DANTE EASED OUT FROM behind Gina and slid to the edge of the rumpled bed. The black lace curtains framing the opened French windows twisted in the cool night breeze. The smell of rain and Mississippi mud filled the room. Dante trailed his fingers through his hair.
Still kneeling beside the bed, his hands resting on Gina’s thighs, Jay watched him with interest.
“What’s wrong, sugar?” Gina said, sitting up.
Dante didn’t have to look at Gina to see the pout on her lips. “I’ve gotta go,” he said. Candlelight flickered orange across the shadowed walls, across his leather pants, his boots. Pain flickered in his mind.
Gina’s fingers wrapped around Dante’s belt. She tugged. “Looks to me like you’re all hot and bothered. Looks to me like you need to stay,” she murmured. “Just lie down and we’ll—”
Gently plucking Gina’s fingers free from his belt, Dante stood. He shook his head. “Later. Play without me for now.”
“Dante, mon cher…” Jay’s hand slid from Gina’s thigh, reached for Dante.
Dante pushed away Jay’s hand, then seized a handful of the mortal’s blond hair and yanked his head back. Jay’s breathing became rough, uneven. Bending down, Dante kissed him deeply. The honey, musk, and salt taste of Gina on Jay’s tongue and lips damn near changed Dante’s mind. But a familiar, dangerous restlessness burned within him. He couldn’t stay.
Finishing the kiss, Dante released Jay’s hair and trailed a finger along his jawline, then straightened and strode from the room. He heard Gina advising Jay to let him be.
Out in the hallway, Dante leaned against the wall. Eyes closed, he thumped his head lightly against the plaster. He waited for his hard-on to subside, wishing the dark, writhing things inside would subside as well. But knew they wouldn’t. Pain prickled at his temple.
Fuck! Focus, dammit. Something’s troubling Lucien. Zero in on that.
But Lucien’s shields were up and he couldn’t get through. In fact, it almost seemed as though Lucien was keeping him out deliberately. Dante opened his eyes and shoved himself away from the wall.
HEATHER GLANCED AT THE people sitting on the stairs as she weaved through the crowd behind De Noir. They watched her progress with something close to envy or maybe disbelief on their powder-pale faces. De Noir edged past them, seemingly oblivious to the shining gazes, the half-parted lips, and the whispers:
“Lucien. Will he see us?”
“Is he coming down?”
“Lucien Nightbringer. Lucien…”
Earnest, desperate, hungry.
Heather stepped past their outstretched fingers, disturbed by De Noir’s silence. She wondered why he didn’t say anything, why he didn’t even glance at them.
De Noir stood aside and opened the door to the courtyard, gestured for Heather to enter. She looked into the ivy-draped clearing. Protected within gargoyle sconces, candles cast eerie windblown shadows across the stone walls. Her gaze was drawn to the wall where a killer’s message had been smeared in blood on the other side. For a moment, she saw the blood seeping through the stone, letters forming in reverse. Her gut told her: Not by chance or coincidence. This wall had been chosen.
She was about to step out of the club when a sudden whisper rushed through the crowd like wind through tall grass. She stopped as the yearning voices abruptly fell silent. The air seemed to thicken, to crackle with anticipation.
She glanced at De Noir. His face was still, his eyes unreadable. But tension tightened his muscles. He met her gaze, seemed to be willing her into the courtyard. Slowly, Heather turned and looked back the way she’d come.
Someone walked down the stairs, stepping out of the shadows on the second-floor landing. It seemed to Heather as though every single person in the club sucked in a breath at the same time.
Then the figure crossed into the light and glanced with gleaming eyes over the heads of the crowd at Heather or maybe past her to De Noir, she couldn’t be sure. She stood frozen, unable to move or breathe, then the collective pent-up breath in the club released. Voices clamored:
“Dante! Dante! Mon ange!”
“Yeah! Fuckin’ hope he gets in the Cage tonight!”
Heather stared, dizzied and stunned, as he descended, overwhelmed by what she’d seen in the moment he’d looked her way—
Dark, light-filled eyes looking into her, drawing her in—
Slender, hard body, five nine or five ten, moving with dangerous and unself-conscious grace, all coiled muscles and knife-sharp reflexes—
Tousled black hair spilling past his shoulders, dressed in mesh and leather and steel-ringed bondage collar, a sexuality that scorched—
She wrenched her gaze from him and watched the faces of those who called his name, witnessed their smiles and tears as he stroked a jawline there, touched a cheek here, kissed a pair of lips there.
Then…he stepped into the crowd and out of sight, and Heather gasped for air, able to breathe again.
If that was Dante Prejean, then he was literally breathtaking. She’d never seen anyone so gorgeous. It also meant that De Noir had lied about Dante’s not being here tonight. She turned to face De Noir and caught him rubbing the bridge of his nose, gaze on the floor. He looked like a man who’d suddenly felt the pain of Murphy’s Law kicking him in the ass.
“Strange, I was sure you’d said that Dante wasn’t here,” Heather said. “Must’ve just arrived, then.”
Dropping his hand, De Noir said, “So it would seem.” Lifting his eyes, he met Heather’s gaze. “The police have already spoken to him, Agent Wallace. I see no need to—”
“I’m sorry,” Heather interrupted. “But I do.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Dante climbed the steps leading to the cheesy Kingdom-of-Hell themed throne. Kneeling between the pretty underage punk and the earthy blonde, Dante stroked the boy’s purple spiked hair. He leaned in close to the blonde, seemed to speak into her ear. Several Goth princesses at the foot of the steps bounced and squealed.
Why was De Noir so protective of Dante Prejean? What was he hiding?
Heather spun away from De Noir’s strange black, gold-edged eyes and slipped into the crowd. She intended to find out.
3
Without a Word
DANTE GLANCED OVER HIS shoulder. He didn’t see the red-haired, trenchcoated woman who’d been standing beside Lucien, but he felt her pushing through the crowd, resolve and authority radiating from her like sunshine; bright, piercing, and deadly.
Dante returned his attention to Simone. “Dunno.” He slid his fingers along the silky length of her hair, pushed it behind her ear. “But I’m gonna find out soon. Whether I wanna or not.” He smiled.
Simone watched him carefully, searched his eyes. He shook his head.
She sighed. “If you’re sure.”
Lowering his head, he kissed her, drinking in her magnolias and blood scent. “Merci beaucoup, chérie,” he whispered against her lips.
Simone sighed again. She glanced past him to Silver. “Come, petit.” She stretched a hand to Silver and wriggled her fingers. The boy took her hand and pulled her to her feet. They headed down the few steps to the dance floor.
Dante rose to his feet and climbed onto the dais. Under Pressure slammed and raged in the Cage, their music a fist—punching, punching, knockout. Dante closed his eyes. Every chord, every screamed word, every drum strike vibrated into him, thrummed along his spine.
A gentle nudge from Lucien opened the link between them.
Dante smiled at the chiding tone.
Opening his eyes, Dante spun around. The crowd howled. Several of his tayeaux squeezed from the crowd to curl on the steps below. The tiny bat tattoos at the hollows of their throats shimmered in the overheads, visible only to nightkind, marking them off-limits. Dark emotions oozed from the crowd at the sight of them—envy, bitterness, resentment—and lapped against
the edges of Dante’s consciousness. He looked into each pale face, each set of kohl-rimmed eyes, curving his lips into a smile but thinking, as always, What do they want from me?
Pain flickered and Dante shook his head, one hand to his temple. Drawing in a deep breath of the clove, cinnamon, and sweat scented air, he turned his thoughts outward.
Silver and Simone danced and shimmied on the floor, beautiful and graceful, nearly luminous with inner light—moon-blooded and hungry. Mortal watchers circled them. Hoping to be chosen, dreaming of a smooth, cool hand locking around a wrist and pulling them into the dance.
Beyond them, the crowd parted for Lucien, murmuring as he passed.
The FBI agent stepped out of the crowd and onto the first step leading to the dais, Lucien right behind her. He looked up at Dante, a warning in his eyes. Dante shrugged. He studied the woman climbing the steps. Slender in a black trenchcoat and slacks, trendy black Skechers, dark red hair twisted back in a French braid, stray wisps curling beside her smooth cheeks and forehead, generous lips. Her blue eyes burned with intelligence and determination.
Lucien’s warning darkened to a glare as he stepped past the woman to stand behind the throne.
Dante grinned.
The agent stepped onto the dais. “Dante?” she shouted.
Despite the music, Dante heard her just fine, but was content to let her shout. He nodded. She reached into her purse, withdrew a slim wallet, and flipped it open.
“Special Agent Wallace,” she shouted. “FBI.”
Leaning closer, Dante touched the badge, looked from the photo ID to the agent’s solemn face, back to the photo, back to her. She smelled clean and sharp, like sage, like the city after a hard rain.
“Good picture.” Releasing the badge, he shifted his gaze back to her face. “I’ve already talked to the cops, though.”
Agent Wallace dropped the badge back into her purse. “I realize that. This is a separate inquiry,” she shouted. “I find it—”
Under Pressure ended their set with a long feedback squeal and a final tribal-style pounding on the drums, then the club plunged into darkness so the band could slip unnoticed from the Cage. The noise from the packed club—squeals, shouts, the buzz of a hundred conversations—swelled in the darkness. The low-wattage house lights switched back on to reveal an empty Cage.
Agent Wallace resumed speaking in a more normal tone of voice. “I find it curious that Mister De Noir led me to believe you weren’t here.” Her gaze held his.
Dante shrugged. “I’m hard to keep track of. I come and go a lot.”
“Is there some place more private where we can talk?”
“Probably,” Dante said. “But I don’t want to, so, no.”
One eyebrow arched up. “Is there a problem?” she asked, voice low, taut.
“You mean aside from you being here?” Dante said. “No.”
Dante ignored Lucien, ignored the heat of his gaze, focused on the flash of anger in Agent Wallace’s blue eyes. His pulse raced.
“This is a murder investigation,” Agent Wallace said, stepping in close, too close. “I don’t understand why you’re refusing to cooperate.”
“Yeah, that whole cooperation with the law thing? Just ain’t me,” Dante said, standing his ground, refusing to step back after she’d thought he would by invading his personal space.
He listened to the rapid beat of the fed’s heart, heard the rush of blood through her veins, smelled it, rich and sweet.
“I won’t take much of your time. I just need to verify a few things.”
Dante ran his fingers through his hair. “Everything I had to say is in the police report.” He sprawled onto the throne, stretched his legs out before him. “Read it.”
“I’ll do that,” Wallace said, meeting Dante’s gaze. “But I’d like your permission to look around the premises, the courtyard in particular.”
“Not without a warrant,” Dante said, voice low.
She looked at him for a long moment, head tilted, her gaze considering. “Look, we don’t have to do this the hard way.”
“It’s the only way I know,” Dante said.
“Did you know the victim was from Lafayette?” Wallace asked, voice tight.
Drawing his legs in, Dante sat up. Lafayette. Pain strobed, spasmed. He touched his fingers to his left temple and rubbed until the pain faded. “Fuck,” he whispered.
“Is something wrong?” Wallace said.
“Yes,” Lucien rumbled from behind the throne. “He suffers from migraines. I’m afraid you’ll have to resume your questions at another time.”
“No, I—” Wallace’s words ended abruptly as excited whispers buzzed and echoed throughout the club.
Dante watched as Étienne’s Armani-clad form sliced through the crowd. His chicory-and-cream-colored skin seemed lit from within; he bristled with hate. A step behind, Von strode along the now silent path Étienne had cut.
Étienne stopped at the bottom of the steps. A fringe of cobalt-beaded braids framed his cold, chiseled face. Von stood to the visiting vampire’s right, taking up his duties as llygad on the floor instead of on the dais at Dante’s side.
Dante sat forward, hands on the throne’s armrests, muscles coiled.
“You’ve been ordered to present yourself before Guy Mauvais,” Étienne said.
“You’re fucking kidding,” Dante said, half laughing.
Étienne tensed. “The Council is conducting an inquiry.”
“The Council has no authority over Dante,” Lucien said.
“Je regrette, Nightbringer,” Étienne said, inclining his head respectfully. “But this doesn’t concern the Fallen.”
“Willing to stake your life on that?” Lucien’s deep voice rang through the club.
FBI investigations. Council inquiries. Goody. “Nothing like being popular,” Dante murmured. To Étienne, he said, “If this is about the fire again, tell ’em not to waste their time. Sa vaut pas la peine. I don’t know—”
Étienne flew up the steps, only stopping on the third when Von, in a nightkind blur of speed, leapt behind him and seized his arm.
“Arrogant lying prick!” Étienne hissed, his narrowed gaze dark and seething. “You need to be leashed! Brought to your knees!”
Cool air fluttered Dante’s hair as Lucien rushed from behind the throne. Dante flung out an arm, blocking his passage. “You calling me out, Étienne?” he asked quietly.
Étienne yanked free of Von’s grasp and smoothed the front of his suit. He touched fingers to the carved ivory rose cuff link at each Armani-sleeved wrist. “No,” he said, his hands knotting into fists. “Not yet.”
“Too bad.” Dante lowered his arm.
“But one night,” Étienne added, a smile stretching his lips, “I’ll be waiting.”
Dante stood. “Bring it on,” he said.
“I delivered the order,” Étienne said. “I hope you ignore it, marmot.” Whirling, he stalked into the silent, staring crowd, Von on his heels. The mortals melted away from him as though he were on fire.
Dante sank down onto the throne. Pain throbbed at his temples and behind his eyes. His stomach knotted. He gripped the armrest with white-knuckled fingers.
“What was that all about?”
Dante looked up to see Agent Wallace down on one knee beside him. She scanned his face. He had the feeling she missed very little. “Nothing much,” he sighed. “Ass-kissing denied. Harsh punishment threatened. The usual.”
“Funny,” Wallace murmured, her tone sounding as though he was anything but. “De Noir told the truth about the headaches, didn’t he?”
“Indeed, Agent Wallace,” Lucien said dryly. “I am right here.”
Wallace’s gaze flicked from Dante to Lucien, then back. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voic
e low, no longer official. “My sister suffers from migraines, too.”
Dante glanced at her. The FBI mask had slipped from her face. She met his gaze, her expression open and her blue eyes steady. For a moment, he thought he saw into the heart of her, warm and compassionate and tough, edged in flame and steel.
“Yeah?” he said.
Wallace nodded. “Dante, listen, I can save us both a lot of time and trouble. Just give me your permission—”
“No,” Dante said. Her mask was back in place. Maybe that was all there was to her; maybe what he’d thought he’d seen within her was an illusion. White light edged his vision. Hurt his eyes.
Wallace’s smile faded. She stared at him in frustration. Standing, she said, “This is pointless. I can get a search warrant in an hour.”
Unhooking his shades from his belt, Dante slipped them on. “Get it. I’ll be waiting.”
“I’ll do that,” Wallace said. She strode down the steps and into the crowd.
Wallace’s clean, fresh rain scent lingered, as did the heated aroma of her blood. But her spiky rays of authority receded with every step she took, and Dante found himself breathing a little easier. She was strong, persistent, and gorgeous. Too bad she was a fucking cop.
A hand, cool and soothing, brushed against the hair at Dante’s temple, icing the pain for a moment. He closed his eyes.
“No.” Dante pushed Lucien’s hand from his temple. “I’m gonna get in the Cage.”
Lucien stepped around in front of him. Dante looked up into golden eyes. “Not tonight,” Lucien said. “You’re in no shape—”
“I’m in exactly the right shape,” Dante cut in.
“Hey, sugar.”
Lucien turned, and Dante saw Gina and Jay standing on the step behind him, holding hands, satiated smiles on their lips. Gina’s bodice was still unlaced. The cleavage created by her corset, fragrant with black cherry perfume, reawakened his hunger and twisted around the pain, braiding the two together.
Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires Page 3
