In the Blood

14 EVEN DEEPER

Seattle, WA

March 22

DANTE STARED AT THE paper, his heart drumming out a frenzied rhythm. The photo blurred and pain skewered his temples with each attempt to focus on it.

Avenge your mother and yourself.

But if what Heather said was right—and he had no reason to doubt it—then he’d failed. Genevieve Baptiste’s killer still breathed and ate and slept. Enjoyed life.

But not for much longer.

“Give me that name again,” Dante said, chest tight, muscles coiling. “I can’t read it. Say it again. Say it slow.”

Heather’s brows slanted down, worried. “You don’t look so good,” she said.

“The name.”

“Robert Wells.”

“Robert…” Dante repeated. He opened his mouth to say the last name, but it was gone, slipped from his grasp, paingreased. Deep inside, wasps droned. Pain needled his temples. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Say it again.”

“Robert Wells. Dante, I don’t think—”

An image strobed into Dante’s mind: A man with gray-flecked blond hair and a friendly smile leans over him. Blood spatter decorates his white lab coat. His hand strokes Dante’s hair as he sticks a needle into Dante’s throat.

My beautiful boy. You’ll survive anything I might do to you, won’t you?

And pushes the plunger.

The image broke apart. Vanished. Pain scratched across Dante’s awareness, white light flickering at the edges of his vision. “Say it again,” he whispered, knuckling his fists against his temples. “Again.”

Fingers grasped his chin, forced his head around. He met Heather’s concerned blue gaze. Her lips moved, but all he could hear were the voices rising like a hurricane from within.

We need the straitjacket. And the chains. Hurry!

Little fucking psycho.

Say that again, and I’ll give you to that little fucking psycho.

Run, Dante-angel, run!

“Dante, come back.” Heather’s voice cut through the whispers and he locked onto her face. She looked in so deep. Deeper than he thought was safe. Safe for him? Safe for her? He wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling it wasn’t safe for either of them. Things stirred in the darkness within. Restless. Hungry.

Dante’s muscles tensed. Drawing in a deep breath, he focused on Heather’s twilight gaze. Breathed in her lilacs-and-sage-in-the-rain scent. Then her arms wrapped around him and the whispers faded. The droning vanished.

All was quiet but for the mingled beating of their hearts, a dual rhythm of daylight and moonrise. He laced his arms around her and rested his face against her head, breathed in the lilac fragrance of her hair.

“Dante?”

“J’su ici.”

“How’s your head?”

“Comme çi, comme ça.” He lifted his head and saw the pieces of broken wood at his feet, and then looked at the ruined chair. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sit down,” Heather urged.

Dante released her, then shook his head. “No, I gotta go.”

A strange look crossed Heather’s face. “What did I just tell you a moment ago?”

Dante searched his memory, felt something shift and slide from his grasp. Pain snaked through his mind. He sniffed. Tasted blood. “Something about the guy who delivered me, killed my mother, but I can’t remember his name,” he muttered. He wiped at his nose, smearing blood across the back of his hand.

“Robert Wells,” Heather said. “Dr. Robert Wells. And your nose is bleeding.”

“Robert…” Dante said, then searched his memory. He knew the name was there, could almost hear it as an echo, but an empty one. “Fuck!”

“Sit.” Heather pushed at his shoulders. “Dante, sit down.”

He sat, and ran his fingers through his hair. Something felt wrong inside, almost like something was winding up, some broken, splintered thing trying to spin to life. His heart pounded hard and fast. Heather knelt in front of him and dabbed at his nose with Kleenex. “How come I can remember Johanna Moore’s name, but not this asshole’s?”

Heather shook her head, her face dead serious, worried. “I don’t know, but I’ve got a feeling Wells programmed a safeguard into you that Moore was unaware of, maybe something to keep him alive in case things went sour between them.”

“Okay, then let’s bypass that fucking safeguard. Where does he live? How do I find him?”

“Later. Put your head back.”

“I’m fine,” he said, grabbing for the wad of tissues in her hand. “Give me that.”

“You are not fine!” Heather threw the bloodstained Kleenex at him. Fire blazed in her eyes, and he smelled the blood flushing her cheeks. “Your mind has been messed with since you were born, Dante. You are far from fine! Why are you so goddamned pigheaded?”

“It’s the only way I know to be.”

A sad smile brushed Heather’s lips. “And that’s how you survived.”

“I ain’t the only stubborn one in this relationship.”

“I’m tenacious, not pigheaded,” Heather murmured. “There’s a big difference.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Heather chuckled deep in her throat, a warm, sexy sound. “Do you remember what I told you a bit ago?”

Dante nodded. “A guy whose name I can’t keep. A guy who’s responsible for my mom’s death.” The Perv’s words snaked through his mind. Being a bloodsucker and all, they cut off her head and torched her.

“That’s right. We’ll deal with all this tomorrow. I think we’ve both had enough tonight and you’ve still got to perform.”

“And you’ve got Annie,” Dante said.

“Yeah,” she sighed. Exhaustion shadowed her eyes. “I’ve a couple of leads I want to follow up tonight after I get my sister settled. I’m safe until Monday. And you, you’re probably safe on tour. But watch your back in case I’m wrong.”

“You too. Keep your gun handy, chérie.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Dante walked over to the window and shoved it open. “I’ll fix this tomorrow, first thing in the evening,” he said, tracing a finger over the broken lock.

“Damn straight you’re gonna fix it,” Heather said, though she couldn’t picture him wielding a screwdriver. She joined him at the window, then asked, “Why don’t you use the front door?”

Dante shrugged. “Going out the way I came in.”

He turned and lowered his head, and Heather found herself tipping her face up for his kiss, her heart pounding hard and fast, but instead of the heated touch of his lips, she felt his fingers brush against her face, a lingering touch. His forehead touched hers and she breathed in his smoke and deep, dark earth scent.

“Je te manque,” he whispered. His fingers trembled, then vanished from her face.

Heather looked up into Dante’s eyes; hunger glinted in their dark depths. She touched his face and, tensing beneath her fingers, he pulled away. Her breath caught in her throat.

Dante kissed for many reasons—he kissed friends, he kissed strangers, she’d even seen him kiss an enemy. So what did it mean when he didn’t kiss? When the touch of his lips was denied?

Pushing the curtain aside, Dante ducked down and swung a leg over the window sill. Straddling the sill, he glanced up at Heather. “I’ll put you and Annie on tomorrow night’s guest list if you’d like to come to the show.”

“I’d like that,” Heather said with a smile. “Thanks.”

“Bonne nuit, chérie,” Dante said, dropping to the ground. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dante pulled up the hood on his hoodie, his fingers tugging the edges past his face. He stepped backward several paces, his gaze on hers, his lambent eyes gleaming in the darkness. Sliding on his shades, he whirled, and ran.

Heather closed the window, leaned her forehead against the glass, and closed her eyes. The pane felt cool against her skin. Her fingers grasped the windowsill. The weeks apart hadn’t changed her feelings for Dante. But she still hadn’t yet sorted out those feelings or her fears. Before she could do anything about those feelings, they both had to survive the fall of Bad Seed.

Closing the curtain, Heather turned and walked over to the sofa where she’d tossed her purse when she’d come in—blind-sided by Annie’s dramatic swoon and Dante’s breathtaking presence. She eased her Colt Super from her purse, then tucked the .38 into the back of her jeans. The cold barrel nestled against the small of her back.

Quiet sobs, forlorn and raw, drew her back to the guestroom and her now weeping sister. Dante’s whispered words circled through her mind: Je te manque.

I miss you too, she thought.