Beneath the Skin

by Adrian Phoenix

  Mauvais sent.

  Justine straightened, skirt rustling, and took her place at his side. The heady scent of roses perfumed the night air.

  Victor, a white rose tucked into the breast pocket of his black butler’s suit, ushered a man onto the riverboat’s rear deck. Stopping beside Mauvais, Victor said, “M’sieu Giovanni Toscanini.”

  Dressed in crisp black jeans and a tight purple sweater, the handsome Italian with a proud Roman nose, wicked hazel eyes, and razor-cut burgundy hair sauntered forward.

  “A pleasure to meet you, signor,” Mauvais said, grasping the Italian’s shoulders. He kissed both pale cheeks in turn. Giovanni smelled of the sea—of salt and sand and deep waters.

  “And you.” Giovanni returned the embrace, then released Mauvais, his light-filled hazel eyes dancing over Justine. She curtsied, her hands white blossoms on her bloodred skirts.

  “My fille de sang, Justine Aucoin.”

  “Bella,” Giovanni murmured, capturing one of her hands and touching it to his lips. “A true pleasure.”

  “Merci,” Justine said, eyes amused. “Vous êtes très aimable.”

  “Only when necessary,” Giovanni said, a smile curving his lips. With a wink, he allowed her hand to slide free.

  Mauvais stepped forward, gesturing for the others to follow. “Please, let’s go below and make ourselves comfortable.”

  Victor had disappeared, already below, preparing drinks.

  Justine led the way, her skirts whispering against the deck. Tendrils of dark hair had slid free of their pins and framed her pale face. She descended the wrought-iron staircase leading belowdecks.

  “As I told Renata, I am happy to help you with whatever you need,” Mauvais said, walking beside Giovanni. “But what is your interest in Dante Baptiste?”

  The Italian glanced at Mauvais, a smile on his lips. “For one thing, the most important thing, we believe he is a True Blood.”

  Mauvais stopped walking. He stared at Giovanni. “Say again?”

  “A True Blood.”

  “Ce n’est pas possible,” Mauvais said.

  “Are you telling me you’ve never even met Baptiste?”

  “He refuses every invitation, every summons. He has been nothing but trouble and has been accused of murder—charges he still needs to face.”

  Giovanni shrugged. “We’ll see, mio amico, we’ll see. A True Blood can be forgiven many things, sì?”

  Mauvais remained silent, knowing only one thing with absolute certainty: True Blood or not, Justine would forgive Dante Baptiste nothing.

  Mauvais inhaled deeply, drawing calming night air into his lungs, and followed Giovanni down the curving metal staircase. His hand slid along the smooth railing, his feet soundless upon the steps.

  And Justine would never forgive him if Dante Baptiste walked away untouched.

  “A WISHED-HARD THING TAKES a shape within the heart. Takes shape. Becomes real.”

  His own whispered words guiding him up from Sleep, Dante drew in a deep breath of air. He smelled crackling frost and gun oil, tree sap and dewed grass, lilac-laced sweat, blood, and fear-spiced adrenaline.

  Tasted his own blood.

  Dante’s eyes flew open. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. Whip-slender willow branches hung over the curtained windows. Grass cushioned his ass. Dante glanced down. Shock glaciered his heart.

  Not lying down. Not in his mummy bag. Nope.

  Ain’t possible. Ain’t no such thing as Sleep-walking.

  Dante sat on the SUV’s grass-covered floor, Von’s head pillowed on his leather-clad thigh. Fading blue sparks winked along the nomad’s body and face. And fear crackled through Dante like ice.

  What the fuck did I just do to him?

  Blood glistened on the nomad’s lips. But dried blood streaked the skin beneath Von’s nose and his mustache.

  The shovel whistles through the night as he brings it down again and again. Blood jewels the air, a warm and never-ending rain.

  Not a dream. Not a nightmare. He’d attacked Von during Sleep.

  And had transformed the SUV’s interior without a conscious thought. And Von?

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  Fear twisted, barbed and cold, through Dante’s guts. The nomad hadn’t stirred. Still Slept, despite the night’s primal and arousing rhythm, a seductive drumming.

  He’s not dead. You can still save him.

  He’s mon cher ami and I tried to kill him.

  “Takes shape, becomes real,” Dante reminded himself. “Ain’t losing you. Ain’t leaving you underneath the willow tree.” But pain pierced his head, slid like an ice pick through his left eye.

  Heather, curled up against Dante’s opened and abandoned sleeping bag, sucked in a sharp breath as though she’d felt the ice pick’s touch too.

  Dante stared at her. Remembered the music pealing between them, untamed and ablaze, the moment her hand touched his shoulder. Remembered the sound of his name spilling from her lips.

  Baptiste.

  Remembered the white silence, pearlescent and pure, descending over them, cupping around them. Sealing them together.

  “What the fuck did you do?” a voice, low and shaky, asked.

  Annie stood at the opened back door, her eyes wide and ink-black, one hand still holding the door’s edge. Dante realized she must’ve been standing there beside the open door ever since he’d awakened, pale moonlight pouring into the SUV and giving him more than enough light to see by.

  Behind Annie, Dante could see a square building and parking lot lights glowing pink and orange. Rest area. The mingled odors of wet grass, dog shit, and oil-stained pavement wafted into the SUV along with night-chilled air.

  “I don’t know,” Dante said, meeting Annie’s stunned gaze.

  “Grass and … are those tree branches?”

  “Yeah. Think so.”

  “Is my sister okay?”

  Heather’s heartbeat, fast and steady, pulsed at the back of Dante’s aching mind. He felt the rhythm of her chest rising and falling, felt the warm edge of the soothing sleep she’d tucked herself into.

  “Oui,” he said, voice soft. “She’s okay.”

  But for how much longer, Dante-angel?

  Dante didn’t have an answer, but knew it was a damned good question.

  Lifting his wrist, Dante bit it, filling his mouth with blood. It tasted thick and earthy—pomegranates and vine-ripened grapes. Bending, he pressed his lips against Von’s, parting them with his tongue.

  I won’t lose you.

  Pain trip-hammered against Dante’s temples and another kind of pain squeezed his heart. Heather moaned in her sleep.

  Von sucked in a breath, then his fingers brushed against Dante’s cheek, entangled in his hair. He kissed Dante back, deep and hungry. Refused to let him go.

  No matter what, your heart’s true.

  Breaking the kiss, Dante raised his head. Joy fluttered through him, light as a moth, at the recognition glinting in the green depths of the nomad’s eyes.

  “I still believe that,” Von said, pressing his hand against Dante’s chest. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t scare the shit outta me, little brother.”

  “Mon ami,” Dante whispered. “Je re—”

  Von clapped a hand over his mouth. “Nuh-uh. Don’t wanna hear it. You wanna owe me, then owe me. No apologies. Not between us. D’accord?”

  Plucking Von’s hand free, Dante said, “I owe you, for true. And if I wanna apologize, then I’m gonna fucking apologize. So—je regrette.”

  “Like a goddamned mule.”

  “Mules apologize?”

  Von slapped Dante’s shoulder, then sat up. “Yeah, especially when they’re not supposed to.”

  “Do you feel okay?” Dante asked. “I mean, do you feel … different?”

  Von went still. Dante heard his heart pick up speed. “Did you do something to me, besides give me blood?” he asked, voice low.

  “Ain’t sure,” Dante s
aid. “But I think so.”

  Von nodded, then exhaled. “Ah, hell, little brother.” He looked at Dante. “I’ll let you know if anything odd pops up.”

  “I’ll fix whatever I’ve changed,” Dante promised.

  “Well, if you’ve improved anything, I won’t be complaining.”

  “It’s you guys’ turn to drive,” Annie cut in. “I’m exhausted.” But she remained outside, her face shadowed, her body language tense.

  Given the grass and branches, understandable. Dante wondered if he should risk unmaking it, decided not to in case it went wrong.

  He straightened and caught the car keys she tossed. Tucked them into his pocket. “D’accord. Where are we?”

  “Colorado, but we’re getting close to the Kansas state line.”

  “That’s good,” Von said, smoothing his hair back from his face. “We should be home sometime late tomorrow afternoon.” He touched fingers to his temple.

  “You okay?”

  “Just a little dizzy. Don’t worry. I’m gonna hit the men’s room. Wash up.” Scooting to the door, Von hopped outside.

  Annie climbed in. “This is fucking unreal,” she muttered. “Dude, grass? Couldn’t it be the kind we could smoke, at least?”

  “Hey, it ain’t prickly grass, so that’s something.”

  Dante crawled over Von’s sleeping bag to his own. Kneeling beside Heather, he checked her sleeping face for blood. He exhaled in relief when he didn’t see any. Tendrils of sweat-damp red hair clung to her face. He brushed them aside, then bent and kissed her parted lips.

  I got a little lost inside your head.

  All heart and steel, his woman. Even though he’d yanked her into his nightmare, she’d fought beside him.

  “Merci beaucoup, chérie,” he whispered.

  Heather’s pink Emily the Strange T-shirt was soaked through and, spotting the empty Dasani bottle on the SUV’s floor, he guessed water and sweat both played into the mix.

  Then he saw the black zippered bag. “Another seizure?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but Von had the seizure, not you.”

  An image strobed behind Dante’s eyes: The shovel smacks into the Papa/Von flickering face, slamming his head to the side, and toppling him into the sawgrass.

  “Merde.”

  Dante sat back on his heels, a hard knot burning in the center of his chest. Pain throbbed at his temples. He looked at Annie. She sat cross-legged on Von’s sleeping bag, shadows smudged beneath her eyes, the line of her jaw tight. Moonlight glazed the piercings at her eyebrow and lower lip silver.

  “Did I hurt Heather?” he asked. “I mean, a seizure or headache or nosebleed?”

  Annie shook her head. “No. Not that I know of,” she amended.

  Dante nodded, throat tight. He returned his attention to Heather. Trailed his fingers along the curve of her cheek, down the line of her throat, and across her collarbone. Touched his fingertips to the collar of her damp shirt, then gently peeled the T-shirt off over her head.

  “You got a dry shirt I can put on her?”

  His gaze lingered on the curves of Heather’s lavender bra–covered breasts. He imagined pushing the fabric aside, licking her nipple, then sucking the hardened bud into his mouth. His pulse quickened. He felt himself stir, stiffen. He wanted to trace his fingers along the soft skin over her taut, flat belly, the curves of her waist, down to the top of her jeans.

  But he forced his hands to remain on his thighs. He wanted to be looking into her twilight blue eyes the next time he touched her, the next time he undressed her.

  “You’re gonna hurt Heather if you stay with her, y’know,” Annie said softly. “You’re gonna end up hurting everyone around you because you can’t help it.”

  You’re gonna hurt everyone around you.

  Even if you don’t mean to, huh, Dante-angel?

  Watch over her, ma mère. S’il te plaît, keep her safe. Even from me.

  Oui, princess. Even if I don’t mean to.

  “You don’t need to waste that, by the way,” Annie said, waving her hand at his crotch. “I’m awake. Unlike my sister.”

  Dante pushed his hair back from his face. “You got a dry shirt or not?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Annie swiveled around and grabbed her gym bag. She dug around in it, then pulled a shirt free. She tossed the bag back into its corner. She crawled across the grass and handed Dante the shirt.

  “I know how you feel,” she said.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I’ve always been a fucking freak, different. I hurt everyone around me—especially the people I love.”

  “Do you wanna hurt them? Or does it just happen?”

  “Both, sometimes.” Annie’s natural scent—vanilla and cloves—intensified, became smoky, but Dante caught something different underneath it, something he couldn’t name. “Sometimes it’s the only way to feel alive.” She slid a hand up his thigh, hunger and heat shimmering in her blue eyes.

  Annie’s knowing touch reignited the smoldering embers of Dante’s hunger for Heather. He locked his hand around Annie’s wrist, stopping her hand just short of his crotch. “Ain’t gonna let you hurt Heather.”

  “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

  “Yeah, it will.”

  Annie leaned into Dante, brushed her lips against his. “I know you wanna do this. You know it too.” She reached for him with her free hand.

  Dante moved. Only a couple of feet, but it was enough. Annie’s hand swished through empty air. Dante dressed Heather in the Mad Edgar T-shirt and smoothed it over her belly. Fire flared. He drew in a deep breath and tamped the flames back down.

  Want you, chérie. Always will.

  “Interesting that you found that tee in your bag again, yeah, p’tite?” he said.

  “I bet you’d fuck me if I wasn’t Heather’s sister,” Annie said, shoving her blue/black/purple hair off her forehead.

  “Peut-être que oui, peut-être que non. But since you are, it ain’t happening.”

  “What is it with you? You piss me off and scare the shit outta me and get me hot all at the same frickin’ time. Never met anyone like you.” Annie knee-walked back to Von’s sleeping bag and plopped down on it. “You know you don’t belong here, right?”

  “Yeah?” Dante asked, voice tight. “Where do I belong?”

  “Someplace where you won’t hurt everyone around you,” Annie said, stripping off her pants and lobbing them into a corner. Purple panties peeked out from beneath the hem of her T-shirt. Panties she made sure he got a good look at before she rolled into the sleeping bag. “You say you don’t want to hurt Heather, but that’s hard for me to believe.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cuz it’s just a matter of time. You’re going to hurt her and hurt her bad.”

  “Fuck you. That’s between me and her.”

  “Just saying. Bet if you were with others like yourself, others who might understand all your blue-fire-mojo shit, they’d be able to teach you how to not hurt the people you care about, y’know, like Von?”

  “Tais-toi,” Dante said, knotting his hands into fists. “Not another fucking word.”

  “Aw … he has buttons after all.”

  Afraid that if he didn’t leave right now, he’d do something he would regret for a long time, Dante leaned over and kissed Heather’s soft lips. “Sweet dreams, catin,” he whispered.

  Dante climbed out of the SUV and closed the door. He leaned against it for a moment, waiting for his racing pulse to slow, for his hard-on to die down. Fire burned through his veins, torched his thoughts.

  Pissed off at himself, most of all. He’d let Annie get under his skin.

  Worse? The truth behind some of the shit she’d thrown at him.

  Dante drew in a long, slow breath of air laced with the electric scent of impending rain, then pushed away from the car. He locked the SUV with a tap of the smart key, then strode across the parking lot to join Von in the men’s room.

/>   Watch over her, ma mère. S’il te plaît, keep her safe. Even from me.

  VON LOOKED UP FROM the sink, water dripping from his face, when Dante pushed through the scratched-up metal door. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey back. And whatta special smell in here. Eau de doo-doo.” Dante walked over to a dripping sink, turned on the cold faucet and splashed water on his face.

  “That doo-doo that you do?” Von drawled.

  An appreciative smile ghosted across Dante’s lips, but Von read the tension in his body, saw it knotted in the muscles along his shoulders and neck.

  He ain’t gonna forgive himself for what happened.

  Von finished washing up, then walked over to the bank of almost ineffectual air blowers. Tapping one on, he crouched beneath it so it could blast air at his face and hands. He lifted his arms and angled his freshly scrubbed pits at the blower too.

  The roaring whoosh of the machine made his ears and head ache.

 

  Dante’s sending lanced through Von’s mind, crisp and clear, and sparked a chill down his spine. Normally a sending would filter in through his shields; now it was like nothing separated their minds, and that wasn’t good.

  “We’ll meet in a few years when you’re grown up. But right now, I think somehow you’ve pulled me inside a dream you’re having—no, make that a fucking nightmare. Or is this a memory, little brother?”

  “Man, this feels fucking real to me so I ain’t got an answer for that.” He turns back around and stares into the deep, still shadows pooled beneath the trees. “There a difference between nightmares and memories?”

  That Dante even needed to ask a question like that …

  The muscles tightened in Von’s chest. What he wouldn’t give to have some quality alone-time with the Bad Seed bastards who’d made Dante’s life sheer hell from the moment he’d drawn his very first breath.

  Nightmares. Memories.

  Von needed to protect himself from the shifting realities inside Dante’s mind—the lines blurring between dream, memory, and fluctuating time so he could help guide Dante, as both friend and llygad, along the dark and thorned path fate had unrolled beneath his feet.

  Otherwise, Dante would probably kill him at some point—accidentally, of course. And that was the last thing either of them needed.