A Rush of Wings

5 The Hard Way « ^ »

HEATHER SIPPED AT HER café au lait, the Styrofoam cup finally cool enough to hold. Dawn edged the gray horizon with orange and peach and gilded the undersides of the clouds. She yawned and rubbed at her face. The search warrant fluttered on the rented Subaru Legacy’s dashboard vents. She switched off the heat. The car’s engine clicked and tinked as it cooled.

She was parked across the street from Dante’s plantation house, some miles from New Orleans. Old river rock and black iron walls surrounded the house. On paper the house belonged to Lucien De Noir, but Heather suspected that, as with the club, the house was actually Dante’s. Thick greenery and fragrant flowers twisted along the walls. Huge oak trees shaded the property. The black iron gate hung open. In the circular drive a black van, a chopped Harley, and a little black MG were parked.

Heather glanced at her watch. Six thirty. About an hour ago, she’d seen the van pull into the drive, followed by Von on the Harley. The blonde and the pretty punk boy had climbed out of the van. De Noir had carried Dante in his arms like a child. Drunk? Migraine sick? They’d all gone inside the house. The door had closed. Nothing had stirred since.

A twinge of guilt pricked Heather. Migraines. She remembered Annie’s pain-dilated eyes, her desperation. Shaking her head, she looked down at the coffee cup in her hand, then glanced out the window. Dante was not Annie and it couldn’t be helped. He’d given her no other choice.

There was something strange about the relationship between De Noir and Dante. Could they be lovers? She replayed the events at Club Hell through her mind, looking for clues. Remembered De Noir lying about Dante’s presence, remembered De Noir flying from behind that ridiculous throne when Armani Suit had charged up the steps. Remembered De Noir saying, He suffers from migraines, heard the sheltering tone in his deep voice.

No, Heather finally decided. Not lovers. De Noir had been protective and caring, but she hadn’t felt any underlying sexual tension or erotic chemistry between the two. Instead, they’d seemed comfortable with each other. Old friends, then.

Heather sighed, then took a long sip of her rapidly cooling coffee. No, there was something else between De Noir and Dante. Unrequited love? Something like that, hidden and secret, but only on De Noir’s part. He’d watched Dante every moment they were together. At least, he had last night.

Finishing her coffee, Heather tossed the cup onto the passenger-side floor. It had cost her a lot of time and considerable charm to convince a judge to agree to a search warrant. In truth, she believed Detective Collins had had more to do with it than any amount of personal charm. Despite all that, the warrant was for the courtyard only.

Heather looked at the silent plantation house. Dark curtains blinded every window. Must be sound asleep by now. Time to serve the warrant. Dante wanted to be difficult, fine. Gravel crunched beneath her Skechers as she got out of the car and crossed the road to the yawning gate.

Heather followed the broken, tree-root-uplifted path alongside the house to the front porch. The steps creaked under her weight as she climbed onto the wide porch. Grabbing the black iron gargoyle knocker bolted to the door’s center, she thunked it repeatedly against the solid oak. The sound echoed throughout the silent house.

Wrapping her fingers around the cold iron knocker again, Heather pounded it against the door three more times. The sound rippled through the plantation house, then faded into silence.

Heather was reaching for the knocker again when the door’s inside locks clicked and the door cracked open. De Noir looked down at Heather, his face cold. Still dressed in his clothes from last night. Not asleep yet, then, she mused. The rough-edged X pendant around his throat caught rosy light from the rising sun.

“What can I do for you?” De Noir said, his deep voice level and controlled.

Heather held up the search warrant. “Get Dante up.”

De Noir frowned. “Can’t your warrant be served at a more convenient time? In the evening, perhaps?”

“No.”

Golden light sparked to life in De Noir’s narrowed eyes. He slammed the door shut. Twisted the locks.

Smiling, Heather relaxed against the door frame. She glanced at her watch. She’d give him fifteen minutes to rouse Dante, then put the gargoyle knocker back to use. She’d wake up everyone in the goddamned house, if necessary.

Look, we don’t have to do this the hard way.

It’s the only way I know.

His choice. Heather tucked the search warrant into her purse. His words.

Fifteen minutes passed and Heather thumped the gargoyle against the door. In another fifteen minutes, she’d give another twenty whacks, she thought as she leaned back against the door frame once more. The sky brightened, turned the dew-laden grass into a sea of jeweled fire.

Just as Heather was about to grab the gargoyle again, the locks clicked and the door opened. Dante slipped out of the house and onto the porch, still fastening his belt. Definitely dragged out of bed.

Heather stared, suddenly breathless, her gaze lingering on his pale face—dark eyes, last night’s eyeliner smudged underneath, high cheekbones, full lower lip… She was disgusted with herself for being sucker punched by good looks.

“Lucien doesn’t think very much of you,” Dante said, walking past her and down the front steps. He pulled up the gray hood of a sweatshirt worn under his leather jacket, shadowing his face.

Heather followed him onto the buckled flagstones. “Sorry to hear that. Good morning, by the way,” she said. “Got that search warrant.”

Dante raised a gloved hand; his index finger circled whoop-de-do. He kept walking.

“My car’s across the street,” Heather said.

Dante strode through the wrought-iron gate.

Heather shook her head, bemused. Even at this hour, Dante looked as though he’d dressed for a Goth convention: stylish shades, leather gloves, leather pants, and black long-sleeved mesh shirt under a black T, both shirts only half-tucked, and black, silver-buckled biker boots. The back of his leather jacket read MAD EDGAR, the safety-pinned letters looking like they’d been cut out of magazines: a walking ransom note.

Lengthening her stride, she passed Dante, crossing the street to the Subaru. She unlocked both doors, then waited until Dante had slouched into the passenger seat before seating herself.

“Seat belt,” she said, strapping her own shut.

“Got a warrant for that too?”

“No,” Heather said, voice low. “Is this how it’s going to be with you?”

“Most likely.”

Heather stared at him for a long moment. Opened her mouth. Shut it again. Pick your battles. This one isn’t worth it.

“Good to know,” she said finally.

Keying on the ignition, Heather slammed the gearshift into drive and peeled out onto the street, the Subaru’s tires spitting gravel. Dante pulled the sun visor down.

Heather drove in silence until her anger and irritation were under control. He’s tired. I’m tired. Cranky is the word for the day. She loosened her grip on the steering wheel. She eased the Subaru onto the interstate and aimed it for New Orleans.

She wrinkled her nose, puzzled by the buttery, suntan oil kind of odor filling the car. “Is that sunscreen I smell?”

“Mmm.”

Heather glanced at her passenger. “You playing up those vampire rumors?”

“Not playing,” Dante murmured.

“Right.”

Heather stared straight ahead, attention focused on the road. She had a feeling Dante wasn’t kidding. His sleepy voice had sounded sincere.

She’d dealt with this type at the psychiatric hospital outside Boise where she’d done volunteer work in an effort to better understand the difference between mentally ill and sociopath. And in hopes of better understanding Annie. Goth, wannabe undead. Yearning to be special. He probably had dental implants and kept bagged blood in his refrigerator, all part of the delusion.

Heather glanced at Dante. He slept, his head back against the seat and turned to one side, the hoodie hiding his face, gloved hands relaxed and open on his thighs.

“Hey, Dante, wake up!” He didn’t stir. Seemed dead to the world. Keeping her gaze on the road, she smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “C’mon, wake up.”

“Tais toi,” Dante murmured, turning his face away and folding his arms against his chest, snuggled up tight for sleep.

And he speaks French. Or was it Cajun? He was from Lafayette, Cajun territory, had a bit of an accent.

Rain began to spatter the windshield, nothing serious, just a dawn sprinkle. Heather switched on the wipers. What was it with this city? Vampires. Voodoo. Cities of the dead. She glanced at Dante. He was still curled up, his breathing low, hard to perceive.

“Do you actually believe you’re a vampire?”

To her surprise, Dante stirred, sat up. He tugged the hood’s edges farther over his face. “Nightkind,” he said, yawning. “Belief’s got nothing to do with it. Are you mortal just because you believe you are?”

“Mortal? Of course not,” Heather said, looking at him, trying to see his hidden face. “I was born human. Just like everyone else.”

Slouched down in the seat again, arms folded across his chest, Dante turned his hooded head to look out the passenger window. “Mmm. Glad you cleared that up.”

Heather lapsed into silence. She was failing with him. Maybe he really believed the vampire stuff or maybe he wanted her to see through it. And maybe, just maybe, it was all a rocker prank, a mindfuck for the fun of it and nothing to get worked up over.

She was tired, and it was affecting her judgment. A quick look at Dante revealed that he slept again—or pretended to, at least.

Once in the city, Heather steered the car to Canal Street, then from Canal down Royal, finally turning onto St. Peter. Bits and pieces from last night were strewn across the rain-dampened cobblestones: bright paper, beads, empty plastic cups, a black bra. After the madness and frenzy of the night before, the Quarter looked desolate and abandoned.

Heather parked in front of the club. She leaned over and was about to shake Dante’s shoulder when he suddenly sat up, his shaded gaze on one of the upper floors. Scrunching down, Heather looked through the passenger window to see what had drawn his attention. On the third floor, an open pair of French windows.

Heather remembered curtains dancing in the night breeze, the orange flicker of candlelight. “Something wrong?”

“Hope not.” Dante yanked at the door handle.

Heather blinked. Dante stood on the sidewalk, gaze on the windows. She hadn’t seen him actually open the door or even get out. All she’d seen was his gloved fingers pulling the door latch and then she’d heard the thunk as the door closed after him.

What the hell? Heather rubbed at her eyes. Had she dozed off for a second? Was she that tired? She joined Dante on the sidewalk and followed his gaze up. The curtains hung limp.

“Who was up there last night?”

“I was,” Dante replied—but his voice was further away.

Looking down, Heather realized that Dante was already at the club entrance, working keys in the locks.

Wake up, Wallace, Jesus Christ. She hurried to join him as he pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside.

The stale smell of smoke, old beer, and sex lingered in the dark hallway. Dante stood next to the security panel of the club’s alarm system. Red light from the BURN sign down the hall flickered across the back of his hood. Frowning, he pushed the hood back and slid his shades to the top of his head. Green telltales glowed on the security panel. He no longer looked sleepy.

“What’s wrong?” Heather asked, stepping up beside him.

“The alarm’s not on,” he said. He glanced back over his shoulder at the buzzing neon sign. Red light jittered across his pale face. “I don’t think Lucien woulda forgot.”

Heather straightened, adrenaline pumping into her bloodstream. Her heart beat faster. Reaching into the trench’s inside pocket, she pulled free her .38.

“Stay here,” she said.

“Fuck that,” Dante said. Then he was gone.

“Dante, no!” she hissed into the red-lit darkness, but he was long gone. How had he moved so fast? Reflex boost? Enhancement?

Sliding the .38’s safety off, Heather ran the length of the hall, her back close to the wall, and into the club. Across an eerie red-lit wasteland of tables, chairs, Cage, and throne, she saw Dante on the staircase, rounding the corner onto the third-floor landing.

Easing her way between tables, her gaze flicking from shadow to shadow, she hurried to the stairs. The icy sense of wrongness that had seized her at the security panel hadn’t diminished. Something was very wrong. And Dante was about to walk right into it. Walk, hell. Teleport was more like it. But he was a civilian in her custody; her responsibility.

Heather started up the stairs, her back to the wall, her .38 held in a two-handed grip. Her own dim shadow scouted ahead of her, and she winced every time a stair creaked beneath her foot. Stepping onto the second-floor landing, she brought her gun up as she dropped down into a crouch, checking right, then left, before straightening again. She listened. The old building creaked around her. Soft footsteps pattered above her on the third floor, then stopped.

She climbed the next flight of stairs, her gaze shifting from the dark third-floor landing to the red-lit club beyond and beneath the wrought-iron railings. Nothing moved in the shadows below.

On the landing, she dropped into a crouch and cleared right, then turned to the left. Dante stood in a doorway, one gloved hand braced against the threshold. Heather straightened. Gargoyle candle sconces guarded the framed art lining the walls. An old-fashioned Oriental hall carpet cushioned her footsteps. Dante didn’t move, did nothing to indicate that he heard her or knew she was there.

A thick, coppery smell filled Heather’s nostrils, a smell she knew all too well. Her gut knotted. The steady plop-plop of dripping became more distinct as she drew nearer. She stepped beside Dante, gun still held in both hands, and looked into the room.

It was worse than she could’ve imagined.

Much worse.