Beneath the Skin

by Adrian Phoenix

  Díon paused beside Emmett’s chair, another warm smile on his lips. Emmett caught a whiff of vanilla spice.

  “We’re going to try a new memory technique to make sure you haven’t forgotten any details,” Díon said, flipping the folder closed and sliding it onto the table.

  “I don’t think I’ve left anything out,” Emmett replied, straightening in his chair.

  “You’d be surprised,” Díon said with a chuckle. “Memo-ry’s a tricky thing. Besides, the powers-that-be insist this new technique now be used at all debriefings.”

  Emmett felt an itch between his shoulder blades, like he was being lined up for a bull’s-eye arrow to the back. He glanced at Underwood. She met his gaze, nodded.

  Not liking it, but having no choice, Emmett returned his attention to Díon. Sympathy—Man, I know just how you feel. Just the newest bullshit.—lit the interrogator’s gold-flecked violet eyes.

  “Okay, then, let’s get this done,” Emmett said. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Not much.” Díon crouched beside Emmett’s chair. “Just close your eyes and take a deep breath. We’ll be done in a couple of minutes.”

  Easing his back against his chair, Emmett closed his eyes and drew in a breath of vanilla-spice-scented air. Something else danced beneath the vanilla, something green and smelling of sunshine. An image of a dandelion popped into his head.

  “I’m going to touch your temples, but keep your eyes closed.”

  “Roger that.”

  Even though he knew it was coming, Emmett nearly jumped when Díon’s fingers settled against his temples. Heated fingers, surprising, but soothing. Emmett’s shoulders unkinked. He felt light-headed. Dizzy.

  “Go back to the beginning,” Díon whispered.

  Colt .45 in hand, Emmett edges up along the passenger side of the travel-grimed SUV parked on the shoulder of the road, just past the steep driveway marked PRIVATE.

  Even as the memory with its sounds—the crunch of gravel and small twigs under shoes, a bird twittering in the pines—and pine and wet bark smells—filled Emmett’s mind, it thinned like breeze-blown mist. Scattered, then dissipated.

  Sudden nausea greased Emmett’s guts and a cold sweat popped up on his forehead. Was it the mayo on his BLT? “Hold on, I’m not feeling so well. I think—”

  A strong hand squeezed his forearm. “Just relax. It’ll pass.”

  A thought as warm and soothing and thick as stove-top-heated maple syrup poured through Emmett’s mind.

  Everything’s fine. You’re safe. Doing your duty, then heading home.

  Emmett felt his body relax, heard a soft sigh escape his lips. As he and Merri traveled up the Wells driveway, his thoughts and memories floated away on a summer breeze fragrant with vanilla spice and dandelions. Vanished.

  But unseen and untouched, Grandma’s goosebumps and dread settled into Emmett’s heart and sank deep roots into his bones.

  “I TAKE IT YOU’VE heard the rumors about ADIC Rutgers resigning?” Purcell asked, handing Celeste the ketchup bottle she’d asked for.

  Celeste nodded. “I have my Bureau sources looking into the rumor.” She squeezed a thick line of dark red Heinz on her sourdough hot dog bun running parallel to the line of Gulden’s spicy brown mustard. “I have a feeling it’s true.”

  “Why, ma’am?” Purcell asked, biting into his own doctored hot dog.

  “Because she blames herself for Sheridan’s death. She has an antiquated sense of honor. A shame, really. She’s an intelligent and capable woman, but she allows herself to become too involved.”

  “Who do you think will be chosen to replace her?”

  “Hard to say,” Celeste murmured.

  A breeze rippled through her hair, a bit chilly despite the early afternoon sunshine, but she’d chosen this outdoor deli, Blue Star Bistro, for their lunch so she and Purcell could speak without their words being recorded.

  She’d been wrong about it being an eat-in day, but her lunch would keep in her compact office fridge for tomorrow.

  Setting the Heinz bottle back on the glass tabletop, Celeste put her hot dog together and took a juicy bite.

  “It went well with Thibodaux,” she said, swallowing. “Hopefully it’ll go as well with his partner. Do you anticipate any problems?”

  “Possibly, ma’am. She’s a vampire, after all. Díon won’t be able to wipe her memory of the Wells site unless she lowers her shields.”

  “I doubt she’ll agree to that—even with the ‘new policy’ story. How does he plan to get around her refusal?”

  “Drugs in her water.”

  “And if she doesn’t drink the water?”

  “A trank gun, most likely. He could erase her memory of that too.”

  “I hope a trank gun isn’t necessary,” Celeste said. “Vampire or not, she’s been a reliable field agent.”

  “Ma’am, if you don’t mind my asking, why was the grab-and-detain order on Prejean and Wallace rescinded?”

  “I don’t know. The director neglected to enlighten me,” Celeste said, pausing to take a sip of unsweetened iced tea. “So we need to work around the rescindment. Do you think you’ll be able to isolate, control, and trigger Prejean if it’s done in New Orleans instead of here? Without being seen?”

  Chewing the last of his hot dog, Purcell’s gaze drifted upward as he considered. After a moment, he nodded. “It’s not going to be easy, ma’am, but I think I could. I’d need certain equipment and drugs, but yes.”

  Relief spiraled through Celeste. “Anything you need, you’ll have.”

  “When would you like me to go, ma’am? Given what I’ll need to take with me, it’d be best if I drove.”

  Celeste nodded. “Good point. Leave after you’ve finished with Thibodaux’s partner. I’ll officially list you as on surveillance duty.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Purcell dipped a greasy-looking fry in a pool of ketchup, face thoughtful. “Anything you’d like me have Prejean say to your daughter-in-law?”

  “Yes, thank you. Have him tell the bitch that Stephen sends his regards.”

  “HAVE YOU HEARD ANYTHING from Beck?” Epstein asked. He rocked back in his nail-studded leather chair, the springs squeaking underneath him.

  Caterina regarded her SB handler for a moment, frowning. She’d been anticipating this line of questioning regarding her partner on the Wells hit. Her late partner. “No. Any reason I should?”

  “When and where did you last see him?”

  Beck yanks his Colt free of its holster. Caterina squeezes the Glock’s trigger. The bullet hits Beck between the eyes, and he’s dead before his body crumples to the ground and rolls down the hill.

  “I last saw Beck in his car when he dropped me off at my hotel in Portland after we retired Wells,” Caterina said. “March 23.”

  Epstein held her gaze, his ice blue eyes charting her reactions like a human polygraph machine. “Immediately after you’d completed the job?”

  Growing up as the only mortal in a vampire household had taught Caterina how to keep herself calm and cool, how to keep her heart rate and respiration as smooth as possible in order to survive outside of it. To avoid unwanted and hungry attention.

  Panic will summon the beast to the feast, my little love.

  “That’s right.”

  “The two of you didn’t stop for drinks? Dinner?” Epstein plucked a pink translucent square from the opened Jolly Rancher roll on his desk. Popped it into his mouth. Caterina caught a tangy whiff of watermelon.

  “Dinner? With Beck? After spending hours in the dirt and pine needles with him during surveillance while he bitched about it? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I admit it does seem unlikely.”

  “What’s this about, anyway?” Caterina asked, taking a sip of the caramel latte she’d picked up at Starbucks on her way into Alexandria. “Beck go AWOL?”

  “Perhaps. We’ve had no contact with him since we sent him to meet you at Portland International on March 23.”

&
nbsp; Caterina shrugged. “Sorry to hear it, but not my concern.”

  “Fair enough.” Epstein raised his arms and laced his fingers together behind his head. His white high-and-tight hair almost glowed beneath the overheads.

  Caterina smiled. “What’s the word? Got anything for me?”

  Epstein studied her for a long, silent moment, his blue eyes thoughtful. Finally, he said, “We’ve worked together for quite a while, Cortini.”

  “That we have,” she agreed, voice soft. “From my first day in black ops.”

  Like a patch of sunlight on winter-frosted metal, a brief smile sparked warmth into Epstein’s icy eyes. “Unlike almost every other operative under my command, you’ve always known, always understood, what we did and why. Those other yahoos followed orders, yes. Plugged bullets into brains. Garroted. Good soldiers, all. But you—you understood it.”

  “With each life we end,” Caterina murmured, “we alter the future, end possibilities; we become agents of destiny.”

  Epstein nodded. “Severing some, fulfilling others. A hard and honorable duty. And that’s why the SB exists. To do the hard and honorable things that everyone else is either too lazy, too corrupt, or too afraid to do.”

  Caterina straightened in her chair, her slacks whispering against the leather seat, wondering at Epstein’s un-characteristic show of sentimentality. She wondered at his too-soft words and tight-jawed expression.

  “What’s this all about, Ep? Has something happened?”

  Instead of answering Caterina’s questions, Epstein asked, “Have you been brought up to speed yet?”

  “No.”

  “After you retired Wells, his son—FBI SAC Alexander Lyons—accompanied by Heather Wallace”—Epstein arched an eyebrow and when Caterina nodded, acknowledging her former target, he resumed speaking—“put Wells’s hard work into action and used Dante Prejean to murder SAC Alberto Rodriguez for reasons unknown.”

  “Are they still at large?”

  “They are. Some of our field agents tracked Prejean and Wallace to a motel outside Damascus last night.”

  Caterina sipped at her latte, forced her muscles and posture to remain relaxed. “So Prejean and Wallace escaped?”

  Epstein lowered his arms. Scrubbed a hand over his face. “More or less.”

  Man’s bone-tired. But for Epstein to show it—another uncharacteristic display. A sense of uneasiness snaked around Caterina’s spine. “More or less?”

  “We were ordered to stand down and stay out of Prejean’s way.” Anticipating her next question, Epstein added, “Our illustrious Director Britto’s order.”

  “Why the hell would the director order such a thing?”

  “Good question. I might have a few answers.” Pushing back from his desk, Epstein rose to his feet, one hand automatically smoothing his charcoal-gray tie.

  Crooking a finger at Caterina, he walked to the oak four-drawer file cabinet across from his desk. He unlocked the top drawer, then slid it open. He reached in and withdrew a slim folder and what looked like an iPod classic.

  An audio jammer.

  Intrigue pulsed electric through Caterina’s veins, tingled beneath her skin. Uncurling from her chair, she stood and joined Epstein at the file cabinet. Glancing at her from beneath his white brows, he placed the jammer on top of the filing cabinet and switched it on. The burbling and chirping device went to work, desensitizing all audio-recording equipment.

  “I’ve been digging,” Epstein said, tapping the folder against his hand. “Trying to understand why the director would allow Prejean to walk.”

  “And what have you learned?”

  “I learned that Britto’s son—sixteen years old and the only child—was dying of terminal brain cancer three years ago.”

  “Christ … Wait. Did you say was?”

  A smile flickered across Epstein’s lips. “I did. Seems like Britto’s son is cancer-free and very much alive—especially between dusk and dawn.”

  “Britto made a deal with vampires for his son’s life,” Caterina said, leaning against the front of the file cabinet.

  “Not just any vampires,” Epstein said, his gaze holding hers. “Britto made a deal with Renata Alessa Cortini and she sent someone to cure his son.”

  “Sounds like her,” Caterina said, kicking around that bit of information and tripping over it. “But I wonder why she never mentioned it to me.”

  “No need for you to know,” Epstein said. “That’d be my guess. Especially since that deal meant your mother owned Britto. And I think she just called in a favor.”

  “To let Prejean walk? Why? Because he’s a vampire? He’s just one of many. She doesn’t even know him, Ep.” Caterina shook her head. “Sounds thin to me.”

  “I think the director fed Renata info from day one. Man’s not only compromised his integrity for the sake of a son who’s no longer even human, he’s compromised everything the SB stands for: doing the hard and honorable thing.”

  “When no one else will,” Caterina said. “I understand what you’re saying, but maybe Britto’s in more than one pocket. Who else would be interested in Prejean remaining free and out of our hands?”

  Epstein chuckled. “Anyone still involved with Bad Seed. Maybe the missing Dr. Johanna Moore has a few things dangling over the director’s head, as well.” He looked at the folder in his hand. “The moment Britto agreed to order the release of a murdering, sociopathic fugitive, he altered his own destiny and that of the SB.”

  “Ep, where are you going with this?”

  Epstein looked up, blue gaze level, and strapped-on-explosives resolute. “Bad Seed is over. A failure from day one, in my opinion. The only remaining subject is Dante Prejean. He’s programmed in ways we’ll never fully grasp because Wells kept a lot of secrets. Prejean’s too dangerous to remain free, yet he keeps slipping away—with permission.”

  Caterina’s pulse picked up speed and her calm began to fray. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  A smile gentled the steel in Epstein’s eyes. “I’m telling you all this because you understand, Caterina. And no one else would. That simple. Wells, Moore, Underwood, even Lyons, and now Britto, have all diverted Prejean’s destiny from its true course time and again. We’re going to set things on their proper paths again.”

  The uneasiness looping Caterina’s spine squeezed python-tight.

  Grasping her shoulders, Epstein said, “That’s where you come into this. The SB needs to regain its honor. The director’s your next assignment. Once you’ve finished with him, kill Prejean and put Bad Seed in the grave forever.”

  Feeling like a trap door had just swung open beneath her feet and plunged her into an icy and breath-stealing lake, Caterina stared at the folder her handler extended to her.

  “Instructions on how to kill a True Blood,” Epstein said.

  26

  SCARRED-UP KNUCKLES

  SOMEWHERE IN UTAH ON I-84 EAST

  March 26

  No matter how lost I get, I will always find you, chérie. But that didn’t seem to work in reverse; not lost, she couldn’t find Dante. Pressed against his fevered body, whispering in his ear, she’d heard only her own thoughts.

  Heather rolled away from Dante’s sleeping bag and sat up between him and Von. She pushed her sweat-soaked hair back from her face. Exhaustion spiraled through her, dark and draining. Her throat ached from hours of whispering.

  Let me in, Baptiste.

  She didn’t know if Sleep kept him from hearing or reaching for her; didn’t know if he heard her just fine, but was refusing to let her in.

  I don’t need to be saved. Don’t wanna be saved.

  A chill rippled along her spine and, shivering, Heather drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Even as down-to-the-bone tired as she felt, she doubted she could force herself to sleep. Tension had ratcheted her muscles tight enough to sing.

  And her heart pounded so hard that her body quivered with each painful pulse.

  You’re losing
him. He’s slipping, falling, tumbling past your reach.

  Von too.

  “Everything all right back there?” Annie called.

  “No, not even close.”

  “A rest area’s just ahead. Need to pee?”

  “Yeah, but why don’t you take the nearest food exit instead? Lunch would be good too.”

  “I’m for that.”

  Heather picked up her flashlight and switched it back on. Swiveling around on her hip, she centered the light on Von’s face. His nosebleed had stopped. Gently turning his head, she checked his ears for more blood, but didn’t find any. She released her breath in a low sigh.

  A good sign, but that didn’t necessarily mean the nomad had Slept his way out of the woods. He still didn’t look right to her, his expression too lax, too empty.

  Bending over and bringing her lips to Von’s ear, Heather said, “You don’t get off this easy, Mr. I’m-Still-Jailbait. I thought nomads were tough. C’mon, let’s see those scarredup knuckles of yours, lift ’em and fight.”

  Von’s words slipped through her mind: Keep close, doll. Keep close to your man until we can get him home.

  Heather shifted around to Dante, checked him with the flashlight beam. Blood still trickled from his nose, but tears no longer slicked his lashes. Rage and grief blazed like holy fire on his face. His body was as hard and tight as a brass-knuckled fist.

  And if that fist was turned inward? Aimed at himself?

  Heather thought of the blood cupped in Von’s ears. Thought of Von pushing Dante’s hood back at Sea-Tac International and cupping his face.

  Let them see, little brother.

  The never-ending Road.

  Maybe she hadn’t been able to tumble inside Dante’s head because she needed to be asleep like before. Or drugged. Or maybe it’d just been a fluke.

  Wait. Drugged.

  Dante had been pumped full of morphine the last time. He’d told her that maybe it had lowered his shields and allowed her dreaming mind to slip inside his or maybe it had allowed his opium-soaked mind to reach into hers, and pull her into his nightmare.