Etched in Bone (Maker's Song #4)

by Adrian Phoenix

  Chloe lies in a pool of her own blood, her empty blue eyes staring at the straitjacketed boy dangling from the hook above her.

  “And your other reasons?” Heather asked.

  Merri stubbed out her clove cigarette in the ashtray, then held up a finger. Light winked from her high-gloss French manicure. “Emmett’s memory was wiped of Damascus and Dante Baptiste. We want to know why.” She displayed a second finger. “We have few other options.” A third finger shot into the air. “We really have few other options. Oh. And.” A fourth finger. “We’d really like to live through all this.”

  “And I have a family I’d sure as hell like to return to some day,” Emmett murmured. “But in the meantime, they’re safer with me gone.”

  Heather studied Merri for a long moment, then shifted her gaze to Emmett and gave him the same intense scrutiny—as though she could X-ray scan through bone and brain to the mind’s intent and the heart’s dark secrets.

  “Seems to me,” she said finally, “that you’d have a much better chance of surviving if you went anywhere but here. Dante’s being hunted. So am I. You’re just putting yourselves in the crossfire.”

  “We’re being hunted too,” Emmett said, his voice a low drawl. “And the reasons why all lead right back to Dante Baptiste. Seems to me, we might be better off here with y’all, than out there alone. There’s always strength in numbers.”

  Heather sighed, then nodded. “You just might be right about that. Our numbers are kinda slim at the moment.”

  “Speaking of numbers,” Merri said. “There was a guy here earlier, Sasquatch-tall, good-looking, with long black hair. His scent wasn’t mortal or vampire.” Green leaves and deep, dark earth, musky incense, and something that whispered, other.

  A smile flickered across Heather’s lips. “Sasquatch-tall? I’ll have to remember that one. His name is Lucien De Noir.” She hesitated, then shrugged and added, “And you’re right—he’s not mortal or nightkind, he’s Fallen.”

  Heart bashing against her ribs, Merri’s gaze shot over to the staircase De Noir had climbed shortly after she and Emmett had arrived at the club.

  Fallen.

  “No shit? That was a fallen angel?” Emmett frowned. “Didn’t seem very fallen angel-y. Isn’t he supposed to have wings? The angels we found turned to stone in Damascus all had wings.”

  “Trust me, he has wings,” Heather replied.

  Merri flashed back to Galiana’s words. I have a suspicion that events beyond the scope of mortals or even vampires might be unfolding.

  Merri had a feeling her mиre de sang’s suspicions had just been confirmed. Dante Baptiste was keeping company with at least one member of the Elohim—which might explain the events in Damascus. Maybe De Noir had been there too. Maybe he’d magicked the other Fallen into stone.

  The sound of Heather’s breath catching rough in her throat swung Merri’s attention around in time to see the redhead’s gaze focus inward.

  What do you want to bet Heather’s blood-linked to Dante Baptiste and the True Blood has just awakened?

  The thought of finally meeting Dante, seeing him in the flesh instead of just photos, sent Merri’s pulse on a light-speed course through her veins.

  Heather closed her eyes for a moment, her body tensing. Her lips puckered as though blowing a kiss. Then she opened her eyes and looked directly at Merri. She nodded at the flash drive. “So what’s that going to cost me?”

  “Nothing,” Emmett replied. “It’s a gift. But it’s one we want to hand to Dante ourselves when we meet him. As a kind of handshake, y’know?”

  “You’re not meeting Dante,” Heather said, and her tone of voice—calm and resolute and edged with steel—refused argument, refused bargains or pleas. “Not tonight. You’re going to have to wait.” She glanced at the ceiling, sorrow shadowing her face.

  Remembering that Dante had just lost one of his household members in the fire that had destroyed his home, Merri thought it likely the young True Blood was grieving.

  “I understand,” Merri murmured.

  Heather looked at her and shook her head. “No, I don’t think you do. But if you’re willing to come back tomorrow night, you can give the flash drive to him then. And if you’re also willing, we’d love to have you on our security team—as long as you’re willing to allow Dante’s llygad to look you over tomorrow evening.”

  Meaning: to scan their minds for deception. An unusual request since lying to llygaid was forbidden and most vampires with things to hide generally avoided contact with the crescent moon-tattooed bards.

  It’d be Merri’s guess that someone had lied to Dante’s llygad, and lied well.

  “I’m okay with that,” she said quietly. “But maybe scanning me alone would be enough.” She glanced at Emmett. A muscle played in his jaw as he tipped his head back and finished his iced tea. She thought of all he’d lost the last time his mind had been touched. “I think my partner’s had his share.”

  A look of sympathy flashed across Heather’s face, but she shook her head. “Sorry, no. I won’t risk it.”

  “So what-all does this scan entail?” Emmett thumped his empty glass down on the counter, ice cubes rattling. His gaze lifted to Heather’s.

  “Just taking a look to make sure you’re telling the truth.”

  Emmett shot a glance at Merri and she nodded. “A llygad would only look, never interfere.”

  Emmett blew out a breath. “All right, dammit.”

  Giving her attention back to Heather, Merri extended her hand, “We accept.”

  ARRANGEMENTS WERE MADE FOR Emmett Thibodaux to join Jack and the guys at the club at noon tomorrow. Then Merri Goodnight would drop by in the evening so both could submit to Von’s mental look-see. After a final handshake, the fugitive pair left to get rooms at a nearby Quarter hotel.

  Even though Caterina Cortini had confirmed Goodnight and Thibodaux’s story, something in Heather’s conversation with the assassin had troubled her. It wasn’t anything she could put a finger on—just an off-note in Cortini’s voice, cold and reserved. But for all Heather knew, that was how the woman always sounded on the phone.

  Assassin, Wallace. Duh. Warm and confidential aren’t in her skill set.

  But what really troubled Heather was the crashing and thumping she’d heard from the rooms above about twenty minutes ago, accompanied by a tendril of fury and despair through her bond with Dante—a tendril that had just as quickly vanished.

  As Thibodaux and Goodnight’s gazes had shot to the ceiling, their expressions wary, bodies tensed, it had taken every ounce of Heather’s will power to remain in her seat and talking when all she’d wanted to do was race up to the bedroom.

  Leaving her iced tea unfinished, Heather headed upstairs, the promise of the Bad Seed flash drive glittering like a jewel in her mind. She hoped viewing it would help Dante reclaim his past and piece together his shattered memories. But, remembering how he’d been unable to even look at a picture of Dr. Robert Wells, let alone his face, she worried that his programming might make viewing the files at all impossible.

  They would know soon, one way or another.

  She ran into Von in the hallway outside their rooms. The nomad was buttoning on a deep green shirt over his wife-beater as he strode toward the landing, his nut-brown hair hanging in loose, shining waves to his shoulders.

  “Hey, doll,” he said, slowing to a stop. “I was just on my way down to post the club as closed tonight.”

  “What the hell happened?” she asked, nodding toward the bedroom.

  “Dante lost it. Me and Lucien sat on him until he wore himself out. Let him vent.”

  Heather’s heart gave a hard thump. “Is he okay?”

  Von raked a hand through his hair and looked toward the closed bedroom door, and his hesitation scared Heather more than anything he could say. “Von?” she urged.

  “No. I think he’s pretty far from okay,” the nomad said finally. “But he’s hanging in there. The thing with Trey . . .” He sho
ok his head, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I ain’t none too happy about that.”

  Heather stiffened. “That wasn’t Dante’s fault,” she protested. “Trey ran—”

  “Yeah, doll, it was Dante’s fault,” Von interrupted gently. His eyes met hers. “He went out there knowing he didn’t have control of his power or his past. He could’ve—should’ve—stayed behind.”

  “I don’t remember you advising him of that after his seizure,” Heather said, her nails biting into the palms of her hands. “No, I’m pretty damned sure I never heard your voice saying anything of the sort.”

  “I didn’t,” Von agreed. “I fucked up bigtime. I was worried about catching up with Trey, so, yeah, what happened is my fault too. But when I said I was none too happy about that—I was referring to Trey, doll. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew what it would cost Dante too. And he fucking did it anyway.”

  “My thought exactly.” Heather’s fingers uncurled from her palms. She drew in a deep breath and smelled wax from the candles burning in the hallway’s gargoyle sconces. “Sorry, I should’ve let you finish.”

  “Duh, woman. Duh.”

  Heather quickly filled Von in on her conversation with Goodnight and Thibodaux, and Cortini, and their arrangement for the following night. When the nomad agreed to the double mind scan, Heather stepped past him, heading for the bedroom.

  A hand latched around her upper arm. “Wait.”

  Heather stopped and Von’s hand slid away. She half-swiveled to look at him. Candle light glittered along the crescent moon tattoo underneath his eye. Shadows flickered across his face.

  “Dante’s out in the courtyard with his guitar,” he said. “He kinda rock-star trashed the bedroom and Lucien banished him while he cleans the mess up.”

  “Okay.”

  “Listen, darlin’,” Von began, then paused, trailing a hand through his hair and dropping his gaze to the carpet as though searching for words.

  Heather’s pulse slipped into high gear as she stared at Von, his uncharacteristic hesitation once again scaring her more than anything she could imagine him saying.

  “Just spit it out,” she said. “Whatever it is.”

  Von looked at her, distress in his glowing candle-lit eyes. “You’re a part of him, Heather,” he said. “Whatever happens, don’t let that mule-headed sonuvabitch shove you aside.”

  So that was it. Goddamned Trey. More fallout from his decision.

  Annie’s words replayed through Heather’s memory: Dante’s gonna hurt you, Heather. Not because he wants to, but because he can’t fucking help it.

  She had a feeling Dante now harbored the same belief. And she found herself wondering if her sister had shared those words with him too, and wishing Annie hadn’t—no matter how true they might be.

  Heather exhaled in frustration. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” she replied. “But if he thinks he’s going to play the noble I-must-send-you-away-to-save-you card, he’s dead wrong—especially if he thinks I’m going to meekly comply.”

  Von blinked. A slow smile played along his mustache-framed lips. “I doubt Dante expects meek, doll—not where you’re concerned.”

  “Christ. I would hope not.”

  Heather turned and marched down the hall to the opened French windows at its end, and stepped onto the fire escape landing beyond its breeze-fluttered curtains. She climbed down the black iron steps to the courtyard, following the furious, heartbreaking sound of Dante’s guitar.

  Dante sat on a wrought-iron bench underneath a flowering dogwood tree wearing jeans and collar and nothing else, his guitar nestled against his thighs, his hands blurring across the strings. The music blazing out from beneath his fingers scorched the night.

  Moonlight glinted from the black wing of hair falling across his pale face, glinted from his rings, shimmered against his milk-white skin—a part of him.

  She could almost imagine Von saying: He is the night.

  Heather side-stepped a fallen planter, dirt and yellow rose petals spilling across the courtyard stones, and sat beside him, heart aching, throat tight as she listened to his wordless song of loss and rage.

  He was grieving, his song a violent, defiant prayer.

  Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

  And the only god listening was himself.

  After her trip to Gehenna, Heather was beginning to believe that Dante might be, as a Maker, an actual god—or damn near. Did that possibility scare her? Hell, yes. Would it chase her away? Hell, no.

  When Dante’s black-painted fingernails strummed the last chord, Heather leaned forward, cupped his fevered face between her hands, and kissed him thoroughly. A kiss he returned, deep and tender, leaving behind the taste of copper and pomegranates, of blood.

  “I’m not leaving you,” she whispered against his lips, breathing in his smoky autumn scent. “You can’t make me. It’s my choice and I refuse to let you take it from me. You don’t have the right.”

  “Too dangerous, catin. Ain’t risking you.”

  “That’s my decision, not yours. I choose you, Baptiste, and everything that comes with you.”

  “Can’t let you do that.”

  “Dammit! It’s not up to you. If I want to stand beside you completely aware of the danger, you have no right to deny me.”

  “Fuck, Heather.” Dante breathed out in exasperation. He shifted, his warm lips sliding away from hers. Heather felt the guitar disappear from between them, then heard a slight thump as Dante rested it against the flagstones. He straightened, his dark and dilated gaze meeting hers, fire smoldering in his eyes.

  Heather returned his glare. “I’m standing beside you—like it or not. And I ‘ain’t asking permission.’ “

  “So I don’t get a say in this?” he growled, jumping to his bare feet.

  “No.”

  “I’m trying to keep you alive, dammit! And just as you are. Why the fuck you fighting me on this?”

  “Because you’re worth fighting for!” Heather stood, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “I’m willing to take my chances, Baptiste—with you.”

  “You’re worth fighting for too, catin, don’t you get it? I would burn the world to fucking ash for you.” Dante looked away. Swallowed hard. His hands flexed into fists. “If I ever hurt you. If I ever killed—”

  “You won’t. I trust you.”

  “Don’t.” Dante’s head whipped around and a dark, desperate fury simmered in his eyes. “Don’t you dare fucking trust me. Simone trusted me, so did Trey, and Gina and Jay. So did Chloe. And they’re all dead.”

  Heather took a half pace forward and pressed her fingers against his lips, silencing him. “No,” she said. “That’s not going to happen. It’s not. The Fallen are going to teach you how to control your power. And you and me, we’re going to work on piecing together your broken past, so you can stay in the here-and-now.”

  Dante shook his head, a denial forming on his lips, so Heather touched her other hand to his chest, resting her palm against the fever-hot skin above his heart.

  “This is why,” she said softly. “Your heart won me, cher. Won me completely. So I’m not taking no for an answer. Got that?”

  “Pigheaded woman,” Dante murmured, kissing her fingers. “T’es sыr de sa?”

  “Pigheaded man,” Heather replied, removing her hand and kissing his lips. “And yes, I’m sure.”

  Dante wrapped her up in his arms and carried her down to the courtyard’s stone floor. He stole her breath away with hot kisses and hungry hands and his hard body.

  After the first time they made love among the dirt and rose petals and cool stone, Heather curled a lock of Dante’s silky hair behind his hoop-rimmed ear, then whispered into it, telling him about Merri Goodnight and Emmett Thibodaux and the gift they planned to give him the next night.

  And shared in the buoyant hope she felt rising in his heart.

  46

  WILD CARD

  NEW ORLEANS

  CLUB HELL

  M
arch 30

  JAMES WALLACE WATCHED AS Stevenson, black ski mask bunched on top of his head, bent and went to work on the lock on the club’s green-shuttered door. The man was a pro, less than sixty seconds—his skill learned during his stint in Special Forces.

  Stevenson straightened and pocketed his picks. He glanced at James as he stepped back from the door. “It’s all yours.” He touched a finger to the com set curving against his jaw. “Barr’s confirmed that we successfully accessed the security company’s computers and switched off the alarm.”

  James nodded. His leather gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers. “Wait here for my go-ahead,” he said.

  “Will do.”

  Easing the door open, James stepped inside. Fluorescent graffiti was scrawled on the hall’s black walls, and the air reeked of cigarettes and spilled beer. Neon buzzed at the entrance’s mouth, red light squiggling along the floor. A quick stroll down the dark hall, then he found himself standing beneath a sign commanding BURN.

  * * *

  “YOU WANT ANYTHING TO eat?” Heather asked when Annie slid onto a bar stool. Her sister’s hair stuck out at all angles in blue/black/purple spikes, and shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Heather studied her, worried by her pallor.

  Is her lack of color due to the pregnancy, or is Silver feeding on her?

  “Sure,” Annie replied. “Do we have bagels? I’d murder and maim for a bagel and cream cheese.”

  “You’re in luck. We happen to have both. No murdering or maiming required.”

  “You say that like it’s a good thing,” Annie muttered, rubbing her face.

  “Lah-lah-lah. Can’t hear you saying potentially criminal things.”

  Annie smoked a cigarette in moody silence, one finger twisting a lock of purple hair, while Heather prepared breakfast—toasting a bagel, scooping seeds out of a cantaloupe she’d halved, brewing coffee.

  Once a plate holding a cream cheese–slathered bagel had been parked in front of her, she stubbed out her cigarette and said, “I don’t know whether Dante has said anything or not, but it looks like I’m pregnant. Knocked up. With child. Expecting.”

  “I’m familiar with the word pregnant, but thanks for all the synonyms,” Heather said, a smile curving her lips. “He’d mentioned that he suspected it, and I knew he’d picked up a pregnancy test kit for you, but he left it for you to tell me.” She leaned her hip against the counter. “So how are you feeling?”