Beneath the Skin

by Adrian Phoenix

  Light spilled from occupied rooms, just a soft glow behind rooms with closed curtains. Fog curled white down from the trees and hung in the moist air.

  Gillespie walked in long strides to the motel office. As he passed the ice and vending machines, he noticed a brunette in black opening the rear passenger door of an idling yellow cab. She glanced at Gillespie as he approached. Attractive, young. She offered him a quick smile, an intriguing impish curve of her lips.

  Gillespie found himself sucking in his gut and pulling himself up as tall as possible. But the brunette didn’t give him a second look. Instead, she ducked into the back of the cab, shutting the door behind her. The cab motored out of the parking lot, exhaust puffing white behind it like dragon’s breath.

  Gillespie released the breath he’d been holding in a low sigh, disgusted with himself. Yes, that would be the way to win back his wife—strutting in front of younger women, especially white ones. Good God.

  A bell chimed when Gillespie pulled the glass door open and held it as a young Asian woman with bobbed black hair exited, nodding her thanks, a cute little girl with startling jade-green eyes following in her wake like a baby duck.

  Gillespie stepped into the office, the door swinging shut behind him. The heavyset woman managing the motel muted the small TV she watched behind the check-in counter, then stood up.

  A welcoming smile curved her lips. She nodded a greeting, her blue-tinted curls bobbing with the movement. “Mr. Gillespie,” she said. “Is everything all right with your room?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Gillespie said, returning her smile. Pulling his badge/ID wallet from his back pocket, he flipped it open on the age-scarred counter between racks of Oregon picture postcards. “It’s actually Chief Gillespie. I work for Homeland Security,” he lied.

  The manager’s smile vanished and her brow crinkled into furrows. She picked up the wallet, peered at the badge and the photo for several moments before carefully resting it back on the counter, almost as if she feared that it’d snap shut on her hand like a mousetrap.

  “I don’t understand. …” She paused, then said, “I mean, how can I help you?”

  “Did you have any guests check in today, close to dawn?”

  “Yes, I did.” The manager nodded at a computer monitor behind the counter. “Do you need to know who?”

  “Names, please. And let me know if they’ve checked out yet.”

  She tapped away on the keyboard. “Two different checkins this morning. The first was Tyree Williams and family, and the other was Annie Wallace and family.”

  Gillespie’s heart skipped a beat. “Annie Wallace? Not Heather Wallace?”

  The manager nodded. “Annie it is. And they haven’t checked out yet.”

  Gillespie rolled that juicy little nugget of information around in his mind. Had Wallace brought her sister along with her? That seemed more than a little unlikely unless …

  Unless Annie was the reason Wallace had participated in this whole mess. Maybe Wallace had never been an active participant.

  His thoughts flipped back to Brisia Rodriguez’s statement.

  FI Díon: Heather Wallace. Why did you think she needed help too?

  B. RODRIGUEZ: Well … I could tell she didn’t like this guy (witness pointed to photograph of SAC Alexander Lyons), and she asked me to call 911. I don’t think she would’ve done that if she was one of the bad guys.

  Possible, yeah, but Gillespie would lay serious odds that Wallace was simply being clever and using her sister’s identity instead of her own, keeping a low profile. Only one way to find out.

  “What room is Annie Wallace in?”

  “Number 9.”

  “Thank you,” Gillespie said, grabbing up his ID wallet from the counter and sliding it back into his pocket. He hurried outside, the door dinging behind him. Gillespie pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and called FA Miklowitz at the Wells site.

  “I think I’ve located Wallace,” Gillespie said. “Grab your partner and two or three more agents just in case she isn’t alone and get your asses to the Happy Beaver Motel pronto.” After giving directions to the motel, he signed off.

  A faint glimmer of light behind the closed curtains of room 9 suggested it was still occupied, despite the empty parking slot. Pulse racing, Gillespie ran for his room and for the Glock he’d locked inside along with his beer.

  He wished he’d thought to reclaim the goddamned monster-catching kit designed for Prejean from Thibodaux and Goodnight before they’d left for the airport. Hoping backup would arrive fast-fast-fast, a mantra zipped through Gillespie’s mind over and over: Aim for the head or the heart. And. Don’t. Fucking. Miss.

  HEATHER LOOKED UP WHEN she heard the bathroom door open and Dante walked out wearing a Saints of Ruin T-shirt with fishnet sleeves ending in a wide PVC strap buckled at each wrist. She drank in the sight of him, her blood pulsing a little faster.

  He held a black-and-white composition notebook in his left hand. A smile tilted his lips and lit his pale, beautiful face. He’d found his stolen song journal in Annie’s bag and, given how well the shirt fit him, he must’ve discovered one of his stolen shirts also.

  At least Dante’d fared better in the fashion department than Heather had. Her sweater still damp, she’d added her bra beneath the pink Emily the Strange T-shirt she’d borrowed from Annie, but opted to wear her damp jeans instead of the red plaid pj bottoms—no matter how warm and comfy.

  Sitting cross-legged in the easy chair, Annie watched Dante, her expression a blend of parted-lips lust, wariness, and defiance. “Hey,” she protested. “What the hell, dude! I didn’t give you permission to go through my stuff.”

  “Le coquin qui vole a un autre, le diable en ris, p’tite.” Dante raised the notebook to his forehead and saluted her with it. He flipped her off with his other hand.

  Annie returned the favor, pointing her middle finger up, then down, then all around. “Yeah? Right back atcha.”

  “Sucks getting caught with stolen goods, huh?” Heather said, leveling her gaze at her sister.

  Fire blazed to life in Annie’s eyes. “You always take his side! I got no idea how that stuff wound up in my bag.”

  “Menteuse,” Dante said. “That tee you’re wearing? Go ahead and keep it.”

  “I’d planned on it.”

  Frustration grated like sandpaper across Heather’s nerves. “Dammit, Annie, we don’t have time for your—”

  Annie jumped to her feet, grabbed the hem of the Mad Edgar T-shirt with its purple illustration of Edgar Allan Poe, and yanked it off. No bra. Just bare breasts, her skin flushed pink with fury.

  “Nice tits, p’tite.”

  Wadding the tee into a ball, Annie hurled it at Dante. The T-shirt fluttered to the carpet in front of his bare feet.

  “Take your precious shirt,” Annie snarled, “and fuck you both!” Whirling, she stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  “Christ.” Heather rubbed the bridge of her nose, a headache forming behind her eyes. “Sorry about that,” she murmured.

  “Ain’t your fault,” Dante said, scooping up the tee. Turning, he tossed it onto the nightkind-only bed. “Me and Annie are gonna have a heart-to-heart later.”

  “She’s off her meds and—”

  “Don’t make excuses for her,” Dante said, swiveling around to face Heather. “I know she’s bipolar, I know she needs meds, but she also needs to take responsibility for her actions, yeah?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Heather said. “I’ve always felt that I needed to make up for all the absences in her life—Mom, Dad, stability.”

  Dante brushed the backs of his fingers against Heather’s temple, trailing heat across her skin. “I know you did, chérie,” he said, voice soft. “But it wasn’t your burden.”

  “Maybe not,” Heather said, admitting the possibility to herself for the first time, “but I couldn’t count on our father to take it up.”

  “Your old man sounds like a prick.”<
br />
  A smile tugged at Heather’s lips and she hoped it didn’t look as bitter as it felt. “Accurate assessment.” Drawing in a deep breath, she changed the subject. “Caterina’s on her way back to the SB so she can be our eyes on the inside. I gave her your home number.”

  “You must trust her, yeah?”

  Heather nodded. “As much as I can—all things considered. She could’ve killed us as we slept or turned us in.” She paused, held Dante’s dark gaze. “You’re the reason she didn’t. And won’t.”

  Dante sighed. “I kinda got that,” he said, trailing a pale hand through his hair.

  “We can use her help.”

  Dante’s eyes unfocused for a moment and Heather figured he was listening to Von, an intimacy she wished she was capable of sharing with Dante beyond the temporary blood-forged links created between them whenever they had sex—well, whenever he drank a bit of her blood, which, so far, had happened only during sex.

  And she planned to keep it that way. The thought of Dante feeding on her out of hunger instead of passion left her cold. But what if his need was desperate?

  One thing at a time, Wallace.

  When Dante focused on her again, she noticed his dark eyes were dilated, rimmed with darkest brown. Gold light seemed to shimmer in their depths.

  So did pain and heart-deep loss. She saw it in his taut muscles, in the tight line of his jaw, in the blue shadows smudged beneath his eyes, even though she knew he was trying to hide it. The conversation she’d had with Von while Dante’d showered rolled through her mind.

  I’m really worried about him, doll. The images I got from him … his reality keeps shifting between now and then. He’s fighting damned hard to keep himself here and now and with us. But …

  But what?

  Von looks away. He trails a hand through his hair. When he meets her gaze again, his words are as grim and sorrowful as his green eyes.

  I think he’s had all he can take, doll. Heart and mind. If I knew a way to hide him from the world until he could regain his balance, until he had the chance to face his past on his own terms and reconcile himself to it, had time to grieve …

  He needs a safe place. And time to heal. Just being home will help—

  You’re a safe place, Heather. Whenever you’re near him, things quiet down inside-a him. Keep close, doll. Keep close to your man until we can get him home.

  “Von said he’s picked up the rental car Trey arranged for him,” he said.

  “And my car?” Heather asked, already missing her Trans Am. Just a vehicle, just a form of transportation, one that can be tracked, she reminded herself. It helped a little, but she loved that car.

  “Ditched, but in one piece, as safe as it can be,” Dante said, voice soft. He lowered his pale face and kissed her with soft, heated lips. She tasted amaretto, sweet and heady, as his autumn-harvest scent of frost and burning leaves enveloped her.

  He burned against her, hot as a star.

  Heather wished they had time to be alone together, to lose themselves in each other. Later, she promised herself. But something dark and knotted and cold in the pit of her stomach seemed to whisper, Fresh outta time. Seemed to whisper, You’re going to lose him. He’s already slipping, falling, tumbling past your reach.

  No. She refused to accept that. She’d fight for him with everything she had.

  When the kiss ended, Dante tucked a lock of Heather’s hair behind her ear. His eyes searched hers, his dark gaze looking deep, stoking fire white-hot at her core. “It’s quiet, chérie,” he said.

  “I’m glad,” she said. “Maybe we can keep it that way.”

  “Maybe, yeah.” A smile ghosted across Dante’s lips, then vanished. He stepped past her and sat on the nightkind-only bed. Setting the notebook on the rumpled blankets, he pulled on his socks. Grabbed his boots and strapped them on.

  “What’s Von’s ETA?” Heather asked.

  “Five minutes or so.”

  “I’ll get Annie.” Heather swiveled around, steeling herself to talk her sister out of the bathroom and to coax her into cooperation, but before she could even open her mouth, Annie opened the door and walked out of the bathroom, gym bag at her side, its strap looped around her shoulder.

  Annie wore the Danzig skull tee that she’d slept in, and on her feet, fuzzy purple slippers. “I’m ready,” she said, voice level. She pushed a strand of blue hair out of guarded eyes.

  “Great,” Heather said, wondering at the sudden change in Annie’s demeanor. Wondered if she could trust it.

  What game is she playing now?

  Heather heard the creak of leather behind her as Dante rose to his feet. Annie’s blue-eyed gaze shifted past Heather, followed Dante’s movement. Then she swallowed hard and looked away.

  Still afraid of Dante after what she saw him do. Heather didn’t blame Annie for that—she understood and sympathized.

  “You should just let me go,” Annie said, her voice little more than a whisper. “You don’t want me with you. You really, really don’t.”

  Heather’s muscles knotted even tighter. “We’ve gone over this already,” she said. “We need to stick together.”

  “I’m willing to take my chances. Send me away.” Annie flicked another glance past Heather to Dante. “You’ll be safer.”

  “No,” Heather said, voice flat. “That’s the end of it.”

  “We ain’t leaving you behind, p’tite.” Dante scooped his song journal up from the rumpled bed and snugged it into the back of his leather pants. “Got everything?” he asked, his gaze meeting Heather’s.

  She looked around the room, nodded. “Pretty much.” She freed the Browning Von had given her from the back of her jeans. She flicked off the safety and chambered a round, the ka-chunk echoing in the silent room, then switched the safety back on. “Did Von see anyone suspicious at the car rental office?” she asked, tucking the Browning into the back of her jeans again.

  Dante shook his head. “All clear so far.” His gaze turned inward for a moment, then a smile tilted his lips. “In fact, he’s here now.”

  Heather cracked the door open in time to see a forest-green SUV pull into the parking lot, the headlights dipping for a second as it negotiated the lot entry. Von steered the SUV into the parking stall in front of the room, then switched off the headlights, but kept the engine running. The heady smell of gasoline and exhaust wafted into the room.

  “Time to go,” Heather said, glancing at her sister. Annie stood beside the easy chair, her gaze on the floor, her eyes hidden beneath mascara-lengthened lashes.

  “Leave me.” Annie looked up. “Please.”

  Heather stared at her sister, caught off guard by the vulnerability in her voice and in her eyes. Eyes brimming with unshed tears. Annie-Bunny. “Sweetie, no,” she said. “No matter what, I’ll never leave you behind.”

  Annie nodded, blinking away her tears. A familiar sardonic glint sparked in her eyes, armored her face. “Yeah? We’ll see.” Hoisting the gym bag’s strap up higher on her shoulder, she stalked from the room and outside.

  “Shit,” Heather muttered.

  Warm hands cupped her face. Heather looked up into Dante’s dark eyes. “Ain’t your fault, chérie, you know that, yeah?” He planted a quick smooch on her lips. “Ready to go?”

  She nodded, offered him a smile. “Thanks, Baptiste.”

  Dante winked, his hands sliding away from her face. Wrapping his left hand around her right, he folded his fingers through hers. But, as he turned away, leading her to the partially open door, Heather noticed the gleam of sweat at his hairline, the taut line of his jaw and Von’s words rolled through her mind.

  He’s fighting damned hard to keep himself here and now and with us.

  I’ll stay close, help him fight.

  As Heather stepped out into the parking lot and the pine-fragrant night just a pace behind Dante, a harsh, authoritative voice yelled, “Halt! Drop your weapons and get down on the ground!”

  16

  NEVER P
RESUME

  ALEXANDRIA, VA

  SHADOW BRANCH HQ

  March 25

  EMMETT SIPPED AT HIS coffee, pretending not to notice that it tasted burnt and bitter, even with three single-serving creamers muddying its color from black-as-hell to black-as-purgatory.

  “You’re certain Sheridan never said a word at the site or during the flight?” Purcell asked. His leather chair creaked as he relaxed into it. His eyes, deep set and olive green, slid from Merri to Emmett, then back.

  “Positive,” Merri replied. She looked weary and unfocused, strung-out on stay-awakes, her natural rhythms disrupted. “He never answered a single question.”

  She’d complied earlier with Purcell’s order to put out her cigarette by dropping it into her untouched cup of coffee. The cool, recycled air in his office still smelled of cloves and tobacco.

  “Ah.” Purcell tapped his keyboard and studied whatever appeared on his monitor. “Did you ask him about … Prejean?”

  Merri considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t believe so.”

  Emmett found Purcell’s pause before saying Prejean’s name interesting. He doubted Purcell had forgotten the vampire’s name, and wondered what name he’d almost used instead of Prejean.

  “You don’t believe so? The answer is either yes or no, Goodnight,” Purcell said.

  “Make that a no then.”

  Despite the long flight, Emmett felt wide-awake, alert—a good thing during a debriefing with SOD Underwood’s assistant, FA Richard Purcell, at least according to all the whispered wisdom via the field-grunt grapevine. Emmett had never met Purcell before today, knew of him only through reputation. Another first? This visit to HQ’s underground facility.

  “Sheridan seemed to be in shock,” Emmett volunteered. “He never made eye contact with anyone during the flight or at the site. Not deliberately, anyway.”

  “He isn’t there,” Merri said. “I looked into his eyes at the site and he was empty.”

  Purcell looked up from the monitor and fixed his gaze on Merri. “Empty?”

  Merri twirled a finger in the air beside her head. “As in Sheridan has left the building.”