Beneath the Skin

3 FRESH OUT OF TIME

OUTSIDE DAMASCUS, OR

March 25

HEATHER WALLACE HELD THE motel room door open as Von carried Dante inside, Caterina Cortini on his heels. Annie stood in front of the muddy Trans Am, hugging herself against the predawn chill despite her wet clothing and stocking feet, her gaze on the sidewalk. Her travel-frayed gym bag rested on the rain-puddled blacktop beside her.

“Annie, c’mon,” Heather said. She scanned the dying night for any sign of black bird-V’s; for any sign that more of the Fallen hunted for Dante. She listened for the rush of wings.

Annie looked up, her gaze slipping past Heather into the room’s dark interior. Her face, dirt-smudged and stark in the motel’s buzzing outside lights, wore a troubled expression. “No,” she said, her voice one twist of the knob past a whisper. “Let’s just get back in the car and leave them here. They don’t need us. Let’s go home. C’mon.”

“We can’t go home,” Heather said, stepping outside. She pulled the door shut behind her. “We’re being hunted. We need to stick together.”

“Stick together? Are you fucking nuts?” Annie laughed, the sound tight and incredulous. “You saw what Dante did, right? You saw what he made … saw him knock those fucking … angels from the sky, right? And turn them to stone?”

“I saw,” Heather said quietly. She’d felt it too, as his furious song had pulsed between them, heart to heart, wild and dark and powerful, rippling into her core.

“Then why aren’t we running the hell away from him?”

“He sacrificed himself for you,” Heather said, holding up one hand and extending her index finger. “He saved my life.” Extended a second finger. “Now he needs us.” A third finger. “Reasons enough?”

Annie’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked away, the line of her jaw tight. Her hands knotted into fists. “He’s a fucking vampire,” she grated. “So’s Von. And that Caterina chick is a freaking assassin—one who said she was sent to kill you, by the way. They don’t need us.”

“Dante does.” Heather’s thoughts flipped back to what she’d been forced to witness, wrists flex-cuffed together, not even an hour ago, as Lyons and his demented twin had tried to pry open Dante’s fragmented and hidden memories.

Dante falls silent when the seizure ripples the length of his body. His muscles lock, his back arches, and his limbs twist. His head whips back and forth, a blur. Blood flings into the air from his nose, his mouth, his pierced eyelids. The twins push Dante onto the floor and allow the seizure to have its way with him.

Athena kneels on the blood-flecked carpet beside Dante’s convulsing body and whispers to him: Rememberandrememberandrememberandremember …

The seizure ends and Dante curls up on the floor, dazed and trembling, sweat-damp black hair clinging to his forehead and cheek.

Lyons floats Dante up into the air and back onto the sofa. He bends over Dante with a washrag and wipes the blood from his face. And the process starts all over again.

And each seizure is worse than the one before.

Heather shoved the memory away, throat tight. “Lyons and his sister just tortured Dante for hours, Annie. You heard his screams.”

Annie swallowed hard and looked up into the dawn-edged sky, the deep rose line streaking from behind the hills lighting her face. “Aren’t you scared of him?”

“No, I trust him,” Heather said, joining her sister in front of the Trans Am. “But his power—his magic, his gifts, whatever you want to call it—that scares me.”

“How can he do those things? What the fuck is he?”

“I’ll tell you what I know, I promise,” Heather said. “But right now, I need you to get your butt inside.”

Annie finally looked at Heather. Exhaustion shadowed her face, pooled dark in her eyes. She bit her lower lip and looked for a second so much like she had when she was little that Heather’s heart went out to her. Annie-Bunny.

Pushing her hands through her wet blue/purple/black-dyed hair, Annie released her breath in a long sigh. “Fuck,” she said. “Okay.” She bent and looped a hand through the gym bag’s strap, then straightened. Snatching the keycard from Heather’s hand, she opened the door and stalked into the room. She headed straight for the bathroom.

Heather closed the motel room door, latched the lock, and hooked the little golden door chain in place. The bathroom door slammed shut, then the bathroom fan whirred into muffled action. Heather’s muscles knotted even tighter. She rested her forehead against the door.

Keep it together. Just one thing at a time.

She drew in a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The room stank of cherry blossom room freshener and, just underneath, the sour-milk odor of mildew.

“She going to be a problem?” Cortini’s voice, laced with Old World charm, turned Heather around. The Shadow Branch assassin sat perched on the plump arm of the room’s only easy chair, one arm slung casually along its vinyl top.

“No. And even if she was a problem, she’d be mine to deal with. Not yours. Are we clear?”

The gloom made it difficult to read Cortini’s expression. Early thirties, Heather estimated, possibly older, but very well-kept if so. Her slim, boyish body was relaxed, but coiled, ready to run, fight, or kill. Even in her wet black sweater and black jeans, her shoulder-length dark hair rain-plastered to her skull, she managed to look unruffled. Deadly.

“We’re clear,” Cortini murmured.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Me too,” Von tossed in. “Annie ain’t your concern, Cortini.”

Cortini’s gaze cut to the nomad. “Llygad,” she murmured, nodding in acknowledgment.

Von had eased Dante onto the double bed farthest from the curtained window. He finished pulling Dante’s boots off and stood them together on the floor at the foot of the bed. A blur of movement, then Dante’s bloodied and ripped hoodie and PVC shirt ended up on the floor beside his boots.

Cold fingers wrapped around Heather’s heart when she saw the healing bullet wound in Dante’s chest and thought of Rodriguez—the man who’d shot him in a desperate struggle to save his own life—sprawled on the floor, his throat bloodied and ruined. Thought of Rodriguez’s daughter, Brisia, who would mourn him.

Where’s my dad?

Von’s fingers skipped over the purple and blue bruise stretched across the left side of Dante’s rib cage. “Musta happened when the goddamned house exploded.”

“Or during a seizure,” Heather said, joining the nomad at the bed.

“Yeah, maybe.” Von gently rolled Dante onto his side, his fingers sliding along the pale skin, flakes of dried blood falling onto the sheets from the healing spear puncture in his back. “Were they using him for target practice or something?” the nomad growled.

“The or something option,” Heather replied. “Lyons’s sister stabbed Dante when he was helping Annie escape.”

“The sister Lyons wanted Dante to heal?”

Heather nodded. “Yeah, well, apparently she didn’t feel the same way.”

Von shook his head, his face grim. He eased Dante onto his back again, then unbuckled his belt. He glanced at Heather. Nodded at Dante’s leather pants. “He got anything on under these, doll?”

“No.”

Von snorted. “Why ain’t I surprised? Well then, let’s leave ’em on in case he has another seizure. The leather ain’t all that wet and, hell, if it was me, I’d hope someone would safeguard my modesty if I was too unconscious to do it myself. If I had any modesty to safeguard, that is.” He brushed damp tendrils of black hair from Dante’s pale face. “Sleep tight, little brother,” he said. He straightened, then swayed. “Whoa.”

“You okay?” Heather asked.

“Yeah, doll. Just Sleep coming.” Von looked her up and down, his green eyes Sleep-dilated. “What ’bout you? Boy was drumming you hard during that last seizure in the car. You should get your pants off,” he said, yawning.

As Heather opened her mouth to protest, he held up a placating hand, palm out, while he finished his yawn—a jaw-stretching one that revealed his fangs, his molars, and even his tonsils. “That didn’t come out quite right, doll. I meant so I could see how much damage Dante did to you.”

Heather pushed her wet hair back from her face, struggling not to smile. “Just bruises, doofus, and I think I’ll keep my pants on, thanks.”

“Just what every man wants to hear.”

The chains on Von’s leather jacket jingled as he shrugged the jacket off, revealing the double shoulder holster strapped on over his black, button-down shirt and the butts of his Brownings tucked into them. He undressed quickly, stripping down to damp royal blue boxers.

Tattoos inked in blue Celtic designs—dragons, antlered hunters, and ravens among them—swirled up from beneath his shorts to just under his pecs, and flowed around his sides, twining up around his spine to his shoulders.

“Are those clan markings?” Heather asked, too tired to truly appreciate the tall, lean-muscled view the nomad presented.

“Yup, rites of passage—from when I was mortal.” A smile flickered across his lips as he traced a finger along an intricate Celtic knot near his right hip. “My first ride as a clan scout.”

The tight, defined muscles in Von’s chest and shoulders rippled as he gathered up his wet clothing and draped it piece by piece over the foot of the bed to dry. He hung his jacket on the back of the desk chair.

Leaning against the waist-high dresser, his gaze skipped from Cortini to Heather. He smoothed his mustache with thumb and forefinger. “Since I figure y’all would come to blows over who’ll get to sleep beside me, I’ll make it easy on everyone and share the bed with Dante. I know you’re disappointed, but, hey, I’m trying to be fair here.”

“It’s kind of you to spare the loser like that,” Heather said, keeping a straight face. Kicking off her mud-caked Skechers, she sat on the bed beside Dante.

“Ouch, woman. I said ‘get to’ not ‘hafta.’ Just for that, I ain’t gonna leave room for you to snuggle up and snooze beside your man.”

“That’s okay,” Heather said. “Given my sister’s concerns, I think having one bed for nightkind and one for mortals might be best.” Best, maybe, but she yearned to curl up beside Dante, to hold him close while he Slept, fevered and lost to darkness, to whisper into his ear, You’re not alone. I’m here, waiting for you.

Von glanced at the closed bathroom door, the humor fading from his face. The sound of shower spray drumming against glass drowned out the whir of the fan. “Anything I should know?” he asked.

“No,” Heather replied. “She was tossed into the deep end of the pool, but I’ve got ahold of her. She’ll be fine.”

Von searched her eyes and she knew what he was thinking: in which direction was the bipolar carousel horse Annie rode headed? Up or down?

Heather sighed and shook her head.

“I hear ya, doll.”

Von tugged the elastic tie free from his wet hair, then slipped it around his wrist for safekeeping. He finger-combed his wet shoulder-length hair—hair that would be a deep, glossy brown when dry—smoothing it back from his face. A vertical line creased his forehead between his eyebrows, his thinking-deep line.

“Got a question for you, Cortini,” he said, gripping the edge of the dresser behind him. The muscles in his arms corded.

Cortini slid from her perch on the easy chair and stood beside it. She met Heather’s gaze for a moment before settling her attention on Von.

“A sniper outside the house shot the shades right off my face.” Von touched one of the small, rapidly healing cuts peppering his face. “Whatcha know about that? One-a your guys?”

Surprise flickered across Cortini’s face. “No. My handlers only sent me.”

“Great.” Von sighed. “So we’ve got other players on the field.”

“The shooter must’ve set up after I arrived,” Heather said. “Or maybe he was just waiting to take down whoever came out of the house.”

“He was hell-bent on keeping me from going in,” Von said, “so I’m betting he didn’t set up until after you arrived, doll. I’m also betting he followed you.”

“I agree,” Cortini said. “The SB instructed the Bureau to drop their surveillance on you and Dante Baptiste. Someone disobeyed orders,” she said. “And I think I know who.”

“Do you think it was ADIC Rutgers?” Heather asked. FBI Assistant Director in Charge Monica Rutgers had offered her a choice just a few days ago: accept a promotion and become a marionette for the FBI or have her career and reputation shredded.

Words whispered through Heather’s memory, a warning from Stearns, her late supervisor and mentor, just a few weeks before in New Orleans, a day before he died:

You’ve been marked for termination. Me too.

How high up does this go?

I think it’s best to behave as though it goes to the top.

“Yes,” Cortini confirmed.

Well, she couldn’t claim to be surprised. Heather closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Weariness siphoned her strength; she was running on empty.

“I can understand Rutgers disobeying orders by keeping the surveillance going,” Cortini said, her brow furrowed. “But why would she jump from surveillance to murder? What am I missing here?”

An image flashed into Heather’s mind of Dante standing in Rodriguez’s living room, Brisia Rodriguez tucked behind him as he guarded her. Remembered her own words just hours earlier: “That’s not Chloe. She’s long gone.”

Dante sucks in a breath. Touches trembling fingers to his temple. More blood trickles from his nose. Heather takes a step closer. Lifts the trank gun and aims.

He lifts his burning gaze to Heather’s and the desolation she glimpses in the dark depths of his eyes breaks her heart. His muscles flex. “Run,” he whispers.

“Dante’s programming was triggered,” Heather said quietly. She lowered her hand to her side and opened her eyes. “Lyons used him to kill an FBI agent.”

Move away from me, chérie. Get outta reach.

“Holy fucking hell,” Von breathed. His gaze lit on Dante’s pale face. “Motherfuckers.”

“He gave himself for Annie,” Heather said, voice low, “knowing they were going to use him. He didn’t even hesitate.”

A smile ghosted across Von’s lips. “He wouldn’t.”

“What happened to the sniper outside the house?” Cortini asked. “Did you kill him?”

Von shook his head. “Nah. I put a bullet in his leg to keep him from going anywhere so we could question him later, but between the house exploding and the frickin’ Fallen popping out of the sky, I lost track of him.”

“Probably long gone,” Cortini agreed.

“Hell,” Von muttered. “I suppose it’s too much to hope the fucker bled to death. We’re gonna hafta continue this later.” He glanced at Heather, then nodded at Cortini. “Think you can work with her while I Sleep?”

“You tell me,” Heather said.

Von crooked a finger. “C’mere, Cortini. Time for a little heart-to-heart.”

Cortini padded across the carpet to where Von stood in front of the dresser, her footsteps almost nightkind-silent. And no wonder—she’d been raised by nightkind, a mortal in a household of vampires.

Von’s words, spoken not even an hour ago in the pouring rain, curled through Heather’s memory: a child of the heart. She couldn’t help but wonder what that meant exactly, what it entailed, and what had happened to Cortini’s mortal parents.

Cortini knelt on one knee in front of Von. “Llygad,” she said, bowing her head, her shoulder-length hair swinging forward to frame her elfin face in dark, rain-damp strands.

The fact that Von was wearing only his boxers made the scene a little surreal, but didn’t lessen his rough dignity one bit. The crescent moon tattoo beneath his right eye glittered like moonlit frost. Llygad. Keeper of history. Poet warrior bard. Nomad. Nightkind.

Von was all of these things and much more. Heather remembered what he’d told her the night before … the long, heartbreaking, furious night that had just ended.

We’re the keepers of nightkind history, the impartial Eyes of truth.

“I need to take a look inside,” Von said, tapping a finger against his own temple. “Wanna know if I need to shoot you or not so I can Sleep.”

Heather stared at him, hoping he was kidding, but his face remained deadly serious. No hint of a smile tugged at his mustache-framed mouth.

“I understand, llygad.” Cortini lifted her face, shook back her hair. Her gaze, steady and open, held Von’s. “All my life, I’ve walked the tightrope between the mortal and vampire worlds,” she said. “But that changed yesterday when I learned that a True Blood prince and Fallen Maker had been born. Then hidden and abused. Programmed.” Cortini’s body remained still, but Heather heard the edge in her voice, each hard word stropping that edge razor-sharp. “I’ll guard Dante Baptiste, and all those he cares for, with my life.”

Fire sparked in the green depths of Von’s eyes. “We’ll see, darlin’.”

He leaned over and tipped Cortini’s chin up with a finger. She drew in a deep breath, then closed her eyes. Von’s gaze unfocused as he dipped into the assassin’s mind.

Cortini’s breath caught in her throat. She swayed as though dizzy. Shivered. After a few moments, she touched fingertips to her temple, and opened her eyes.

Von’s gaze refocused and then he nodded. “C’mere,” he said to Cortini. She rose to her feet in a single, graceful motion and followed him to the bed Heather sat on beside Dante’s Sleeping form. Von pulled one of the Brownings free of the double holster slung over the bedpost.

Heather’s heart kicked hard against her ribs. She couldn’t just let him execute Cortini. “Wait, she’s got info on—”

Von handed the gun to Cortini. He glanced at Heather, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Ain’t gonna shoot her.” His gaze flicked back to Cortini. “Not yet, anyway,” he drawled.

He pulled the Browning’s twin from the holster and handed it to Heather. “Extra ammo’s in my jacket pocket. But I’m hoping to hell you ain’t gonna need it.”

“Me too.” The pistol’s weight felt good in Heather’s hand and a bit more of the tension uncoiled from her muscles. She checked to make sure the safety was on. She missed her Colt, and mourned its loss along with the purse and cell phone Lyons had stripped from her.

Cortini tucked the pistol into the back of her black jeans, snugged it against the small of her back. “An honor, llygad.”

“Name’s Von, darlin’.”

Von’s gaze shifted to Dante’s Sleeping form. His brows slanted together. “I sure as hell wasn’t expecting him to have another seizure after we spiked him fulla morphine. That worries me, doll.”

Heather shivered, her wet clothes clinging to her skin, cooling the hot ache in her battered thighs. But more than wet clothes chilled her. She remembered what Dante had said, words whispered and broken, just as the morphine took him the first time.

Her name was Chloe. She was my princess. And I killed her.

“He’s remembering things,” Heather said, fighting to keep her voice level. “Lyons and his sister kept showing him images from Bad Seed, kept trying to shove his past down his throat and he was having seizures over and—”

A creak of bedsprings, a whiff of motor oil and frost, then warm hands cupped her face. Callused thumbs wiped away the tears from her cheeks, tears she hadn’t even known were there. “Hey, hey, hey,” Von murmured.

Heather bit down on the underside of her lip to keep from bawling like a baby. She was too drained, too exhausted, to feel embarrassed.

“We’ll get him through this, doll, whatever it takes.” Von’s voice, low and rough with emotion and thick with coming Sleep, brushed against her aching heart like fingers against her cheek. “We ain’t gonna lose him to those fuckers.”

“He never stopped fighting,” Heather said.

“And he ain’t gonna quit now.” Von released her face to wrap her hands up in his. “You know why?”

“Because he’s pigheaded?”

“Like a goddamned mule.”

Heather felt a smile tug at her lips. “A pig-headed mule?”

“Thanks for that mental image, doll.” Von smiled, squeezed her hands once, then released them.

“How is Lucien’s death going to affect him?” Heather asked. “To have that dumped on top of everything else …”

“Not good.” Von rubbed his face with his hands. “I still can’t believe Lucien’s dead. I don’t know how the severed bond’s gonna affect Dante. If it was gonna kill him, I think it woulda done so the moment it was cut.”

“Not always, llygad.”

Heather twisted around to look at Cortini. She leaned one shoulder against the wall, her gaze on Dante, her dark hair framing her face. “Sometimes the damage is subtle,” she said, “and takes hours to reveal the extent—a hemorrhaging brain or one seared from the inside out.”

“Thanks,” Von growled. “Just the note I wanna Sleep on.”

“I can hang towels over the curtains if it needs to be darker in here,” Heather said, scooting off the bed.

“Nah, we’ll be just fine. Keep the curtains closed and the blankets up.” Turning around, he yanked down the comforter and blankets on his side of the bed and tucked himself underneath. “Bonne nuit, y’all,” he slurred. “Don’t let the bedbugs …”

The nomad’s eyes closed and he was gone, lost to Sleep’s narcotic embrace before he’d even pulled up the blankets. His breathing slowed. All the tension eased from his handsome face, smoothing worry lines and creases from his skin. He looked peaceful.

Heather pulled the blankets up over his head, making certain he and Dante were 100 percent covered. “Sleep well,” she wished them both.

She sat down on the unoccupied bed and slid the Browning underneath the pillow. Despite Von’s words, she was worried, deep and down to the bone. What had been unleashed inside of Dante?

Weariness burned through Heather, fogged her mind. Her thoughts kept circling, taking on a looping Wizard of Oz singsong rhythm: the Bureau, the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my. She’d bet anything an APB was out on them—Dante, because of Rodriguez’s murder, herself as an accomplice.

But Dante had been no more responsible for the death than a fired gun. He’d had no choice, his programming triggered by the man who’d implanted it. Dr. Robert Wells and his twisted son, Alexander Lyons, had used Dante like a weapon.

How could she keep Dante hidden and safe—and, most importantly, unused? The walls barricading his hidden past had been breached; how much of it had slipped through? The memory of Chloe’s loss alone and his role in it would be enough to break his heart. And coupled with Lucien’s death …

Heather’s fingers felt along the outline of the plastic-case protected flash drive in her pocket. The drive contained all of Dante’s documented life in Bad Seed from the moment he’d been born and his nightkind mother, Genevieve, slaughtered.

Heather had hoped to help him regain his past bit by bit, together, so he wouldn’t have to face the nightmare hell of his childhood alone.

Dante needed time to come to terms with his past. To come to terms with himself. Time to grieve. To heal.

But they were fresh out of time.

The Bureau, the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my.

“You should catch some sleep while you can.”

Heather blinked, then looked up. Cortini still leaned against the wall, her body language relaxed, her gaze sharp. Heather forced her hands open. She shook her head. “I’ll take first watch.”

“Second would be better,” Cortini said. “You’re dead on your feet.” Her gaze slipped over to Dante’s blanketed form. “I won’t let anyone near him or you.”

“How did—” Heather’s question died unasked when the bathroom fan fell silent and the bathroom door was yanked open.

Annie stepped out in too-big blue plaid pajama bottoms and a faded black Danzig skull tee, a white bath towel wrapped around her hair.

“We need to get more clothes and stuff,” she said, bee-lining for the easy chair. “And I need shoes since I left my Docs at …” She waved a hand toward the window to indicate out there. She flopped into the chair, the vinyl squeaking beneath her.

“She’s right,” Cortini said. “When everyone’s awake, that should be one of the first things you do. You also need to dump your car and get another.”

Heather studied Cortini for a long moment, mulling over her choice of the word you instead of we. The assassin held her gaze, her face unreadable.

Even though she hated the thought of abandoning her Trans Am, she knew Cortini was right. Heather sighed, then nodded. “We can’t risk renting a car. My bank and credit accounts are probably being monitored. What about you?”

“I doubt I’m being monitored,” Cortini said. “Not yet. But if my handlers don’t hear from me by the end of the day, that’ll change.”

“So what’s your plan?” Heather asked. She slid her hand underneath the pillow, the sheets cool against her fingertips. “I’m getting the distinct feeling that you won’t be traveling with us.”

A faint smile curved Cortini’s lips. “I plan to return to the SB.”

Heather’s fingers wrapped around the Browning’s grip. Her pulse picked up speed. Von had looked into Cortini’s mind. Was it possible for her to fool him? “Part of your plan to guard Dante?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

“I’ll be more use to him—and you—inside the SB.”

“How do you plan to explain your absence?”

“I don’t exactly punch a time clock,” Cortini said. “I’m allowed downtime between assignments. I’ll simply tell them I decided to sightsee.”

Heather searched for deception in the assassin’s face, her posture, her hands. Everything about her—from the top of her head to the toes of her sneakered feet—suggested sincerity. Steady gaze, open hands, relaxed posture.

If Cortini was planning to betray them, she never would’ve said she was returning to the SB. All she would’ve had to do was simply wait for all of them to fall asleep.

And Cortini was right. A pair of eyes inside the SB would be more than a little useful. “Christ,” Heather muttered, sliding her empty hand out from under the pillow.

Cortini nodded her head at the pillow. “I would’ve done the same in your place,” she said. “Except I probably would’ve pulled the trigger.”

Heather met her gaze. “That’s one of the differences between us.”

A smile quirked up the corners of Cortini’s mouth. “You should sleep. It’s going to be a while before anyone knows what’s happened or puts all the pieces together. We’ll never be safer than we are right now.”

Small comfort, but true. “I will. In a bit.” Heather looked at Annie slumped in the easy chair, fingering one of the small hoops piercing her eyebrow, pretending not to be interested in the conversation. “I owe my sister some answers first.”

“The less she knows, the better,” Cortini said.

“Too late for that,” Heather replied. “She’s involved now.”

Annie flashed Cortini a triumphant look, then pulled her feet up into the chair and wrapped her arms around her legs. “So what’s the SB?” she asked, returning her attention to Heather.

Cortini shook her head and folded her arms over her chest. Tension sharpened the planes of her face.

“The SB is the Shadow Branch,” Heather replied. “A branch of the government that officially doesn’t exist. Its members are composed of DOD, FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security agents. The SB and the FBI together initiated a black ops program called Bad Seed to create sociopaths.”

“To create?” Annie said. “You fucking kidding me?”

“I wish I was,” Heather said, pushing her fingers through her damp hair. “They wanted to see if certain criteria could create a sociopath. They studied their subjects’ development and progress right up until they were either imprisoned or killed.”

“And Dante? What’s he?” Annie stabbed a finger in Dante’s direction. “I just saw him create the Underworld and turn angels to fucking stone.”

“Not angels, exactly,” Heather said. “Well, they are, but they’re the Fallen.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Annie muttered. “The Fallen, huh? First, vampires, now fallen angels. When will the unicorns and fairies prance on over for a visit, huh? What’s next? The Flying Dutchman? Howling werewolves?”

“I know this is a lot to swallow—”

Annie laughed. “A nine-inch dick is a lot to swallow, this—this is just insane. I watched Dante twist the Psycho Twins and their unhinged Dr. Evil dad into … shit, I don’t know what he twisted them into. And you want me to tag along with you and Gorgeous-But-Deadly? Nope. Nuh-uh. No way.”

“I’m not leaving you behind,” Heather said, rising to her feet and walking to the foot of the nightkind-only bed. She bent and scooped up Dante’s wet clothes, intending to throw away his rain- and blood-soaked hoodie and PVC shirt. But as she straightened, breathing in the mingled scents of blood and anise-spiced absinthe and crisp autumn leaves, she hesitated, hugging the clothes to her chest instead.

“What if I went someplace else? Australia or China or Russia?”

“They’ll find you,” she said, holding Annie’s gaze. “And they’ll hurt you—because of me, because of Dante. I’m sorry I got you into this, I really am. But you can’t stay behind.”

“I got myself into this when I climbed into that asshole’s pickup,” Annie muttered, shifting in the chair and sitting cross-legged. “I could really use a smoke. Hey, hit woman, you got any cigarettes?”

A smile tugged up one corner of Cortini’s mouth. “No.”

“Fuck,” Annie sighed. “Suppose there ain’t any booze in this shithole either.”

“No, and that’s the last thing you need,” Heather said. She dumped Dante’s ruined clothes in the trash bin beside the desk, then sat down beside Dante, bedsprings creaking beneath her.

“So what the hell is he?” Annie asked. “I mean, besides a freaking vampire?”

“Dante Baptiste is a Maker and a True Blood prince,” Cortini said.

Annie frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“True Blood means he was born nightkind,” Heather said. She pulled the blankets from Dante’s face. Even with blood trickling from his nose, the sight of him caught at her heart, his beauty lit from within, incandescent and riveting. She touched the backs of her fingers to his pale, fevered cheek.

“You can be born vampire?” Annie said. “Holy shit.”

“Yes, but True Bloods are rare,” Cortini said. “Very rare.”

“So what’s the Maker part?”

“Dante’s father, Lucien De Noir, is … was … Fallen,” Heather replied. “It has something to do with that. Do you know what?” she asked, glancing at Cortini.

The assassin’s gaze lit on Dante, lingered. “A Maker is a Fallen creator. A creawdwr. According to vampire lore, the last known Maker was called Yahweh, though most knew him by his Old Testament name, Jehovah.”

Cold fingers trailed down Heather’s spine at Cortini’s words. Her heart drummed hard and fast.

“The gods of this world—in all cultures and mythologies—have been the Fallen,” Cortini said. “But the only Fallen who could create—places, beings, life itself—were creawdwrs, and only one creawdwr exists at a time.”

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Annie butted in. “You saying God was a fucking fallen angel? What kinda drugs you on? And you’d better’ve brought enough for everyone, dammit.”

Cortini leveled her gaze on Annie. “I only know what my mother taught me,” she said. “She told me that Yahweh died thousands of years ago. But only the Fallen know the details behind his death.” She hesitated for a split second and Heather realized that Cortini knew some of those details at the very least. “All we know is that there’s never been another Maker.” Her gaze returned to Dante and her face softened. “Until now.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Heather asked.

Cortini shrugged. Her gaze shifted to Von’s blanketed form. “I think that’s a question you should ask the llygad once he’s awake again.”

“You’re fulla shit,” Annie said. “That’s all you are—a big old pile of walking, talking shit.”

“Annie …”

“Well, she is!”

Cortini shoved away from the wall. “Think what you want,” she said. “I really don’t care.” Stepping over to Heather, she said, “I’m going to move your car behind the motel, where it won’t be seen from the highway.” She held out her hand for the keys.

“Good idea,” Heather murmured. Standing, she reached into her front jeans pocket and fished the keys free from its cold and wet interior. “Thanks,” she said, handing over the keys.

Cortini nodded, closed her fingers around the keys, then went outside, closing the door quietly behind her. A moment later, Heather heard the low, powerful thrum of the Trans Am’s engine.

“She’s nuts,” Annie declared. “You’re all fucking loco, y’know that?”

“Maybe.” Heather walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light. Moisture beaded on powder blue tile and chrome fixtures, remnants of Annie’s shower. The smell of coconut oil shampoo lingered in the air. “But what if she’s right?”

Heather wet a washcloth with cool water, then wrung out the excess. She returned to the bed and sat down beside Dante again. She wiped away the blood trickling from his nose. She hoped the wet cloth would cool the fevered heat spiking out from his pale skin and prickling against her. Dante’s face wasn’t peaceful like Von’s, and blue shadows smudged the skin beneath his eyes.

“She can’t be right. She can’t. It’s just …” Annie’s voice trailed off. “I need a fucking smoke, dammit.”

Heather placed her hand over Dante’s heart, covering his little bat tattoo, and pressed her palm against his heated skin. After a moment, she felt the strong, reassuring thump of his heart.

Von’s words from two nights ago—forever ago, another lifetime ago—whispered through her mind: He is the never-ending Road.

“So which is it?” Annie asked, her voice little more than a husky whisper. “Is he a sociopath or a fucking god? Hell”—she laughed—“maybe there ain’t even a difference.”

“I know he’s not what Bad Seed tried to shape him into,” Heather said, straightening up. “He’s remained himself.” But at great cost—damaged, maybe permanently.

“But you saw what he did—to those torturing assholes and to the … angels.”

Heather doubted that the thing Dante had transformed the twins and their father into had been a deliberate decision. He’d been drug-dazed and pain-shattered, his power triggered by dark and desperate need. But still, the memory—only an hour or so old—left her queasy.

Athena’s body twists like hot taffy into her brother’s spiraling, stretching form. Wells entwines with his children, twirling around and into them, his flesh elastic.

They rise into the air, bathed in cool blue fire, a three-faced pillar of flesh. Arms and legs streamline into feathered tails. Eyes blink open in the triune creature’s braided torso and back. Rotating mouths open in a chorus of song: Threeintoone …

“You sure he ain’t a sociopath?” Annie asked.

“If Bad Seed had succeeded, Dante never would’ve saved my life, never would’ve offered himself up for you.”

“How can you be sure? After all you’ve seen him do?”

“Because his heart’s true.”

“So you trust him?” Annie asked.

“With my life.”

Annie sighed. She pulled the towel from her head and wadded it up in her lap. She combed her fingers through her blue/purple/black hair. “I’m not like you. I don’t think I can do that. I liked him before”—she waved a hand toward the window again—“all that. And I know the only reason he was used and tortured was because of me, and I know he saved your life after you’d been shot in D.C., but he scares the shit outta me.”

Rising to her feet, Heather walked around to the easy chair, perched on the arm, and wrapped her baby sister up in a hug. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you. Most people would’ve run away screaming a long time ago. You came back for us. Thanks.”

“Jesus, you’re welcome,” Annie muttered, leaning into their hug, her breath warm against Heather’s neck. She shivered. “Yuck! You’re wet.” She pulled free of Heather’s embrace. “Aren’t you freezing? There’s extra pj’s and stuff in my bag.”

The door cracked open, slanting gray light into the room and across the floor. Cool air smelling of pine and wet concrete spilled into the room. Heather whirled, dived onto the far bed, across Von’s body, and yanked up the blankets to shield Dante.

Cortini slipped inside and eased the door shut behind her. Locked it and rehooked the chain. Releasing her pent-up breath, Heather kissed Dante’s heated lips. She gently covered his face with the blankets, tucking one errant and silky strand of hair back underneath. She scooted off the bed and stood.

“Car’s out of sight,” Cortini said. She tossed Heather the keys.

“Thanks,” Heather said. She slid the keys into her pocket—her cold, wet pocket—then went into the bathroom to put on something dry.

Finding another pair of plaid pajama bottoms in Annie’s duffel bag—red, this time—and a pink Emily the Strange tee, Heather stripped off her wet jeans, turtleneck sweater, and undies. Her skin goosebumped from the cold. The flannel jammies felt warm and comfortable.

When Heather stepped out of the bathroom, Cortini sat in the vinyl easy chair and her sister was a gloom-shadowed hump beneath the blankets in the mortals-only bed next to the curtained window.

“Does Dante know what he is?” Cortini asked.

“He found out a little over three weeks ago that he’s True Blood.” Heather sat down on the bed, the mattress creaking beneath her. “As for the other, I don’t know if De Noir told him or not.”

“A shame.”

Heather nodded, then trailed a hand through her damp hair. With De Noir dead—a fact she had trouble grasping—and Von warned against trusting the Fallen, who could teach Dante what it meant to be a Maker when he was struggling just to survive?

Exhaustion blurred Heather’s thoughts. She pulled back the sheet and blankets and climbed into bed. “Wake me up for the second watch in four hours. Okay?”

“Four hours. Got it.”

Heather snuggled down into the pillow and mattress, grateful she’d rescued Annie’s gym bag from the disintegrating house. The idea of leaping out of bed in her underwear, Browning in hand, to defend herself didn’t appeal in the slightest no matter how chic and sexy it looked in movies.

Heather closed her eyes. Everything whirled around her for a moment, like she was a knife spun on a table by a sure hand.

One thought chased another in a looping, closed circle: The Bureau, the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my. All we know for certain is that there’s never been another Maker. Until now. The Bureau, the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my.

Wondering if she was too tired to sleep, Heather spun into darkness.