Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires

by Adrian Phoenix

  Sudden fear spiked into Dante when he saw the look on Trey’s face.

  “Bad news, mon ami,” Trey said, his voice even more Cajun-spiced than his sister’s. “They pulled Jay from the river. Throat slit.”

  Dante leaned against the wall, stunned. “Fuck,” he whispered.

  “That’s not all,” Trey said. He hesitated, his gaze on Dante, his mind fluttering against Dante’s shields.

  “I’m okay,” Dante said.

  Trey nodded, but he looked unhappy. He swallowed. “The cops think you’re good for both murders.”

  HEATHER STEPPED BACK WHEN Dante, dark eyes blazing, whirled and punched his fist through the wall. Plaster and dry-wall tumbled to the floor in chunks and ragged pieces.

  “Did you hack into the NOPD’s system?” she asked Trey.

  He shrugged, then nodded. “Oui.”

  Like she’d been conjured, Simone suddenly appeared beside her brother, her troubled gaze on Dante. Above them all, the ceiling creaked and groaned, then fell silent. Heather heard what sounded like the powerful rush of wings. Very large wings.

  She looked at Dante. He stood motionless, every muscle taut, his fist still inside the hole he’d punched, his other hand braced against the wall. Head bowed, face veiled by his black hair, he seemed to vibrate with rage.

  “I’m sorry about Jay.” Heather touched his shoulder. “They’ve got nothing. You didn’t do it. And they know it. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  A blizzard of plaster fell to the floor when Dante pulled his fist free of the wall. Lifting his head and tossing back his hair, he looked at her. Fury and anguish mingled within his dark eyes. His muscles flexed beneath her fingers. She stared into his eyes, unable to look away, drawn in and sucked down, caught in a whirlpool of emotion.

  Dante looked into her, his dark gleaming gaze as warm as a wanted caress. Releasing him, she looked down, face burning.

  “Then talk to me,” he said.

  The front door opened, then clicked shut. De Noir. “Alone,” Heather said, stepping into the room he’d led her to. Dante followed, closing the door behind him.

  Heather’s gaze skipped around the room—studio, she amended. Several different keyboards, a synthesizer, a mixing board, amps, computer, and monitor crowded the space. A black guitar was propped in one corner. A half-empty bottle of French absinthe stood on the computer table surrounded by headphones, scattered papers, and lyric sheets.

  Her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. Spray-painted on the wall in the color of dried blood was the anarchy symbol.

  The image of the symbol scorched into Daniel Spurrell’s flesh flared to life in Heather’s mind. The killer—whether it was the CCK or not—was trying to prove that he and Dante were kindred souls sharing the same beliefs. But instead of painting the symbol on walls, buildings or squad cars, the killer etched it into unwilling flesh.

  Gina’s murder was meant as a slap in the face to Dante. A challenge. Look how far I’m willing to go. Can you top this? Have you got the guts to live up to that symbol? If the killer now felt superior to Dante, if he felt like he was in control, then it meant he’d also feel comfortable enough—strong enough—to claim Dante and make him his own.

  But, if he was dead…then, no threat. Wrenching her gaze away from the wall, Heather glanced at her watch. 4:34 a.m. Pushing her hair back from her face, she turned to face Dante.

  “I found out a few hours ago that our suspect’s been killed in Pensacola,” she said. “I don’t understand it, but—”

  “You don’t think it’s him, do you?”

  “I’m on my way to Florida to find out.”

  Dante stepped past Heather, his body brushing against hers. “You don’t know what he looks like,” Dante said, picking up a pair of shades from the computer console. He slid them on. “How will—”

  “I’ve studied his…work…for three years,” she said. “I’ll know.”

  Dante stepped closer. “Is that what you dream of?”

  Caught off guard, Heather looked away. Too close. Way too close. Lifting her head, she met Dante’s shaded gaze. “What does that anarchy symbol mean to you?”

  Dante shrugged. “Besides a general ‘fuck you’ to society?”

  Heather shook her head. “You can do better than that.”

  Dante lifted his shades. Streaks of red slashed his dark irises. His gaze, intense, direct, and dead serious, locked with hers. “Okay then. Rage. Firestorm. Truth.”

  “Truth?”

  “Yeah. Freedom is the result of rage.”

  Heather stared at him, throat tight. Spoken like a true survivor of any state-run foster home system. Spoken with intelligence and conviction. And that planted a seed of doubt in her belly.

  What had created that rage? Fueled it?

  Dante lowered the shades back over his eyes. “So now what?”

  She sighed, trailing a hand through her hair. “I want you to play it safe until you hear from me.”

  A smile quirked up one corner of Dante’s mouth. “That’d be a first.”

  “Try,” Heather said. “I’d like you to keep breathing.” Her gaze shifted to the anarchy symbol behind him. For one heartbeat, he was a part of the symbol—a sharp black dagger piercing the heart of chaos, night-wrapped and unpredictable.

  No way the killer would’ve left New Orleans without Dante dead or beside him. Whoever lay on that tray in the Pensacola morgue wasn’t her perp. But she had to be sure. Collins would be expecting her at the airport and she still had to stop at her hotel.

  “Walk with me,” she said, turning and opening the studio door.

  She felt Dante behind her in the hall; his silence unnerved her, even with bare feet and carpet, he should’ve made some sound.

  “What happens if it ain’t your guy in Pensacola?”

  “Then I’ll be back.”

  HEATHER UNLOCKED THE SUBARU, then slid inside. Starting the engine, she turned the defroster and heater up to high. Dante stood beside the open driver’s side window, barefoot in the late-February chill, sunglasses perched on top his head.

  He’s got to be cold. Heather thought. I know I’d be freezing.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I know something,” she said.

  Dante bent down and held out a piece of paper. Heather took it, pulling it free from between his fingers. She glanced at it. Phone numbers. Written with a lefty’s slant; one marked CLUB, one marked HOME. She looked up at him.

  Arms folded over his chest, Dante shrugged. “In case,” he said. His gaze skipped past her. “That’s my jacket.”

  “Huh?” Heather shifted in her seat and glanced in the direction he was looking. Dante’s leather jacket was crumpled in the passenger seat. “Oh! Yes.” She picked up the jacket, then passed it through the window to Dante. “I’ve been holding it since you were arrested.”

  Dante shrugged on the jacket. Metal jingled. “Merci,” he said. “Did you go through the pockets?”

  Heather smiled. “What do you think?”

  “I think…” He paused and looked at her for a moment. “Yeah. I know I would.”

  Heather’s smile widened. “You seem pretty experienced in rifling pockets.”

  He grinned, and Heather caught a flash of slender, curving canines. He was either delusional or undead, so why did he make her feel like a teenager swooning over her first sullen and leather-jacketed bad boy?

  “Look, when this is over…”

  “Yeah?” Dante leaned in even closer. Faint green light from the dash streaked the steel ring on his bondage collar.

  She could smell him, crisp autumn leaves and dark earth—a warm bed, the scent of sex. Her cheeks burned as heat fluttered through her belly. “Uh…I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” Forcing a smile onto her lips, she rolled up the window.

  He straightened, then backed up a pace as she stepped on the gas.

  She followed the curving driveway carefully, passing the van and the MG. The Harley was gone. I was going to
ask if I could see him again. So much for objectivity. So much for professionalism. She glanced into the rearview mirror. Dante still stood in the driveway, watching as she drove away. A breeze blew strands of hair across his night-shadowed face.

  A figure suddenly appeared beside Dante. Heather hit the brakes. The Subaru screeched to a stop. The red glow from her taillights wasn’t enough to see well by, and she was on the verge of throwing the car into reverse or stepping out and drawing her .38, when Dante slipped his arm around the other figure’s shoulders.

  A cloud drifted free of the moon. Southern-winter moonlight frosted the trees, the iron gates, the looming mansion, and Silver’s gel-spiked hair and shining silver eyes. Moonlight gilded the boy’s smile. He snugged an arm around Dante’s waist.

  Releasing her breath, Heather wrenched her gaze away from the rearview. Too much adrenaline and too little sleep had left her feeling shaky and weak-limbed. She stepped on the gas and drove through the opened gates.

  Maybe she’d baited the hook simply by leaving.

  In that bleak moment, she truly wished Dante was a vampire.

  Maybe then he’d have a chance of surviving if the killer took the bait.

  13

  Keepsakes

  RONIN UNLOCKED THE PADLOCK looped through the metal door’s hasp. The door screeched when he yanked it open, the sound reverberating through the empty warehouse. He flicked on the light switch beside the door and stepped inside.

  Huddled on the cot, arms wrapped around his legs, the shivering youth looked up, blinking in the sudden harsh light. The fluorescent overheads buzzed, marring the silence. At the sight of Ronin, the youth scooted into the corner, his back to the wall.

  Smiling, Ronin shook his head. “It’s not me you need to fear,” he said. “It’s my companion—the one who brought you here. Do you remember him?”

  The boy shook his head, kept his eyeliner-smudged gaze on Ronin. He pressed himself harder against the wall, like he could seep into it and vanish. Ronin’s smile widened. The boy’s gaze locked onto his revealed fangs. He went still.

  Ronin sat on the edge of the cot. The youth’s fast-pounding heart intrigued him. He smelled the adrenaline-laden blood pulsing hot through his veins. He glanced at the youth’s lace-edged throat. An iridescent bat tattoo nestled at its hollow. How often had Dante kissed that white flesh? Pierced it with his fangs? Drank the dark blood that poured through those veins?

  Leaning over, Ronin brushed a strand of blond hair from the boy’s face. The boy’s muscles—knotted and tensed—trembled. His green eyes never left Ronin’s face.

  “I hear your every thought, boy,” Ronin said. “You might as well speak them.”

  The youth closed his eyes for a moment. He drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself and order his mind, but he remained pressed up against the concrete wall, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  “Let me help you,” Ronin said. “Gina’s dead. Yes, I know you have Dante’s mark. And you will die at the hands of a serial killer—if I leave you here.”

  The boy turned his face to one side as though sucker punched by the blunt words.

  “Oh, and as for why all this is happening, call it destiny.”

  “I don’t believe you,” the youth said, voice low and strained. Opening his eyes, he turned to face Ronin. “Gina’s not dead. Dante’d find her, he—”

  “He did find her,” Ronin said, pleased by the sudden spark of fire lighting the boy’s eyes. “After my companion had finished with her.”

  The youth blinked away unshed tears. Swallowed. “You’re full of shit.”

  Seizing the boy’s slender throat with one hand, Ronin jerked him away from the wall and against himself. “Am I?” he whispered. “Dante’s looking for you, now. It’s up to you whether he finds you before my companion returns or after.”

  The youth struggled to get free, pulling at Ronin’s wrist with one hand while shoving against Ronin’s chest with the other. Eyes half-closed, Ronin listened to the youth’s triple-timing heart. Smelled anger, fear, and desperation in equal measures. His blood would be a heady brew of natural pheromones.

  “Before or after,” Ronin said. He looked into the boy’s emotion-dilated green eyes. “It’s up to you.”

  The youth stopped struggling. He went still once again, kneeling on the cot. His gaze turned inward. For a moment, Ronin couldn’t hear him. Not a whisper of thought, not a word or image. A barrier had dropped between them, and the only sound disturbing the silence was the pulsing of their hearts.

  With a shudder, the boy met Ronin’s gaze. “Before,” he said.

  “Wise choice.”

  Grasping a handful of blond hair, Ronin tugged the boy’s head back and sank his fangs into his throat.

  E STEPPED INTO THE darkened house, closing and locking the door behind him. He glanced around the room. A bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon stood on the side table beside the La-Z-Boy, a tumbler beside it. The ashtray held a single cigarette butt. E sniffed. Grimaced. The air reeked of that towelhead crap Ronin liked to smoke.

  The Camaro was gone. And so was Tommy-boy.

  Just as well. He was in no mood to put up with the bloodsucker’s anal-retentive bullshit. He touched the knot on his forehead. Pain radiated out from beneath his finger and E jerked his hand away. His grin faded. If the Big Guy wasn’t made of stone, he might as well be. Kee-rist!

  E crossed the room, then shuffled down the hall to his bedroom. Maybe some Vicodin and a little whiskey would ease the pain. Pushing open the door, he stepped into his room. He plunked down on the edge of the unmade bed. His head throbbed. His stomach clenched in uneasy sympathy.

  E pulled open the nightstand drawer and rummaged through the contents—several red and white packages of Marlboros, a lighter, a nudie pen—tip her upside down and watch her strip!—until his fingers latched around the Baggie of pills.

  E unzipped it, his hands shaking a little, and poured the pills onto the nightstand. Peach, old-lady blue, and yellow, the pills bounced and tumbled across the wood.

  E tossed five or six of them down his throat. He picked up the whiskey bottle from the nightstand and chased the pills down with a long swallow of gut-burning Canadian Hunter. Nausea rolled through him. Shaking again, E set the bottle on the floor beside the bed, then stretched out on the mattress. He stared into the darkness, waiting for the pills to kick in.

  Closing his eyes, E snuggled his face into the pillow. He smelled Gina, dark cherries and sweet sex. He’d hidden her stocking inside the pillowcase. He loved keepsakes, little things that said, Remember when? He touched his right front jeans pocket, his fingers tracing the smooth rectangular shape of his newest keepsake.

  He wakes in a vampire’s house, sprawled on a vampire’s sofa. He slits his eyes open. Candlelight flickers, etching wavering shadows on the wall. Only the steady tick-tock of a pendulum clock disturbs the silence.

  Head aching, he rolls onto his side. His gaze falls on the figure curled into an easy chair across from him.

  He wonders if she’s faking, playing with him, watching him from beneath long, black lashes. But her deep, even breathing convinces him that she’s asleep. He’s never been this close to her—not even when peeking through windows.

  If he touches her, what’ll happen?

  His lovely Heather, his very own stalker, sleeps in his presence. Allowing herself to be vulnerable before a god.

  He watches her for several minutes, drinking in the color of her hair, the curve of her cheek, the parted lips.

  Above him, the ceiling creaks once. He suddenly remembers where he is—in a house full of bloodsuckers. The warm, golden godlike feeling evaporates.

  Rolling to his feet, he crosses the short distance to the easy chair, practically on tiptoe, his gaze locked on Heather—his beacon. He tries not to think of what else walks soundlessly through the house.

  He bends over Heather until his breath ruffles her hair. He touches a strand and it slides like silk between his fingers. H
e picks up his cell phone from the arm of the chair. Tilting his head, he regards Heather for a moment. What message is she trying to send him by setting his phone out?

  The ceiling creaks again. He backs away from the chair, from the woman nestled between its arms. Reluctant, he turns away. Piled on the floor beside the sofa are his wallet and shivs and every little thing he kept in his pockets.

  He squats and gathers up his belongings. When he stands again, he finds himself walking into the kitchen. A voice in his mind tells him he’s a fucking idiot, get out, get out, get out!, but it’s too late, really, he’s already claiming keepsakes.

  Heather’s purse and trenchcoat are draped over the back of a chair. He searches both until he finds what he wants, then he takes it. His gaze skips around the kitchen, looking for some trace of Dante—some reminder of the hot, hot, hot little vampire who’d earned looks of lust from his Heather. A token from his Bad Seed bro.

  Finally, he seizes the black coffee mug and slips out of the kitchen.

  He pauses beside the easy chair, a shiv sliding without thought into his hand. Heart pounding, he forces himself away from her. Forces himself to the door. Forces himself to open it. Outside. Ease the door shut. Run like a motherfucker.

  E smiled and opened his eyes. He pulled his keepsake out of his pocket. The magazine for a Colt .38 gleamed in his palm.

  DANTE KNELT BESIDE TREY’S recliner. Computer light and images flickered across the web-head’s composed face, danced across the cables connected to his neck and to the tips of his fingers.

  “Can you get into the morgue’s system?” Dante asked.

  Images and pages winked across the monitor’s screen. Trey’s fingers blurred in the air. Dante listened to the electronic crackle and hum. He wondered if data burned like fire through Trey’s veins, ever-changing and molten.

  A page locked onto the monitor. MORGUE—INTAKE.

  Dante squeezed Trey’s biceps. “Très bien, mon ami.”