In the Blood

24 THINGS FALLING APART

Seattle, WA—Vespers

March 23

VESPERS REEKED OF SPILLED beer, clove cigarettes, and patchouli. Heather grabbed Annie’s hand and held it tight as she steered her away from the gleaming brass and mahogany bar and into the sweat-soaked crowd jammed up against the rail in front of the stage.

Dogspit had finished their set and Heather was sorry she’d missed them. Annie had taken forever to get ready, changing clothes at least three times and fussing with her hair, but that was her little sister.

The crowd buzzed and chattered as people waited for Inferno to hit the stage. Goth princesses in velvet and black lace and fishnet stood side by side with cyber-Goths in PVC and fetish wear; neo-punks in Mohawks spiked in purple and red shoved against muscular misfits in leather and latex, their black-dyed devil locks hanging over sullen faces; a handful of nomads in road-weathered leathers stood off to the side, the black bird-vee tattooed on their right cheeks marking their clan as Raven.

Male and female, the crowd fought for places along the rail, anchoring themselves in place with double-handed grips and feet braced against the struts.

Heather felt underdressed in her Skechers, black jeans, and purple fishnet shirt pulled over a purple bra. Or overdressed, depending on who you were looking at, she thought as she sidled past a woman crammed into a black leather bustier and leather hot pants, flesh spilling over at both ends.

“Have you been to an Inferno show before?” Annie shouted above the drunken buzz. The pungent smell of pot curled into the air.

“No, first time I’ve seen them perform.” Heather worked an elbow path through the crowd to a spot at the right of the stage, near the nomads, and behind the first phalanx wedged up against the rail. “Dante said he’d heard WMD,” she shouted. “Said he thought you guys were among the fucking best.”

“Yeah? Cool.” A pleased smiled curved Annie’s lips. With heavy kohl around her eyes, glittering purple shadow on her lids and smeared across her lips, she was a sexy club beauty in her tight, black GRAVEYARD tank, black and purple crinoline skirts, fishnet stockings, and latex-strapped boots.

The crowd stirred as someone—tall, lean, and mustached—strode out onto the stage and waved for the lights to be lowered. The crescent moon tattoo beneath his eye glittered like sun-struck mica under the lights.

“Hey, darlin’!” Von shouted, striding to the edge of the stage. He crouched. “Whatcha doing in the crowd? Dante has y’all signed up as VIPs.”

Heads at the rail craned around to see who he was speaking to. Attention riveted on Heather. People whispered to each other.

“Hey, Von,” Heather called to the nomad. “I wanted to see the crowd.”

Von lowered his shades and winked at Annie. “This must be your sister. Looks sure as hell run in the Wallace family.” He grinned wolfishly.

“Thanks,” Heather said, and glanced at her sister. Annie stared intently at the fangs Von’s grin revealed.

He jumped down off the stage and into the area between the stage and the rail. He motioned for people to move aside and, reluctantly, they did. “C’mere, doll,” he said, motioning to Annie.

Chin lifted, Annie stepped forward and a path to the rail opened up for her as people shuffled to either side. Von slid his hands around her waist and lifted her to the stage as though she weighed nothing.

“Your turn.”

Heather walked to the rail and Von slipped an arm around her waist and jumped onto the stage with her at his side. For a moment, she felt like they were flying.

Von led her and Annie across the darkened stage, past the shadowed equipment and speakers, to the curtained wings. Dante walked out, pale face lit, eyes gleaming, light glinting from the steel ring in his bondage collar. And Heather stopped, her heart in her throat, breathless.

Dammit. Gotta quit doing that. It’s just Dante.

And that was the whole thing in a nutshell: It’s just Dante. No one else like him.

“Catin.” He looked her up and down, appreciation lighting his eyes. “Très fucking sexy.” He looked at Annie. “Hey, p’tite. You clean up good.”

“Gee, thanks,” Annie said, rolling her eyes.

Dante wrapped his arms around Heather. His latex-and leather-clad body burned against hers. His hands slid up to her face and cupped it, his rings cool against her skin. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her. His lips tasted sweet, like black licorice, and she tasted alcohol. Electricity arced to her belly and between her legs.

“Glad you’re here,” he said when the kiss ended.

“Me too,” Heather murmured.

“Geez,” Annie said. “Get a room, why don’t you?”

“Tais toi, p’tite.”

“Speak English, dork.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s better. Heard you were a WMD fan.”

A smile tilted Dante’s lips. Releasing Heather, he stepped back and gave his attention to Annie. “Yup. Y’all ever gonna get together again?”

“Maybe,” Annie said. “Depends. You ever gonna let me put that collar to use?”

Dante laughed, but Heather sucked in a breath, stung, and whirled on her sister. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing. Just teasing. Fuck, relax!” Annie crossed her arms over her chest and a familiar, sullen look masked her face.

“He’s…” Heather paused. What was she about to say? He’s mine? He’s taken? Was that true? Sudden heat warmed her cheeks. When had she made that decision?

“You’re fucking blushing,” Annie said, her tone incredulous.

A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “I think I like it when she blushes,” he said. Then he stepped forward and touched his forehead to Heather’s. His hands settled on her waist, his fingers hot against her mesh-draped skin. Heated tingles rippled though her. “Anytime you want,” he whispered. “I’m yours.”

“Yeah?” she whispered back.

“Yeah. Leash optional.”

Heather laughed, her embarrassment fading. She was grateful Dante hadn’t asked her to finish what she’d been about to say. Especially since she still didn’t know what she’d intended to say in the first place.

Dante lifted his head, his hands sliding away from her waist. He clasped her hand, his fingers folding through hers. He walked her and Annie backstage to the sparsely furnished greenroom. “C’mon, let me introduce you and Annie to the guys.” Sticking his index finger and thumb into the corners of his mouth, he whistled—sharp and loud. All activity in the greenroom stopped. All faces looked in his direction.

“Everyone, this is Heather,” Dante said, inclining his head toward her, “and her sister, Annie.” He draped an arm around Annie’s shoulders.

People nodded, smiled, waved and yelled “Hey!”

Dante directed Heather’s attention to the easy chair and the person just rising from its sagging depths. “This is mon cher ami Eli,” he said, his voice warm and low and affectionate. “We’ve been making music together for…how long?”

“Almost five years, Tee-Tee,” Eli said. He was a blend of bloodlines. Café au lait skin, almond-shaped jade-green eyes, tall and rangy, mid-to-late twenties.

“And over there in front of the mirror,” Dante said, “is Black Bayou Jack. A helluva drummer. Kicks fucking ass.”

Jack grinned. “A pleasure, m’selles, for true.” His Cajun-musical tone marked him as another Louisiana native. His faux hawk had been transformed into a braided horse mane, the dark blond hair buzzed short at sides and back, the braids dyed deep cherry red. Black-ink stylized tattoos twisted around his neck and muscular arms.

“And over there, twitching to go out and triple-check the fucking equipment, is Antoine, the man who puts the funk and the sex into the bass.”

“Hey,” Antoine murmured, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Also in his mid-to-late twenties; dark brown skin, toffee-colored eyes. Topped by a sexy, untrimmed and natural ’fro, the last member of Inferno was clearly itching to get away.

Dante jerked his head toward the curtains and, flashing a smile, Antoine disappeared behind their thick velvet folds.

“Gonna go make sure things are set up right,” Dante said, squeezing, then releasing Heather’s hand. His breath caught. He touched his fingers to his temple.

Panic burned through Heather when she saw his eyes dilate. She reached for his hand, but he backed quickly out of reach. “You’re hurting,” she said.

He shrugged. “No big. See you soon, chérie.”

But Heather saw his jaw tighten as he turned away. She looked at Von, but the nomad’s attention was already fixed on him, brow furrowed. Dante slipped past the curtains and out of sight.

“Simone said his migraines were getting worse,” Heather said.

“Ain’t the half of it,” Von said, voice low. “He’s been having seizures, too.”

“Seizures?” Heather suddenly felt cold.

“Keep it quiet for now, doll,” Von said.

“He shouldn’t be going onstage.”

Von snorted. “You tell him that.”

“I will.” Heather turned and started for the curtain. Fingers latched around her arm. She jerked, but the fingers still held. She looked up into Von’s serious face.

“Let him be,” he said. “Now’s not the time. You understand? Not now.”

Heather paused, then nodded. “Okay. Not now.” Von released her arm. She held his gaze. “But he needs help. He can’t heal if he refuses to admit he’s hurting. And I don’t think he can heal alone.”

Von nodded. “That’s the fucking truth. What happened between you two, anyway? He’s never said.”

Heather hesitated, mingled regret and uncertainty pricking her heart. She drew a breath and said, “I saw him unmake a woman.” Understanding flickered in Von’s eyes. “He saved my life and I’ll always love him for that alone, but…what do you know about True Blood?”

“Just a little,” Von admitted. “I’ve only been nightkind for forty years and I ain’t heard much because born vampires are fucking rare. I know they’re supposed to be powerful and light-speed fast and brimming with magic. Hell, just take a look at Dante.”

“Do the nomad clans know about vampires?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Von said. “But the clans see True Bloods as night elementals; y’know, as Nature’s voice, avatars of the night.” He shook his head. “But since Dante’s also Fallen, he’s something else altogether.” He hesitated for a moment like he was about to say something more, but he shook his head again instead.

Heather had known that the nomad clans were mostly pagan, holding to ancient nature rites and worship, but she hadn’t realized nightkind—vampires—were a part of the nomad belief system.

We’re a part of the natural world.

“C’mon, let’s get you and your lovely sister set up to enjoy the show.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” She glanced over her shoulder, and stiffened when she saw who Annie was talking to.

Midnite Purple dyed hair gelled to maximum bedhead effect, his lean frame draped in black jeans, biker boots, a vintage TV ON THE RADIO tee, and looking no older than sixteen, Silver smiled a fanged smile and chatted with Annie.

Annie shifted her weight to the ball of her foot and pivoted one shapely and booted leg back and forth while her fingers plucked at the edges of her short crinoline skirts. Her gaze was bewitched and dazzled, her blue eyes gleaming with desire.

“What’s he doing here?” Heather asked. She’d never gotten a good handle on the enigmatic vampire while in New Orleans, had bristled at his knowing smiles.

“Silver’s under Dante’s tutelage,” Von said with a shrug. “An exchange student kinda thing among nightkind. Anyway, since Dante’s responsible for him, he couldn’t leave him in New Orleans.”

“Ah, I see,” Heather murmured. “Well, I don’t want him messing with Annie.”

A puzzled smile quirked at one corner of Von’s mouth. “Funny. She looks old enough to make her own decisions, doll.”

Ignoring Von’s comment, Heather joined Annie and Silver, wedging her body between them. “This is my sister,” Heather said to Silver, holding his gleaming silver gaze. His amused silver gaze. “Hands off. Got it?”

“Butt out,” Annie said, her voice low and tight. “I’m twenty-fucking-six years old and more than capable of running my own life.”

“Really? Since when?”

Silver opened his mouth to say something, then glanced in Von’s direction and closed it again. Shrugging, he walked away.

Heather grabbed her sister’s hand. Annie yanked free. “Quit treating me like a baby!” she yelled. Fire burned in her eyes. “I’m bipolar, not retarded!”

“I’m not treating you like a baby,” Heather said, struggling to keep her voice level. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d quit acting like one. Silver’s nightkind. I’m just looking out for you.”

“Really? Is this another guy you’re not dating, but want to keep for yourself?”

“No!”

“Oh. Okay. So only you can date nightkind? Is that it, Ms. I Have Everything?”

“Annie, no—”

“Well, y’know what? Fuck you!” Annie whirled and dashed past the curtains.

“Shit!” Calling her sister’s name, Heather shoved the heavy curtains aside and ran across the stage after her. But Annie dove into the crowd pressed up against the rail. Arms passed her to the back. Dropped her. Her multicolored head disappeared from view.

Heather jumped down from the stage, ducked under the rail, and pushed her way through the crowd. The house lights dimmed, and the crowd roared. Heather found her way blocked by burly male bodies reeking of sweat and beer. She bounced up on her toes and looked for any sign of Annie, but a swaying field of heads blocked her vision.

The crowd surged forward, jabbing and shoving Heather with elbows and hips, and the roar intensified. Knowing she couldn’t get free at this point, not as Inferno hit the stage, Heather turned around and resigned herself to watching the show.

ALEX SHOVED AWAY FROM the bar, plastic cup of Rogue ale in hand, and joined a group of idlers at the back of the crowd. Colored spots lit up the stage as four figures took their places. Fog machines churned pale, incense-scented mist into the crowd. Alex downed a swallow of the frosty ale, then twisted earplugs into his ears.

Hard-edged industrial music, a pissed-off wall of sound, slammed into the crowd, and Alex’s heart pounded in time with the heavy bass throb. He fixed his gaze on Dante’s lean, shadowed figure standing before a microphone at the front of the stage, his hands wrapped around the stand, his gleaming black guitar hanging at crotch-level.

Dante curled his hands around the microphone as he sang. His voice, low and simmering with rage, meshed with the music pounding through the club and up along Alex’s spine.

“On my hands and knees,” Dante sang, his voice a seething whisper. “For you. I’ll crawl, on hands and knees, across shattered glass, over splintered hearts, nothing is left of us. Nothing remains. But to crawl. On hands and knees.”

The music came to a sudden halt. But the crowd didn’t stop hurling themselves against each other with bruising and skull-jarring abandon.

“Now that I’ve got y’all’s attention,” Dante said, “I’ve got something I wanna say to the nightkind in the audience.”

Several people—male and female—shrieked “I love you, Dante!” A few laughed, thinking he was just doing a bond-with-the-audience spiel. Enthusiastic screams pierced the air.

Most had no idea that he truly was what their dark fantasies imagined: vampire.

And more.

“Everyone here came to enjoy a show, have a few drinks, and maybe get laid,” Dante continued, his voice clear and strong, his rhythm Cajun-spiced. “If you’re here for a different reason, if you want la passée, go hang out at a Smashing Pumpkins revival show or some other lame-ass gig and drink your fill. Touch anyone here without their consent and you’ll fucking regret it.”

A voice rang out from the crowd. “Is that a challenge?” More laughter followed.

A spotlight focused on Dante, lit him up with blue-gelled light. He slowly extended a middle finger. “Whattya think this means?” Then he lifted his head.

Alex’s heart jackhammered against his ribs, a stunned and frantic tattoo. The sudden collective intake of breath that he felt, more than heard, told him that this preternatural beauty, this Medusa of heart-stopping loveliness, hadn’t ensnared him alone. Lifting the plastic cup of ale to his lips, he drained it.

Light glimmered from the row of hoops in each ear, gleamed blue upon Dante’s glossy black hair; slender coiled muscles; and that pale, breathtaking face—full lower lip, high cheekbones, kohl-rimmed eyes. He moved across the stage with natural and untamed grace.

“Crawl with me, on your hands and knees, for me,” Dante growled, jerking the stand back up, rocking back, and pressing his lips close to the rounded microphone. “I’ll kiss away your fears. If you crawl. With me. Fall with me. For me.”

Every move of his tight-muscled body, every toss of his head, whispered sex. Promised dark pleasure. Hinted at willing, pale flesh. His leather pants clung to his thighs and blue light sparked from the ring on the collar buckled around his throat.

Dante nestled the curve of his guitar against his thigh as his white hands flashed across the strings and frets, his attention riveted on the searing music pouring out from beneath his fingers. His body moved with the music, booted feet sliding, stomping, bracing.

Alex realized as he watched Dante, unable to slow his pounding heart, unable to tear his gaze away, that Dante was dangerous in ways he’d never anticipated. Never would’ve believed possible.

Seductive. Irresistible.

“We’ll go down together. I won’t let you fall alone.” Dante’s low, smoky voice curled into Alex’s heart and set it ablaze. “We’re both to blame. Crawl crawl crawl…”

Alex forced himself to turn around and fought his way through the heaving, moshing, sweat-rank crowd, making his way outside. He leaned against the wall, sucking down fresh night-chilled air, Inferno’s music vibrating into his muscles through the masonry. Alex pounded his fists against the stone until they bled, until the pain cleared his head.

Fury, blade-sharp and cold, cut into him. He straightened and pulled his Winstons and Zippo from his hoodie pocket. He shook a cigarette from the pack, jammed it between his lips, and sparked it up. As he smoked, a new plan mapped itself out, a way to conquer and control Dante after he’d seized him from Father and made the True Blood his own.

Alex would hurt Dante. Over and over. Long and deep and often. If Heather figured into that plan, so be it. And if hurting him in every way possible wasn’t pain enough to keep Dante from spinning another sticky web of lust to snare him in—and Athena? Would she be trapped the same way? Burning hot as a star?—then he’d tell Dante the truth.

Cram it down his throat. Every last bit of it.

And let him choke.

THE CROWD JUMPED AND slammed to the music, smashed into each other, sweat and fists flying as those behind tried to dislodge those up front from the rail. The crowd handed along a girl in a latex dress and little else, Heather noted, over the heads of the venue’s security guards and to the stage.

Eyeliner-streaked face glowing, she darted for Dante, but he stepped out of reach, still singing. Since her slow speed marked her as mortal, the odds she would ever catch him were nil, Heather reflected, unless he wanted to get caught.

Heather wasn’t sure how she’d feel if Dante allowed the girl to touch him, kiss him, feel him up. The tightness in her chest at the image that particular thought created told her: Not well, Wallace. Not well at all.

One of the venue’s thick-muscled security guards, his bulky torso sausaged into a yellow VESPERS T-shirt, climbed onto the stage, scooped Latex Girl up and tossed her back into the crowd. The crowd roared, but whether in approval or anger, Heather couldn’t tell.

Dante whirled, so fast his movement was a blur, a streak of motion. The mike rolled across the floor. Then the security guard flew into the air, mouth open, eyes wide. The crowd parted, and he hit the concrete floor. Hard.

The crowd roared again, louder than before, and this time Heather had no doubt they were cheering Dante’s violent action. Before Dante had stepped back from the edge of the stage, three other figures hurtled over the rail and the open-mouthed security guards, jumping onto the stage and whirling on Dante—nightkind fast.

The crowd yelled and screamed, unaware of what Heather had just realized: Dante’s challenge had been accepted.

A female in a PVC tank and velvet mini, her hair pulled back into a glossy black and red ponytail, swung on Dante, her fists blurring beneath the blue spots.

Dante was already gone when Ponytail’s fists cometed one-two through the air. She nearly overbalanced when her punches didn’t connect and spun around, confusion on her pale face. Dante tapped her on the shoulder and she spun again, fists flying. Dante ducked, straightening up right in front of her. He grabbed her by the shoulders, kissed her, then tossed her back into the crowd.

Stuck between a sweat-soaked burly guy in an INFERNO T-shirt and his equally burly and sweaty buddy, Heather watched, heart in her throat, hating the fact that, unless she was willing to pound on these two guys, watching was all she could do. She scanned the stage for Von.

Ponytail’s companions—a male in jeans and an ancient Ramones tee, his hair a waxed and bristling Mohawk, and a devil-locked male in leather and latex—appeared behind Dante in twin streaks of motion. Mohawk’s long-nailed fingers arced like knives for Dante’s sides, while Devil Lock, fists clenched and lifted, swung around to face Dante.

But Dante was already going low and whirling, one hand holding his guitar steady. Heather caught only a glimpse of black hair and gleaming leather as he lunged, his movement so fast it was over by the time it registered in her mind.

Dante’s left fist slammed into Mohawk, followed almost instantly by his right forearm into the guy’s face. Blood spurted from his nose. Seizing the dazed vampire by the shoulders, Dante yanked him in close and kissed him too. Devil Lock pounded a fist into Dante’s ribs as Dante tossed Mohawk into the crowd, the other fist blurring toward Dante’s temple.

Dante ducked and spun, slashing his fingers across Devil Lock’s midsection. Blood sprayed into the air, glistening for a moment beneath the blue lights, a dark, jeweled mist. Devil Lock pressed his arm against his gut, his expression both pained and surprised. Dante reeled him in by the long strand of gel-slick hair hanging over his face, but before Dante could kiss him, Devil Lock jerked free and dove back into the crowd.

The crowd roared. Jumped. Pumped fists into the air.

Heather drew in a deep, relieved breath. She spotted the gleam of lambent eyes in the dark wings—Von, she hoped. She was worried about what would happen if ten or twenty more nightkind rushed the stage.

Dante licked blood from his lips, scooped up the mike, stalked to the edge of the stage, and screamed, “Fuck you!” Then he stepped back and resumed singing while the other members of Inferno thrashed their instruments—flying dreads, light-starred piercings, sweat-gleaming skin—pouring energy and heart into the music.

“I’m coming for you!” Dante screamed, neck muscles taut, bending over, the mike stand between his legs. He lifted his head, tossed back his hair, and his gaze locked onto Heather.

For one moment, music, wild and wordless, pulsed between them like it had in her kitchen, and Heather’s breath caught in her throat. Dante’s song. Beautiful. Lonely. Forsaken. She pressed her hand to her heart, to the healed wound that now vibrated beneath her fingers.

Dante straightened. Sweat trickled down his face. Black tendrils of hair clung to his forehead. “Nothing can stop me. I have nothing left to lose. I’m coming for you!” He screamed the last word, a long, drawn-out sound of animal rage.

Heather pushed and elbowed her way through the moshing, sweat-pungent crowd, fighting her way to the stage. Hearing the loss behind the rage in his voice, she struggled to keep her gaze on Dante’s white face. She shouldered her way to the row behind the rail riders, knowing she wouldn’t get any closer without drawing blood.

Dante knelt on the stage, holding his guitar against his side, his dark gaze on her face. Fingers and hands waved in the air, stretched toward Dante. Voices screamed.

“I dream of you, in the dark,” he sang, voice strained. “Taste you. Smell you. Feel you burning inside me. I stand beneath your window and watch you sleep.”

Dante touched several of the hands waving in the air, his own trembling. He rose effortlessly to his feet, swung his guitar around, and then stumbled. Heather tried to shove closer, but the tight press of bodies held her back.

Dante fell to his knees. The mike tumbled from his fingers and feedback squeal reverberated through the club. The other members of Inferno stopped playing with a hesitant strum of chords.

A tremor shook Dante’s body. He keeled over to the floor, his limbs locked, back arching. Heather fought and pummeled her way to the edge of the crowd. She caught a glimpse of blurred movement—Von running in from the wings. He dropped to his knees beside Dante’s convulsing body, unstrapped his guitar, and tossed it aside.

Ducking under the rail, Heather dashed up the short flight of stairs leading to the stage and ran across the wood floor. The spots had been dimmed, and voices buzzed and whispered and shouted out on the floor. The other members of Inferno semicircled around Dante and Von, blocking them from view in an effort at privacy. Eli looked up, then stepped forward as if to block her.

“Now’s not good—”

As Heather tensed to duck and dodge, she heard Von’s voice. “Let her through.” She brushed past Eli as he stepped aside. She stopped beside Von, then knelt. The nomad held Dante’s convulsing body, his face grim. Blood trickled from Dante’s nose and across his foam-flecked lips, spattered the wood floor.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

Without taking his gaze from Dante’s pale face, Von said, “In the greenroom’s a black zippered bag. Get it.”

Jumping to her feet, Heather slipped between Jack and Antoine and pushed past the heavy curtains. She scanned the room, spotting the bag tucked into the side of the easy chair. Grabbing it, she raced back across the stage.

Her relief vanished when she saw that Dante was still convulsing. His booted feet pounded holes in the stage floor. His body arched and twisted and jerked with a speed and violence that left Heather’s mouth dry.

She dropped to her knees beside Von. “Now what?” she asked.

“Get one of the hypes outta the bag and fill it to the brim with morphine,” Von grunted, struggling to hold onto Dante. “In the vials,” he clarified.

Heather stared at him, heart pounding. “To the brim?”

“It won’t do nothing but ease him into sleep,” Von said, voice tight. “But do it now. This seizure’s gonna fuck him up if it goes any longer. Gonna fuck me up too.”

Heather unzipped the bag. Syringes and vials of morphine were neatly tucked into slots. She pulled a syringe free, flicked the cap off the needle tip and stabbed the needle into one of the vials, sucked in as much painkiller as it would hold. She squirted a little out to eliminate air bubbles.

“In the neck,” Von said. “I can’t let go of him.”

With a deep breath to steady her hand, Heather jabbed the needle into the vein in Dante’s taut throat and pressed the plunger. Syringe emptied, she withdrew the needle and dropped the syringe on the floor. A few seconds later, Dante’s thrashing limbs and twisting body went still and he slumped within Von’s embrace.

Heather sighed, and closed her eyes in relief. Her pulse pounded in her temples.

“Fuck,” the nomad breathed. “Holy fucking hell.”

Heather opened her eyes and looked at Von. Sweat beaded his forehead. His fight-scarred knuckles unclenched as he relaxed his hands. “How often does this happen?” she asked.

Von shook his head. “Too often.”

The blood trickling from Dante’s nose slowed. His eyes fluttered half-open, the pupils ringed by a slim circle of darkest brown. His gaze focused on Von’s face. “What’s up, mon ami?” he slurred, his voice opium-thick and dreamy.

“Not you, man,” Von said, pushing Dante’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. “You decided to take five on the floor.”

“J’su pas fou de ça,” Dante murmured, eyes closing. “You okay?”

Von chuckled. “Fuck, yeah, I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Dante’s eyes opened again. “I didn’t hurt no one, did I?”

“No.”

“Heather.” Dante shoved at Von’s arm, trying to get up.

“Here,” Heather said. “Dante, I’m right here.” Leaning forward on her knees, she cupped his pale face between her hands. He burned, fevered. His gaze shifted to her face and a smile brushed his blood-smeared lips. “Thought I’d lost you,” he said.

“You’re gonna have to try a little harder if that’s your plan,” she said.

“It’s quiet, chérie.”

“I’ll be right here,” she whispered.

Dante’s eyes shuttered closed and his breathing dropped into a low, barely perceptible nightkind rhythm as false Sleep claimed him.

Heather slid her hands away from his hot, smooth-cheeked face and knotted them on her thighs. He looked peaceful held in Von’s arms, drugged and dreaming, his dark, thick lashes curving up from his pale face. Peaceful. Yes.

An illusion.

She’d heard the dread in his voice, the near panic as he’d asked, I didn’t hurt no one, did I? She knew why he’d asked that question, even if he didn’t, and her chest ached as she remembered the look on his face, the raw anguish in his voice when he’d seen Chloe, his little Winnie-the-Pooh princess, snow-angeled in a pool of her own blood.

“Eli, man, Dante’s done.” Von cradled Dante against his chest and rose to his feet in a fluid, easy movement. “Tell ’em the show’s over.”

Shouts of “Inferno! Inferno!” built as the crowd shifted restlessly. A few laughed, delighted, as if the front man’s seizure had been part of the show and, Heather realized, some of them probably hoped it was. Or thought Dante was faking, though how a person could fake the muscle-and-tendon-torquing convulsions Dante’d just endured was beyond her.

Heather gathered up the syringe and vial and placed them back inside the bag. Zipping it shut, she tucked it under her arm and stood.

Von’s gaze skipped from Eli to Jack to Antoine. “Y’all stick with Silver and avoid other nightkind. Dante pissed the fuckers off and they just might cause a ruckus now that he’s down.”

Eli nodded, gathering his dreads together in both hands, his expression worried. “Silver isn’t here,” he said quietly.

“He chased after Heather’s sister,” Jack volunteered.

Heather stiffened, suddenly cold. “He followed Annie? I need to find—”

“Hold on,” Von murmured, his gaze turning inward for a moment.

Heather realized he was seeking contact with the missing vampire. She swiveled, searched the crowd for any sign of Annie’s blue-purple-black tresses or Silver’s gleaming eyes, but too many people filled the small venue. She sighed. Annie was a big girl, like Von had pointed out, but…she turned back around and met Von’s steady gaze.

“Did you reach Silver?” she asked, tapping a finger against her temple.

“Let me get Dante settled,” he said, nodding his head toward the curtain.

Heather followed the nomad backstage as Eli announced that the show was over due to circumstances beyond their control. Shouts winged into the air like angry wasps. Even though the show had been going for over an hour when Dante collapsed, Eli said refunds would be available.

Von eased Dante onto a worn, stained sofa. Strands of black hair slid across Dante’s face, partially veiling it. One arm hung off the sofa, his hand brushing the floor. The nomad tucked Dante’s arm against his side, then gently patted his cheek. “Sleep tight, little brother,” he murmured.

Then he turned and looked at Heather. “Silver’s with your sister,” he said. “They’re okay. But she ain’t in no mood to come back.”

“Dammit.” The sinking feeling in Heather’s gut told her that her sister was out drinking with Silver, drinking, doping, fucking—whatever helped her fill the void swallowing her up inside.

I want us to be a family again.

Heather could hit the streets and search the bars, but she knew from bitter experience that it wouldn’t do any good. Annie would refuse to leave and would create a huge, screaming scene that’d end with someone jailed or hospitalized. All she could do was go home and wait.

“Look, doll, she’s okay,” Von said. “Silver knows how to deal with troubled mortals, and he won’t hurt her.”

“What does he know about troubled mortals?”

“He used to be one.”

“She’s bipolar,” Heather said. “Not just troubled.”

“I’ll let him know.”

Heather nodded, feeling like she had no other choice. The thought of the night ahead, waiting sleeplessly for Annie to come home drunk and hostile, or bruised and bleeding from a drunken brawl, or waiting for the phone to ring, left her tensed. She glanced at Dante. Maybe she should stay with him. Talk to him.

And if Annie needed her in the meantime? Got arrested again? Sighing, Heather knelt beside the sofa and kissed Dante’s lips, tasted amaretto underneath the tang of his blood. His face still felt fevered, but at least the nose bleed had stopped.

“Where are you guys staying?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Von. “In a hotel or on the bus?”

“Hotel. The Red Door.”

A sudden thought occurred to Heather. Maybe she wouldn’t have to just sit and wait, unable to focus on anything but the anxiety coiling through her body.

“My house isn’t huge, but I’ve got a sofa, two beds, and a very comfy recliner,” she said. “How about you guys come and stay the night with me? In case there’s more trouble.”

Von stroked the sides of his mustache with thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. “Let me ask the guys,” he said. “I’m gonna help ’em pack up and stow the gear first, okay?”

Heather nodded. “Fair enough.”

Von reached inside his leather jacket, then slipped out a pistol. He handed it to Heather. She examined it, checked the safety, then checked the sights. It lined up beautifully. A Browning Hi-Power. She’d left both her purse and .38 at home, knowing how easy it would be to lose both jammed in the middle of a club crowd.

“Nice,” she said, hefting it in her hand.

“Just in case the Seattle crew cause any problems. Aim for the—”

“Head or heart,” she finished.

Von grinned. “You got it, darlin’.” Then he walked away.

Heather got up from the floor and perched on the arm of the sofa farthest from the curtains. Her fingers wrapped around the Browning’s grip. Her pulse was steady and her breathing relaxed. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt like she was right where she needed to be, protecting a friend.

Just a friend? No, Dante was more than that—how much more, she wasn’t sure. But whenever she imagined life without him, she felt hollow inside.

If the Bureau was keeping a watch on her, their suspicions would be confirmed when Dante and his band arrived at her house. Would they simply rescind the job offer or spin their threats into reality? She voted for possibility B.

Run from me. Run as far as you can.

Too late, she thought. Much too late.