In the Blood

6 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH HER WINDOW

Seattle, WA

March 22

CHOOSING A WINDOW AT the back of the unlit house, Dante removed the screen and rested it against the white bricks. He forced the window open with a hard, quick, upward jerk. The lock snapped with a wood-muted crack. He paused, his fingers on the window frame, listening. He heard nothing. No barking dogs. No fast-drumming heartbeats. Just silence.

Pushing aside the cream-colored curtains that belled out of the open window, Dante swung a leg over the windowsill and climbed into the darkened room. He straightened. Lowered his hood and shook his hair back from his face.

He breathed in Heather’s scent of sage and rain-wet lilac, a fresh after-the-storm smell. Her energy, her presence, warm and strong and sun-spiked with authority, illuminated the room.

He slid his shades up to the top of his head, his latex shirt creaking with his movement. He stepped farther into the room. Plush sofa and recliner, along with the easy chair, coffee table—magazines and books strewn across its polished surface. A blue, star-flecked fleece throw draped the recliner.

Dante walked through the house, drinking in the details of Heather’s everyday life. He trailed his fingers along the back of the sofa, the recliner—soft cushions, slick vinyl.

Kitchen: A couple of plates in the sink, a green DONE light glowing on the dishwasher, rose and purple accents, twilight colors. The mingled odors of rosemary, olive oil, and lemon lingered in the air.

Dining room: A runner of green leaves and purple grapes draped the small table. A musty and old-blood odor wafted up from a couple of dinged-up cardboard boxes on the table. Printed in black marker on the sides of the boxes were the words WALLACE, SHANNON, CASE NO. 5123441. Photos were spread like tarot cards across the table’s dark wood surface, crime scene photos.

Dante grasped the back of the chair in front of the table, the rings on his fingers and thumbs clicking against the wood, and leaned forward.

In the dirt beneath winter-stark branches, a woman lay half-curled, her gaze on the sky above. Dante’s heart skipped a beat. She looked so much like Heather—red hair, heart-shaped face, lovely even in death.

A sister? She’d mentioned that her sister had fronted WMD before the band had split up, a sister who suffered from migraines too.

A sudden thought pulsed through him. His hands squeezed around the chair’s hardwood rung. Not her sister. Her mother. Murdered and discarded. Like his own.

Pain prickled behind his eyes, snaked through his mind. Voices whispered.

You look so much like her.

Dante-angel?

Shhh, princess. Hush, p’tite. Sleep.

Closing his eyes, Dante touched fingers to his temple. Tried not to listen to the whispers. Sweat beaded his forehead. Focus on Heather. Focus on now. The voices faded until all he heard was the steady thump of his heart.

Dante opened his eyes. He studied the photos, the report pages scattered on the table. Was she reviewing her mother’s case or reopening it? Heather looked for truth in everything she did. No matter how much it hurt. And no matter who it pissed off.

It’d nearly killed her in D.C. He’d bet anything she wasn’t any safer here.

He remembered how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her at the hospital, her face pale, eyes shadowed, sorrow pooled in their blue depths. She’d looked vulnerable, fragile. So alone.

He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to walk away again. Didn’t know if he could actually tell her good-bye. Didn’t know if he wanted to heal. Didn’t know if he deserved to heal. But he wasn’t walking until he was sure she was safe.

Shoving himself away from the chair and the crime scene photo collage, Dante walked down the hallway to the bedroom. Heather’s scent surrounded him, warm and intimate, and he breathed it in.

An inquisitive mew caught Dante’s attention. An orange cat curled at the foot of the bed opened its golden eyes and regarded him calmly.

“Hey,” Dante said, holding his hand in front of the cat’s nose. The cat sniffed his fingers, then rubbed the side of its face against the edge of his hand. He stroked the small, furred head with two fingers. The cat yawned, tongue curling lazily. “I hope you ain’t supposed to be the guard kitty, minou, cuz you’re sleeping on the job, you.”

Dante trailed his fingers across the neatly made bedspread, and a dark restlessness uncoiled within him as he remembered Heather in his lap, her arms wrapped around him, holding him tight as they rocked together. Remembered the feel of her skin—warm and soft and firm, the honeyed taste of her lips, her blood. Remembered the white silence that had cupped around them like hands sheltering flame from the wind.

It’s quiet when I’m with you. The noise stops.

I’ll help you stop it forever.

But pain still blazed within. White light flickered and strobed.

No. Focus. Stay here. Stay now. Keep her safe.

Forcing himself away from the bed, Dante walked across the carpeted floor to the dresser against the wall. Several framed photos stood grouped together, one of Heather with a girl sporting a purple Mohawk and pharaonic black eyeliner and a guy with reddish-blond hair in jeans and tee. The girl and guy both looked enough like Heather to be her sister and brother. In another photo, Heather cuddled an orange cat, her cheek pressed into the cat’s fur, her blue-eyed gaze happy, content.

The same cat now bumping up against Dante’s leg, back arched for pats. Smiling, he bent and petted the orange head. “I see you’re part of the family and not security,” Dante murmured. “Good thing for me, huh?” As the cat swiveled, purring, Dante noticed only three legs. “Looks like a good thing for you too.”

Dante straightened, kissed the tips of his fingers, and then touched them against the photo of Heather and her kitty. He’d wrapped a finger around the iron pull-ring of the first dresser drawer when he heard a faint step-step out in the living room—or maybe just outside it—followed by silence.

Dante tilted his head, held his breath, and listened.

A heart’s steady rhythm, a mortal heart’s steady rhythm. A faint scratch against wood. A key? No, sounded wrong. The window.

Dante spun and strode out of the room. As he sprinted down the hallway to the living room, pain prickled, restless and sharp, against his temples and behind his left eye. He stopped when he saw a gym bag tossed into the room through the open window. It landed on the carpet with a heavy tunk.

The battered bag with frayed straps reeked of old smoke, pot, and cigarettes. A hand holding a crowbar grasped the windowsill. Dante moved. He seized the crowbar-wielding hand and, with one hard jerk, hauled the asshole in through the window. A loud rip tore through the silence as the asshole’s hoodie or jeans snagged on the broken lock.

He smelled her, this B&E chick, before he saw her, vanilla and cloves and lavender soap, but underneath that a chemical tang smudged her scent. Pain spiked his temples at the smell, scratched like thorns across his thoughts.

Grabbing both of B&E Chick’s shoulders, Dante whirled and slammed her to the floor. Her head bounced against the carpet. Her breath whoofed out and Dante caught a whiff of booze—tequila. He straddled her, snugging a knee against either side of her ribs. Held her tight.

Something whistled through the air, moving fast. Without looking, Dante swung his left arm up and out. Cold steel smacked into his palm. The crowbar. He jerked it away from little Ms. Break-and-Enter. Tossed it. The crowbar thunked onto the carpet. Dante looked into her kohl-smudged, dilated eyes.

And realized with a cold shock that he recognized her.

Whipping her head forward, she smashed her forehead into Dante’s face. Bone crunched and pain followed hard and fast like a one-two brass-knuckled punch. Blood trickled from his now broken nose. “Fuck!”

“Get off!” B&E Chick screamed, squirming and kicking.

Not just B&E Chick, but Annie Wallace. Former front woman for the defunct WMD. He’d recognized her scowling face from the photos on Heather’s dresser.

Dante grabbed a double fistful of Annie’s black hoodie and jumped to his feet, yanking her up with him. She swung a fist but missed him by a mile. He slammed her against the wall and braced an arm against her chest. When he saw her throat muscles tense, he beat her to the punch and head-butted her first. Their heads met with a loud clonk.

Her head thumped back into the wall, denting the plaster. She looked up at him, blinking, more startled than hurt. Her eyes were sky-blue, not Heather’s shade of deepest twilight. She was about the same height as Heather, five four or so to his five nine.

Her hair, streaked electric blue, purple, and black, framed her face and swept razor-cut ends against her shoulders. Metal rings and studs gleamed at her eyebrows, ears, and bee-stung lower lip.

He touched his nose. Pushed. Winced. The bone cracked as it slid into place. He sniffed back blood. “You gonna calm the fuck down? Or we gonna do this all night?”

“Fucker,” she spat, her kohl-lined eyes locking onto his face. She stopped struggling. She sucked in air, eyes widening, the pupils dilating even more.

Dante sighed and looked away, muscles taut. He knew his looks hooked into people, mortal and nightkind, and reeled them in by the crotch. Hot and bothered. Wanting him, wanting what they saw, anyway. Sometimes that was okay. Sometimes it was fun. But only sometimes.

“Hey.”

Dante swiveled his head back around. And she kissed him. Warm lips tasting of tequila and clove cigarettes. He pulled back, felt a smile tilting his lips. “First the head-butt greeting, followed up with a sloppy kiss. Is this how y’all do it in Seattle?”

“Who the hell are you? How come you broke into my sister’s house?”

“Toi t’a pas de la place pour parler. I ain’t the only one,” Dante said, nodding at the crowbar on the carpet. “How come you’re breaking in?”

She glanced at the crowbar. “Nuh-uh. You broke in first.”

“I’m a friend. Just wanted to see if Heather was all right.”

“Most people knock on the door first to see if someone’s home,” she said, lifting her chin. “Then wait for them to answer it.”

Dante glanced at the crowbar on the floor. “Yeah? And you know this how?”

“Heard it from, like, normal people,” she said. She pushed against his arm. “You can let go now. I promise not to make you bleed anymore.”

Dante snorted. “You didn’t make me bleed. The broken nose did that.” He stepped back, releasing her.

Annie rubbed her forehead. “Hard skull, man. Your nose looks okay to me, you big baby. By the way, I’m Annie.” She extended her hand.

“I figured. Heather’s talked about you.” Dante grasped her hand and shook it. “I’m Dante.” Her grip was firm like Heather’s, but hard, like she was still challenging him, trying to make him wince.

Annie released Dante’s hand. “And how do you know my sister?” Her gaze skimmed his length from head to toe. “Steel-ringed bondage collar, latex and leather—trust me, you’re not the kind of guy she usually brings home.”

“We met in New Orleans.”

“Holy fuck! Are you the guy Heather was telling me about?” Annie poked a finger into his chest. “The guy who fucking saved her life? The guy who is…fuck, what the hell did she say you were?”

“Something nice, I hope. But I’m okay with something naughty.”

“She said you weren’t human,” Annie laughed, her voice low and booze-and-smokes scratchy. “Crazy, I know! I forget what she called you….”

“Nightkind.”

“That’s it! Nightkind. Vampire. Are you?”

“Yup,” Dante replied, trailing a hand through his hair. “When did you talk to Heather? Have you seen her? She okay?”

Annie shrugged. “I guess she’s okay.” She felt along the wall for a light switch. “So, just ‘yup’? No denials? No ‘get real, there’s no such’—”

Dante heard a click as her fingers found the switch. Light flooded the room, spiking pain in through his eyes. He reached for the sunglasses parked on his head, then realized he’d lost them during Annie’s head-butt hello. Squinting, he lifted a hand to shade his eyes.

“Fucking hell,” Annie whispered. “You’re even better looking in the light. That’s rare, you know, a lot of times guys you pick up in clubs will be soooo pretty in the dark, especially Goth boys, but once you see them the next morning in raw daylight—yikes.”

“Been there,” Dante murmured. “I feel your pain.”

“How in hell did Heather land a hottie like you? Even with blood on your face, you’re yummy.”

Elroy’s words whispered through Dante’s mind, words spoken in the back of a blood-spattered van, words that latched tight as handcuffs around the pain in his head: Your nose is bleeding. That’s kinda sexy.

Dante rubbed his right wrist as the Perv’s whisper faded, a ghost sheeted in cold steel, sharp shivs, and bitter lust. But the pain didn’t fade. “That’s a stupid question,” he said, refocusing on Annie. “Your sister’s gorgeous, inside and out.”

Annie stuck her index finger in her mouth and pretended to gag.

Dante laughed. “I think I like you, p’tite.”

Spotting his sunglasses on the carpet next to the coffee table, he walked over, scooped them up, and dropped them on over his eyes. His headache eased a little. “Do you have any idea where Heather might be?” he asked, swiveling back around.

“Nope.” Annie closed the distance between them until she stood just a handspan away, her weight shifted to one hip. “But I bet I know a few tricks she doesn’t,” she said, voice low. “She’d be so pissed if I jumped your bones.”

“I ain’t here to piss her off. And if that’s why you’re here, I gotta feeling we’re gonna be butting heads again.”

“Really? Promise? It was soooo fun the first time.” Her gaze slid over him and the chemical tang underneath her lavender-and-cloves scent thickened, curling into Dante’s nostrils like smoke.

Dizziness suddenly whirled through Dante, spinning the room around him. Something in her scent…drugs? White light flickered at the edges of his vision. Sensations rippled through him, pulled and tugged like a tide of ghostly hands; then the rip current yanked him down. Sucked him under.

A needle pierces the skin at his throat. Cold burns through his veins like dry ice.

Images sheared up into Dante’s mind, fractured and confusing: A room with blood-spattered, snow-white walls. A hype with a bead of clear liquid on the needle. A man’s voice. What’s the little psycho yelling?

Pain sucker punched him. He stumbled. A hand locked around his bicep. Black flecks flickered through his vision. Faded slowly. Dante looked into Annie’s blue gaze—saw curiosity. Hunger burned through his veins. He needed to feed. He’d waited too long. And his control was slipping.

“You okay?”

“Oui.” He pulled free of her hold. Stepped back from her heat, from the tantalizing patter of her pulse.

“Can I see your fangs? You got fangs, right? I wanna see.”

Dante walked into the kitchen, stopping at the sink. He twisted the knob to cold. Bending, Dante cupped cold water in his hands and splashed it on his face. Scrubbed away the blood. But not the whispers.

I’ve mapped your mind.

What’s he screamin’?

He’s making a very loud, very clear demand.

“Kill me,” Dante whispered. Pain spiked his temples and he grabbed the sink’s edge. The room spun. He shut his eyes. He tried to hold onto the shadow memory, tried to repeat the words he’d just said, but when he opened his mouth, he no longer knew what to say.

It was gone. Whatever it’d been.

“Fuck.” Dante opened his eyes, released his grip from the sink, and straightened. Pain throbbed behind his left eye. Tearing a paper towel from the roll on the counter, he wiped his face. Turned off the water.

In the sudden silence, he heard a sharp gasp from the living room. He hurried out of the kitchen and saw Annie standing at the dining room table, her attention locked on the photos fanned across its dark wood.

“Is that my mom?” Annie said, voice barely more than a rough-edged whisper.

“Dunno. But I think, maybe, yeah.”

“She got herself whacked because she was a drunk and a whore,” she said, her tone bored, but strain edged her voice. Manic energy whipped around her like electricity from a downed power line. “If-she-weren’t-already-dead-I’d-fucking-kill-her-myself-she-picked-booze-I-hate-her-I-hate-her-I-hate-everyone—”

Annie’s hurt and rage punched against Dante like a child’s angry fists, pounding and kicking and screaming. Then, with a speed almost nightkind fast, she whirled and ran across the room to the crowbar. Dipped and grabbed. Spun again.

Her eyes gleamed like she was hyped up. Her musky scent saturated the air. Dante had seen this kind of hurt before. Had felt it. Had carried it clenched in his fists and within his heart.

Annie swung the crowbar up into the air, fingers white-knuckled around the steel. A wordless howl escaped her throat and scraped razor-edged along Dante’s spine. She shot forward like a launched missile, the crowbar whistling as it arced through the air.