Beneath the Skin

33 THIS TIME IS ALL WE HAVE

OUTSIDE NEW ORLEANS, DANTE’S HOUSE

March 27

BROWNING IN HAND, HEATHER surveyed the night-drenched yard, searching for anything out of place, for a sign of anyone watching since she’d pulled the SUV into the house’s circular drive at 4:30 that afternoon.

She’d studied the house and yard then too, before locking up the vehicle and tucking herself against Dante’s fevered warmth for a nap until his nightkind household awakened.

Dante draws in a deep breath and opens his dark eyes. Heather says, “We’re home.”

A warm, almost happy, smile curves his lips. “C’est bon, yeah?”

“Definitely.”

Heather bends and kisses his lips. Everything she sees in his eyes, she also feels. Ever since her journey through the dark forest of his mind, she feels connected to him in a way that reminds her of the temporary blood-link she shares with him whenever he drinks a little of her blood.

Bonded, he explains to her. Connected mind-to-mind and heart-to-heart.

“I can feel you, catin, and you can feel me—no matter if we’re together or not.”

Dante returns her kiss passionately and heat ripples through her belly – hers and his. This is going to be interesting.

“All clear, doll,” Von said, joining her on the cracked and root-tilted sidewalk. He slid his Browning back into its holster.

“Good.” Heather tucked her gun into the back of her jeans, automatically tugging the hem of her shirt over the Browning.

Need to get my own gun.

“Cool house,” Annie said, stopping beside her, gym bag in hand.

“No one watching, not from cars parked on the street, anyway,” Dante said, slipping back into the driveway through the partially opened wrought-iron gate.

The front door flew open, smacking against the house, and Simone raced down the steps, her long blonde spirals bouncing against her back. She stopped in front of Dante and threw her arms around his neck.

The sweet smell of magnolias permeated the air.

“Mon ami,” she cried, kissing first his lips, then his cheeks, over and over again.

A radiant smile lit Dante’s pale face. He laced his arms around her waist. “Hey, chère,” he said, Simone’s kisses muffling his words. “Missed you.”

“Hey, sugar,” Von said, tipping Simone’s face toward him. “Plant some on me.”

Grinning, Simone loosened her hold on Dante and kissed Von thoroughly.

Annie arched an eyebrow and glanced at Heather. Heather forced a smile to her lips and tried to relax, reminding herself that Simone and Dante’s relationship was one of friendship. At least, she thought so. All the same she itched to pluck the blonde away from Dante.

Silver, his Midnite Purple hair anime-styled and gelled, leaned in the doorway in black tee and jeans, a mischievous smile on his lips, streetlight gleaming in his silver eyes.

“Hey, Annie.”

“Hey back.” Hoisting the strap of her gym bag onto her shoulder, Annie climbed the steps to the front porch. Silver pushed away from the doorway and led the way into the house.

“Let’s take this inside,” Von said. “Might not be safe out here in the open.”

Dante kissed Simone’s forehead, then eased free of her embrace. “He’s right.”

Von snorted. “That goes without saying.” He slipped an arm around Simone’s waist. She looked at the nomad for a long moment, then face stricken, she leaned into him. She glanced at Dante, concern in her dark eyes. Von shook his head.

Heather had a feeling Von had just told Simone about Dante’s loss.

Dante stretched a hand out to Heather and she grasped it. Lacing his fingers through hers, they walked up the sidewalk and into the house.

Home.

GILLESPIE WATCHED THROUGH HIS binoculars as Prejean, McGuinn, the Wallace sisters and the other two vampires—the gorgeous blonde and the slinky teenager—disappeared inside the house.

He’d also watched as Prejean had prowled the street and neighboring driveways looking for surveillance vehicles. Moonlight had glinted in his hair and along his leather pants, seemed to flow beneath his white skin.

Gillespie had pulled back from the window, heart pounding, wondering if the True Blood could sense him even across the street and through walls.

When he’d looked again, no one walked the street’s edge and he’d suffered a bad moment imagining Prejean climbing in through the laundry room window.

He’d remembered Rodriguez’s savaged throat in vivid detail.

Lifting his binoculars with shaking hands, he’d seen Prejean inside the gate, the blonde vamp draped over him and Heather Wallace looking none too pleased.

Gillespie rested the binoculars on the windowsill and went downstairs to fetch a couple of Pacificos from the fridge of the house he’d broken into when he’d learned the owners were on vacation.

Trudging back up the stairs, Gillespie settled into his chair again. He glanced at the sniper rifle in its case. When the time was right. No matter how long it took for that time to come around.

Through Prejean, he finally had a chance to redeem himself, to do something that mattered. Through Prejean, he had a chance to remove an evil from the world. An evil that unmade people and murdered others; an evil that had transformed a little girl into someone else.

An evil partially created and released by the SB itself—Dante Prejean.

Taking a long swallow of the lime-laced and frosty brew, Gillespie picked up his binoculars and went back to watching.

HEATHER DRAPED THE CLOTHES Simone had given her—panties, black bra, purple tank top, black leather pants, socks—on top of Dante’s rumpled bed. The bra would be snug since she and Simone wore different cup sizes, but it’d work until she could buy clothes of her own.

Leather pants—a first. But Simone apparently didn’t own a single pair of jeans— just a few pairs of leather pants and a closetful of skirts and dresses.

Mewing, Eerie inspected the clothes with delicate sniffs, decorating them with orange fur.

“Hey, you,” Heather said, rubbing his head. “Quit helping.”

Closing his eyes, Eerie stroked his jaw against her fingertips. He purred.

Dante had offered her and Annie rooms of their own, an offer of personal space that Annie had snatched up immediately.

Don’t want you to feel like you hafta share a room with me, chérie. Until we get things figured out—

Do you want me in your room?

He answers her with a kiss that steals her breath away and weakens her knees.

Then shut up, Baptiste. There’ll be time to figure things out later.

Heather stepped into Dante’s bathroom and turned on the shower. A sense of loss shafted through her heart. Tears prickled in her eyes. Bewildered, she shut off the water. Then it hit her—it was Dante’s grief, not her own.

She walked from his room and into the hall. She peeked in each door she passed until she found him two doors down and across the hall. He stood at the closet of a neat, Spartan room, a white tailored shirt in his hands.

A shirt that had to be Lucien’s, given the size.

Dante rubbed his ringed thumbs back and forth across the material. He blinked hard and fast several times.

Heather swiveled around and walked away, a lump in her throat. If she’d said anything or had stepped into the room, he would’ve put his grief aside. She couldn’t do that to him.

Returning to the bathroom, Heather turned the shower back on and pulled off the Mad Edgar T-shirt. Steam curled into the air. As she reached to unfasten her bra, her hands brushed against hot fingers already working the bra hooks. Even hotter lips kissed her neck. Her bra dropped to the floor with a quick push and then those hot hands slid around and cupped her breasts.

Heather gasped, pleasure fluttering through her belly in intense waves.

Fangs pierced her flesh, a quick-vanishing sting at her neck. Dante drank her in with a low growl, his fingers squeezing and teasing her nipples. Pleasure spiraled through her in quick, ever-tightening loops.

She felt him hard against her, his erection pressing against her ass.

His hunger, his need, poured through her, stealing her breath and weakening her knees. One hand trailed away from her breast and down her bare belly to the top of her jeans. Heather moaned low and leaned into Dante—wanting his touch more than she’d ever wanted anyone’s. She reached back, grabbed his ass, and pulled him closer still.

Dante’s questing hand unbuttoned her jeans and wormed its way inside, slipping underneath her panties. Her breath caught rough in her throat as his fingers found her—circling and dipping and tracing. Pleasure rippled through her with every touch.

His breathing quickening, Dante kissed her neck, then trailed moist, fevered kisses along her throat. Heather turned her face toward him so he could kiss her lips; she yearned for his kiss.

Hunger gleamed in Dante’s eyes, a dark and ravenous fire. He slid his hand free of her jeans, then stepped around in front of her. He pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the floor. Hooking a finger through the ring on his collar, Heather reeled him in and down.

He kissed her long and deep—hot, bruising kisses—as he backed her up against the bathroom wall. Fire burned through Heather at the touch of his tongue, at the heat of his tight-muscled body pressing against her. She cupped her hands around his beautiful face and kissed him even deeper, devouring his sweet amaretto lips and savoring the grape-and-copper tang of her own blood on his tongue.

Working a hand between them, Heather grasped his hard length through his leather pants. Dante growled against her lips. His hands tore at her jeans, breaking the zipper in his effort to get them off of her.

Trailing wet kisses from her nipples to her belly, Dante dropped to his knees and yanked her jeans and panties down to her ankles. Heather stepped out of them, kicked them aside as Dante’s hot, hot hands slid around to cup her ass. He licked her, kissed her, his tongue and lips molten and soft and knowing.

With each touch of Dante’s hands and lips, music pulsed hot and liquid between them, a sensual and un-tamed song.

Struggling for breath, Heather came, pleasure rippling through her in mind-blanking waves. Her eyes fluttered closed.

She heard a belt buckle jingle and her eyes flew open. “No! Not this time. I’m taking those goddamned pants off.”

Still on his knees, Dante looked up at her, his fingers paused on the snap of his leather pants. A smile tilted his lips. He eased to his feet, his hands moving to her hips.

“They’re all yours, catin.”

“Finally.”

Heather knelt and peeled Dante’s pants down, kissing his pale thighs as she went, each kiss eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him. Tracing her fingers, then her tongue along his hard, satiny length, she took him into her mouth. Dante shivered and a low moan slipped past his lips. His fingers entangled in her hair.

Like a match tossed onto a trail of gasoline leading to a bonfire, Dante’s pleasure blazed through Heather, ignited and merged with her own, raging hotter with each passing minute, with each touch of her lips and tongue and hands. Blue light filled the bathroom, danced along their bodies. Dante’s breath caught ragged in his throat as he came.

Heather blinked. Came, but still hard. So very much she needed to learn about him yet, about each other—especially in the sex department—but she was looking forward to the learning.

Dante pulled Heather to her feet and into a wild and fevered kiss. He lifted her up and onto him, resting her bare back against the wall. Gasping against his lips as he entered her, she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.

Dante drove into her, hard and deep. Music and hot, honeyed pleasure poured through Heather with each hungry thrust, a primal and earthy rhythm. Sweat slicked their bodies. His lips slid from hers and down and closed over her nipple, sucking it into the heat of his mouth. Her fingers entangled in his silky locks, her half-lidded gaze fixed on his beautiful, burning face.

Panting, she met him thrust for urgent thrust, closed her eyes, and abandoned herself to their hunger for each other, their need.

This time was all they had.

“IT’S GONNA TAKE PRACTICE, doll,” Von said. “A lot of practice. And when—if—things ever quiet down, me and Dante will be able to sit down and really teach you.”

“So the main thing is visualization and focus, right?” Heather said. She sat at the kitchen table, finishing a cup of rich French roast coffee while Dante went over urgent Inferno e-mail with Trey in the computer room, stuff the web-runner felt couldn’t wait.

Heather wished she and Dante’d had more time to just linger together skin-to-skin and lips-to-lips, but the same urgency pushing her—fresh outta time—was pushing Dante too.

“I feel like time’s running out for Lucien, catin. Can’t explain it, but I feel it here.” Dante touches their clasped hands against his bare chest over his heart and the little bat tattoo inked into his pale skin.

“You don’t need to explain to me, Baptiste,” she murmurs. “I understand.”

“Is that dreamy expression for me, doll? I know I can be distracting, but—”

“What? Sorry. Hi, Von. Been sitting here long?” Heather offered the nomad an innocent smile.

“Ouch, woman.”

“So, visualization and focus, right?” she repeated.

“Focus is key. Yup. Picture steel walls or whatever feels secure and safe to you, impenetrable, y’know?”

“Like a vault for your mind?” Heather asked.

“That’ll work, yeah. Hey, take a walk outside with me,” Von said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. “Got something to show you.”

“I’ve seen your boxers. Sorry.”

“No, woman, get your mind outta the gutter. And you ain’t seen these boxers.”

“Oops. My mistake.” Heather finished her coffee and stood.

“Look at you—all sexy and bad-ass in leather pants.”

Heather arched an eyebrow. “But not in jeans? Thanks, I think.”

“I mean, sexier and bad-assier.”

With a wicked grin, Von led Heather outside to the black van parked in the driveway—the van that she’d seen Lucien drive during her last visit to New Orleans. A pang pierced her heart. She hoped Dante was right and that he’d find his father and bring him home again.

The nomad unlocked the side doors and slid them open. “Gotta surprise for you, doll. Take a look.”

Climbing into the back of the van, Heather discovered boxes and a duffel bag occupying the seats and floor space. Familiar boxes with a musty smell. Excitement curled through her. Her fingers skipped along the edges of the cartons marked WALLACE, SHANNON, CASE NO. 5123441.

“How did you do this?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Von.

“It was me and Trey, actually,” the nomad said. “I saw your stuff and Dante’s in your living room when I was looking for you two at your place, so after the shit in Damascus, I contacted Trey and he made the arrangements for a courier service to pick your stuff up before the feds could seize it.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Von. Seriously.” Heather climbed out of the van and cat-bumped Von with her shoulder.

The nomad nudged her back, his leather jacket creaking. “I know how much you wanna find the bastard who murdered your mom.”

“And this is going to make it possible. Again, thank you.”

Von glanced toward the house, then lifted his shades on top of his head. “Dante say why he wants to start his search for Lucien at the cemetery?”

“He said one of the Fallen is there—Loki—one who Lucien turned to stone with some kind of spell. Dante’s hoping that if he can free Loki, then he’ll show him where Gehenna is.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Von said. “We saw the statue just before we left on tour. I hope Dante’s right. If he can free Loki, the bastard might only play games with him. His name’s Loki, right? Norse trickster god?”

“I don’t think Dante’s in the mood for games. Loki could find himself stone again in a heartbeat.”

“True enough. Just remember what I told you about shielding. And you might need these.” Von handed Heather a couple of morphine-filled syringes.

Heather slipped them into a pocket of her trench coat, another rescue from Von. He’d grabbed up her coat and personal stuff from her Trans Am before ditching it.

“You’re Dante’s lifeline, doll,” Von said. “I’m sorry you had no say in getting bonded to him, but you quiet the storm inside-a him. And that’s a damned good thing.”

“When I was inside his head, all the noise, the pain, the constant fight to keep my identity …” Heather looked away, searching for the right words. Her gaze settled on the ivy-laced river rock wall. “Is that what he deals with every moment?”

“Yeah, doll, I think it is. Or just a taste of it. But I hope we can change that.”

“I feel like time’s running out,” Heather said, half-afraid of making the words come true by saying them aloud. “That he’s slipping past my reach.”

“I have a feeling a part of Dante thinks so too,” Von said, voice low. “And that’s why he reached out to us. Grabbed ahold. Stubborn sonuvabitch is fighting to hang on.”

Dante’s whispered words beneath the willow tree as he knelt beside Von’s unconscious body curled through Heather’s memory.

A wished-hard thing takes a shape within the heart.

Heather returned her attention to Von. Moonlight frosted the crescent moon tattoo inked beneath his eye. “Boy’s got a destiny,” he said. “One he can’t walk away from because he is the future.”

“The never-ending Road.”

“Yup. And I think you’re a part of that destiny, doll. Don’t ever let him walk away from you.”

“I can quote Dante for you on that one,” Heather said, feeling a smile brush her lips. “Ain’t asking permission.”

“My advice? If he gets outta hand, sit on him. Works like a charm.”

Laughter, low and warm and inviting, drew Heather’s gaze to the front porch and the open door beyond it. Dante stood at the threshold, one arm laced around Simone’s waist, Eerie nestled into the crook of his other arm. Eerie batted a paw at a low-fluttering moth, insisting it flutter straight into his open mouth.

The sight of her Eerie-kitty making Dante laugh untangled a few knots from around Heather’s heart. An amused smile on her face, Simone touched her fingers to Dante’s face and drew him down into a kiss.

And retangled the knots.

“Here, darlin’, more magazines for your gun—just in case.”

“Useful thing, paranoia,” Heather said, gratefully shifting her gaze away from Dante and Simone. She scooped the pistol mags from Von’s extended hand. Dropped them into the trench coat pocket opposite the syringes.

“I wish you were coming with us,” she said. “I could use an extra pair of eyes on lookout. Dante’s going to be busy seeing if he can undo Lucien’s magic and release Loki.”

“I hear ya, doll. But some things a man’s gotta do alone. If anything goes south or unexpected bad guys pop up, he’ll give me a shout.”

“Did he promise?”

“Did who promise what?” Dante asked, as he trotted down the porch steps. “My ears are burning, so must be me, yeah?”

He paused on the sidewalk to brush Eerie fur from his mesh-sleeved NIN T-shirt and from the front of his low-slung black restraint pants. Small chrome buckles edged the side of each leg from top to bottom.

“Yeah, you, and no.” Von sighed. “He didn’t promise, now that you mention it.”

“Promise what?” Dante stopped beside Heather, a smile on his lips. Simone’s magnolia scent clung to him like a cobweb. He shrugged on a black hoodie; red letters safety-pinned to the sleeves read: NOT DEAD—DO NOT TAKE TO MORGUE.

“To give a shout if things go south.”

“Said I would. Ain’t that a promise?”

Glancing at Simone, Heather wrapped her arms around Dante’s waist and kissed him thoroughly. His burning autumn leaves scent coiled around her, whipped heat through her belly. Annoyed with herself for acting like a possessive get-your-eyeballs-off-my-man kind of lunatic, she ended the kiss.

Dante watched her with dark, smoldering eyes. “Feel better?”

Heather stared at him, then heat flushed her cheeks as she realized he could feel strong emotions from her too.

“Shields, doll, shields,” Von murmured.

“Um … which car are we taking?” she said in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

“We ain’t,” Dante said, sliding on shades. “Von’s loaning us his Harley. Wanna drive, catin?”

“I’d love to learn, but for now, you drive.”

A few minutes later, Heather sat behind Dante on Von’s Harley, her hands on his hips, her body cupped against his, the humid night whipping through her hair and his as he steered the rumbling and powerful bike toward New Orleans and St. Louis No. 3.