In the Blood

11 FRAGILE

Seattle, WA

March 22

ANNIE ZEROED IN ON the rumpled boxes marked WAL LACE, SHANNON. She’d knock the fucking things clear out of the dining room, out of the universe, a fucking home run. She swung the crowbar with every ounce of her strength, weighted the piece of steel in her hand with every dirty, festering bit of her hate.

She caught a blur of movement at the edge of her vision, then the crowbar struck hard, smacking into flesh instead of cardboard. The force of the impact shuddered up her arms and into her shoulders. She stumbled forward, slamming her hips against the table’s edge as the crowbar was wrenched from her hands. Her gaze fell across the photos arced across the polished wood.

She looked into her mother’s sightless eyes. Saw her curled up and dead on the ground like some fucking Raid-gassed cockroach.

Your mother’s been killed in a car accident. She’s not coming home.

With a guttural scream, Annie threw herself onto the table, sweeping everything off—photos, papers, table runner. Grabbing one of the boxes marked WALLACE, SHANNON, she hurled it with all she had. It exploded against the wall. Glass shattered. Steel-hard fingers wrapped around her upper arm and spun her around.

Black hair. Sunglasses. White skin and hot hands. One hand held the crowbar, the other held her. “Who you pissed at, p’tite?” Dante asked, tossing the crowbar across the room and out the open window.

Hawking up a big loogie, Annie spat on him. Spittle gleamed on his pale face. Lifting his arm, he wiped his face clean against his latex-clad shoulder. A smile quirked up one corner of his mouth. “Good shot.”

“I swear to fucking God, I’ll fucking kill you, if you don’t let go!”

“Guess you’re gonna hafta kill me then, cuz I ain’t letting go.”

Annie hooked a fist at Dante’s gorgeous face, swinging right-left-right, but she missed him. She rammed a knee at his crotch, but missed again. “Godammit,” she snarled. “Quit moving!”

Not able to wrestle/kick/punch her way free of Dante’s grip, she decided to change tactics and went limp, collapsing to the floor. His fingers slid away as she fell.

Annie rolled over on the carpet, her fingers closing around a jagged piece of glass, and she rose to her knees. She sliced the glass shard across her scar-ridged wrist. Blood welled up dark and thick. Catching a peripheral blur of movement, she slashed out. She felt the splinter bite into flesh and smelled coppery blood. Heard Dante suck in a breath.

Suddenly he was kneeling in front of her, his pale face tight, his unshaded dark gaze determined. She ducked and weaved, tried to climb to her feet, but he shadowed every move. She stabbed at him, over and over, the glass splinter whistling through empty air as he seemed to vanish.

Then his fingers locked around her wrists. He yanked her in close, held her tight against him. The shard of glass finally slipped from her blood-slick fingers and he wrapped his arms around her.

Annie felt her muscles bunch, snap taut, and then give. Her knees folded and even as she collapsed into Dante’s embrace, she felt lighter than air, buoyed by the feel-good magic of tequila and oxy, but she could never rise high enough.

Leather and latex creaked as he sat on the floor, cradling her in his lap.

“I fucking hate her,” she whispered, curling against him, against his heat.

“I got that,” he murmured.

“I’m glad she’s dead,” Annie managed to say through a throat gone tight. Her heart felt like a red-hot knot in her chest, burning her up from the inside out, a fire she couldn’t douse, a knot she couldn’t untangle.

Dante pushed her hair back from her face. “Wanna tell me why?”

“No. I hate you too.”

“T’es sûr de sa?” His scent swirled around her, like autumn, like Halloween—burning leaves and frosted earth and ripe apples.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means: You sure about that?”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m sure I hate you. Kinda.”

“Okay,” he said. Then he started singing, his voice soft and husky and sexy. “Laissez-faire, laissez-faire, ma jolie, bons temps rouler, allons danser, toute la nuit…”

Annie wasn’t sure if he was singing in French or Spanish or fucking Cajun, but the melody was as soothing as a hand stroking her hair.

As she closed her eyes, she thought she glimpsed black wings arching high behind Dante, the undersides glimmering with a hint of deep blue. Held within this dark angel’s arms, she listened to his song, and his voice fell like a cool waterfall against her rage, tugged like nimble fingers at the tangled knot of her heart.

Annie opened her eyes and touched bloodied fingers to Dante’s pale face. Blood trickled from one nostril, so one of her punches must’ve landed, after all. His skin felt fevered. She traced his lips. He shivered and closed his eyes, but kept singing.

“Si toi t’es presse et occupe, mon ami, courir ici, courir la-bas…”

“Kiss me.”

Dante’s eyes opened, dark and wary, but Annie saw hunger in their depths. His song ended as he lowered his head and kissed her, a quick amaretto-and-blood flavored smooch on the lips.

“No.” She reached up and captured his face between her hands. “A real kiss.”

“I don’t think so,” Dante said with a wicked smile. “You’ve been naughty.”

Annie stared at the slender fang tips his smile revealed. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. Nightkind. Could be implants. Had to be implants.

“If you’re a vampire, do you kill when you feed?”

Dante’s smile faded. “Sometimes, yeah.”

Annie paused, mulling over his answer and deciding he was trying to scare her—the fucker. “No big deal, but do you hafta kill?”

“Not always, no.”

“Can you make me into a vampire?”

“Yeah, but I won’t, so don’t fucking ask.”

Before Annie could ask another question, he pulled free of her hands and lifted his head. “Heather’s here,” he breathed, easing them both to their feet. His gorgeous, bloodstained face lit up like an autumn bonfire and Annie knew she no longer existed.

OUTSIDE, DANTE HEARD THE low rumble of a car’s engine, a sports car or muscle car, throaty and powerful. But he also heard Annie’s heart hammering against her ribs, triple-timed by drugs and adrenaline. He glanced at her. She pressed against him, her eyes dilated and wide.

“Kiss me,” she said urgently. “Kiss me hard.”

Dante shook his head, listening as the car’s rumble grew louder, vibrating in up through his boot soles and into his spine. Through the front window, he caught a glimpse of the car, low-slung and sleek, turning into the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. With a low purr, the engine died. Silence filled the house.

“Kiss me,” Annie repeated, voice low. “Or I’ll tell my sister you broke in and attacked me.” Her fingers wrapped around his belt and tugged.

Dante heard a door open and then heard shoes on gravel. The car door thunked shut. He tilted his head and regarded Annie through his lashes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell all kinds of stories.” Dark hope edged her words.

“She already knows I’m here. And she knows you’re here, too.” He remembered Von’s brief message: Your FBI sweetie’s here—looking for you. He pictured her walking up to the house, imagined her red hair loose and curling past her shoulders and framing her lovely face. Pictured her slim curves. Was she in jeans? Slacks? A dress?

Dante closed his eyes and counted her footsteps.

She was safe. She was breathing. He intended to make sure she stayed that way.

Run from me. Run as far as you can.

She’d tried. But he’d followed. And he couldn’t explain why. She knotted him up in ways he’d never felt before.

“Bullshit. Kiss me, Dante.”

Annie’s busy little fingers tried to unbuckle his belt, but he plucked them loose and gently shoved her hand away.

“I’ll tell her you cut me,” she whispered.

Dante’s pulse thundered. He opened his eyes. Heather would walk into the house in a moment. He heard the jingle of keys.

Dante cupped Annie’s face between his hands. A satisfied smile ghosted across her lips as she offered up her face for a kiss. She rested her hands on his hips and closed her eyes.

Hearing the scrape of a key sliding into the lock, Dante lowered his head, brushed his lips against Annie’s ear, and whispered, “Fuck you. Tell her whatever you want.”

Annie’s eyes flew open and Dante released her. The door opened and streetlight shafted in around the slim figure standing at the threshold. The smell of lilac and rain drifted into the room, the sweetness undercut by frustration and uncertainty.

The streetlight dazzled Dante’s eyes and he lifted a hand to shade them. He was right about her hair; it tumbled loose past her shoulders. And she was wearing a black jacket and curve-hugging jeans. Her gaze locked onto his and her breath caught in her throat. A split second later a smile curved her lips, lit her twilight-blue eyes.

“Dante…” she said, stepping into the room. Then she stopped.

Her gaze skipped from the papers, broken glass, and photos on the carpet to him. To the open window behind him. To her disheveled and bloodied sister standing in front of him, her hands still on his hips. Her brows drew down. “What the hell’s going on?”

With a wink, Annie shoved away from Dante, whirled, then crumpled to the floor.

“De mal en pire,” Dante muttered. From bad to worse.