A Rush of Wings

16 Blood Sworn « ^ »

DANTE OPENED HIS EYES. Candlelight flickered white and gold on the ceiling. Shadows shimmied. He smelled vanilla-scented wax and tasted blood at the back of his throat. His head throbbed, but the pain was distant as though numbed by morphine or eased by Lucien’s cool hands.

It hurt to swallow. The blood he tasted was his own. Another headache? Another nosebleed? What night was it? He tried to think back, to remember what he’d been doing before Sleep, but hit a big blank wall.

Sudden vivid images swirled through his thoughts—a wasp, chains dangling from a meat hook, a bloodied baseball bat—morphing his consciousness into waking nightmare.

Barbed-wire thorns bit. Wasps droned. Dante shook his head. He felt Trey nudging gently at his shields. Sucking in a deep breath, Dante let him in.

<A message for you on club e-mail.>

<Oüi.>

<“I know where your pretty plaything’s been stashed. He’s alive and mostly well. Play nice and he’ll stay that way. I’ll leave word for you at the club.” Traced the message back to a net café. Blind credit. Dead end.>

Pulse racing, Dante sat up. Blood pounded in his temples.

“Agent Wallace phoned while you were Sleeping,” Lucien said, stepping into the room. “The killer is not dead and she advised you to stay home.”

“So, she was right,” Dante said. “But I ain’t staying. I got a promise to keep.”

<You trust this information?>

“Fuck, no. But it’s all I got right now.” Dante threw aside the sheets and stood.

I’m coming for you, Jay. Keep breathing. Keep fighting.

HEATHER SUCKED IN A deep breath of Hell’s patchouli-, clove-, and sweat-reeking air and plunged into the crowd. As she weaved and pushed between hot and sweaty bodies, she kept her gaze on Dante.

He sat on the edge of his bat-winged throne, muscles tensed, body coiled. He wore leather pants and a metal-strapped latex shirt. Light flashed from the rings on his fingers and from the ring on his bondage collar. A black-haired Goth princess nestled against his leg, her fishnet-covered arms wrapped around his calf, a smile on her bloodred lips.

Dante’s fingers stroked the Goth chick’s hair, the gesture absentminded but gentle, his dark gaze on Heather. His pale face revealed nothing. No hint of welcome. Just watchful.

Music battered and rib-kicked the moshing crowd. The heavy bass beat vibrated the walls and mist-shrouded floor, the sound like a defibrillator to the heart.

Not bad. Heather thought, raising a forearm to fend off a crowd surfer. Reminds me of Annie’s old band. Hands shoved and bounced the surfer off to Heather’s left. She lowered her arm. She’d half turned to shoulder in when she realized someone had stepped directly in front of her, blocking her path. Frowning, hands knotting into fists, Heather looked up—and her heart skipped a beat.

“You know how to handle yourself,” Dante said. A half smile tilted his lips.

“Yeah, well, my sister used to front a band,” Heather shouted. Looking at him now, she saw welcome in his dark eyes, and some of her tension unraveled.

“Which band?”

“WMD.”

A circle cleared around them as the crowd suddenly realized who stood among them. Hunger of all kinds dilated their eyes. Voices whispered. Trembling fingers reached. Heather’s gaze jumped from one person to the next, wondering if a killer moshed among them. She jerked when a hand gripped her shoulder. Dante leaned in, his lips beside her ear.

“You don’t need to shout,” he whispered. “I can hear you fine. And WMD were among the fucking best.” He straightened, his fingers lingering on her shoulder for a moment.

“They were.” Heather held Dante’s gaze, only half-aware of the whispers buzzing and droning around them like flies.

A thin young man in dreads and camo shoved an Inferno CD—the new one, Deliberately Set—and a Sharpie at Dante.

“Dudeifyoucouldit’dbetotallyawesome,” he blurted, eyes wide.

Dante handed the signed CD and the Sharpie back to Camoboy.

He blinked. “Uh…thanks.”

Heather hadn’t seen Dante take the CD and sign it either. She’d caught a blur of movement, his hands, maybe, but nothing else. Dante glanced at her. Held out his hand. She took it, wrapping her fingers around his warm palm.

Dante led her through the crowd. A path opened before them and Dante’s name rippled through the moshers, every murmur another tossed stone. Yearning glances followed him. Fingers brushed against him. Pleading. One honey-haired young man in an old-fashioned frock coat was bold enough to step in front of Dante. He closed his kohl-lined eyes, spread his arms wide, and offered up his lips.

Dante stopped, surprising Heather. Still holding her hand, he stepped forward until he was face-to-face with the young man, until just a breath of air separated their bodies, and kissed the offered lips.

A pining sigh gusted through the watchers. Heather stepped beside Dante, scanning each sweating, painted face near him. A few wept, tears black with eyeliner and mascara streaking their faces.

They adore him. Utterly. Is it his looks? Who he is?

Or what he’s supposed to be?

The kiss ended. The honey-haired young man staggered back, then bowed, sweeping one arm across his waist while extending one leg. An elegant gesture unmarred by his trembling hands.

“Merci beaucoup, mon ange de sang.” He glanced up, face flushed, dazed. “You honor me.”

“Pour quoi? Sa fini pas.”

Heather heard strain in Dante’s voice. He hasn’t had time to grieve, she thought. So much has happened in the last couple of days.

Still bowing, the young man stepped out of Dante’s path. The sighs and murmurs intensified. Dante resumed walking, his fingers locked around Heather’s hand. The path merged behind him and disappeared. When they reached the steps to the dais, Dante squeezed Heather’s hand, then released it.

She followed him up the steps, past the Goth lords and Goth princesses curled on the steps like contented cats. The black-haired lap kitty who’d been snugged against Dante’s leg earlier perched on the edge of the dais, her hungry gaze fixed on his face. Behind the throne, De Noir stood in a crimson shirt, the X-rune pendant glittering at his throat, his face impassive.

Dante knelt on one knee beside the waiting Goth chick. Skimming his fingers along her jaw, he bent and spoke into her ear.

Heather noticed how black Dante’s hair was in the club’s low lights, black as the deepest part of night; natural and glossy—not flat like the dyed hair of the girl listening to his whispered words.

The Goth princess lowered her eyes; her lower lip quivered. Dante tipped her face up and kissed her. She laced her arms around his waist.

Most people shake hands. Dante kisses. Could get real interesting at a company picnic. Heather folded her arms over her chest.

When the kiss ended, the fishnet queen reluctantly released Dante, her hands sliding over his hips as she did. Smiling, she smoothed her thumbs over his lips, wiping away the lipstick. She glared at Heather as she scooted down a step, her disdainful gaze sweeping her from head to toe.

Heather smiled and stepped past her.

Dante sat cross-legged on the dais in front of the throne, motioning for Heather to do the same. She did, slipping her purse strap over her head and around her opposite shoulder so she didn’t have to worry about it disappearing.

Music pounded and throbbed. It pulsed up Heather’s spine and into the back of her skull. Someone in the Cage howled in pain. Feedback squealed through the amps. Heather winced. Her gaze flicked to the fetish-hung Cage. The band kicked and pried at the hands clutching the downed front man. Fingers waved in the air, blood-streaked, holding aloft torn pieces of material and long strands of red hair.

Finally the band freed their front man, who scooped up the mike, rolled to his feet, and resumed singing, blood trickling down his face.

“Dark Cloud 9 from Portland,” Dante said, leaning forward to speak into her ear.

“He isn’t dead,” she said.

“Lucien told me. You were right. Whatcha gonna do now?”

“Guard you.”

An amused smile quirked up the corners of Dante’s mouth.

“Oh, you don’t think you need it? Mister Indestructible Vampire?”

“I never said I was indestructible.”

“You must believe it, though,” Heather said, locking gazes with him. “You didn’t stay home. What the hell are you doing here?”

Dante’s smile faded. “I have a promise to keep.”

“A promise? How about promising to play it safe?”

“Fuck, Heather,” Dante muttered. “I never promised you anything. But I did promise Jay I’d protect him and I mean to do it.”

“Jay’s dead, Dante, it’s too late,” Heather said, touching his knee.

“No, he’s not. The body they fished outta the river wasn’t his. I checked.” Fire gleamed in Dante’s dark eyes. “I got a message tonight. Someone knows where Jay’s stashed. Said they’d leave word for me here. I’m waiting.”

Heather stared at him, speechless. What had Dante said last night? Bait the hook? But there was a difference between that and tossing the bait into the shark’s jaws. And wasn’t it interesting that the message wasn’t sent until after she’d left New Orleans?

“The only one who could possibly know where—”

Dante held up a hand and glanced across the bobbing crowd toward the entrance. Heather fell silent. Following Dante’s gaze, she looked across the room.

“Peeping Tom’s here,” Dante said. He uncoiled and stood, the sudden movement graceful and fluid. “And he wants a moment of my time.”

Heather eased to her feet, apprehension curling in her belly. The moshing crowd parted like an amoeba as two figures strode from the entryway onto the dance floor. Von led the way in loose, long-legged strides, fight-scarred hands at his sides. His leather jacket bulged slightly, and she realized he wore a double shoulder holster underneath.

Her gaze skipped behind Von to the man following in his wake. Thomas Ronin. She’d seen pictures of him online and on book jackets, but this was the first time she’d seen him in the flesh. She’d expected a striking man—tall, athletic stride, skin just a shade lighter than night under the house lights, short-cropped hair, trimmed beard—but she hadn’t expected his presence. Even from across the room, he commanded attention, drew the eye.

The journalist’s gaze flickered over Heather. Surprise flashed across his face. Surprise and recognition. He knows who I am, she thought. And he didn’t expect me to be here. She nodded. A tight smile skimmed Ronin’s lips, then vanished.

Von climbed the steps to the dais. He paused in front of Dante. The crescent moon tattoo under the nomad’s eye seemed to vibrate beneath the dim lights.

“C’est bon,” Dante said. “Gètte le.”

With a quick nod, Von stepped past Dante, then stood at his right hand, but at a slight angle as though he needed to watch everyone.

Ronin stepped onto the dais. Turning, he half bowed to Von. “An honor to be escorted by you, llygad.”

Von didn’t react to the journalist’s words. He stood motionless, legs apart, hands at his sides.

Apparently, Ronin hadn’t expected a reply, because he turned to face Dante without waiting for one. His gaze slid past Dante to De Noir standing behind the throne, then back.

“I’m surprised to see you still here, Agent Wallace,” Ronin said, voice smooth.

“And why is that?”

Ronin shrugged. “I read in the paper that the CCK had been nailed in Pensacola. The Bureau and local authorities say the case is closed.”

“So why aren’t you in Pensacola following up like a good journalist?” Heather thumped her hand against her temple. “Oh. I forgot. You’re not a good journalist.”

Ronin smiled, arched an eyebrow, and said, “Ouch.”

“You got your moment, Peeping Tom,” Dante said.

“Tell me if this means anything or if it’s just bullshit.” Ronin reached a hand into the inside pocket of his denim jacket.

The hair prickled on the back of Heather’s neck. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw De Noir now standing just behind Dante, his gaze locked on Ronin.

Dark Cloud 9’s wall of industrial sound revved down to drums and bass, the beat tribal and hypnotic, punctuated by the front man’s growled refrain, repeated over and over: One step closer to the end / one step closer / one step closer to the end…

Ronin tugged a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He extended it to Dante. “I found this in my newspaper this evening.”

Dante tugged the paper free of Ronin’s fingers, then flipped it open and scanned it. Heather leaned in and read over his shoulder.

jay mcgregor sends his regards, ask dante why. ask dante how much blood will it take to wake him up. how many? write the truth. tell dante to look in his car.

DRUMS POUNDED, BASS THROBBED, pulsing beat. One step closer to the end / one step closer / one / step / closer / to the end…

Dante tucked the slip of paper into his back pocket. “Merci,” he said, voice low. “But this doesn’t change anything.”

Ronin shook his head, stepped closer. “What are you afraid of…True Blood?”

Heather’s hair fluttered in a rush of air at the same moment she caught a peripheral glimpse of Dante moving. He’d reacted to Ronin’s invasion of his personal space by moving in even closer; a handspan separated the two. The journalist’s dark skin contrasted so sharply with Dante’s pale complexion—midnight and winter white—that the image of the yin-yang symbol burned within her mind.

“Not you, Peeping Tom.” Dante’s hands curled into fists. “What the fuck do you mean by ‘True Blood’?”

“Nothing,” De Noir said. He stepped past Heather and beside Dante. “Absolutely nothing.” His gaze locked on Ronin. “He’s playing games.”

Heather glanced at Von. An eyebrow arched above his shades at De Noir’s remark. Looks like the nomad isn’t so sure about that. Interesting.

Dante suddenly shuddered and closed his eyes. “T’es sûr de sa?” he whispered.

Concern flickered across De Noir’s face, his brows knitted. “Time for you to leave, M’sieu Ronin.”

“Not yet.” Ronin’s hands swung up, reaching for Dante’s shoulders.

Eyes still closed, Dante parried the journalist’s grab, his own hands flashing up and out with heart-stopping speed. His fingers curled around Ronin’s wrists. His eyes opened. Ronin stared at him, lips parted, unmoving.

Not surprised by Dante’s speed, Heather realized, but caught off guard by his actions. How long had Ronin and his creepy assistant been watching Dante?

Shoving Ronin’s wrists away, Dante reached up, cupped the journalist’s bearded face, and brushed his lips against his mouth.

Shock blanked Ronin’s face as Dante stepped back, hands at his sides. Ronin’s head turned to the side, gaze down. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His hands fisted, then relaxed.

Dante stopped beside Heather, glanced at her. A half smile tilted his lips, but red streaked his dark irises.

“Be careful,” she said. “You’re playing with fire here.”

“I like fire.” His gaze shifted back to Ronin.

“Why didn’t you turn the note over to the cops, Ronin?” Heather asked. “What do you want?”

Lifting his gaze, Ronin swung his head around to face Heather. He smiled, but something dark and sardonic wriggled in his eyes just long enough for her to see. “All I want is the story,” he said.

“Liar,” Dante said.

Amusement danced in Ronin’s eyes. “I hang out. I chronicle everything that’s going down.”

“Why wouldn’t we give your note to the cops?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Ronin glanced at Dante. “We?” He shook his head. “Even if you call in the cops, Agent Wallace, I still get the story.”

The bass dropped down to a steady throb, the drums pulsed, the front man’s growl intensified, accelerated into a scream:

One step closer to the end / One fucking step closer…

“I’ll tell you what I meant by ‘True Blood,’ ” Ronin said.

Dante shrugged. “Who says I want to know?”

Ronin grinned. “I do.”

Heather stared at the journalist’s fangs. Cold snaked into her, icing her blood. Am I the only fucking person in the world who doesn’t have fangs or imagines she’s a vampire?

She glanced at Dante. Breathtaking. Creative. Inhuman speed. Was he?

De Noir reached for Ronin’s elbow, apparently preparing to escort the journalist off the dais, when he stopped, hand still in midair, gaze turned inward.

The music stopped. The house lights dimmed, then went out.

“Do you hear that?” Dante said, his voice full of wonder. “I feel a rhythm…like fire, like your song, Lucien, like—”

Heather stepped toward the sound of Dante’s voice. In the darkness, anything could happen. A killer could close in. One quick slice across the throat…Small comfort that the killer would prefer Dante alive…for a while. Reaching out a hand, she fumbled for his arm. Her fingers slid across latex and squeezed around Dante’s forearm.

“Listen to me very carefully,” De Noir said, his voice tight and urgent.

Dante hissed in pain.

“What?” Heather said, body tensing. “What’s wrong?”

The lights switched back on.

Ronin stood motionless at the edge of the dais, his brows drawn down, his gaze intense as he watched Dante and De Noir. De Noir’s hand was locked around Dante’s shoulder and, it seemed to Heather, his fingernails pierced Dante’s shirt. Dante met De Noir’s gaze, his expression dazed.

Heather released her grip on Dante’s arm. “What’s wrong?” she repeated.

“Listen to me,” De Noir said. “Shield yourself. Shut it out.” He tipped Dante’s chin up with a taloned finger. “I must leave. Promise me you won’t follow.”

Dante held De Noir’s now glowing golden gaze and even though he didn’t say a word, Heather had the feeling much was passing between the two.

“Let me help,” Dante whispered, frustration shadowing his face.

“Promise me.”

Jerking free of the finger beneath his chin, Dante looked away, jaw clenched. Then he reached up and slid two fingers in under the neck of his shirt beside the thumb talon piercing him. He pulled his fingers out, blood-slicked, and pressed them against De Noir’s lips.

“I promise.”

“Blood sworn,” Ronin breathed. His dark eyes gleamed.

With Dante’s blood still on his lips, De Noir strode down the steps and into the watching crowd.

Dante watched him go, arms wrapped around himself, pale face troubled.

“What was that about?” Heather asked.

“I don’t know,” Dante said, voice husky. “He wouldn’t tell me.” His gaze shifted above the crowd, and Heather followed it.

De Noir was already climbing the stairs to the third-floor landing. He peeled off his crimson shirt. Powerful muscles flexed. The shirt fluttered down the stairs like a rose petal dropped from a lover’s bouquet.

A silhouetted figure scurried up the stairs after De Noir had rounded the corner and vanished from view. A red-haired Goth princess in black crinoline and fishnet scooped up the abandoned shirt. She pressed it against her cheek as she trotted back down the stairs.

“Is De Noir a vampire…nightkind…too?” Heather turned to look at Dante.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Dante shook his head. “No. He’s Fallen.”

Talons. Golden eyes. Blue fire. “As in angels?”

This doesn’t concern the Fallen.

Dante shrugged. “That’s one of the stories.”

“So that’s it,” Ronin murmured.

“Time for you to go, Peeping Tom,” Dante said. “We’re done here.”

“Okay.” Ronin held up his hands. “I didn’t come here to make enemies.”

A smile quirked up one corner of Dante’s mouth. “Liar.”

A flicker of movement out of the corner of Heather’s eye, the sudden scent of smoke and frost on a gust of air, and then Von stood beside Ronin. The two men—vampires?—were the same height, and looked eye to eye.

“I walked you in,” Von drawled. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Again, llygad, I’m honored.”

The nomad walked past Ronin and down the steps. Ronin met Dante’s dark gaze. “True Blood,” he said. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Turning, he followed Von down the steps. Heather watched until she saw him stride into the entrance hall, the nomad in his wake.

“True Blood?”

Dante shook his head. “He’s full of shit.”

“But what does it mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dante said. “The note mentions my car. I’m gonna look.”

Heather stepped in close, inhaling his warm, earthy scent. “Not alone. Too dangerous.”

“I ain’t asking permission,” Dante said. “I’m not gonna sit on my ass and let someone else I care about die.”

“Of course not. But I’m coming with you.”

Surprise flashed in Dante’s eyes. “As a friend or as a cop?”

“Both,” Heather said, voice low. “I’m both.”

“Yeah?” A smile curved Dante’s lips.

“Yeah. You’re gonna need a friend and some luck—”

Dante cupped Heather’s face, his hands warm against her skin. “For luck,” he murmured against her lips, then he kissed her.

Her eyes closed. His lips, soft and firm against hers, stoked the fire simmering in her veins, stirred the embers glowing in her belly.

Too soon the kiss ended and Dante’s hands slid from Heather’s face. She opened her eyes. She didn’t see amusement in his expression, or a smirk on his lips. He just looked at her, completely open.

Her spinning thoughts slowed. Heat flushed her cheeks when she realized she’d been so stunned by the kiss that she hadn’t touched him, had stood there with her hands hanging at her sides. Like she’d never kissed before.

Sure beats a handshake, though.

“Let’s go,” Dante said. He held out his hand.

Heather grabbed it and followed him down the steps. Faces and scents blurred past her—dreads, mohawks, golden Claudia curls, acrid tobacco, clove, patchouli. She flew, weightless, Dante’s warm hand in hers.

Suddenly outside, Heather’s weight returned and Dante released her hand. She followed him through the narrow alley between the pizza parlor and Club Hell to the back street behind the club.

Dante stopped beside the MG parked at the curb. Heather paused on the passenger side. “You don’t have a driver’s license,” she said.

“True.” He opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. “That a problem?”

Heather pulled the passenger door open, then bent down and peered inside. “You don’t lock your car?”

Dante didn’t answer. He stared at something tied to the steering wheel, face stricken. He untied it with trembling fingers. It unfurled from the steering wheel. A sheer black stocking.

Just like the one left knotted around Gina’s throat.