Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires

by Adrian Phoenix

  Fervent mortal voices whispered, “L’ange de sang. L’ange de sang.”

  “Let him release his rage,” Lucien murmured. “Then go after him. Take him home and to Sleep.”

  Dante slipped through the mortals crowding the doorway as though they were insubstantial, the last tattered dream before waking. The mortals watched him as he descended the steps and climbed into his MG. They watched, perplexed, but awed. He’d walked through them like a true immortal. Like True Blood.

  And they loved him for it.

  Von twisted free of Lucien’s hand, leaving strips of leather clinging to his talons. He looked at Lucien, green eyes wondering. Candlelight and shadows flickered across his face. He glanced at the yawning hole in the vaulted ceiling again.

  “Musta been a hell of a fall,” he said.

  Lucien’s fingers curled around the X-rune pendant. He nodded. “It was.”

  The nomad nodded as well, then turned and strode down the aisle to the doors. He breezed through the crowd—who stared in wide-eyed wonder at the black-winged creature standing beneath the cathedral’s shattered ceiling—then disappeared from view.

  Lucien’s fingers gripped the smooth curving back of a pew. He could find Dante through the link, whether the boy responded to him or not. He’d told Von the truth: Dante needed to be alone. He needed to unleash his rage. But now was also the time when he needed someone most—to guide him through his rage, to help him survive it.

  But it wouldn’t be Lucien. Maybe never again.

  With a sharp echoing crack, the pew splintered beneath Lucien’s hand.

  23

  Firestorm

  She stands beside him, little fingers clasped around his hand, stuffed orca tucked under her other arm. Her blue eyes are too direct for an eight-year-old. Red hair tumbles beside her freckled face.

  I’ll send them to hell, Chloe. Promise.

  And you? What about you?

  I’m already burning.

  Chloe’s body wavers, her image fades. Her warm fingers slip from his grasp.

  That’s not enough, Dante-angel.

  “I know,” Dante whispered, shifting the MG into fourth gear. His foot smashed the gas pedal to the floorboards. The engine whined. Headlights blurred, blue-white streamers streaking the night.

  He didn’t remember getting in the car. Didn’t remember keying it on. Didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t recognize the road. But he knew one thing:

  The voices no longer whispered.

  You can still save him, True Blood.

  Mon ami, I’m so sorry…

  How does it feel, marmot?

  He wondered if he could travel faster than sound.

  A horn blared, a long, angry wail. Beyond the windshield, a double yellow line disappeared beneath the MG. Light circled ahead, expanding, brighter than a UFO. Another horn bleated. Dante yanked the steering wheel to the right, swerving back into his own lane.

  Sweat trickled down his temples. The night blurred past the MG. The gearshift vibrated against Dante’s palm. He tasted blood.

  You look so much like her.

  A fist clenched around Dante’s heart. His breath rasped in a throat suddenly too tight. He pushed away the image of Lucien’s face. Tried to forget the sight of him sprawled and broken on the cathedral floor.

  Good thing he’s restrained…fuck! What’s he screamin’?

  The yellow lines dividing the highway blurred then doubled. Eyes burning, Dante blinked. A blue neon rectangle shimmered against the windshield. Fractured. Twinned. Letters and characters squiggled within the rectangles, but Dante couldn’t make any sense out of them.

  He’s making a very loud, very clear, demand.

  “Kill me.”

  Dante squinted, trying to make out the wriggling letters inside the expanding blue rectangle. Words. A sign.

  So do it. He’s too dangerous. Little fucking psycho.

  The blue rectangle morphed into a neon roadside sign proclaiming: TAVERN.

  Say that again and I’ll give you to that little fucking psycho.

  Swinging the steering wheel to the right, Dante downshifted the screaming MG into the tavern’s parking lot. Gravel and dust sprayed out from beneath the tires. A couple of pickups, gear-laden nomad bikes, and an old flame-painted Chevy huddled in front of the weathered building.

  AS THE CROW FLIES flickered in red over a flapping neon crow.

  Dante parked the MG across from the other cars, skidding in sideways. He switched off the engine. Pocketed the keys. For a moment, all he heard was his pounding heart. For a moment, he thought he could board up the broken window, nail it shut with rage and blood. For a moment, he thought his heart was caged and guarded with fetishes.

  I knew you’d come for me.

  You look so much like her.

  For a moment.

  Then the boards rotted and the nails shifted into wasps. The cage crumpled, the fetishes false.

  Shhh. Je suis ici.

  Blood dripped on his hand, trickled down his throat. His head ached. Squiggles of white light bordered his vision.

  The pain needed to be more.

  I’m already burning.

  That’s not enough, Dante-angel.

  Scooping a pair of shades out of the glove box, Dante slipped them on, then stepped out of the MG. A drink. Need a drink. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. As he walked toward the tavern’s front door, it opened, spilling light into the parking lot.

  Two nomads stepped out wearing dusty road leathers and disgusted expressions. Laughter and bouncing zydeco music followed them out into the night.

  “Motherfucking squatters,” the horse-maned male muttered, then spat into the dirt. Silver gleamed at his eyebrow, his ears, his throat. A black bird-shaped V was tattooed on his right cheek.

  Clan Raven, Dante thought, remembering what Von had taught him. Ravens and Nightwolves often traveled together, guarding each other’s flanks.

  The dreadlocked female, bird V inked on her right cheek, glanced at him. She looked him over, head to toe, then back again. A smile curved her lips. Light sparked in her eyes.

  “Not your kind of place, nightwalker,” she said, stepping off the porch. Her smile vanished as she got a closer look at him. “You hurt?”

  Dante caught the door before it closed. Warmth and booze and tobacco and sweat-laden air curled against him. His head throbbed.

  “Maybe,” Dante said. Then he stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him. A moment later, he heard the deep, throaty roar of the bikes as the nomads tore out of the parking lot, flinging gravel behind them.

  “Terry, look at that, wouldcha! Do ya think he’s lost?”

  “Kee-rist! First nomads, now Bourbon Street gutter trash. What the hell’s this place comin’ to?”

  Dante glanced at the speakers, two mortals in baseball caps and work-stained T-shirts hunkered at a table toward the rear of the bar. A haze of cigarette smoke hung motionless over the table. One of the mortals leaned back in his chair and met Dante’s eyes, his tight smile daring him to say anything.

  Two other mortals stood at a pool table, cue sticks in hand as they stared at Dante, game interrupted. One had a beer gut and the other was muscled like an athlete. Brutal energy spiked with an overdose of testosterone rippled around the athlete.

  “Look at the collar, will ya?” Athlete said to Beer Gut. “Don’t see no leash. Musta gotten away. Better call the pound.” He laughed, pleased with his wittiness, and nudged Beer Gut. “Call the pound. Get it?”

  Dante looked away and weaved past empty tables to the bar. The bartender looked up as he approached, a mixture of concern and wariness on her face. She was pure New Orleans with her brown skin, green almond-shaped eyes, and curly black hair. Haitian, Spanish, French, Chinese, whatever. The true heart of Louisiana.

  The bartender touched a hand to the bar rag slung over her shoulder. Bottles of booze lined the shelves behind her, fancy labels and fascinating colors.

  Dante stopped at the cou
nter, gaze flicking over the bottles.

  “Can I help you?” the bartender said. The badge on her black AS THE CROW FLIES t-shirt read: Maria.

  “Tequila. Bourbon. Whatever’s closest.” Dante reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled-up old bills, tossed them onto the bar.

  “You all right? Your nose is bleeding.”

  “Got a place to wash up?”

  “Sure.” Maria pointed to a short hall on the right.

  Pushing himself away from the bar, Dante followed the arrow sign reading RESTROOMS to a grungy men’s room featuring stained porcelain, graffiti-etched walls, and the reek of old piss.

  A small window sat high above the urinals, too small to squeeze out on your tab or your bad-ass date. Dante stepped over to the chipped sink and turned on the faucet. He slipped off his shades, tucked them into the front of his shirt. He rubbed his hands together under the stream of water, then bent over the sink and splashed water on his face.

  He burned. He half expected the water to hiss and turn to steam when it touched him. Instead, it was so cold it stole his breath. Dante gripped the sides of the sink, as bloodstained water swirled down the rusty drain.

  Dante? I’m cold. Can I get in bed with you?

  C’mere, princess. Snuggle close. I’d hold you, but…

  How come Papa Prejean handcuffs you at bedtime?

  Cuz I don’t sleep at night. The prick thinks I’ll murder everyone in their beds.

  Wouldcha?

  Yeah. Probably.

  Dante-angel, if I found the key and let you go, wouldcha take me with you?

  A spreading pool of blood surrounds Chloe’s pale face like a halo. Her half-open eyes stare sightlessly at the orca just beyond her reach.

  I’d never leave without you, princess. Just you and me—

  Meat hook, chain-wrapped ankles, bare feet. Light flashes from the hook.

  Forever and ever.

  Water splashed into the sink, spattering against Dante’s knuckles. His muscles coiled. He stared into the sink.

  She trusted you, kid. I’d say she got what she deserved.

  Pain torched him. He lifted his head and looked in the mirror. He didn’t recognize his reflection; the pale face and smeared eyeliner and damp, tousled hair were his, sure, but the expression was cold and distant and unforgiving, eyes red-streaked with fury.

  Is this what Lucien just saw?

  He dropped his head, shaken. No, the pain stabbing his temples wasn’t nearly enough. Not by a long shot. But like he’d promised, he wouldn’t burn alone. Peeping Tom, among others, would join him in the flames. Étienne was already ash.

  He wiped his face dry with a brown paper towel, then slid on his shades and walked out of the men’s room. As he approached the bar, he caught a familiar scent, Brut and soap, and yet another—smelling of dry cleaner’s chemicals and deep, dark secrets. He slowed. Remembered a lazy smile and a wink.

  Take him in. Lock him up. He’ll be asleep in no time. I guarantee.

  What the hell are they doing here? No coincidence. No fucking way.

  Dante walked past without glancing at either detective. He stopped at the counter. Maria poured something golden into a shot glass.

  “Y’all left nearly eighty bucks on the bar.”

  “Keep twenty for yourself,” Dante said, picking up the shot glass. “Let me know when I’ve drunk up the rest.”

  “Sure thing, sugar.” Maria tapped a finger under her nose, looked meaningfully at Dante, then handed him a napkin.

  He took the napkin from her, pressed it against his nose. It came away red.

  “Fuck.” He tossed back the shot. Tequila. It burned down his throat, cleared out the lingering blood. He felt sweat trickle along his temple.

  Dante-angel?

  Forever and ever, princess. Forever and ever and ever—

  A smooth voice drawled, “Abita for me and Davis, darlin’. And lookee here! If it ain’t a small fuckin’ world.”

  Dante set the empty shot glass on the bar.

  “How’s it hangin’, rock god? Comment Ça va, eh?”

  As Maria poured Dante another shot, he glanced to his right. Perched on a stool, Dickhead LaRousse leaned against the bar, a smirk tilting his lips. He held what looked suspiciously like an arrest warrant in one hand.

  “Talk about luck,” Dickhead said. “We were on our way back from your place. Seems you weren’t there. Then we saw your car in the parking lot.” He slapped the warrant down on the counter. “You here all by your lonesome?”

  Dante lifted his hand and flipped him off. Shifting his attention to the refilled shot glass, he picked it up, tossed it back.

  “Dirtier than original sin, this boy, believe you me,” Dick-head said to his partner, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “The shit I found in his juvie records. No wonder they sealed ’em.”

  Dante carefully set down the empty shot glass. He grasped the edge of the bar to keep his hands from trembling. Even he didn’t know what was in those records. His memory only tracked back a handful of years and even then there were gaps. Hell, he didn’t even know how old he was.

  “Christ,” Maria said, a hint of anger in her voice. “If y’all are going to arrest him, do it outside.”

  “A word to the wise, sugar,” Dickhead said, his voice all Southern charm. “Mind your own fuckin’ business.”

  Maria glanced at Dante from beneath her lashes as she filled a stein at the tap. He met her gaze and shook his head.

  “Sixty foster homes, two stints in the loony bin,” LaRousse said, his tone conversational, his voice on the verge of a chuckle. “Words like schizophrenia and homicidal tossed around. A missing little girl and…oh, yeah!…the last foster home burns to the ground with the foster parents still inside. That’d be the Prejeans.”

  Turning his head, Dante met LaRousse’s gaze. The detective stared at him, handsome face hard, cold light glinting in his eyes.

  “You’re a fucking liar,” Dante said. His hammering heart said maybe not.

  “That right?” Dickhead leaned in closer. “So tell me, does that good-looking FBI bitch know she’s balling a stone-cold psycho?”

  Dante slammed his fist into LaRousse’s nose.

  “WHO MADE YOU?”

  Simone glanced at Heather, her pale face tinted green by the van’s dashboard lights, then returned her attention to the road in front of them.

  “Nightkind, oui? That’s what you’re asking?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m asking.”

  Heather had never imagined having this conversation, never imagined vampires existed outside of horror movies or outside of Goth clubs. Never imagined the undead lived, worked, and fed alongside those who weren’t.

  But after watching Dante, after shooting Ronin, after witnessing parts of Étienne’s body try to escape the flames consuming him, her skepticism, her doubts, had ended and her understanding of the world altered. She didn’t want to look out the passenger window into the night. Didn’t want to know what might look back from deep within the shadows alongside the road, eyes full of moonlight, mouth full of sharp teeth.

  Simone sighed. “A friend of the family turned me, just after Papa’s funeral.”

  “Was it something you wanted?”

  The blonde shook her head. “No. But she didn’t offer me a choice.”

  Shadows flickered across Simone’s face. Her hands were relaxed on the steering wheel. No bitterness edged her voice. If a family friend had done the same to her, Heather would’ve tracked her down and…what? Killed her? Forced her to take it back? Maybe Simone had had time to come to terms with the situation.

  How did one come to terms with being made into a vampire? How did a mortal adjust to immortality?

  “And your brother?”

  “He was all the family left to me,” Simone said, her voice low, taut. “I gave him a choice. If he’d a said no, I probably woulda set myself on fire.”

  “You turned your own brother?” H
eather asked, surprised.

  “I couldn’t bear the thought of watching him grow old and die.”

  Heather thought of Kevin, of Annie. Could she have done the same to them? Siphoned off their humanity? Or let them age? Bury them one after the other next to Mom? Her throat constricted.

  “So, how does this undead stuff work? Dante’s skin is warm. He has a pulse. He’s intensely alive.”

  The corners of Simone’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Oui, Dante’s intensely everything.”

  Heather stared at her, shoulders tight. Remembered Dante leaning over Simone on the dais steps, whispering in her ear, and touching her hair. She had a strong suspicion they’d been more than just friends once. Were they still?

  “We’re not undead,” Simone said. “We’re a separate species. We’ve always lived alongside mortals.” She looked at Heather and smiled.

  “And Dante? Do you know who made him?”

  Simone’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “No. He’s never said.” She glanced at Heather. “I don’t think he knows. Maybe it’s lost to him.” Sorrow sharpened the planes of her face.

  “Like so much else,” Heather said. “Hidden behind his headaches.” Or was he what Ronin had called him—True Blood? Born vampire?

  Her name was Chloe and you killed her.

  Ronin’s smooth, commanding voice wormed through Heather’s thoughts. What if Dante didn’t remember his past because he’d done terrible things? Things he couldn’t bear to remember?

  Were Ronin’s attempts to awaken Dante a desire to trigger him, to wind him up and turn him loose? But if Dante could be triggered, wouldn’t that mean he’d been programmed? And wouldn’t that mean his memory had been deliberately crippled? Would certain questions trigger protective subliminals like migraines? Unconsciousness? Madness?

  Heather’s heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the sound of the road rushing beneath the van’s wheels, beating cadence for the thoughts pulsing through her mind—black ops ran mind experiments, had for decades. Government funded and Bureau protected.