Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires

by Adrian Phoenix

  She closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? Hadn’t she told Dante she was a friend, as well as a cop? Wasn’t it her job to see him safe? Well, he was—home safe, at least. She needed sleep. Food. Time to think.

  “Hey,” a low voice said, sending shivers up her spine.

  “Yes?” she said, opening her eyes. Her fingers white-knuckled the banister. She wouldn’t turn around. Wouldn’t come undone at the sight of him.

  She tensed as Dante stopped beside her. His scent—falling leaves and dark earth, warm and close—enveloped her. His fingers brushed her hair from her face.

  “Heather, look at me.”

  Heather released the banister and swiveled to face him, met his dark gaze.

  “What the hell are you still doing here?” he said, voice strained. “I told you to run. I meant it. You’re not safe here and I’m—”

  “You’re the one who’s not safe here,” she interrupted, cut by his words, his unexpected anger. “I know you’re nightkind, but that doesn’t matter. You’re still in danger and you can’t keep running off on your own. Maybe you need to be saved from yourself.”

  “I don’t need to be saved,” Dante said. “Don’t wanna be saved.” A muscle jumped in his jaw.

  “Pigheaded,” she muttered. “Y’know what? Don’t worry about it. You want me gone, fine.” Whirling, she strode away.

  As Heather paused to pick up her overnight bag and laptop, fingers latched onto her shoulders and spun her around. She dropped the bag and swung her fist up, but Dante caught it and held it captive against his bare chest. Her left fist shot up, but he caught that one too.

  “Dammit! Let go!” Heather said, body tensed, eyes burning. “What the hell do you want from me?” She tried to jerk free, but Dante’s steel-fingered hands circled her wrists like handcuffs. Pulled her close. Pulled her into him.

  “Let me fucking finish, d’accord?” Dante said, voice a near whisper. “I don’t want you here because I’m scared of what might happen to you. Of what I might…what I…could do—”

  “Shhhh.” Heather shook her head. Scared. For her. Of himself. She looked into his unguarded eyes, shaken, throat tight. She realized in that moment that it wasn’t sleep she needed. Or food. Or time to think.

  Dante released her wrists and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight. His heart pounded hard and fast. His heat baked into her.

  Sliding a hand up his pale, hard-muscled chest, Heather hooked a finger through the ring of his bondage collar. Tugged. But he was already lowering his face to hers. He kissed her and the touch of his lips, his tongue, ignited her, set her ablaze.

  Yearning burned through her as the kiss deepened and a whisper of betrayal, hurt, and loneliness echoed in her heart; all the things she’d seen in his dark eyes when he’d breathed her name at the slaughterhouse.

  I won’t walk away from you, she thought, hoping he’d hear her.

  Dante’s breath caught in his throat. He slipped a hand under her sweater, his fingers trailing along her skin to the curve of her breast.

  She shoved the jacket from his shoulders. It hit the floor with a thud. Her hands glided over his hips, to his ass, then up along the hard contours of his back. His skin felt like sun-warmed silk draped over steel. Dante shivered as she touched him. She opened her eyes to watch pleasure steal across his beautiful face.

  Fire flared in Heather’s belly, flamed through her veins as Dante reached up to cup her breast through her sweater. She moaned into their kiss, her hands slipping back to his ass, pulling him closer still. Dante was hard beneath the wet leather. Hard against her belly. Her breathing quickened. She closed her eyes.

  “Holy shit, you two, the pheromones!” An amused voice—Von’s?—said. “Take it upstairs unless you seriously want an audience.”

  The hand caressing Heather’s breast dropped away. Through half-opened eyes, she watched as Dante flipped off the nomad.

  Von laughed. “Dawn’s coming, man. Coupla hours.”

  Ending the kiss, Dante lifted his head and smoothed Heather’s sweater down. He scooped her up into his arms. “What happens when dawn comes?” she murmured, lacing her arms around his neck.

  “I Sleep.”

  Heather heard the capital S in his voice and her thoughts shifted back to that first morning—was it only two days ago?—and Dante’s drowsiness, snoozing in the car until danger had awakened him.

  Heather kissed his cheek, his mouth, his ear. A low sound vibrated up from Dante’s throat. “Get going, gorgeous,” she whispered. “No time to waste.”

  Dante moved, carrying Heather up the stairs like she weighed nothing. His strength amazed her—slim and wiry, five nine—until she remembered what he was: nightkind. She kissed his throat, wrapped up in the power of his arms, the heat of his body. Dante’s hair brushed against her linked fingers, soft and damp, and framed his face with black, wavy tendrils.

  Upstairs, Dante carried her into the first door on the left—his room. Kicking the door shut behind him, he crossed the littered floor with the surefootedness of a cat, then eased her down onto the unmade futon.

  Heather unlinked her hands from around his neck and cupped his face. She kissed him again. She murmured against his lips, “Light some candles. I want to see you.”

  Dante walked to the bureau, picked up a lighter, then blurred around the room; candles winked alight like evening stars in his wake. Returning to the futon, he sat beside Heather. He looked at her, into her, candlelight sparking orange from his rings, along the hoops in his ears, in his eyes. He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, his rings cool against her skin.

  Grabbing his upper arms, she pulled Dante down on top of her. Rolled him over onto the slithering silk sheets and straddled him. His hands slid up her thighs.

  “It’s quiet when I’m with you,” Dante said, voice low, husky. “The noise stops.”

  Heather thought of him kneeling in the slaughterhouse, dazed, whispering sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. She thought of the photo she’d glimpsed in Stearns’s briefcase.

  “I’ll help you stop it forever,” she whispered.

  She pulled off her sweater, unhooked her bra. Flung them on the floor. Dante’s flame-lit gaze swept over her.

  “Très belle,” he breathed.

  Smiling, she trailed her fingers across his chest, traced the small bat tattoo above his heart. Then she bent over, flicked her tongue over his hardened nipples. Dante’s breath hissed through his teeth. His fingers threaded through her hair as she kissed her way down his flat belly to the top of his leather pants. Heather unbuckled his belt, her fingers fumbling with the snap and zipper on his pants; wanting to tear them off with her teeth.

  Finally she grasped him. Hard. Hot. Pale as milk. Satin-smooth. She traced his length first with her fingers, then the tip of her tongue. A low moan escaped him, and the sound of it stirred the fire smoldering within her. He shivered, muscles flexing, as she stroked him. His fingers twisted free of her hair and brushed against her cheek, drew her gaze up.

  “My turn,” Dante said, voice a low purr. His fingers slid around her arms and pulled her up. Rolled her over onto the sheets. Heather arched up against him, pressing against him, skin to skin.

  Dante plucked off her shoes, then removed her trousers, her panties, Heather lifting her hips as he slid them off. He kissed her inner thighs, his lips burning against her skin. She moaned.

  A gust of air blew across Heather. She heard two dull thuds. She glanced at the floor. Two unstrapped boots. Leather pants. Then Dante stretched over her, naked except for the collar around his throat, pale skin gleaming in the candlelight.

  “You cheated,” she whispered, gliding a hand over his chest, across his belly and down, exploring his smooth white skin and hard muscles.

  A wicked smile played across his lips. “You can cheat next time.”

  He kissed her, biting her lower lip. She sucked in a breath, but the sting faded as soon as it began. His hand caressed her breast, brushed over her h
ip, tucked in between her legs. Heather gasped. Pleasure shuddered through her.

  Dante shifted, his lips closed around her nipple—kissing, sucking. He trailed kisses from her breasts, across her belly and down, his hair sliding like black silk across her skin, tickling and raising goosebumps. He licked her, and she arched her back as his lips and tongue set her ablaze, his fingers stoking the fire.

  Burning up from the inside out. Dreaming.

  For a moment, a doubt wormed into her dream: He’s not human.

  But she remembered the pounding of his heart, the sound of his grief, the prickly raw smell of his pain. Remembered him spreading his jacket over Gina. Remembered the devastation on his face as he looked at Jay.

  If that’s not human, what is?

  Time stretched, endless, ever-dusk. Her body vibrated at Dante’s touch, spasming in pleasure, burning with every flick of his tongue. She shuddered as she came, the orgasm’s intensity stealing her voice and leaving her breathless.

  Dante kissed his way back up Heather’s body, blue flame glowing wherever he pressed his lips. He kissed her and she tasted herself on his tongue. As they kissed, she guided him inside of her, her fingers stroking, directing. He moaned as he entered her.

  Sweat slicked their bodies as they began to thrust together, rocking, pounding. She smelled him, deep dark earth and burning leaves. His scent intoxicated her. Blue light flickered in her mind.

  Wrapping her legs around Dante’s waist, Heather pulled him closer still. His breathing quickened. Sweat-damp hair curled beside his face as he looked into her eyes, his own pleasure-dilated and flecked with gold.

  Pinning her right hand to the mattress beside her head, Dante intertwined his fingers with hers. He lowered his head to her throat and kissed it.

  Heather felt a brief sting as Dante’s fangs pierced the skin at her throat, the pain vanishing almost before she registered it. An image of Dante in CUSTOM MEATS tearing Étienne apart flashed through her mind—Run as far from me as you can—but pleasure racked her and erased all fear, all thought. She moaned as he suckled at her throat.

  She dreamed a wordless song; heard the rush of wings.

  Time stretched again, minutes spinning away, lost to twilight. Dante lifted his head from her throat and disentangled his hand from hers. Sliding his hands beneath her, Dante lifted her up, still upon him, then down as he knelt on the futon. Hands on her hips, he kissed her. Heather tasted blood on Dante’s lips, in his mouth—her blood. A strange thrill curled through her: he has part of me inside of him.

  Heather rocked down as Dante thrust up, pumping, creating a tempo of their own; a rhythm of heat and sweat and ragged breath. As Dante’s lips caught her nipple, sucking it into the warmth of his mouth, Heather was certain nothing existed beyond this moment and that nothing ever would. Just Dante burning inside her, fitting against her like no other; the air thick with the smell of musk and candle wax and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh.

  Sensation built within her, ring after ring spiraling up and up and up, until it toppled, plunging her into a depthless pool and sluicing away all thought. She gasped as she came, the orgasm’s intensity rushing through her like a river, increasing with every ripple instead of fading.

  Dante moaned, as though he felt it too. He shivered, but never paused in his pounding rhythm. Blue light filled Heather’s vision. Her muscles quivered, taut. She clutched Dante, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, her face pressed against his head, buried in the autumn fragrance of his hair.

  One hand on the small of Heather’s back, the other still on her hip, Dante lowered her onto the futon. His tempo altered; he drove faster, harder. His eyes closed. His lips parted. Pleasure seemed to light him from within. Wrapping her legs around his waist again, she held him tight and released herself to his rhythm.

  Just as dawn grayed the room, Dante opened his eyes and looked into Heather with gold-streaked eyes. His breath caught in his throat, held there, the sound a near sob. Orgasm surged through her again as he came and she cried out as he shuddered in her arms. Dante’s movement gradually slowed, then stopped. Heather held him close, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  Beyond the curtains covering the French windows, night shifted into morning. Dante eased off of Heather and she snuggled against him, head against his shoulder, his arm around her. His heart thumped strong and steady beneath her cheek, not thudding fast like her heart.

  “Do you have any idea how many rules I’ve just broken?” she said, draping a leg across his.

  “Mmm…all of ’em, I hope.”

  “Now I know two things you’re talented at.”

  Dante snorted.

  Heather tipped her head and looked at Dante. His dark eyes were absent of gold flecks, his expression relaxed.

  “Simone said someone’s gunning for you,” Dante said. “Do you know who?”

  “Someone high up, I think,” Heather replied. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told. Because I won’t drop the investigation.”

  “I’m gonna find Peeping Tom and Elroy the Perv. And whoever’s hunting you.”

  The quiet intensity on Dante’s face, the whisper of barely restrained violence in his voice disturbed Heather. She squeezed his hand.

  “You know he’s waiting for you, right? Don’t go to him this time.” She touched her fingers to his face, drew his gaze down. “We can bring both of them in for questioning, DNA samples, whatever,” she said. “The evidence will link Jordan to the killings. You’re a witness to Jay’s murder…We’ll buy time.”

  “You’ll never bring Ronin in,” Dante said, “ ’cause he’s gonna burn first.”

  “Too dangerous.”

  “Ain’t asking permission.”

  “Pigheaded.”

  “It’s still quiet,” Dante said, voice sleepy, fading. “Stay here, chérie.”

  “I will.” Rising up on her elbow, she kissed him. His eyes closed, and she knew he was gone then, lost to Sleep. “Good morning and sweet dreams,” she whispered, pulling up the blankets and tucking herself back into his embrace.

  Heather closed her eyes and tumbled into welcome darkness.

  27

  Penance

  “I ’VE LOST CONTACT WITH my people in New Orleans,” Gifford said quietly. “I’m afraid they may have failed.”

  Johanna’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Finish it yourself. If you find Stearns and Wallace together, make it a murder-suicide.” She glanced at the bedroom window. Dawn glimmered behind the curtains. Sleep pressed down upon her.

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  “Since E’s gone off the grid, I think we need to conclude his part of the project.” Johanna’s head nodded. She jerked it up. Forced her eyes open.

  “And S?”

  “Let him be. For now.”

  HEATHER AWAKENED, HEART POUNDING, mouth dry. She stared at the shadowed ceiling as the nightmare’s stark images faded: the recurring dream about her mother’s last stumbling walk, and the ride she’d accepted. Or at least the way she imagined it might’ve been.

  Suddenly aware of the arm around her shoulder, the body nestled against hers, Heather turned her head. Dante slept, lashes dark against his skin, black hair tousled, his breathing so low she slid her hand over his heart. After a moment, she felt a reassuring thump against her palm. She trailed her fingers up past the bondage collar, past his lips, to his smooth cheek.

  No whiskers, she mused. Can’t be just a nightkind thing, Von has a mustache and Ronin a beard.

  Heather traced her hand down his chest, the skin cool beneath her fingers, to his flat belly. She longed for twilight, longed to awaken him with kisses, with her hands, her mouth.

  Sighing, Heather glanced at her watch. 2 p.m. She had work to do. Bad guys to catch—without Bureau help or blessing. A file to read. And if it was bad? A knot formed in her stomach and she pushed the thought away. She climbed over Dante, pausing to kiss his cool lips.

  “Très belle, yourself,” sh
e murmured before easing off the futon.

  The floor creaked beneath her feet as she pulled the blankets up and over Dante. He didn’t stir. Heather had a feeling she didn’t need to worry about being quiet. He’d sleep no matter what.

  Must be nice, she thought, half stepping and half skipping over the CD cases and clothes on the floor on her way to the adjoining bathroom.

  She flipped on the light. The room was painted black and lavender. Several things cluttered the counter: eyeliner tubes and pencils, black lipstick, a brush, toothpaste, soap, an MP3 player.

  Toothpaste? Weren’t vampires immune to cavities?

  Clean, plush towels hung from the rack, and shampoo and conditioner stood on a shelf in the shower. And beneath the towels, her overnight bag.

  Who…? Then she realized it must have been De Noir. The others would’ve been sleeping like Dante, hibernating in the daylight.

  Turning on the water in the shower, Heather let it warm up while she looked at herself in the mirror. She glanced at her throat, touching the spot where Dante had bitten her. No visible mark, no tenderness. Fire flared within her again, kindled in her belly, as she thought of him drinking in a part of her. She closed her eyes.

  Playtime’s over. Focus on the case. Focus on keeping alive—if you’re dead, who will speak for Jay and all the others?

  Unbidden and unexpected, an answer disrupted her thoughts: Dante would. Somehow that felt right to her—heart-true.

  Opening her eyes, Heather stepped into the shower and closed the door. As hot water sluiced across her neck and shoulders, she realized Dante had become the case, that in her struggle to keep him alive, she hadn’t noticed that the game had changed; she no longer knew if the Ronin-Jordan team wanted Dante dead or wanted him to join them.

  Her name was Chloe. And you killed her.

  She’s been creating sociopaths for years.

  It’s quiet when I’m with you.

  Turning around, Heather braced her hands against the water-slick tiles and tipped her face up to the shower spray. She hoped the water would ease the sudden kinks out of her shoulders, would loosen the tightness constricting her breathing, melt away the fear frosting her guts.