In the Blood

33 NIGHT DESCENDS

Seattle, WA

March 24

Nah-nah-nah! I’m out having fun! Leave a fucking message! Or not!

Heather didn’t bother leaving a message. She ended the call, then spiked the cell phone onto the rumbled bed in frustration. “Shit!” She couldn’t help but think that Annie had taken off because of what she’d heard Lyons say.

She doesn’t know I blame Dad, not her.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it. Annie’d ransacked Dante’s duffel bag on her way out the window, had stolen his iPod, a couple of shirts, a bottle of absinthe, and his song journal.

“She can fucking keep the other stuff. The only thing I care about is that journal,” Dante had said softly, then had shrugged—no big deal. But Heather had heard the distress in his voice; the journal was special.

She had a feeling that, somehow, Annie had gut-known which item’s loss would hurt Dante the most. Maybe because she was a musician too. Heather wasn’t exactly sure why Annie wanted to hurt Dante, maybe just to see if she could, maybe because she liked him. And maybe it wasn’t even Dante she wanted to hurt, but Heather.

Maybe it’d been all of those things.

Heather could puzzle out a killer’s identity, decipher his motives, and sometimes predict his next move, but she couldn’t figure out her own baby sister no matter how hard she tried.

Heather plopped down on the bed and rubbed her face. She felt drained, tired. Annie could be anywhere, with anyone, doing anything. And time was running out fast. For herself, for Dante, for Annie, even. Heather refused to leave her sister behind to be used by their father or the powers that be.

The SB exists. A chill rippled along her spine.

And Dr. Robert Wells…

Though Dante hadn’t said anything, she knew Lyons’s words—Every minute you let my father breathe, you’re denying her justice—had cut deep. Dante wanted Wells and she didn’t blame him. But it’d be impossible. How could he confront the man when he couldn’t even keep Wells’s name in his mind?

Dante walked into the bedroom, his hair wet from the shower, a blue bath towel tied around his waist. “Still nothing?” he asked.

Heather sighed and shook her head. “She might be headed to Portland. She’s got an apartment there and our dad’s in Portland too. She might want to confront him.”

“Yeah, she might.” Dante took off the towel and draped it over the doorknob. “I would. I bet you would, too.”

“Still might.” Heather’s pulse raced as she watched Dante dress, muscles rippling beneath his pale skin. She wished she could keep him naked for a while longer, wished they had the time to play.

Dante pulled on black leather pants and a twilight-purple PVC shirt crisscrossed with black latex-and-metal straps. He sat on the bed beside her. She caught a faint whiff of her honeysuckle shampoo laced beneath his autumn scent.

“We’ll find her,” he promised. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Heather closed her eyes and leaned into him. “You need to fly home with the guys,” she said. “It’s not safe for you here.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do, chérie. I ain’t leaving you alone.”

“Lyons could’ve been lying through his teeth.”

“Lyin’ Lyons. Probably, yeah. But not about everything. I think he told the truth about you. I ain’t leaving you alone.”

“Pigheaded.”

“And you ain’t?” Dante brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “Where you planning on going?”

Heather opened her eyes. “I don’t know, to be honest. Just out of Seattle. My brother’s in New York, but I hate the thought of bringing trouble or worse to his doorstep.”

“How ’bout you, Annie, and Eerie come to New Orleans? Stay with me until it’s safe,” Dante said. “I’m the reason you’re in this fucking mess. Let me help, Heather.”

“None of this is your fault.” She held his dark gaze, studied his beautiful face. She could tell he thought otherwise. “I got into this by doing my job. And I don’t regret that. We’re in this mess together.”

“Then let’s fight them together, catin.”

Together, guarding each other’s backs. That felt right, just like it had backstage at Vespers while she’d protected him as he’d Slept. An intuitive rhythm pulsed between them, electric and elemental and night-blooded. She touched the spot where the bullet had entered her chest. He had no idea how special he was.

“I’ll have to check with Eerie. If he’s against the idea…” She shrugged.

A smile tugged at one corner of Dante’s mouth. A devilish smile. And sexy, damn him. “I promised him my seat on the plane.”

“You can do that?”

“Make promises?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Yup. First class and Eerie-minou can lounge in his carrier on my paid-for seat.”

“Good idea,” Heather said. “Less stress for Eerie.”

“Oui.”

“We can take the guys to the airport, then come back, load up the boxes I packed, and head for Portland,” Heather said, mulling over their options. “We’ll find Annie, drive to New Orleans, stay in motels during the day.” She stroked a finger along Dante’s jaw, touched his lips. Lips like a cupid’s bow. He kissed her fingertip. “This could work.”

“Je pense bien, especially since you said it aloud,” Dante said. “Von told me that whatcha say from the heart has power. That a spoken thing or a wished-hard thing takes a shape in the heart and becomes real.”

“I like that,” Heather said softly. She lowered her hand to her lap. “I like it a lot and I’d like to think it was true.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll say this aloud, then. I picked up the flash drive Lyons left behind,” she said. “When you’re ready, we’ll watch it together. Maybe seeing your past will help you keep the memories.” Even though she wished he didn’t have to see all the nasty, fucked-up shit that Wells and Moore had put him through.

“Bon, chérie. I want to know.”

“About what happened?”

“What I’ve done. What I’ve become. What I am.”

Heather sucked in a breath. “Dante, no—”

“Things are unraveling inside. I feel it and I’m fighting it, but…”

“But nothing. I trust you.”

“Don’t.”

That single husky-voiced word shocked the air from her lungs like a bucket of ice water over the head. She suddenly saw him on the stage floor at Vespers, Von’s arms wrapped around him. Heard him ask: I didn’t hurt no one, did I?

“I’ve seen you unmake a woman, true, but you also saved my life and you restored Eerie’s leg,” Heather said. She grasped his hand and threaded her fingers through his. “You’d sacrifice yourself without a second thought for those you love. Your heart won me, Dante Baptiste, not your looks. You need healing, and maybe you’ll never heal completely, but you won’t have to do it alone.”

“T’es sûr de sa?” His dark eyes searched hers.

“Yeah, I’m sure. For now. So shut up, Baptiste.” Heather stroked his hair, tucked a shower-damp tendril behind his silver-hoop-rimmed ear. “Time to go.”

Dante kissed her lips, a heated, lingering kiss that sent hot flutters through her belly as she savored his amaretto taste. When the kiss ended, he lifted their joined hands, kissed her knuckles, then released her. Bending, he pulled on his socks and strapped on his boots. Stood, and offered her a hand up. A hand she was happy to accept.

A new future was taking shape in her heart.

PANIC FLASHED THROUGH SHERIDAN as he watched a cab pull up to the curb in front of Wallace’s house. Three men, none of them Prejean, exited the house, loaded their bags in the cab’s trunk, then piled into the vehicle.

Sweat beaded Sheridan’s forehead, stuck his shirt to his back. Was he about to miss his moment? If Prejean left and returned to New Orleans, then he’d have to fly to New Orleans as well, and hunt the vampire on his own turf. That possibility left him cold. And still no sign of Cortini. He thought it likely she was waiting to catch Wallace alone.

Maybe she was watching right now.

Sheridan’s heart triple-timed and, for a moment, he couldn’t catch his breath. Too many pick-me-ups, too many hours crammed in the SUV, breathing his own ever-ripening odor, and chewing stick after endless stick of spearmint gum.

He watched the mini-mon, the screen quivering with every hard beat of his heart. Wallace and a dreadlocked male carrying a pet container walked out of the house. She unlocked the trunk to her Trans Am. Prejean and what looked like a punkedup teenager carried suitcases to the opened trunk.

Prejean was leaving.

“Fuck,” Sheridan breathed.

Then the teenager called, “What about your bag?”

Prejean shook his head. “Leave it. We’re coming back to load up Heather’s stuff. I’ll grab it then.”

The teen nodded, then climbed into the backseat of the car.

We’re coming back…

Sheridan exhaled. Blotted sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve. He hoped to hell Prejean was referring to just himself and Wallace. Sheridan felt confident he could find a way to justify Wallace as collateral damage to Rutgers. He just needed to be damn sure that he caught Prejean off guard and put him down with the first shot. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t live long enough to fire a second.

ALEX TUGGED A BLACK-AND-WHITE composition notebook from Annie’s gym bag and paged through it. He studied the lyrics slanting southpaw style across the white sheets, beautiful and raw phrases; he had to admit Dante was a poet, a dark poet. He thumbed past pages full of musical composition—measures and chords, along with margin doodles and notes to himself: Start drums here; loop the bass; falsetto chorus…

Closing the notebook, Alex tossed it back into the gym bag and continued rummaging through lavender-scented clothes for the other item Annie had bragged about stealing. His fingers glided over the bottle’s smooth shape and wrapped around it. Pulled it free.

Athena’s words whispered though Alex’s memory: Green waters of remembrance. He’ll need the green waters.

Excitement spun through him as he examined the sealed, green-tinted bottle. Although Alex didn’t know what role the absinthe would play in Dante’s upcoming immersion into his past, Athena’s visions were always right.

Alex tucked the absinthe back into the nest of perfumed un-dies, then zipped the bag shut. He scooted the bag onto the floorboards between Annie’s booted feet.

She’d been talkative when she’d hopped into the truck, bouncing from subject to subject like a Slinky flipping from stair to stair, usually switching midsentence. And for one awful moment, he’d expected her to start whispering in an effort to keep up with her racing thoughts.

Then the moment had passed, and Alex’s pulse had slowed. Not Athena, but Annie. A pang of regret had pricked him. Annie’s mind was nearly as ravaged as his sister’s.

Annie had kept thumping the end of one fist against her forehead and Alex had finally realized she was in pain, had realized she’d probably welcome the syringe.

It hadn’t taken him long to find an ill-lit alley to pull the truck into.

As the needle pierces her throat, he says: It’s nothing personal. All I want is Dante.

Annie laughs: Get in line, motherfucker.

Alex pushes the plunger.

He twisted flex-cuffs around Annie’s wrists and ankles. Brushing a purple strand of hair away from her lips, he stretched a wide piece of duct tape across her mouth. Alex clicked a picture of her using her own phone. Sliding the phone into his hoodie pocket, he got out of the Dodge Ram and unsnapped the black tonneau cover over the bed and folded it back.

With Annie slung across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, Alex returned to the truck bed and eased her down into it as best he could. Her head bounced against the runneled metal, fanning multicolored hair across her face, but she didn’t stir. She wouldn’t for hours.

Alex snapped the tonneau cover back in place. He leaned against the truck, lit up a Winston, and smoked in silence for a few moments. He hoped he was right about Dante’s feelings for Heather. Even so, it was still possible the True Blood might tell him to fuck off again.

Alex pulled his cell from his pocket and called Athena. After six rings, her voice mail switched on, a message he’d recorded for her years ago: You’ve reached the voice mail of Dr. Athena Wells. Please leave a message.

Anxiety coiling through his guts, Alex rang his father’s cell, then the land line. Six rings, voice mail. Maybe she was so absorbed studying the center footage on the laptop she didn’t hear the phone. Or was ignoring it.

He wished he and Athena shared the long-range telepathy that vampires used so effortlessly, but they’d learned through trial and error that they couldn’t touch each other’s minds or anyone else’s unless they were within a certain proximity.

Taking one last drag from his cigarette, the butt-end smoke harsh against his throat, he flicked it into a puddle. Alex thumbed the END button on his cell, then slid the phone into his pocket. He climbed back into the Dodge Ram and started up the engine. The powerful rumble reverberated against the alley’s stone walls.

Even if Athena was ignoring the phone, the Tightrope Walker should’ve picked up. She’d want to know about his progress since she seemed to be so invested in seeing his father in Dante Baptiste’s hands.

But maybe she couldn’t answer the phone.

Maybe Athena had decided to conduct another experiment.

TRANS AM IDLING IN a passenger unloading zone in front of the main terminal at Sea-Tac, Heather said her good-byes, giving Jack, Eli, and Antoine quick hugs before offering her hand to Silver. With a slight smile, Silver shook her hand.

“I hope you find Annie,” he said. His strange silver eyes glittered like sun-sparked water beneath the lights. “She’s cool, but she’s chewed herself up ragged inside, y’know? She needs an easy touch.”

Heather nodded, surprised by his insight. “She does. Thanks.”

Silver shrugged, then stepped back a few paces to join the guys as Dante, the hood of his black hoodie pulled up to shadow his face, said his good-byes with kisses and murmured words.

“He asked me to shepherd everyone home, make sure they get there safe,” Von said, stepping up beside Heather, his gaze on Dante. “But I goddamned hate leaving him. Between the migraines and the seizures…” He shook his head.

“Has he ever said anything about what Jordan did to him in that van?”

“Nope. Not a word.”

“That’s something else he shouldn’t have to carry alone,” she said softly.

“Yeah, good luck trying to convince him of that.” The nomad bent and dug through the well-weathered olive-green knapsack at his booted feet. He pulled something out, then straightened. “Here, doll.” He held the black, zippered bag in his hands. “You’re gonna need this.”

Heather took the vinyl bag, feeling cold. “Thanks. I hope I won’t have to use it.”

Von shook his head. “Sorry, darlin’, but you will.”

Heather pulled one of her business cards from her purse and handed it to Von. “My cell phone number’s on there,” she said. “Check in with me anytime. Once you’re back home, give me a call. I’ll keep you posted on our progress each night and where we’re staying.”

The nomad nodded. “Good enough.” He slipped the card into an inner pocket of his leather jacket.

Heather caught a whiff of frost-rimed autumn leaves and then Dante was beside her. He hooked his arm around her waist. “Safe flight, mon ami. I appreciate you seeing everyone home. Merci beaucoup for everything.”

“No, thank you. You helped me attain my lifelong goal of roadie-hood,” Von drawled dryly, then something tender warmed his green eyes. He pushed Dante’s hood back and cupped his pale face with his road-weathered hands. “Let them see, little brother.” Then he bent and kissed him.

Let them see.

Heather realized Von wasn’t talking about the voyeuristic appeal of watching two men kiss, he was telling Dante not to hide his beauty inside a hood, and he was also speaking about who and what Dante was—musician, friend, True Blood, and Fallen.

Unique. Brimming with magic and beauty and heart; dark, untamed, and deadly.

Let them see you.

I agree, but not yet, Heather thought. Not until his life is completely his own.

The kiss ended and the nomad released Dante with a pat to his cheek. “Take care, little brother,” he said. He cat-nudged Heather with his shoulder and she bumped him back. “And see if you can keep your gorgeous kick-ass woman outta trouble.”

Dante snorted. Pointed to himself. “Gasoline.” Pointed at Heather. “Match.” He winked at her as Von laughed. “As soon as we find Annie, we’ll head home.”

Von held Dante’s gaze for a few moments, and Heather knew they were speaking mind-to-mind. Something sad and yearning suddenly shadowed Dante’s unguarded face, and he looked away, jaw tight.

Von watched him for a moment, then sighed. “Like a goddamned mule.” Looking at Heather, he said, “Wishing ya easy roads, doll. See ya in a week or two.”

“Take care of Eerie,” she said.

Von snorted. “That cat’s got Eli wrapped around his paw, woman.”

Heather grinned. “That’s my kitty boy.”

Motioning for the guys to move their asses, Von strode toward the terminal entrance, pausing to exchange greetings with a couple of nomads on gear-laden bikes.

Dante untucked his shades from the front of his shirt and slid them on. He looked at Heather. “Let’s go find Annie.”

“FUCKING HELL,” DANTE MUTTERED. He hated restraints. Unbuckling his seat belt, he shifted in the seat, his leather pants squeaking against vinyl, and rested his back against the passenger door. He rested one booted foot on the seat. Better.

Heather glanced at him. “That’s the face I want to remember,” she said, returning her gaze to the road. “The one before the accident.”

“So don’t crash,” Dante teased. “And anyway, the airbag will suffocate me first.”

“Smart ass.”

“Yup.”

The smooth, high-pitched thrum of the Trans Am’s engine filled the silence. But the silence wasn’t tense or awkward, Dante reflected, his gaze on Heather’s face. They were comfortable together even without words, content with their own thoughts.

And that was dangerous.

It would make it even harder to walk away from her when the time came, when he was sure she was safe from the Bureau and anyone else hunting her.

The words Von had arrowed into his mind at the airport darted through his memory: Don’t deny your heart, little brother.

Gotta. She’ll die if I don’t.

No, Dante, no…

A song suddenly disrupted the silence, a tinny version of Rob Zombie’s “Living Dead Girl.” “That’s Annie’s ringtone,” Heather breathed. “Phone’s in my purse.” She steered the Trans Am to the shoulder of the road. “Talk to her until I get stopped.”

Dante swiveled around in his seat, grabbed Heather’s purse from the backseat, and fished out the Zombie-rocking cell. He flipped it open. “Annie?”

The Trans Am slowed to a stop. Heather pulled up the emergency brake.

“No, but you’re not who I was expecting either.” Alex Lyons’s voice was level and warm. “You’re who I wanted to speak to, though.”

“Fi’de garce,” Dante spat. “Where’s Annie?”

Heather stared at Dante, fear flickering across her face. “Who is it?”

“Lyin’ Lyons,” Dante told her. “Where the fuck’s Annie?”

“She’s with me and she’s safe, for the moment.”

“Give me the phone,” Heather said, holding out her hand. All fear was gone from her face, but her hand trembled. Dante gave her the phone.

“What have you done with my sister, Lyons?”

Heather’s expression tightened as she listened to whatever the motherfucker was saying. Dante trailed a hand through his hair. Annie was in trouble. Bad trouble. Because of him.

He should’ve killed Lyons when he’d had the chance. Should’ve torn into his throat and fed.

Heather lowered the cell from her ear. The phone beeped and she looked at what appeared on the tiny monitor. Her breath caught in her throat. Wordlessly, she extended the phone to Dante so he could see too.

The screen held a photo of Annie, eyes closed, duct tape across her mouth. Anger burned through Dante’s veins.

“He wants to talk to you,” Heather said, her voice strained.

Dante took the phone from her fingers. He knew what she was thinking because he was thinking it too. “How do we know she’s alive?” he said into the cell.

“You’ll just have to take my word for it,” Lyons said. “She is, but if you want to keep her that way, you need to meet me.”

“Where?”

“Heather’s house. If you aren’t there in ten minutes, Annie will be dead.” Lyons ended the call.

Dante flipped the cell closed and dropped it back into Heather’s purse. “Your house in ten minutes,” he told her.

Heather nodded, jaw tight. She dropped the emergency brake, slammed the Trans Am into gear and burned rubber out onto the road. Dante listened to the rapid, furious rhythm of her heart. Adrenaline heated her scent, edging its lilacs-in-the-rain sweetness with the sharp tang of steel.

“Hang on, p’tite,” Dante said under his breath, wishing hard and from the heart. Memory whirled through him, edging his vision with white light.

Jay, straitjacketed and dying on the slaughterhouse’s cold floor, blood from his slashed throat pooling around him, staining his blond hair red…

He’d told Jay to hang on, too. Dante’s hands clenched into fists. He refused to add Annie’s name to the litany of the lost, the long list of all those he’d failed.

“He’ll want me,” Dante said. “And he can have me. As soon as he gives you Annie, you get the hell outta Seattle and head for New Orleans.”

“I’m not letting you sacrifice yourself,” Heather said, voice tight. “We need to think of something else.”

“He wants me to heal his sister. He ain’t gonna hurt me.”

“I’m not letting Lyons leave with you.”

Dante shrugged. “I’ll just kill him first chance I get.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yeah? Why won’t I?”

“Because you’re going to prepare two syringes with just enough morphine to knock a mortal into slumberland for a few hours. That’s why. Whoever gets to him first can give him the shot. Will you be able to get into his mind? Find where Annie is?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” White light danced at the edges of Dante’s vision and thorn-sharp pain prickled at his temples, scraped behind his left eye. He willed the pain below. He could only hope it’d stay there. And if it didn’t? He shivered, a chill breathing against the back of his neck.

I’ll have to use it before it uses me.

“Promise me that both syringes will have a nonfatal dose.”

Dante looked at Heather for a long moment, reading the tension in her body, the trust in her eyes. She knew he’d never lie. He reached into the backseat, grabbed the black bag, and unzipped it. He plucked out a syringe and uncapped it.

“Ain’t promising.”

In the depths, wasps droned.

He’d do whatever it took to keep Heather and Annie safe. No matter the cost.