A Rush of Wings

by Adrian Phoenix

  Johanna punched her code into the keypad beside the door to her office, then tipped her face down for the retinal security scan. A thin bar of light skimmed her face. She blinked, vision dazzled. The door clicked open. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

  What happened this morning? Why did she think it had something to do with Ronin and her missing experiments? No, correct that, she thought as she sat behind her desk. With S. And thought had nothing to do with it. It was a feeling, liquid and intuitive and impossible to analyze.

  Johanna switched on the vid-phone, keyed in a number. Music. Something to do with music. She thought of S perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, guitar across his thighs, cradled next to his body, his long fingers slipping sure and fast across the strings, his pale face rapt. Just as it would be when he tore into his first throat. As it would be when he torched the Prejean house.

  “Johanna, what a surprise,” said a deep, familiar voice.

  Startled, she glanced at the monitor and into Bob Wells’s smiling face. Curving her lips into a smile, Johanna shook her head. “Not a pleasant surprise, I’m afraid,” she said. Wells’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry, but I have bad news.”

  Wells rubbed a hand along his chin. He glanced away for a moment. When he returned his gaze to the monitor, his brown eyes were emptied of all feeling. He looked at her, expression neutral, waiting.

  “Both E and S are offline and together. I suspect they’ve been interfered with, fed information.”

  “By who?”

  “Thomas Ronin.”

  Wells lifted an eyebrow. “Your père de sang? You’ve been careless.”

  Johanna stiffened. She leaned forward in her chair, the leather creaking beneath her. “I called to warn you,” she said. “I believe they’re coming here, given Ronin’s involvement. But I think S will want you, as well.”

  “It’s you he’ll remember,” Wells said. “And all the attention you lavished upon him. You never told me, Johanna — but, how did his blood taste?”

  “Don’t play this game with me, Bob,” Johanna said. She smoothed all expression from her face, but her hands clenched into fists, unseen, on her lap. “You loved him, too. I’d be worried about the day he remembers that love. And you.”

  A smile touched Wells’s lips. He inclined his head. “Touché.”

  Interesting reaction, Johanna mused. But wrong. She severed the connection. Bob Wells’s image winked out. Had that been amusement lighting his eyes? She glanced out the window. Snow fell, thick and fast, the sky white.

  Had Wells given the project information to Ronin? If so, why? To test her abilities? Or S’s?

  Johanna shifted her gaze to the chair in front of her desk. For a moment, the smell of dark tobacco and vanilla filled her nostrils. For a moment, Dan Gifford sat in the chair, his gray-eyed gaze calm, attentive. He leaned forward, fingers steepled together and said: I see. What do you want done?

  Turn back time.

  She had no regrets, save one — sending Gifford to New Orleans. She wished she’d kept him at her side and had sent lesser men to deal with Stearns and Wallace.

  The phone buzzed. Johanna pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

  “Wallace’s plane will land in a few minutes.”

  “Pick her up. Bring her to the lab.”

  “Understood.”

  Johanna ended the call. Time to prepare. The thought of leaving D.C. crossed her mind. More than once. Catch a flight anywhere. Why stay? By the time Ronin and the others found her again, she’d’ve had time to plan. To set things into motion.

  But the thought of her little True Blood in Ronin’s hands for any length of time knotted her stomach. She needed to reclaim him. And if he’d been awakened? His memories resurrected? Then she’d need to bury them again and lull him back to sleep.

  Johanna rose to her feet and crossed the snow-lit room to a cherrywood file cabinet. She unlocked the top drawer, removed an unlabeled CD, then relocked the file cabinet. She returned to her desk and slipped the CD into a padded mailer. Sealed it. Addressed it to Dante Prejean.

  If things went wrong, Johanna wanted to be certain Wells didn’t walk away untouched. And if things went right, well, maybe Wells still needed to worry. But not about S. Perhaps he should worry about an unexpected visit from Johanna.

  * * * *

  Heather walked through the crowded terminal, listening to voices over the audio system announcing flights cancelled due to the storm. She scanned the faces of the people around her, of those waiting at the baggage carousel, of those hanging out in front of the coffee kiosks and souvenir shops.

  Heather’s stomach rumbled at the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and frying bacon. Realizing that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, she joined the line at Sunny’s Breakfast ’n’ More.

  As the line moved forward, Heather’s gaze skipped around the terminal, looking for suits with that authoritative FBI stride. Looked for a hand cupping an ear. Looked for comsets. Looked for De Noir. Watched for others looking, too.

  Her gaze stopped. A man in a suit and parka spoke to a woman in a tan trenchcoat. Heather tensed. The man scanned the crowd behind the woman as they spoke and, Heather was certain, the woman scanned the crowd behind him. Moore’s people? Airport security?

  “Next.”

  Heather ordered a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich to go and paid with cash. She’d told De Noir she’d meet him at the car rental counter. Maybe he was already there. Heather tucked her wrapped and steaming sandwich in her pocket and merged with the crowd. Her heart rate picked up speed. She unbelted and unfastened her trench.

  Whoever Parka and Trenchcoat worked for, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to start something inside the terminal. No, they’d wait for Heather to leave. Inside the terminal, she was safe.

  Heather angled through the crowd, edging her way to the car rental kiosk. Several people stood at the counter, but none of them were six eight or possessed waist-length black hair. Where was De Noir? Had something happened to him? He’d assured her he’d be at the terminal by the time she arrived.

  Unless…

  Nothing against Lucien, but your safety ain’t gonna be his prime concern.

  Had De Noir finally reached Dante through their link? Before Sleep?

  Hope sparked within Heather. If so, no need to confront Moore. Instead, she could build a case against Moore with the file, have her arrested. Blow the whistle? If she did that, if she took her evidence to the media, her career in the FBI would be over.

  But wasn’t it already over? Dead as Stearns? And what about Dante? Would he want his past — including his crimes — to be headline news and tabloid fodder?

  Heather stepped up to the counter. A clerk smiled. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  “Yes. I have a reservation. Wallace.”

  Heather turned, put her back to the counter. Beyond the terminal’s windows, a blizzard raged, the falling snow a solid, slanting sheet. Cars and taxis huddled against the curb, barely visible dark smudges in a white swirling world.

  Could De Noir have been caught in the storm?

  She’d wait for a while, then call the house to see if Simone or Von had heard from him. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her still-warm sandwich and partially unwrapped it.

  Suddenly feeling a presence behind her, Heather tensed. As she swiveled, a hand locked around her biceps. She looked up into Parka’s clean-shaven face and blue eyes.

  “Agent Wallace,” he said.

  “Take your hand off me,” she said, voice level. Her gaze shifted, searching for his trenchcoated partner.

  “No need to make a scene.”

  “I disagree.” Dropping her sandwich, Heather swiveled into Parka and plucked his fingers from her arm. She locked his hand in an aikido defensive move — fingers to wrist, thumb to back of hand — forcing it down and back, driving Parka to his knees. He winced, pain etching his face.

  Glancing up, Heather caught a glimpse of Trenchcoat pushing
through the crowd. No time to wait for De Noir or search a parking lot for her rental car. Time maybe to catch a cab.

  As Heather released Parka’s trapped hand, she shoved him hard. He slid across the tiled floor. Whirling, she ran for the glassed-in front doors. Slipped her hand into her trench’s gun pocket, wrapped her fingers around the .38’s grip. Not yet. Too many civilians.

  A shocked gasp rippled through the crowd. Shit! Someone’s pulled a gun, Heather thought, diving for the floor. Something stung her back, low, as she rolled. Hit? Shrapnel from a near miss? She sprang to her feet, heart pounding, gaze focused on the main entrance doors and the taxis beyond. She’d lose them in the snow.

  Something tingled through her veins. Burned. The automatic doors slid apart. She ran out into the storm. The cold bit into her, sucked air from her lungs. Her thoughts spun. Light-headed, she arrowed her suddenly rubber-limbed body to the nearest taxi. Drugged, she realized.

  Slipping in the snow, Heather slammed against the taxi. She grabbed for the door handle to keep from falling, but her hand wouldn’t work, just flopped at her side. She fell, the world spinning white-white-white. The brightness hurt her eyes. A man leaned over her, his face concerned.

  “Miss, are you okay?”

  From behind her, she heard a woman say, “Don’t worry. She’s fine. Just had a little too much to drink. Afraid to fly.”

  Snowflakes stuck to Heather’s eyelashes, melting into her eyes. She tried to speak, but her tongue didn’t work. Tried to shake her head no to the taxi driver, but her head wouldn’t move.

  Hands lifted her. Her head lolled. The white sky merged with the snow-covered concrete. “Relax,” a masculine voice said. “Don’t fight it.

  “We’re taking you to Doctor Moore.”

  Cold whirled into Heather’s mind, icing it, shutting it down.

  * * * *

  Pain throbbed, a glowing fireplace poker against the bone. E opened his eyes. His stomach lurched. Swallowing hard —need my pills— he looked around the van. The blood-smeared air bed was empty, the unused pillow a sudden reminder of the shiv in his thigh.

  E glanced down. His leg burned beneath the blade. A rim of dried blood on his jeans surrounded the shiv. Motherfucking bloodsucker bastard! Something dark and excited coiled into him, lurking beneath his rage. The memory of the shivs buried in Dante’s pale flesh sent tingles down E’s spine.

  A quick look over his shoulder revealed Dante sprawled on the floor. E scooted around to get a better look. The pretty little bloodsucker was belly down on the carpet, on the safe side of the curtains and the daylight burning beyond.

  Head turned to one side, hair across his face, one arm under him and the other up, crooked at the elbow, Dante —oops! Make that S— looked like he’d dropped in his tracks. Or had taken another head shot.

  E’s gaze crawled over Dante, drinking in every detail. He wished S hadn’t awakened until after he’d finished playing. Kinda wished he hadn’t awakened at all. Really wished he had the key to the cuffs.

  Teeth clenched, E eased his swollen and bruise-blackened wrist from the sling. Pain and nausea double-clutched his guts. Sweat popped up on his forehead. He swallowed back bile. Leaning his head against the side of the van, E rested and pondered the shiv. He doubted he could tug it free, not and remain conscious, anyway.

  He glanced at Dante. Boy was down for the count. He could make all the noise he wanted — Dante wouldn’t stir. Or S. E shuddered suddenly, remembered Dante throwing his own words back at him, all hard and cold, like the bloodsucker’s voice.

  That’s my Bad Seed bro.

  In that moment, E’d been sure he was going to die. Bad. Hard. Ugly.

  But Dante wanted Gina’s last words and only E possessed them. So the moment had passed and his heart still beat on and on and on. Would beat long after Dante’s had stopped.

  E’s gaze skipped to the black bag and his satchel o’ tricks beside it. Pills for the pain in one. Dope for Dante in the other. Just what the doctor ordered for both of them.

  Moving carefully, E reached for the satchel. Grasped the edge. A lightning bolt of pain jolted up his arm to his shoulder and he screamed before he could stop it. But he’d been right about Dante — the bloodsucker slept on, undisturbed. Black spots flecked E’s vision as he plucked at the Baggie of pills and slid a swollen finger along the bag’s seam. It opened. Sweat trickled down his temples.

  E’s fingers scooped up pills, tucking them into his palm. Several spilled onto the carpet, bouncing and rolling every which way but toward him. Lowering his shaking hand, he dropped the pills he’d snagged into his mouth. Swallowed. His stomach felt tight as a fist. He leaned against the van. Breathed. In. Out. In. The nausea faded.

  E closed his eyes. Wished he had his shades. Wished he had a smoke. Thought maybe Dante should be handcuffed and hurting and wishing for all manner of things while E snoozed. Like wishing he’d never been born. Fucker. Drank his blood.

  Did it glow within Dante even now? If E opened his eyes, would he see his own golden light radiating from the Sleep-drugged vampire? E’s heart skipped a beat, then resumed with a chest-vibrating thud. He opened his eyes.

  Golden honeyed light slipped from between Dante’s lips, streamed from his nostrils; starred out from around his slender body. Snaked around him in golden coils.

  Bound him. Connected him to the handcuffed god.

  E grinned. Mine. Once the pills went to work, easing the pain in his throbbing arm, he’d sneak a syringe and a vial of bloodsucker dope out of the black bag. Tuck them into his sling. Then bide his time with godlike patience.

  And wait for the backstabbing little shit to turn his back.

  * * * *

  Lucien landed, touching bare feet to snow-tipped grass. His wings flared once, flinging droplets of ice and snow into the air, then folded behind him. Gray clouds hid the sun. Beyond the rest stop, cars rushed by on the interstate, tires hissing through the snow and slush. Two vehicles remained in the parking lot: a white van with Alabama license plates and a semi. The semi’s shattered passenger’s side window told Lucien that his child had fed — although his forced entry spoke of desperate need.

  Wings tucking into their pouches, Lucien strode to the van. He’d followed Dante’s chaos song until it’d faded, but the song’s rage and hurt and madness hadn’t faded; it burned still within Lucien’s heart.

  Dante was lost within his own wounded mind.

  An hour or so ago, the static blocking their bond had vanished and Lucien had followed it like an ethereal rope to his Sleeping child.

  Lucien’s fingers curled around the door’s cold handle. Locked. Pressing his hand flat against the door, he flicked energy into the lock. Blue sparks showered to the pavement, melting tiny holes in the snow. He grasped the handle and opened the door.

  Air reeking of blood and violence, sweat and stale cigarettes rolled out of the van like black smoke from a fire. Lucien caught his breath, for underneath, like coals beneath a pile of ash, smoldered the scorched and bitter stink of twisted lust, of evil.

  Lucien listened to the slow, steady beat of Dante’s heart. The sound soothed him. I have found my son. Climbing into the van, he parted the curtain and slid through, careful not to let the weak winter sunlight touch his child.

  Lucien looked at Dante Sleeping on the van’s floor. That burning-in-the-sunlight scream, that heart-wrenching sound of a child’s agony —his child’s — echoed within Dante’s fragmented dreams. Reminded Lucien of what he’d felt…what he’d heard while standing in the kitchen with Wallace.

  Chloe. My princess. My heart.

  I won’t let them have you.

  Kneeling, Lucien gathered his son into his arms. Dante’s heat baked into him. Heat when he should be Sleep-cool. Blood trickled from one nostril, streaking his lips.

  Ah, little one, they took her anyway. There was nothing you could’ve done. Nothing. You were only a child, too.

  Lucien brushed the hair back from Dante’s face, touched th
e cool silver hoops in his ear.

  His past devours him.

  Lucien’s gaze dropped. His heart constricted as he stared at the slashes in Dante’s T-shirt. The blood smell — Dante’s. He pushed up the blood-stiff material. Countless healing wounds crisscrossed his chest and abdomen. Cuts. Punctures. Knife wounds.

  Are knives required equipment for a journalist’s assistant?

  Lucien finally gave his attention to the sleeping mortal handcuffed to the van. A bitten and purpled throat. One arm in a sling, the fingers swollen. A knife hilt stuck up from his thigh. Lucien’s gaze flickered down to the boy cradled in his arms, paused, then returned to Jordan.

  Across from Jordan was a mattress spattered and smeared with blood. Dante’s blood. Blood also flecked the wall and the ceiling above. A book — poetry? — and scattered papers and photos littered the carpet beside the bed.

  Lucien tensed. He recognized the photos. The same ones he’d looked at with Wallace. So, Dante’s past had been given to him with blood and knives. Given without mercy by a dead-eyed mortal.

  And yet somehow Dante had freed himself. So why was Jordan still breathing?

  Had the wretch bargained for his life? Lucien’s gaze shifted back to the papers and reports scattered on the floor. With what?

  His first impulse was to gather Dante into his arms and fly home. Once his child was safe, he’d return. Then Jordan and Moore would endure a final reckoning, an Elohim judgment and an Old Testament–style death.

  But daylight burned outside. He needed to wait until dusk to carry Dante home. Lucien bent and pressed his lips against Dante’s, breathing energy into him, just as he’d done when Wallace had served her warrant. Urged his child up from Sleep. Up from the ashes he curled in, his arms around a little girl.

  Pain slammed against Lucien’s shields. Inhaling, he flexed it away. He touched his fingertips to Dante’s temple. Poured cool light into his child’s pain-ravaged mind and fevered body.

  Dante drew in a deep breath. His eyes opened. He looked at Lucien, but no recognition sparked within the dark depths of his eyes. Shoving free of Lucien’s hold, Dante rolled to his knees. Body coiled, muscles taut, he hissed.