In the Blood

12 THE ART OF SELF-DESTRUCTION

Seattle, WA

March 22

ANNIE CRUMPLED TO THE floor and, for a moment, the image of their mother half-curled on the leaf-littered ground flashed behind Heather’s eyes. Dante muttered something, an exasperated expression on his face, then dropped to his knees and pressed his fingers against Annie’s temples.

Heather rushed across the front room, skirting around the crime scene photos, papers, and folders littering the carpet. She knelt beside her sister and brushed her multicolored hair back from her face.

“Is she okay?” Heather asked. She reached into her jacket pocket for her cell phone and flipped it open. Dante’s warm scent, burning leaves and deep, dark earth, curled around her. She was close enough to him to feel his heat.

“Don’t call. She’s okay. High, maybe drunk, maybe faking, but okay.”

“Faking?” Heather shut the cell and slipped it back into her pocket.

Dante shrugged. “Maybe.” He slid his hands from Annie’s temples and rested them on his leather-clad thighs. “She’s mad at me.”

“She’s not alone in that,” Heather said, leaning over her sister.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But we’ll talk about that later.”

“Fair enough.”

She smelled booze on Annie’s breath. Dammit, Annie. Blood stained Annie’s right hand, her wrist. She turned her sister’s wrist over and tensed at the still-bleeding gash sliced into the flesh.

“She did that before I could stop her,” Dante said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Heather said.

Night-cooled air poured in through the open window at Heather’s back. Must be how he got in. Jimmied the window. Or had Annie broken in first? Anger simmered. She’d been worrying about him, trying to reach him by calling Simone, and going to Vespers, and he was busy breaking into her house and…what…wrestling with her sister?

“What happened anyway?” Heather asked, looking into his dark eyes.

“She’s hurting inside,” Dante said. “And she didn’t want to hurt alone.”

Heather’s anger faded as she took in the dried blood smeared beneath Dante’s nose. “Were you—did she—” she paused and looked at her sister, searched her smooth, expressionless face, then returned her gaze to him. “Was a memory triggered?”

Dante shook his head. “Not that I recall.” His lips tilted into a smile.

“Not funny.” Heather studied his bloodied hands—defensive wounds—and then she saw the jagged slash at belly level in his latex shirt. Sucking in a sharp breath, she gingerly touched the cut in his shirt and plucked it open. “Shit! Did she hurt you?” The pale skin beneath the sliced latex was bloodied and sticky.

Dante’s warm fingers wrapped around hers and pulled her hand away. “I’m okay, chérie. Don’t worry. Nightkind, remember?”

“I remember.” Relief flooded through her and she squeezed his hand before releasing it. “But you can still be hurt.”

Dante shrugged. “Oui.”

He scooped Annie into his arms and then stood, his movements fluid and graceful even with a woman cradled against his chest. Annie’s head slumped against his shoulder, her face veiled by black, purple, and blue strands of hair. “Where do you want her?”

“This way,” Heather said, rising to her feet and leading him into the hallway, to the guest room. She stepped aside at the threshold as Dante walked through and eased Annie down onto the comforter-draped bed. It sloshed beneath her weight.

“A water bed? Seriously?” Dante said, straightening.

Heather felt a smile quirk up one corner of her mouth. “I happen to like this bed, Mr.-I-Have-a-Futon, so shut up,” she said, stepping into the darkened room. She clicked on a little bedside lamp. A small yellow circle of light appeared on the ceiling.

She sat on the bed beside her sister, the bed wobbling beneath her weight for a few seconds. She stroked Annie’s hair from her face. Was this the start of a manic episode or the downward spiral of depression?

Heather looked up, intending to ask Dante to give her a few moments alone with Annie, but he was already gone. For a moment, she worried he’d just leave, but he hadn’t broken into her house just to saunter off without saying whatever it was he’d come to say. A band of tension buckled across her shoulders.

Von’s words sounded through her memory: He’s been worried about you.

But she’d had a feeling, standing there in the dimly lit corridor at Vespers, that Von had left a whole lot unsaid.

But despite what Von’d said or hadn’t said, the concern crinkling his eyes, his tense posture had made one thing clear—he was worried about Dante.

Heather carefully turned over Annie’s cut wrist, examining the wound; even though it still bled a little it wouldn’t require stitches. She checked Annie for other injuries, discovered cuts to the insides of her fingers and a faint, bluish bruise on her forehead.

Heather stood and then watched her sister as the bed sloshed gently for a few moments. A strand of blue hair clung to one cheek. The skin beneath her eyes was smudged with kohl and bruised by lack of sleep. A faint smear of dried blood streaked her lips.

Annie must’ve seen the crime scene photos, given their current arrangement on the living room floor. I never would’ve left them out if I’d known she was coming.

Turning, Heather went to the bathroom for a washcloth, antiseptic, and Band-Aids. In the hall, she caught a glimpse of Dante gathering the scattered papers from the floor. “You don’t need to do that,” she called. “I’ll get it later.”

He snorted and continued with what he was doing. Heather shook her head. Still pigheaded. She thought of him carrying her sister and easing her onto the bed with care and tenderness, even after she’d tried to share her hurt with him. Still Dante. But now she needed to add B&E expert to his list of finer qualities.

Returning to the guest room with her supplies and a warm, damp washcloth, Heather sat back down onto the bed and waited for the sloshing to stop.

“Hey.”

Heather looked into Annie’s kohl-rimmed eyes and noted her dilated pupils. She also noted that for a woman who’d passed out and awakened somewhere else, she didn’t seem very confused. A muscle tightened in her jaw. Maybe faking. She had a feeling Dante’d been right about that. And it wouldn’t be the first time Annie had pulled a fake.

“Hey back. How are you feeling?” She gingerly cleaned the blood from the gash in Annie’s wrist.

“Your boyfriend’s a goddamned vampire! With fangs and…and…” Annie’s breath hitched. She bit her lip and looked away.

Working up tears? “I’m sorry if he freaked you out,” Heather said, daubing antiseptic on the cut. The sharp, medicinal smell masked the odor of booze drifting from Annie. “I told you he was nightkind.”

“And you expected me to just believe that? Vampires? Jesus Christ!”

“Do you believe it now?” Heather bandaged the wound.

“Yeah,” Annie whispered. “He cut me and I think he was gonna drink me dry.”

Heather looked at her sister. “He didn’t cut you, Annie. And he was trying to help you, not hurt you.”

“How the hell do you know? You weren’t even fucking there! Why are you taking his side?”

Here we go, Heather thought. “I’m not taking anyone’s side.”

“Yes, you fucking are!”

The sudden roar of the vacuum from the living room startled Heather. What the hell was Dante doing? Given the acuteness of his hearing, maybe he was trying to keep from listening, and Annie wasn’t exactly being quiet.

“Stop it,” Heather said, managing to keep her voice even. “You’ve been drinking and drugging and you broke into my house. When did the treatment center release you?”

Annie clamped her mouth shut and looked away.

“They didn’t, did they? You bailed out and quit taking your meds.”

“Why should I take them? All they do is turn me into a fucking zombie. But that makes things easier for you, huh?”

Annie’s words stung and Heather stiffened. “I want you to be well, not a zombie. I want you to have your life back. I want to see you onstage again.”

“Yeah, right. Your boyfriend kissed me, by the way. Twice.”

Annie watched her, a smug smile on her lips and a knowing light in her eyes. Was she telling the truth, finally? And using it like a knife? Annie’s hands had been on Dante’s hips; his hands had been at his sides. But the blood smear on her lips—transferred there from Dante? His nose had been bleeding.

Did it matter whether Dante had actually kissed her?

The sudden tangle of feelings—jealousy, yearning, sorrow—twisting in her chest surprised Heather. Yes, it did. It mattered a lot.

“Score one for you,” Heather muttered and looked away. “But he’s not my boyfriend.” Sighing, she closed her eyes. But he was her friend. And more, maybe.

“Not your boyfriend? Yeah, right. I saw his face when he said your name. I saw how he looked as he watched you come in through the door.” Annie’s voice was a cynical near-whisper. “Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. Just you.”

“Annie…no.”

Annie sat up on the sloshing bed and hugged her knees to her chest. “Those pictures and stuff of Mom, why do you have them?”

Heather studied her sister, her body hunched, closed in tight as a fist. She almost seemed to vibrate with energy, wired. Manic, then. “I’m trying to find her killer. I’m doing what Dad should’ve done.”

“When you find the guy who whacked Mom, let me know, so I can thank him.”

Handing Annie the washcloth, Heather stood. “Finish up, then get some sleep.”

“Dad did the right thing in forgetting the bitch.”

Heather stared at her sister, the blood pounding in her temples. Annie’s therapist’s advice uncoiled through her mind like a lifeline: Don’t buy into her drama, don’t let her push your buttons, just show her you care. “If you need anything,” she said, her voice strained even to her own ears, “I’ll be in the front room.”

Annie flopped back down on the bed, rolling over onto her side as the bed sloshed and waved. Curled up her knees. “Whatever. Fuck you.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Heather walked out of the bedroom and into the front room. His face washed clean of blood, Dante sat cross-legged on the floor in the dining room reading her mother’s file; the crime scene photos gathered neatly in front of him; the glass vacuumed up; the broken poster frame gone; and the poster, a copy of Leighton’s Flaming June, lying on the dining room table.

Heather felt some of the tension drain from her with this unexpected act of domesticity from Dante. Given the disorderly state of his bedroom at home in New Orleans, she never would’ve guessed him capable of it.

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear as he read, his dark brows slanting down in concentration. Her thoughts whirled back to the file footage of Chloe teaching him to read, and her throat tightened.

“I’m sorry about all that,” she said, sitting down on the floor beside him. “Annie’s bipolar—”

Dante lifted his gaze, touched a finger to his lips, then nodded toward the hallway.

His meaning was clear: She’s listening.

Heather nodded. She didn’t want to close the door out of fear of what her sister might do behind it. Nor did she want to move to a room beyond Annie’s hearing, for the same reason. Heather trailed a hand through her hair, suddenly exhausted.

“You caring for her alone?” Dante asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Mostly,” she murmured. “My brother lives in New York and my dad—well, forget him. Annie generally lives on her own, but when she’s like this…she needs me.”

“Chérie, I’m sorry.”

Dante’s words, his voice, low and warm and sincere, brushed against her heart. But the cool breeze blowing in through the open window, smelling of rain and wet, green leaves, reminded her of how he’d gotten into her house.

Rising to her feet, Heather crossed to the window in quick strides and slid it shut. She fingered the broken latch, and then glanced at Dante from over her shoulder. He watched her, his beautiful face suddenly wary. He reads the tension in my movements, hears it in my voice. You bet he’s wary; that’s how he survived his childhood and the streets.

“Why’d you come in through the window?”

“Door was locked.”

“So was the window.”

He shrugged. “I figured the window’d attract less attention.”

“What the hell were you thinking, anyway?” she asked, swiveling around to face him. She grasped the windowsill behind her. “You could’ve called. Or knocked on the door. Or just waited for me to get home!”

“I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“And that makes it okay? Breaking in because you’re worried about me?” She held his gaze. Fire burned through her veins. “Who broke in first? Christ! I can’t believe I even have to ask that question!”

“Me.”

“You had no right! None. Neither did Annie.”

Dante nodded, and light glinted from the hoops in his ears. “I hear you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I—” Dante tapped his index finger against his chest. “Hear—” He touched both ears. “You.” He pointed at Heather.

She stared at him, chest tight, anger burning in her veins. “Don’t be an asshole. You could’ve waited for me to get home.”

“Yeah? Really?” Dante placed the folder beside him on the carpet. “I wasn’t so sure about that.”

“I said I needed some time. I never said good-bye. Or didn’t you hear me?”

Fire ignited in Dante’s eyes. “Oui, I heard you.”

“So…did you prowl through the house? Go through shit? Did you kiss Annie?”

“Yeah,” Dante said, stretching the word out, voice low and mystified. “I kissed her. What’s that got to do with anything?” Then it clicked, and his gaze darkened. He buried his face in his hands and shook his head. “Fuck,” he muttered, and then lowered his hands. He rose to his feet.

“She said you kissed her twice.”

“You fucking kidding me? This is about me kissing your sister?”

“No, this is about you breaking in.” Heather replied, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “But since you mention it, why did you kiss her?”

“It shouldn’t matter,” he said, voice low and wire-taut. “It was just a kiss.”

“She’s my sister, Dante! It matters!”

A muscle in Dante’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing, his smoldering gaze locking onto hers. Dante kissed for many reasons, and in many ways, she reminded herself. Out of friendship, in greeting, in parting, with desire. Maybe he really didn’t get it given the lack of boundaries during his upbringing.

“You know what? You’re right, it shouldn’t matter,” Heather said. “It’s none of my business who you kiss or why.”

His dark eyes searched hers, his expression suddenly unguarded. “T’es sûr?”

She knew a little French, enough to help sometimes with his Cajun. But if she was right, what he just asked confused the hell out of her.

“Did you ask if I’m sure? About it being none of my business?”

Dante trailed a hand through his hair, and he looked almost as confused and unsure as she felt. “Yeah,” he finally said with a tilted smile. “I think I did.”

Heather couldn’t help but return his smile. “I don’t want to fight with you, Dante,” she said, voice soft. “I’m glad to see you, I really am.”

“Me too.”

“But we need to talk,” Heather said. “Seriously talk.”

Something close to relief flashed across Dante’s face. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you too, chérie. You still working for the FBI?”

“For the moment, yes.” She nodded at the dining room table. “Pull up a chair, I’ve got some stuff to show you.”

Dante shrugged off his hoodie and hung it over the back of a chair. He wore a black latex shirt with silver-buckled straps across the chest and black leather pants. His silver belt buckle and the rings on his fingers, thumbs, and on his collar were the only other bits of sharp color amid all the snug-fitting black. He swung the chair around and then straddled it.

Heather felt his watchful gaze on her as she walked the room and closed all the curtains. Going to the front door, she twisted shut both dead bolts. The locks slammed into place with solid thunks. She didn’t know if anyone was actually keeping surveillance on her. She hadn’t spotted any unfamiliar cars or work vans, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there.

Maybe Dante climbing in through a back window was a good thing, after all.

Heather returned to the table and sat down. She picked up a pile of papers and thumbed through them, looking for the data she’d printed out last night. As she did, she tried to organize her thoughts, shape her suspicions.

“I’m sorry about your mother, by the way,” Dante said. “I didn’t know.”

Heather met his dark gaze and smiled. “How could you? But thanks anyway.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“Almost twelve. My birthday was a couple of weeks later.”

“Aw, chérie, that sucks,” he said, and she could tell he meant it.

Heather glanced over her shoulder toward the hall. Lowering her voice, she said, “My mom’s murder is a cold case, officially, anyway. At the time, her death was attributed to a serial killer known as—”

“The Claw-Hammer Killer, Christopher Higgins,” Dante supplied.

“That’s right.” Heather looked at him for a long moment, impressed. He hadn’t had much time to go over the file while she tended to Annie, so he must’ve scanned it quickly and well.

“The FBI won’t let you go, will they?” Dante said.

Heather shook her head. “I was hoping they’d let me walk if I kept quiet and pretended not to know anything about Bad Seed or what happened at the center after I was shot.”

“But…?” Dante folded his arms along the chair’s back.

“They called me into a meeting today and offered me my boss’s position as SAC.” Heather shook her head. “The offer not only went completely against protocol, I was warned about what would happen if I refused.”

“Tell me.” Dante’s voice was low, razor-edged.

She did, recounting the meeting with Rutgers and Rodriguez, and highlighting the bits that had made it such a special occasion—her father’s unwanted appearance, the intense interest in her medical recovery, the not-so-veiled threats. She also told Dante about the visit to her mother’s murder site accompanied by an honor guard in the tall and lean form of the Portland field office’s SAC.

“They gave me until Monday to make my decision.”

“And if you tell them no, you’ll suddenly go wacko and end up confined in a looney bin or in a morgue after taking a dive from a very tall building. Motherfuckers.”

“Yeah, basically.” Heather leaned back in her chair. “Such a way with words, you sweet-talker you.”

A tilted half-smile tugged at Dante’s lips, but he held her gaze, his own dark and simmering. “So what’s your new boss’s name again?”

Heather’s smile vanished. She straightened. “No, you’re not killing anyone. Don’t even kid about it.”

“Ain’t kidding.”

“That wouldn’t stop it! He has a boss who has a boss who has a boss and so it goes. Killing him wouldn’t solve this.”

Dante suddenly stood. He paced, jaw tight, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. A chill touched Heather’s spine. His anger is closer to the surface. What happens when he can’t control it anymore?

After a moment, Dante stopped and drew in a long, shuddering breath. His hands opened and smoothed against his thighs. Leather squeaked. He turned around to face her. His gaze was calmer, the fire banked, but his body language was just the opposite, tensed and tight, almost vibrating with checked emotion.

“You okay?” Heather asked. “Dante, do you need anything?”

He looked at her, his dark eyes drinking her in, his gaze so heated and intense that Heather felt her pulse pick up speed. “I mean…do you need a…drink?” Say it, she told herself. Say it out loud. “Blood,” she amended.

“Yeah, but it’ll wait,” he said, trailing both hands through his hair, his skin white against his blue-black tresses. “Okay, killing your boss ain’t the answer. So, whatcha wanna do? I’ll help you any way I can.”

“That’s the thing,” Heather said. “I’m worried about you too.”

“Yeah? Pourquoi? I’m okay.”

Eerie announced himself with a soft mew and rubbed up against Heather’s leg. Just as she bent to pet him, he hopped away for the kitchen, mewing as he went, moving as fast on three legs as he had on four.

“Hey, minou,” Dante said. “Now you raise the alarm?”

Heather stood and followed Eerie into the kitchen. His dish was empty. “Mommy’s bad,” she said, pouring more kibble into his bowl. “Sorry about that.” Eerie chirped in agreement—yes, Mommy’s bad—or in acceptance of her apology or both. She stroked his head for a moment while he crunched salmon-flavored nuggets.

“You want some coffee?” she called. “I can make some.”

“Sure.” From right beside her.

“Shit!” Heather whirled, heart pounding, fists lifting automatically.

Dante stepped back, hands held up defensively. She hadn’t heard him get up or walk into the kitchen. She’d forgotten how fast and silent he was, even more so than regular nightkind, and that was saying something, from what she’d seen.

“Whoa, hey! Sorry,” he said, laughing. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Christ! Maybe I should bell you like a cat!” She shoved past him to the counter, grabbed the glass carafe from the coffee-maker and filled it with water. Once the coffee was brewing, its strong scent curling into the air, she returned to the table.

Bending over its littered surface, she resumed flipping through the papers. “What has De Noir—I mean, your father, told you about Bad Seed?”

“Nothing,” Dante said quietly. “But, then, I ain’t been exactly friendly.”

Heather glanced at him, a pang of sympathy cutting deep. “He should’ve been honest with you.”

Dante trailed a hand through his hair and his pale face suddenly looked weary. He nodded at the papers she was busy searching. “Why you worried about me? Bad Seed died with Johanna Moore, right? It’s over.”

Heather shook her head. “No, it’s not over, not completely. There was another person involved in the project—the man who conceived it and who recruited Moore.” The paper she was looking for finally appeared. She pulled it free and set the stack aside on the table. She looked at Dante.

“Go on,” Dante said. His gaze was steady, his beautiful face wary. “What’s his name?” His fingers white-knuckled around the back of his chair.

“Dr. Robert Wells.” Heather stepped beside him and showed him the paper. He looked at it, his gaze fixed on the photo at the top. “He delivered you and ordered the death of your mother.”

The sharp crack of splintering wood ricocheted through the room as the chair back snapped beneath Dante’s fingers.