Beneath the Skin

by Adrian Phoenix

  He kissed her long and deep—hot, bruising kisses—as he backed her up against the bathroom wall. Fire burned through Heather at the touch of his tongue, at the heat of his tight-muscled body pressing against her. She cupped her hands around his beautiful face and kissed him even deeper, devouring his sweet amaretto lips and savoring the grape-and-copper tang of her own blood on his tongue.

  Working a hand between them, Heather grasped his hard length through his leather pants. Dante growled against her lips. His hands tore at her jeans, breaking the zipper in his effort to get them off of her.

  Trailing wet kisses from her nipples to her belly, Dante dropped to his knees and yanked her jeans and panties down to her ankles. Heather stepped out of them, kicked them aside as Dante’s hot, hot hands slid around to cup her ass. He licked her, kissed her, his tongue and lips molten and soft and knowing.

  With each touch of Dante’s hands and lips, music pulsed hot and liquid between them, a sensual and un-tamed song.

  Struggling for breath, Heather came, pleasure rippling through her in mind-blanking waves. Her eyes fluttered closed.

  She heard a belt buckle jingle and her eyes flew open. “No! Not this time. I’m taking those goddamned pants off.”

  Still on his knees, Dante looked up at her, his fingers paused on the snap of his leather pants. A smile tilted his lips. He eased to his feet, his hands moving to her hips.

  “They’re all yours, catin.”

  “Finally.”

  Heather knelt and peeled Dante’s pants down, kissing his pale thighs as she went, each kiss eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him. Tracing her fingers, then her tongue along his hard, satiny length, she took him into her mouth. Dante shivered and a low moan slipped past his lips. His fingers entangled in her hair.

  Like a match tossed onto a trail of gasoline leading to a bonfire, Dante’s pleasure blazed through Heather, ignited and merged with her own, raging hotter with each passing minute, with each touch of her lips and tongue and hands. Blue light filled the bathroom, danced along their bodies. Dante’s breath caught ragged in his throat as he came.

  Heather blinked. Came, but still hard. So very much she needed to learn about him yet, about each other—especially in the sex department—but she was looking forward to the learning.

  Dante pulled Heather to her feet and into a wild and fevered kiss. He lifted her up and onto him, resting her bare back against the wall. Gasping against his lips as he entered her, she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.

  Dante drove into her, hard and deep. Music and hot, honeyed pleasure poured through Heather with each hungry thrust, a primal and earthy rhythm. Sweat slicked their bodies. His lips slid from hers and down and closed over her nipple, sucking it into the heat of his mouth. Her fingers entangled in his silky locks, her half-lidded gaze fixed on his beautiful, burning face.

  Panting, she met him thrust for urgent thrust, closed her eyes, and abandoned herself to their hunger for each other, their need.

  This time was all they had.

  “IT’S GONNA TAKE PRACTICE, doll,” Von said. “A lot of practice. And when—if—things ever quiet down, me and Dante will be able to sit down and really teach you.”

  “So the main thing is visualization and focus, right?” Heather said. She sat at the kitchen table, finishing a cup of rich French roast coffee while Dante went over urgent Inferno e-mail with Trey in the computer room, stuff the web-runner felt couldn’t wait.

  Heather wished she and Dante’d had more time to just linger together skin-to-skin and lips-to-lips, but the same urgency pushing her—fresh outta time—was pushing Dante too.

  “I feel like time’s running out for Lucien, catin. Can’t explain it, but I feel it here.” Dante touches their clasped hands against his bare chest over his heart and the little bat tattoo inked into his pale skin.

  “You don’t need to explain to me, Baptiste,” she murmurs. “I understand.”

  “Is that dreamy expression for me, doll? I know I can be distracting, but—”

  “What? Sorry. Hi, Von. Been sitting here long?” Heather offered the nomad an innocent smile.

  “Ouch, woman.”

  “So, visualization and focus, right?” she repeated.

  “Focus is key. Yup. Picture steel walls or whatever feels secure and safe to you, impenetrable, y’know?”

  “Like a vault for your mind?” Heather asked.

  “That’ll work, yeah. Hey, take a walk outside with me,” Von said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. “Got something to show you.”

  “I’ve seen your boxers. Sorry.”

  “No, woman, get your mind outta the gutter. And you ain’t seen these boxers.”

  “Oops. My mistake.” Heather finished her coffee and stood.

  “Look at you—all sexy and bad-ass in leather pants.”

  Heather arched an eyebrow. “But not in jeans? Thanks, I think.”

  “I mean, sexier and bad-assier.”

  With a wicked grin, Von led Heather outside to the black van parked in the driveway—the van that she’d seen Lucien drive during her last visit to New Orleans. A pang pierced her heart. She hoped Dante was right and that he’d find his father and bring him home again.

  The nomad unlocked the side doors and slid them open. “Gotta surprise for you, doll. Take a look.”

  Climbing into the back of the van, Heather discovered boxes and a duffel bag occupying the seats and floor space. Familiar boxes with a musty smell. Excitement curled through her. Her fingers skipped along the edges of the cartons marked WALLACE, SHANNON, CASE NO. 5123441.

  “How did you do this?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Von.

  “It was me and Trey, actually,” the nomad said. “I saw your stuff and Dante’s in your living room when I was looking for you two at your place, so after the shit in Damascus, I contacted Trey and he made the arrangements for a courier service to pick your stuff up before the feds could seize it.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Von. Seriously.” Heather climbed out of the van and cat-bumped Von with her shoulder.

  The nomad nudged her back, his leather jacket creaking. “I know how much you wanna find the bastard who murdered your mom.”

  “And this is going to make it possible. Again, thank you.”

  Von glanced toward the house, then lifted his shades on top of his head. “Dante say why he wants to start his search for Lucien at the cemetery?”

  “He said one of the Fallen is there—Loki—one who Lucien turned to stone with some kind of spell. Dante’s hoping that if he can free Loki, then he’ll show him where Gehenna is.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Von said. “We saw the statue just before we left on tour. I hope Dante’s right. If he can free Loki, the bastard might only play games with him. His name’s Loki, right? Norse trickster god?”

  “I don’t think Dante’s in the mood for games. Loki could find himself stone again in a heartbeat.”

  “True enough. Just remember what I told you about shielding. And you might need these.” Von handed Heather a couple of morphine-filled syringes.

  Heather slipped them into a pocket of her trench coat, another rescue from Von. He’d grabbed up her coat and personal stuff from her Trans Am before ditching it.

  “You’re Dante’s lifeline, doll,” Von said. “I’m sorry you had no say in getting bonded to him, but you quiet the storm inside-a him. And that’s a damned good thing.”

  “When I was inside his head, all the noise, the pain, the constant fight to keep my identity …” Heather looked away, searching for the right words. Her gaze settled on the ivy-laced river rock wall. “Is that what he deals with every moment?”

  “Yeah, doll, I think it is. Or just a taste of it. But I hope we can change that.”

  “I feel like time’s running out,” Heather said, half-afraid of making the words come true by saying them aloud. “That he’s slipping past my reach.”

  “I have a feel
ing a part of Dante thinks so too,” Von said, voice low. “And that’s why he reached out to us. Grabbed ahold. Stubborn sonuvabitch is fighting to hang on.”

  Dante’s whispered words beneath the willow tree as he knelt beside Von’s unconscious body curled through Heather’s memory.

  A wished-hard thing takes a shape within the heart.

  Heather returned her attention to Von. Moonlight frosted the crescent moon tattoo inked beneath his eye. “Boy’s got a destiny,” he said. “One he can’t walk away from because he is the future.”

  “The never-ending Road.”

  “Yup. And I think you’re a part of that destiny, doll. Don’t ever let him walk away from you.”

  “I can quote Dante for you on that one,” Heather said, feeling a smile brush her lips. “Ain’t asking permission.”

  “My advice? If he gets outta hand, sit on him. Works like a charm.”

  Laughter, low and warm and inviting, drew Heather’s gaze to the front porch and the open door beyond it. Dante stood at the threshold, one arm laced around Simone’s waist, Eerie nestled into the crook of his other arm. Eerie batted a paw at a low-fluttering moth, insisting it flutter straight into his open mouth.

  The sight of her Eerie-kitty making Dante laugh untangled a few knots from around Heather’s heart. An amused smile on her face, Simone touched her fingers to Dante’s face and drew him down into a kiss.

  And retangled the knots.

  “Here, darlin’, more magazines for your gun—just in case.”

  “Useful thing, paranoia,” Heather said, gratefully shifting her gaze away from Dante and Simone. She scooped the pistol mags from Von’s extended hand. Dropped them into the trench coat pocket opposite the syringes.

  “I wish you were coming with us,” she said. “I could use an extra pair of eyes on lookout. Dante’s going to be busy seeing if he can undo Lucien’s magic and release Loki.”

  “I hear ya, doll. But some things a man’s gotta do alone. If anything goes south or unexpected bad guys pop up, he’ll give me a shout.”

  “Did he promise?”

  “Did who promise what?” Dante asked, as he trotted down the porch steps. “My ears are burning, so must be me, yeah?”

  He paused on the sidewalk to brush Eerie fur from his mesh-sleeved NIN T-shirt and from the front of his low-slung black restraint pants. Small chrome buckles edged the side of each leg from top to bottom.

  “Yeah, you, and no.” Von sighed. “He didn’t promise, now that you mention it.”

  “Promise what?” Dante stopped beside Heather, a smile on his lips. Simone’s magnolia scent clung to him like a cobweb. He shrugged on a black hoodie; red letters safety-pinned to the sleeves read: NOT DEAD—DO NOT TAKE TO MORGUE.

  “To give a shout if things go south.”

  “Said I would. Ain’t that a promise?”

  Glancing at Simone, Heather wrapped her arms around Dante’s waist and kissed him thoroughly. His burning autumn leaves scent coiled around her, whipped heat through her belly. Annoyed with herself for acting like a possessive get-your-eyeballs-off-my-man kind of lunatic, she ended the kiss.

  Dante watched her with dark, smoldering eyes. “Feel better?”

  Heather stared at him, then heat flushed her cheeks as she realized he could feel strong emotions from her too.

  “Shields, doll, shields,” Von murmured.

  “Um … which car are we taking?” she said in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

  “We ain’t,” Dante said, sliding on shades. “Von’s loaning us his Harley. Wanna drive, catin?”

  “I’d love to learn, but for now, you drive.”

  A few minutes later, Heather sat behind Dante on Von’s Harley, her hands on his hips, her body cupped against his, the humid night whipping through her hair and his as he steered the rumbling and powerful bike toward New Orleans and St. Louis No. 3.

  34

  DARK AND AIRLESS HEARTS

  NEW ORLEANS, ST. LOUIS NO. 3

  March 27

  DANTE LED HEATHER DOWN the cemetery’s central path, past the moon-washed white crypts and the dead cradled within their dark and airless hearts, to the tomb marked BARONNE.

  She studied Loki’s crouched and stone-spelled form, shifting her weight onto one hip. Dante noticed her keen gaze drinking in every detail: the moonlight twinkling along faint designs swirled into the smooth wings, primal and stylized designs like tribal tattoos. Frozen waist-length hair framed Loki’s screaming face. He was nude except for a thick torc twisted around his corded throat and a bracelet around one bicep.

  The smell of vanilla and wax from the small candles burning in front of Loki’s taloned feet mingled with the sweet scent of cherry blossoms and the dank scent of decay.

  Dante noticed that the chiming black blossoms he’d created within Loki’s cupped hands had vanished. A few shriveled black stems left behind told him that the flowers had been uprooted.

  Heather fingered a string of plastic Mardi Gras beads—one of many—looped around the stone angel’s wings and throat. Folded scraps of paper—prayers, words from the heart —littered the sidewalk in front of Loki. And chalked good-luck x’s in blue, yellow, and pink decorated the path.

  “Why did Lucien turn him to stone?” Heather asked.

  Lucien’s words rolled through Dante’s memory.

  I trapped him to protect you.

  I thought I could keep you safe in silence. I thought I could hide you, help you heal from all the damage done to you.

  But I was wrong.

  “To keep Loki from finding me,” Dante said.

  Heather let go of the strand of beads and it fell back, clicking against the stone. She turned around to face Dante. “Do you think releasing him is a good idea?”

  “Probably not, but he’s my best chance at finding Lucien. He can tell me how to find Gehenna. Hell, I bet he’d volunteer to take me.” Dante pushed his hands through his hair. “Maybe Lucien ain’t there, but I gotta know.”

  “Let’s give it a shot,” Heather said. Pulling the Browning free of an interior pocket of her trench, she clasped it in both hands and backed up so she could better watch the surrounding area.

  Dante knelt on one knee in front of Loki’s trapped form. The blood glyph Lucien had traced on Loki’s forehead had faded almost completely away. The blue spark of Fallen magic that had leapt between the stone and Dante’s fingertip a couple of weeks ago was only a pale flicker.

  Frowning, Dante touched his fingers to Loki’s stone chest. A faint, desperate song scratched like little squirrel claws beneath the cool, white stone. Dante trailed a finger along the blood glyph and imagined unwriting it, imagined the blood flaking away, swept along by the March breeze.

  Blue fire crackled unbidden along his fingers. Black moss suddenly sprouted on Loki’s forehead. A tiny song tinkled along the moss’s rounded edges. Not what he wanted. Heart pounding, Dante clenched his hands into fists. The fire guttered out.

  “We’re not alone,” Heather said, voice taut.

  Her words snapped Dante up from his contemplation. He heard the slow beat of vampire hearts—multiple hearts. He rose smoothly to his feet and swiveled around.

  Heather backed toward him, gun extended and swinging from left to right as nightkind dressed in expensive and Euro-stylish suits glided across the cemetery paths and from the shadows pooled between crypts.

  Encircled them.

  Dante figured he could take several down and maybe outrun the rest. He couldn’t risk using his creawdwr power—not when whatever might pour out from his fingertips could affect Heather as well as nightkind.

  “Perhaps you forgot about M’sieu Mauvais’s invitation,” a blond and well-coiffed nightkind said. Dante recognized him as Lackey Numéro Un—Laurent.

  “Nope. Didn’t forget. Just ain’t interested,” Dante said. “Now if y’all don’t mind, we’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Listen, you piece of shit,” a tall, Gold’s Gym beefy nightkind with buzz-cut h
air said, each word juiced with spittle. “You and your pretty little pet get into the limo Mauvais so thoughtfully provided or I’m gonna tear her apart in front—”

  Dante moved. Stretched Tall’N’Beefy out on the stone path with hard-knuckled jabs to the fucker’s throat and balls. TNB curled into a ball, coughing and gagging.

  “Ain’t tearing no one apart, motherfucker.”

  Dante heard a quick step behind him. He whirled and went low, slashing Laurent across the gut with his nails, feeling cloth, then flesh beneath his fingers. He breathed in the heady tang of nightkind blood and kept moving.

  A gun fired, the sound cracking though the air like a hammer against glass. A second shot. A third. Dante risked a glance. Heather stood beside the Baronne tomb, her lovely face shadowed, the set of her jaw determined. Fire blazed from the barrel of her gun.

  Several head-shot nightkind were sprawled on the path near her, dark pools of blood glistening on the cemetery path.

  He needed to get her out of the fight before Mauvais’s idiots killed her or, worse, fed on her. Dante darted for Heather, moved with everything he had. Blurred past nightkind stumbling to intercept him, wove around others. Heather gasped as he grabbed her by the waist, swung around, then raced for the cemetery gates.

 

  She locked an arm around his waist, his blood-linked message received. The cherry blossom and blood-scented night whipped past him.

  Nightkind hunting whoops and shouts cut through the air right behind him; Mauvais’s hounds on his heels. Dante stopped at the foot of the locked wrought-iron gates and boosted Heather up and over. He lobbed the Harley keys over the fence.

 

 

  “Baptiste!” Heather cried. “Hurry!”

  “Von’s on his way. Go!” Dante backed away from the gates. He planned to keep his pursuers so occupied they would forget all about Heather.

  But hands seized Dante at the shoulder and neck before he could whirl around and give them something to chase. Dante jabbed back with his elbow. Someone grunted in pain and the hand fell away from his neck. Spinning, he slammed his fist into the temple of the asshole gripping his shoulder. And knocked him back into two more well-dressed nightkind as they rushed forward. All three tumbled into Loki’s stone form.