In the Blood

32 REVELATIONS

Seattle, WA

March 24

A LOW, DEEP INHALATION drew Heather’s attention from the box she was packing at the dining room table. Von pushed the throw off and, yawning, stretched. She noted with amusement that even stripped down for Sleeping—black jeans, socks, and white wifebeater—he still wore his double shoulder holsters.

Bet anything he was a scout when he was mortal, checking the road ahead for his clan, searching for welcome or danger.

Von sniffed the air and was on his feet and at the sofa before Heather realized he’d even moved from the recliner. Attention on the napping Lyons, Von said, “Who’s Sleeping Beauty?”

“SAC Alex Lyons,” she answered. “I caught him spying on the house.”

“Once again, paranoia pays off. So what’s the plan?”

“Good question,” Heather said, tucking the box’s flaps closed. “He knows about Bad Seed and who’s behind it. I’m not sure who he’s working for. He claims no one sent him, but I don’t find that very reassuring, y’know?”

“I hear ya, doll.” A pause, then, “Bad Seed, huh?”

The quiet menace in Von’s voice snapped Heather’s head up. He leaned over Lyons, his hands knuckled into hard fists, his jaw tight. “He one of the assholes who messed with Dante?”

“I don’t think so,” Heather said. Wiping her dusty hands against her jeans, she stepped around the table and walked into the front room. She stopped beside Von. “But he does have information.”

The nomad’s gaze was fixed on Lyons’s throat. “Info, huh? Stuff we need, no fucking doubt.”

“No doubt,” Heather agreed. “He says he needs to speak to Dante alone.”

Von snorted. “That ain’t happening.” He straightened, then rolled back his shoulders. Exhaled. His hands relaxed.

“Spy Man also said some team was coming for Heather,” Jack tossed into the conversation. “But he intercepted them. Said he killed them, he did.”

Heather glanced over her shoulder. The drummer sauntered from the kitchen, pulling the Browning from the back of his jeans as he crossed the room. He handed the gun back to Von.

The nomad holstered the Browning. He looked at Heather, cocked an eyebrow. “That’s twice, darlin’. I ain’t gonna put up with it a third time.”

Whistling innocently, Jack whirled and returned to the kitchen where Eli and Antoine worked at the counter making sandwiches for the evening flight home.

“Second time, what?” Heather asked.

“Second time you neglected to mention you were in trouble too.”

Heather stared at him. All playfulness had vanished from Von’s green eyes. “I…it wasn’t intentional…I was worried about Dante, and I…” Her words trailed off. It had never occurred to her to tell Von about the trouble she was facing. Never occurred to her that they had more than Dante in common. But, judging by the nomad’s ain’t-brooking-no-nonsense expression, they did. She felt a smile tip up the corners of her mouth.

“Sorry about that,” she said, meaning it. “It won’t happen again.”

Von nodded, then shifted his gaze back to the man on the sofa. “So he claims he put the smackdown on the bad guys, huh? Whattaya think, doll? He telling the truth?”

“Yes.” Heather remembered the steadiness of Lyons’s gaze. “That I believe.”

Von glanced around the room. “Looks like you’re packing.”

“I am. But just stuff I can’t replace. Everything else—furniture, dishes, TV—I’m leaving behind.” Lyons’s story, true or not, had convinced her of what had been simmering in the back of her mind ever since her meeting with Rodriguez, Rutgers, and her father.

Time is running out. Disappear.

And thanks to her father, the hourglass had just run dry.

The image of James William Wallace standing beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights of the parking garage flipped into her memory. I want us to be a family again.

Heather’s jaw tightened. We were never a family. Her father had lied to her, but she expected that from him. The realization that he’d used the same lie to sweet-talk information from Annie tied Heather’s stomach into knots. She’d never forgive him for using Annie.

Heather had tried to talk to her sister about what she’d overheard Lyons say, but Annie, finally wearing Heather’s robe, had refused to even meet her eyes and retreated to her room.

“We can talk about where you’re planning on going later,” Von said.

Heather looked at him. He nodded at Lyons. The crescent moon tattoo beneath the nomad’s eye glittered like moonlit frost in the room’s curtained gloom. “What are you, exactly?” she asked.

“The hell kinda question’s that, woman?”

“In nightkind society, I mean. Llygad.”

Von smoothed his mustache with thumb and forefinger, his face thoughtful. “Okay.” He returned to the recliner, sat, and tugged on his boots. Reaching back, he pulled the elastic tie from his ponytail and shook his hair free. It swung just past his shoulders, a deep and glossy brown.

Just as Heather had decided that was his entire answer—Okay, he said, “We’re the keepers of nightkind history, the impartial Eyes of truth.”

Heather mulled that over. She thought back to when he’d stood motionless beside Dante during his meeting with Ronin in Club Hell. “So, like witnesses?”

“Close enough.” Von slid the hair-tie around his wrist for safekeeping. “In another age, or so I was told, we were called filidh, warrior-bards. We protected and educated, shaped history and truth into lyrical stories, but hell, even that’s an incomplete naming.”

“So are llygads only nightkind or can they be mortal? Fallen?”

“Llygaid, doll. The plural is llygaid. And only nightkind need apply.” Von’s gaze shifted to the sofa. “Someone’s awake now and pretending to be sleeping.”

Lyons slivered open one eye, then the other at Von’s comment. He scooted upright and rubbed his face. “Was there a shift in my breathing pattern that gave me away? Something different in my scent?” A smile curved his lips, warm and friendly and open.

Probably works like magic for him, Heather mused. Bet that smile gets perps and fellow agents alike to drop their guards.

“Ain’t telling.” Cold and sharp, Von’s voice was an icicle. He rose to his feet.

“I did a little research while you were snoozing,” Heather said. “I found your home address in Damascus and learned the property title belongs to Gloria Lyons.” Lyons’s smile dimmed. “Your mother.”

Lyons nodded, his intense sea-green eyes locked on her face.

“But I couldn’t find a thing about your father,” Heather continued, shifting her weight onto one hip. “Which is curious. But the thing that really fascinated me is your twin sister’s name—Athena Wells. Care to explain?”

“It’s complicated,” Lyons said.

“What’s complicated?” Dante said from behind Heather, his voice low and husky.

ALEX’S MOUTH DRIED. THE nomad’s hand clamped onto his shoulder.

Dante Baptiste stood in the archway leading into the hall, dog-collared, shirtless, and barefoot, his white fingers buckling his belt, his eyes gleaming in the twilight-darkened room. He shook his sleek black hair back from his pale face.

An orange cat wound between his legs. Dante dropped to one knee and stroked his hand along the purring cat’s back.

Alex’s heart hammered against his ribs as he struggled to resist the True Blood’s beauty-lust-nightwebbed spell.

As Heather swiveled to face Dante, he looked up at her and smiled—a tilted, intimate smile—and released Alex.

Given the look that Dante and Heather had just exchanged, Alex had no doubt they were lovers. He tried to focus on that, tried to figure how to use it against Dante. Hurt him with it. Hurt him deep. Alex drew in a long, deliberate breath, then another, as he willed his racing pulse to downshift a few gears.

Trigger him. Break him. Control him. Use him.

“Another duct-taped Inferno fan?” Dante asked, nodding at Alex.

Heather blinked. “Another…?” The orange cat bunted its head against her leg, then wandered toward the kitchen.

“A story for another night,” Dante murmured. “So who are you?”

Alex met Dante’s dark eyes. He curved his lips into a smile. “Alexander Lyons,” he said. “But feel free to call me Alex.”

“He’s the agent who went with me to my mother’s murder site,” Heather said.

Dante stood and joined her in two graceful strides. His gaze turned inward for a second, then he refocused on Alex. “Von says Heather caught you spying outside. Says you know something about Bad Seed.”

Lovely thing, telepathy. Think I’ll keep mine secret for the time being. “True enough,” Alex said, resting his bound hands against his knees. “I have info for you, but I’d like to speak to you alone.”

“Nope. Anything you gotta say, you can say in front of Heather and Von.”

“Okay, then. Like I said, it’s complicated,” Alex said. “It involves my father.”

A wary expression crossed Dante’s face. “Who’s your dad?”

Comprehension sparked in Heather’s eyes, quickly followed by alarm. She grabbed Dante’s arm and stepped in front of him as if she could shield him from words. As if she could protect him from the truth—a truth he needed.

“Dr. Robert Wells,” Alex said.

Dante’s face blanked, then pain flickered in his eyes. “Give me that name again. Say it slow.”

“Robert—”

“No!” Heather interrupted. “Shut up, Lyons.” She turned to face Dante, her hand still on his arm, her voice urgent. “Look at me, Baptiste.”

It’d bothered Alex that she’d switched from calling him Alex to Lyons. Hell, he thought he’d even prefer sir to the cold and distant way she now used his last name.

And yet the way she said Baptiste was warm and intimate, a special naming.

Dante shifted his gaze to her. “Just like before, huh? The name I can’t hold.”

Can’t hold? A stark, cold realization burned holes through Alex’s assumptions like dry ice. His father had added a personal safeguard into Dante’s programming to prevent the True Blood from being used against him.

Heather nodded. “The very same.” She squeezed Dante’s arm, then her fingers slid away from him. She swiveled around and faced Alex again, her face cold. “Don’t say that name again.”

Alex nodded. “I didn’t know,” he said.

“What’s this all about?” Dante asked him.

“I have something you need.”

“Like I ain’t heard that before,” Dante snorted. “So what’s this thing I need?”

Alex looked at the iPod resting on the cushion at the other end of the sofa. Not the right time to trigger the young True Blood, too many people around to see, too many chances for interference. He’d prefer a more intimate gathering to test his father’s work, just him, Dante and Heather.

Glancing up at the nomad, Alex said, “Could you hand him the flash drive from my stuff there?”

The nomad—Von?—looked at Dante, and Dante nodded. Von picked up the small, plastic-encased flash drive and tossed it to him.

Dante caught it and turned it over in his hand. “What’s on it?”

“Your past,” Alex said. “Your mother. Your birth. All of your documented experiences with Bad Seed including your encounters with my father and Dr. Moore. Everything is on there.”

Heather drew in a sharp breath.

Dante stared at the drive. His body tensed, his muscles coiling beneath his white skin as if expecting a blow or getting ready to deliver one—maybe both. Emotions chased across his face too quickly for Alex to name.

But one thing he could name, one fascinating thing: pain stark upon that damned and beautiful face. Dante was hurting. As much as that realization buoyed him, Alex wondered why he was hurting—Dante shouldn’t feel or remember anything.

“Baptiste.” Heather’s voice was clear and strong. “Dante, I’m here.”

Dante drew in a shuddering breath, pulled his gaze away from the drive and looked up. Heather’s hand closed over his, her fingers interlacing through his, both sets of fingers folding the flash drive against his palm.

“J’su ici,” he said.

“Do you want to see what’s on there?”

“Oui. I do, yeah. But not now.”

“I’ve seen what’s on there and you shouldn’t watch it alone,” Heather said. “I’ll be with you, if you want.”

Dante pressed the flash drive into her hand. “I want. You hold it for me then, chérie. When the time comes we’ll watch it together.”

“Together.” Heather stretched up and kissed his lips.

For a moment, Alex felt a twinge of regret. Wished he could keep Heather out of what was to come. Wished she’d been strong enough to resist Dante in the first place.

“So what’s the price on that invisible tag, Lyons?” Heather slid the flash drive into her front pocket.

“No price,” Alex replied. “I just hope that once you’ve looked at that, Dante, you’ll make my father answer for it.”

“Yeah? Why do you care?”

“My sister is ill because of the work he did on us before we were even born. But I’ve seen what you can do,” Alex said, leaning forward on the sofa. The nomad’s fingers squeezed. A bolt of hot pain shot down Alex’s arm to his pinkie. He went still and the pressure eased. “I know you can help her.”

“So much for ‘no price,’” Heather muttered.

Dante looked into Alex’s eyes, looked deep, and Alex truth-wrapped his mind with thoughts of Athena and her never-ending whispers, her inward-turned Aegean gaze.

I’m losing her and she’s all I have.

“What makes you think I can help your sister?”

“I saw recorded footage of what you did to Moore at the center. I also know you saved Heather’s life.” Alex nodded at Heather. “They’re hunting her now because of that. And they’ll take her apart to figure out how you did it.”

Dante sucked in a sharp breath. He looked at Heather. “That true?”

“That’s what he says, yes,” Heather said, leveling a wintry glare at Lyons. “And he claims he killed the team assigned to pick me up.” Shifting her gaze to Dante, she added, “We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

Dante held her gaze for a long, silent moment. Then he nodded. Leaning in, he brushed her hair away from her ear and whispered to her. Concern flashed across her face. She placed her lips near Dante’s ear and whispered a reply. She pulled the USB drive from her pocket and tucked it back into Dante’s hand.

Not for the first time, Alex wished he possessed a vampire’s keen hearing. “I bought Heather some time,” he said. “A couple more days to get underground.”

“I appreciate that,” Dante said, returning his attention to Alex. “And I’m sorry about your sister, for true. But—you and me?—we’re done.” He tossed back the drive. “If you wanna help your sister, get her as far from your dad as you can.”

Alex caught the drive reflexively. “That was a gift.”

“No, it wasn’t. Ain’t gonna be game-played or blackmailed or guilt-tripped.”

“I’ll give you my father on a fucking silver platter. All you have to do is heal my sister.”

A dark smile tilted Dante’s lips. “I’ll be coming for your old man, you can fucking put that in the bank. But in my own time and on my own terms.”

The nomad’s hand slid from Alex’s shoulder. “Time to go,” he said, slicing a fingernail through the duct tape binding his wrists.

Reluctantly, Alex stood and dropped the USB drive back onto the sofa as he gathered up his belongings, stuffing them into his hoodie’s pockets. He glanced at Heather. “Can I have my gun back?”

“Sure.” Heather went to the dining room table and picked up the S&W. She removed the magazine, then unchambered the round already loaded. Walking back to the sofa, she extended the empty gun to Alex.

“You know the way out,” she said.

With a wry smile, Alex took the gun from her, then tucked it into the back of his jeans and pulled his hoodie over it. Time to take a chance and plant a few seeds.

He stopped beside Dante. “Genevieve begged to hold you after you were born. She was denied the chance. Every minute you let my father breathe, you deny her justice.”

Dante moved. His hand latched around Alex’s biceps and, in an instant, Alex was flying as the vampire hauled him across the room and outside—sounds blur past, a sharp gasp, Heather; the crunch of drywall, the doorknob punching into the wall—and flung him against a Jeep parked at the curb.

Alex hit hard, and bruising pain radiated down from his right shoulder to his ribs. He struggled to catch a breath. Fury lit Dante’s beautiful face, blazed red in his eyes.

“What part of in my own time don’t you fucking understand?”

The True Blood stared at Alex’s throat and, for one cold-sweat-heart-pounding moment, Alex was positive that not only had he grossly miscalculated Dante’s reaction, but that Dante was going to tear into him, rip him open, and feast.

But instead, Dante’s hands knotted into fists, and he yanked his gaze back up to Alex’s face. “Stay away from me. Stay the fuck away from Heather.” His white skin seemed to drink in what little moonlight there was, channeling it into his veins.

“From what I’ve seen,” Alex said, straightening against the car and rubbing his aching shoulder, “it’s you who should stay away from Heather. How long do you think she’ll last with you at her side? They’re hunting her because of you.”

“Fuck you. Ain’t your worry.” But uncertainty flickered across Dante’s face, and his gaze turned inward like he was listening to someone. “Shhh,” he whispered, soothing that someone. He touched his fingers to his temple.

A chill rippled through Alex. Just how stable was Dante’s mind? How secure his father’s programming? From where Alex was standing, Dante was slipping in a big way.

Exhilaration and adrenaline rushed through Alex, chasing away the chill, and feeding him strength. The True Blood looked ripe for conquering.

All Alex needed was the right moment.

Over Dante’s shoulder, Alex saw Heather standing on the front step, her expression troubled. The nomad rested a hand on her shoulder, but watched Dante.

“I can help you remember my dad. Get you past his safeguards and programming. I can put him in your hands.”

“Fuck you. Ain’t playing. Va jouer dans ta cour a toi.” Dante backed up several paces, then, turning, he loped back to the house.

Heather and the vampire nomad went inside with Dante, and then the door shut with a solid thunk. Light spilled into the yard from the front room windows as someone turned on lamps.

Alex sprinted down the block to his truck and climbed inside. He keyed on the ignition. The engine started with a deep, powerful roar, and he let it idle. He had to admit Dante had thrown him for a loop when he’d given back the USB drive; he hadn’t anticipated that the vampire’s stubborn anger would outweigh his curiosity, his hunger for the truth.

Alex drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. The interaction between Dante and Heather was intriguing. It seemed like her presence helped anchor Dante in the here and now. But judging by her expression just now, his violence disturbed her.

Alex switched on the wipers. As the blades whisked across the windshield, wiping away the last remaining drops from an earlier shower, he spotted movement at one of the darkened bedroom windows.

Something dropped from the window into the bushes below. Then a figure climbed out and jumped to the ground. The slender shadow glanced around, then plucked a bag from the bushes and slung it over its shoulder. The shadow jogged down the street, then hooked a left.

Turning off the wipers, Alex clicked on the headlights, shifted the truck into gear, and drove down the street following the shadow’s path. He was pretty certain the shadow had been female, given the curves and the hip-swinging gait.

And just like that, there it was, the right moment.

Amen, brother, amen.

GYM BAG STRAP LOOPED around her shoulder, Annie strolled backward along the sidewalk, thumb out. Car headlights and winking neon signs from trendy bistros, shops, and gas stations dazzled her eyes, adding to the pain throbbing above her right eye. A budding migraine. Just fucking great.

She felt around in her hoodie pocket in case she’d missed an oxy tab last night, but no such luck. Not even a smoke. She felt her muscles coil tighter. She needed something to push back the pain and clear her head. Needed something to sweep away all the dark shit bouncing around in her mind.

Your dad contacted a member of the SB…the SB decided to bring you in for tests to determine what he did to you. And how.

Heather must have realized that Annie had blabbed her secret to Dad. Heather probably hated her now. At last, right? The last chain has fallen away. No reason to stick around. All she’d ever been was a thin shadow angling away from Heather.

But not to Silver. He’d been fun in and out of bed and, unlike mortal guys, could keep it up forever. Even though he was twenty-six, he’d been turned at fifteen, so rolling around with him had made her feel a little pervy, but in a delicious way. Silver had also made her feel lighter than air, an upward-bound leaf falling into the sky.

Silver wraps his fingers around her hand. He slips his arm around her waist, and then he moves. Annie’s breath catches in her throat as they streak through the crowd on the sidewalk and everything rushes past in thin finger-trails of color and light, of sound.

Annie’s flying.

She feels like Silver is her training wheels as she wings through the sky, low to the ground, her hand in his, his arm around her waist—hell, her feet might be only inches above the sidewalk—if that. But she flies, glides, in his arms.

And she never wants to stop.

But when she’d told Silver she wanted to be nightkind and asked him to turn her, he’d refused. Had said he was trying hard to get back on Dante’s good side after fucking up big time, and that turning her probably wasn’t the best idea in the world.

Silver’s pensive face and tight muscles had told Annie plenty, as had his wistful voice—he loved Dante, pined for him. She’d known that she had no hope of changing his mind. At least, not in the time remaining before the band left for the airport.

Annie’d decided if she couldn’t fly or be transformed, then she wanted to disappear. And get blind did-we-just-fuck drunk. All she needed was a beer or twelve.

And man, Heather was going to be so pissed when she discovered Annie had swiped a few souvenirs from Dante’s duffel bag on her way out.

Annie laughed, the sound as brittle as she felt. If she tripped and took a header to the pavement, would she shatter? Like good old Humpty-Dumpty? She drew in a deep breath of air and immediately regretted it as the spicy smells of curry and sausage made her migraine-queasy stomach clench.

Tires hissed over the wet pavement as cars passed her, headlights unfurling banners of blue-white light along the glistening street. A pair of headlights bright as twin suns going nova blinded Annie. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes. The vehicle—a big, rumbling pickup—pulled over to the curb. She walked up to the passenger-side door just as it swung open.

The cute curly-haired blond Heather had been questioning at the house was leaning across the seat, a warm smile on his lips. “Need a ride, Annie?” he asked.

Because a tiny voice inside of her was yelling no, Annie climbed into the pickup and, pulse thundering, shut the door.