Big Guy held Dante by the collar of his leather jacket. Directed his attention away from E—thanks, Big Fella! But it won’t save you—and toward the figures approaching. One figure lifted a long, dark thing. Fire erupted. Thunder rolled again.

Shotgun.

E ran.

JOHANNA HURRIED DOWN THE corridor to the security room, her heels clicking against the tiled floor. Her heart fluttered against her ribs like a wild bird in a cage.

My père de sang and my beautiful True Blood have arrived. And E.

I have long dreaded this night. Long looked forward to it.

Wallace and S. Johanna shook her head, amazed that she’d overlooked something so obvious. With Wallace’s red hair, it was inevitable that S would want her. Did he think he actually cared for Wallace? He wants to save her.

And if he does?

Ah, but what if he doesn’t?

She swiped her card through the security room’s lock, yanked open the door, and stepped inside. Garth and Bennington, trapped by the storm, both glanced up from a monitor. Only two guards remained on-site, also trapped by the storm. Noting their absence, Johanna guessed they’d gone outside to confront the unauthorized guests. She sighed. Ronin would kill them, of course.

“Let me see,” Johanna said, stepping past the two agents. She perched in the chair before the monitor. It showed the front parking lot. A van was parked in the center of the snow-buried lot. Three figures stood near the van, but the heavy snow and wind obscured Johanna’s view. One stood much taller than the other two and all seemed to be Caucasian. She frowned.

“Where’s Ronin?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Garth said. “Only those three.”

As Johanna watched, one figure shoved another into the snow, then sat on him. As the figure’s head dipped, the wind stopped for a moment. Gleam of leather and chains, long black hair, white skin; her beautiful child. And it looked like he was feasting on E.

A smile touched Johanna’s lips. Seems like I can’t give Wallace E, after all.

Then she realized who the tall third figure was—Lucien De Noir, S’s wealthy friend and companion. No shirt. Must be vampire as well.

Two figures in hooded parkas entered the parking lot. McCutcheon and Ramm. Johanna tensed. Just what were they planning on doing? Issuing a parking citation? Shooing them off the property?

“What—” Johanna’s mouth snapped shut when one of the guards raised a rifle, no, shotgun, and fired. She stared at the screen, pulse roaring in her ears.

De Noir grabbed S by his jacket collar and pulled him off E, shielded the child with his own body. The shot went wide. Missed.

“Call them off,” Johanna said through clenched teeth. “Call those idiots off before they get killed.”

The door hissed as Bennington left. Johanna stared at the screen. E rolled to his feet, then staggered away into the storm, one arm in a sling, the other hand pressed against his bleeding throat.

Another shotgun blast. Johanna gritted her teeth. S ducked low, then moved. She gasped, astonished by his speed. Was it the True Blood? De Noir moved, as well, his speed equally astonishing. Then S stood over the body of one of the guards, hands clenched into fists at his sides. A puddle of blood, bright red and steaming, melted the snow. Johanna blinked. She hadn’t even seen S kill the guard. And the other? De Noir dropped the second guard’s broken body into the snow.

Apprehension rippled into Johanna. “We’ll direct them,” she said. “Lock down parts of the building and leave other areas open. We’ll have the advantage.”

Black wings flared behind De Noir. Johanna froze, mouth open, mind empty of rational thought. De Noir wrapped an arm around S and lifted him into the air. Into the storm.

Fallen. One of the Fallen walks at S’s side. Guides him. And I feared Ronin?

Johanna pushed away from the monitor, looked up into Garth’s stricken face. “Okay. Okay. I want you to shut down—”

An explosion echoed through the corridors. The power went out. The building plunged into darkness.

Johanna felt the icy touch of real fear.

LUCIEN DROPPED THE GUARD’S lifeless body into the snow. His wings untucked and fanned out into the wind. Before Dante could take off on his own, Lucien locked an arm around the boy’s waist and lifted them both into the air.

“What are you doing?” Dante automatically slipped an arm around Lucien’s neck.

“Looking for their power source.” The wind buffeted them. Ice edged Lucien’s wings. He scanned the power poles, listened to the frozen land. Captured electricity thrummed. Lucien smiled. He flapped down to the building’s rear. Touched bare feet to the snow-covered pavement and released Dante.

Dante saw the door marked FIRE EXIT and loped toward it.

<After I shut the power down, wait for me.>

<No.>

Lucien spiraled up into the savage sky, watching his son as he stood in front of the exit door, black hair whipping in the wind, his hand poised to grab the handle.

As he flew toward a transformer, Lucien wondered where Jordan had gone, wondered if the mortal would freeze to death and hoped he wouldn’t. Lucien had a different death in mind for him, one that involved his own knives and his own skin.

Hovering beside the transformer, Lucien arced blue flame across the sky.

A LOUD EXPLOSION VIBRATED in from outside. The light went out. Staring into the darkness, Heather reached inside her bra, felt beneath the warm curve of her breast for the nail file, and pulled it free.

She padded to the door. No red LOCKED light. Any secondary systems? If so, she’d better move before they switched on. She pushed. The door swung open. Pulse racing, Heather slipped out of the padded room and into the dark corridor. She pressed up against the wall. Listened. Allowed her eyes time to adjust.

Red lights flickered to life and bathed the corridor in an eerie glow. Nail file in hand, Heather made her way down the corridor. She wondered who had arrived. Jordan? Dante? De Noir had to be with Dante. Was Jordan still alive?

She remembered Dante’s words: I’m coming for you, chérie.

I’m here, Heather “shouted.” I’m here.

An image of Dante poured into Heather’s mind, washing away all thought, all worry. Dizziness whirled through her and she stumbled. Grabbing at the wall, she caught herself before she fell. She closed her eyes, breathing fast, fire searing her veins.

Dante’d heard and answered.

He was on his way.

E SHIVERED CONVULSIVELY. His hands and feet were numb, but his heart blazed, an inferno. An inferno he was dying to unleash on his betraying Bad Seed bro. He grinned, or tried to anyway, but his face was also numb. Maybe a grin was plastered across his face, frozen for all time.

Hunkered down behind a shrubsicle, E watched as De Noir—wow. Wings. Holy fucking shit!—rose into the sky, Dante clutched to his side. Something else Ronin had neglected to mention. Fucker.

E tasted bile at the back of his throat and swallowed. Thought of the hypo hidden in his sling. Thought about the sweet smell of dark cherries and Gina’s last words. He knew Dante wouldn’t leave without them.

Bam!

Heart thudding against his ribs, E glanced over his shoulder. The research center went dark. Swinging around, he ran for the door and the warmth beyond. Ran knowing Dante was stepping inside at the same moment.

A contest, fuck yeah. May the best Bad Seed bad-ass win.

E grabbed the ice-slicked door handle and, yanking it open, darted inside.

DANTE THREW THE DOOR open and ran inside, then stopped. Uneasiness curled through him, snaked around his spine. He breathed in the scent of pine antiseptic and ammonia. Memory prickled.

A woman, blue eyes almost black with wonder as she slides a knife into his side—

No, that was the Perv—or—

Wasps droned, needled venom beneath his skin. I’ve been here. Many times. Dante pushed the thought away, tried to refuse the memory, but it pushed back. Hard. Fragmented images whirled through his mind: Restraints strapped tight and biting into his wrists, his ankles, his chest; a liquid bead hanging from a needle tip; white walls smeared and streaked with blood.

The droning faded and Dante shuddered. Heather. Focus on Heather, dammit. Don’t fucking fall apart. Pain throbbed at his temples and behind his eyes; he shoved it below.

Red lights winked on. A fiery glow lit the corridor.

Heather’s voice whispered into his mind: I’m here. I’m here.

Dante listened for her heart, her steady, quiet rhythm. There. White light strobed at the edges of his vision.

Dante ran.

JOHANNA STRODE OUT INTO the corridor. The emergency backups powered on, flooding the building with red light. Garth stepped out behind her, gun in hand.

“Don’t shoot S,” Johanna said. “I have tranks for him.”

“What am I supposed to do if he comes at me in the meantime?” Garth asked, one eyebrow arched. “Throw my gun at him? Offer my fucking throat?”

“You wanted to see him. Well, here he is. Just stay out of his way.”

“Great. What about the guy with wings?”

Good question. “I’d advise staying out of his way, as well.” Johanna moved, leaving Garth alone. And cursing.

Her little True Blood walked corridors he hadn’t walked in six years. He’d been seventeen the last time she’d had him drugged and picked up. Of course, he had no memory of that, just another blank spot in his mind.

But this time, S walked these halls because he chose to. Because he meant to rescue Wallace. Because he meant to confront Johanna. Her heart jumped when she remembered his speed.

Confront? No, he means to kill. That’s what he knows. It’s in the blood.

HEATHER GLANCED DOWN THE empty red-lit corridor. She still felt the heat of Dante’s mental touch; his image-voice circled through her mind—On my way.

Pushing away from the wall, she ran down the corridor in her stocking feet, the green-cool glow of the EXIT signs her guide. She couldn’t stay put and wait for Dante to find her. Couldn’t risk Moore finding her first. Couldn’t risk Dante sacrificing himself for her. Because she knew he would.

Shhh. Je suis ici.

Pain bit into the undersides of the fingers on Heather’s right hand. She glanced down. Her hand, white-knuckled and stinging, was clenched around the nail file. As she forced her fingers to relax, she heard a soft padding behind her, moving fast—

“Freeze, Wallace. Hold it right there.”

Heather heard the unmistakable sound of a round being chambered and smelled the faint scent of sweet melon. Trench. Parka’s partner.

“I’m not the one you need to worry about,” Heather said, tucking her fingers over the nail file. “He’s coming for me.”

“Psycho bait. I know. Turn around. Slow.”

“Walk away,” Heather said. She measured the distance to the corridor’s bend. If she was needed as bait, would Trench risk killing her?

“Don’t. I’ll put one into your knee.”

Heather stared straight ahead. Shifted her sweat-damp grip on the nail file. Slid the point between her fingers. Heard Moore saying: Should I let him have you?

Not for you to decide. Heather whirled to the left, her hand arcing up and over for a file-toothed shoulder punch. Then she froze.

Elroy Jordan jerked a syringe from Trench’s neck. The agent gasped, her eyes rolling up white. Her gun dropped from her fingers and clattered against the tiled floor. His gaze met Heather’s. Abyss-eyed. A shark’s unemotional regard.

“Looks like I’m the one she needed to worry about,” he said as Trench collapsed, limbs twitching against the floor tiles. He shook his head. “That was supposed to be for my Bad Seed bro.”

Trench went still, eyes wide. Silent. The pungent smell of piss filled the corridor.

“Oops,” Jordan said. He grinned.

Heather lowered her hand, tightened her fingers around the nail file. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Jordan, alive. But a little worse for wear—bruised and bitten throat, arm in a sling, disheveled.

Jordan’s gaze dropped to the gun on the floor between them. “Faithful Heather,” he murmured. “I knew you’d come for me.” He looked up. “But S is still mine.”

“Wrong,” Heather said. And lunged for the gun.

Jordan dropped at the same moment. As his fingers wrapped around the pistol’s grip, Heather stabbed the nail file into the back of his hand. Jordan screamed. She yanked the bloodstained file from Jordan’s hand. Lifted it again.

But Jordan spun on his knees and slid the pistol down the corridor behind him. The gun skittered across the gleaming tile into darkness.

Jordan sprang to his feet. “Whoever finds Dante first can keep him.” He locked gazes with Heather. The abyss kaleidoscoped open within each eye, endless and hungry. “Race ya,” he said.

Heather ran.

JOHANNA REACHED THE MED unit. Her fingers curled around the door handle. A scream echoed through the center and she paused. Male—Bennington? E? A shadow jittered on the wall at the corridor’s end. She yanked open the door and slipped inside. As she eased the door shut, she tried to calm her frantic heart. She sneaked a peek out the door’s window.

Johanna felt him before she saw him—mingled pain and rage spiked against her shields. And desperation. He struggled for control. He burned.

She carefully removed her shoes, then stepped backward to the drug cabinets. S’s shadow stopped, twitched against the wall in the red light. Sweat trickled between Johanna’s breasts, along her temples.

As Johanna unlatched the cabinet, the door flew open and slammed against the wall, denting the plaster. She brought up the Glock. S stepped into the room and she couldn’t breathe for a moment, dazzled, as always, by his beauty.

“Welcome home,” she said.

S stopped, dark eyes perplexed. He winced, touched a hand to his head. Blood trickled from his nose.

“Dante!”

S spun. The red-haired agent grabbed the doorway’s threshold as she slid across the tile in her stocking feet. She looked past S to Johanna.

He wants to save Wallace.

Ah, but what if he doesn’t?

“Shit,” Wallace said.

Johanna fired.

A GUNSHOT CRACKED DOWN the corridor. E’s heart leapt into his throat. He edged around the corner. Hugged it. Dante knelt on the floor, his Heather cradled in his arms. She touched a shaking hand to the backstabber’s pretty face. E tensed.

Had her eyes gleamed golden? For Dante? For his cheating/lying/backstabbing Bad Seed bro?

Looks like Heather won the race. Fire charred E’s heart. He reached into his sling, his fingers finding the syringe. He regretted emptying the vial into the ponytailed blonde, wished he’d saved just enough for Dante. Hand shaking with cold, with rage, he pulled the syringe free.

Something on the floor glinted in the red light. A gift to an angry god?

The bad-ass bloodsucker bent his head and kissed Heather’s lips.

E’s cindered heart crumpled to ash. Does she taste of honey? I bet she does. Syringe full o’ eye-pricking pain in hand, he stepped forward, back still pressed against the red-lit walls.

A dart suddenly sprouted from Dante’s neck. The bloodsucker shivered, but continued to kiss Heather. Or was he giving mouth-to-mouth? No, his Heather’s fingers were wrapped in Dante’s black hair.

Where had the dart come from?

E went still and watched. Johanna Moore stepped from the room behind Dante, leaned over him and plucked the dart free. Stroked his hair.

“You failed,” she whispered. “Again.”

Another shudder snaked the length of Dante’s spine, then he slumped to the side, Heather still in his arms, her fingers still entwined in his hair.

Together.

A strange wailing noise filled the corridor, rising and falling, like a siren. E became aware that he was running, the syringe raised in his bad hand like a shiv, when Bitch-Mommy’s head jerked up. Looked at him.

“Ffffuuuucccckkkkkk yyyyooooouuuuuuu!”

E scooped up the shining gift from the floor with his good hand. Metal, sharp and slender. A nail file.

Bitch-Mommy Moore lifted the Glock. Fired. Pain flowered in E’s chest, hot and full of thorns. Grinning, he kept running. Bitch-Mommy fired again. Another pain-flower blossomed in E’s belly. He launched himself. He flew, a golden arrow, a god of death, pure and terrible. Golden light starred from his body, piercing, white-hot, and unerring.

The god slammed into Johanna Moore, knocking her back into the room. The syringe broke off in her throat. The nail file punctured her gut. Choking, she shoved the god to the floor. The god’s stomach heaved blood up into his mouth. The god grinned. Bitch-Mommy clutched at the broken syringe in her throat and pulled it out. Then she lifted her eyes up and up and up.

So she finally sees me, the god thought.

Bitch-Mommy’s face turned fifty shades of white.

Pleased, the god closed his eyes.

SOMETHING HOT AND WET spread across the front of Heather’s blouse. She glanced down. Blood, bright red. Arterial. Dante caught her as she fell, gathered her into his strong arms. She looked at him and tried to say, I’m sorry, but couldn’t find her voice.

Cradling her against his chest, Dante dropped to his knees. She touched a shaking hand to his beautiful, devastated face and smoothed her thumb beneath his left eye.

“Not for me, Dante,” Heather whispered, showing him the moisture on her thumb. “No tears for me. Not your fault.”

Dante pulled her closer. His heat radiated into her. “I won’t lose you.” He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit it. Dark blood welled up on his pale skin. He pressed the wound against her lips. “Drink,” he urged. “S’il te plait.”

Dante’s blood smeared across Heather’s lips as she turned her head away. It smelled of dark sun-warmed grapes and tasted like Dante’s kisses, heady and tempting. Her throat tightened.

“No,” she whispered. Her vision swam. “No. I want to stay what…I…am…” She shivered, suddenly cold. Sleepy.

Gold fire lit Dante’s eyes. Lowering his head, he kissed her.

DANTE’S SONG STIRRED WITHIN him, layering chord upon chord. Bending his head, he kissed Heather’s bloodstained lips and breathed his song into her. He filled her with his essence, kindling blue fire at her core. He imagined her whole, healed, and wove blue-lit thread through her wound. Heather’s fingers twisted around his hair. Her faltering heart beat strong and fast.

Something stung Dante’s neck.

“You failed,” a familiar voice said. “Again.”

Dante shivered as cold spread through him, crackling like ice through his veins. His song faltered.

“Not true,” Heather murmured against his lips.

He tasted the salt of her tears. Fire flared for a moment, and he breathed it into her before they sank together beneath the ice, plunging through starless night.

PAIN AND GRIEF SLAPPED against Lucien’s shields like twin tsunamis, receding to return in ever stronger waves, deadlier surges. He ran, following his bond to Dante. Loss reverberated within Lucien like a broken song. Power swirled into the air, buoyed by a creawdwr’s energy. Then, Dante lapsed into unconsciousness.

As Lucien rounded the corner, he saw Jordan fling himself at Johanna Moore, a syringe in one fist, a bit of metal in the other. He saw Moore shoot Jordan twice before the mortal tackled her. They both hit the floor hard. Her gun skittered across the tiles, coming to a stop against Dante’s back.

Dante lay in the corridor, his arms wrapped around Wallace. Fading blue flames sparked and danced around them. Lucien heard Dante’s slow, measured heartbeat, smelled the chemicals flowing in his blood. Wallace’s heart pulsed, as well, a rapid patter.

In one long stride, Lucien stood beside his drugged child and the woman he cared for—cared for enough to sacrifice his own safety to ensure hers—but hadn’t that always been his way?

It was one of the things Lucien loved and treasured most in Dante—his compassionate heart. All the things Moore had subjected his child to hadn’t stolen that compassion or broken his spirit. He was wounded, yes, and some of the wounds might never heal, yes. But he’d survive. And he’d love.

Lucien saw Genevieve in every act of love Dante performed, in every kindness he showed. In those moments, Lucien saw his laughing, dark-haired little Genevieve.

But, as for the woman who’d killed her…

Lucien swiveled and watched as Johanna Moore pushed herself free of Jordan’s body. Her hand reached up, grabbing the broken syringe in her throat. She yanked it out, blood trickling from the puncture, then froze, her gaze traveling up the length of Lucien’s body.

Johanna Moore paled. Her fingers froze around the sliver of steel in her belly.

Jordan’s blood-frothed lips curved into a smile. His eyes closed.

“Do you remember Genevieve Baptiste?” Lucien asked, kneeling beside Dante. “My son’s mother?” He picked up Moore’s gun and tossed it down the darkened hall.

Shock blanched Johanna’s face. Widened her eyes. “Your…son?” she whispered.

“Oüi, mon fils,” Lucien said. He glanced at Heather; she opened her eyes. “But, I believe my question was—do you remember Genevieve Baptiste?”

Lucien slipped an arm around Heather and eased her up, helping her to sit against the wall. Her gaze remained on Dante, reluctant to leave him. Lucien touched a talon beneath her chin. Heather regarded him with shock-dilated eyes.

“It’s all right,” he promised.

Heather drew in a deep breath, then winced. Lucien brushed her hair back from her face. Her wound no longer bled, but she needed medical attention. The drugs had kept Dante from finishing whatever it was he’d started.

“I’m waiting,” Lucien said.

“Yes, I remember her,” Moore stammered, voice rough. She yanked the file from her flesh. It hit the floor with a sharp tink.

Lucien drew a talon across his wrist. Blood welled up. He looked at Moore from beneath his brows. “Say her name.”

“Genevieve Baptiste,” Moore breathed. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have—”

“Be silent,” Lucien said, gathering Dante into his arms.

Moore closed her mouth.

Lucien pressed his bleeding wrist against Dante’s lips. The blood smell roused Dante’s nightkind instinct and he sucked at the wound, swallowing the healing blood. Lucien knew it wouldn’t cleanse all of the drug’s effects, but it would lessen them.

Looking back at Moore, Lucien said, “I’ve read the file. I’ve seen the CD. I know what you’ve done to Dante. To him and to his mother, my love.”

Moore looked away. She trailed a shaking hand through her blonde hair.

Why have you abandoned us?

Lucien tasted the ashes of bitter regret. He deserved Dante’s hate, perhaps.

My Genevieve, I am with our son. He is safe at last.

Lucien pulled his wrist away from Dante’s mouth, then bent and kissed him, breathing energy in between his lips. Urged his son up to consciousness.

Awaken, child. Time to take your revenge.

Time to free yourself from the past.

Dante’s eyes opened, revealing dilated gold-rimmed pupils.

“AVENGE YOUR MOTHER,” LUCIEN whispered. “And yourself.”

Pushing Lucien’s arms aside, Dante sat up. The corridor spun. Colored flecks starred his vision. His head ached, but a different kind of pain knifed his heart.

Heather.

He looked for her, saw her resting against the wall, a smile on her pale lips. Rising to his feet, he crossed the floor and, kneeling, touched a hand to her face.

He breathed a little easier knowing she’d live. He’d flooded energy and song into her, seeking what was broken. He wasn’t sure what he’d done, but it had worked. He hadn’t lost her.

Heather laid her hand over his, her skin cool. Wonder lit her face. “I hear a song. It’s dark and furious and heartbreaking. So beautiful. Is it coming from you?”

Dante nodded. Leaning in, he kissed her. Her fingers inter-laced with his. “Don’t listen,” he said against her lips. “Shut it out. D’accord?”

“Let it go. I can build a case against Moore,” Heather said. “Let it go, Dante.”

Dante leaned back. “No.” He squeezed her hand, then released it. He stood.

Heather closed her eyes. “Pigheaded,” she whispered.

Dante spun on his heel and strode across the corridor, past Lucien, Heather’s fear pressed like a rose against his heart. For him. She was scared for him.

<Guard her.>

<Of course.>

Elroy the Perv’s body stretched across the doorway, his shirt bloodied, his eyes empty, his heart silent. Dissipating heat shimmered up from the body. Dante’s hands curled into fists. Gina. Elroy had taken the last little bit of her to the grave.

“Name the one you love,” Dante whispered, stepping over the Perv.

Tomorrow night?

Always, ma petite.

Dante walked into a room rank with buried memories and the smell of old blood and medicine. He looked at the woman standing at the opposite wall—tall, blonde, nightkind. Never taking her eyes from him, she reached for a dart gun on the counter beside her.

Images sparked: She looks down at him, smiling. He smells Chloe’s blood congealing on the floor, on the straitjacket wrapped around him. “You’ve done well, little one. You failed to protect her, but you protected yourself. No one can ever be used against you if you’re willing to kill them yourself.”

Sparked: She tightens his restraints, smooths a hand through his hair, then, smiling, steps back as a man in a white lab coat and a clear mask walks into the room, a baseball bat clenched in his hand. And goes to work.

Wasps droned. Pain whispered through Dante’s mind. White light squiggled at the edges of his vision. He watched her hand slide to the dart gun; he let her curl her fingers around it.

She’s the one, Dante-angel.

I know, princess.

“My True Blood,” she said. A smile brushed her lips. “Do you remember me?”

“Oüi,” Dante said, voice low. “I remember you.”

Dante moved and caught her wrist as she raised the dart gun, then slammed her against the wall. The dart gun tumbled from her fingers and tunked against the tile. Moore twisted, but Dante held her against the wall, his hands locked around her wrists, his body pressing against hers, his thigh between her legs.

Dante smelled the blood flowing through her veins, listened to the hard pounding of her heart, smelled her—cinnamon and cloves and cold, cold ice.

Smelled lust, smoldering and pheromone-rich.

Moore stopped struggling. She looked into Dante’s eyes. Her breath caught in her throat and another memory-fragment tore through his mind: Moore curled naked and warm beside him, reeking of blood and sex, her fangs in his throat, her fingers in his hair.

Rage coiled through muscles already taut. “What makes you different from him?” Dante nodded his head toward Jordan’s body behind him.

“I know what’s best for you.”

“Yeah, he thought so, too.”

“No one knows you like I do,” Moore said, voice husky. “I’ve explored your mind. Mapped your psyche. But it’s only a beginning. There are secrets, S—”

“Ain’t S.”

Music twisted through Dante: an aria, thorned and dark, prickling around his heart, rising, pounding, a crescendo of fury and chaos and loss. Chords strummed; chaos rhythm pulsed discordant and raw.

His song burned. Incandescent.

“Did my mother ask to be turned?” Dante asked. “Did she choose?”

“Yes. But, she changed her mind later, when it was too late. I couldn’t undo—”

“Liar,” Dante whispered.

“What’s that glow?” Moore breathed as he lifted his hands and cupped her face.

Chaos rhythm plucked at vibrating strands of DNA, breaking, compressing, erasing. Unmaking. Johanna Moore screamed, a long undulating sound that pierced Dante’s aching head. His song pulled her apart—divided her into elements, played an arpeggio with her core. Spilled her essence. Separated flesh and bone and blood.

Johanna Moore puddled on the floor, her scream ending with a wet gurgle.

Blue spikes of energy whipped around Dante, flamed from his hands. He shivered, caught in the song, the rhythms of chaos, the tempo of creation. Closed his eyes. He saw stars. Heard a rush of wings.

<Silence the song, child. You’ve avenged your mother.>

Dante opened his eyes. The song faded into silence. Pain scraped through his head. He tasted blood. He looked down at the moist strands that used to be Johanna Moore. Kicked them apart. Then he turned.

Lucien stared at him, eyes golden, wings arched behind him, his face both rapt and…scared? Dante wondered. Lucien, scared?

<Creawdwr.>

Dante walked to the doorway. He knelt beside Elroy’s cooling body. Could he pull Gina from a dead mind?

“Too late,” Lucien said. “You’ve chosen the living over the dead.”

Looking up, Dante saw Heather sitting across the hall, face stark, eyes dark and troubled. “Oüi. The living over the dead.”

Forgive me, Gina.

Standing, Dante stepped over the Perv’s body one last time. He gathered Heather into his arms and carried her down the corridor. His muscles tightened as he smelled fear on her, fear of him. He held her close, his heart pounding hard.

A man in a snow-dusted parka stepped into the corridor, his hands out and open; Look, nothing hidden here! “I can call an ambulance,” he said.

“You can trust him,” Heather murmured. “He helped me.”

“Okay,” Dante said. “Call one.” He breathed in Heather’s scent—rain and sage and blood, drew it deep into his lungs. Scared it was the last time.