“I can understand Rutgers disobeying orders by keeping the surveillance going,” Cortini said, her brow furrowed. “But why would she jump from surveillance to murder? What am I missing here?”
An image flashed into Heather’s mind of Dante standing in Rodriguez’s living room, Brisia Rodriguez tucked behind him as he guarded her. Remembered her own words just hours earlier: “That’s not Chloe. She’s long gone.”
Dante sucks in a breath. Touches trembling fingers to his temple. More blood trickles from his nose. Heather takes a step closer. Lifts the trank gun and aims.
He lifts his burning gaze to Heather’s and the desolation she glimpses in the dark depths of his eyes breaks her heart. His muscles flex. “Run,” he whispers.
“Dante’s programming was triggered,” Heather said quietly. She lowered her hand to her side and opened her eyes. “Lyons used him to kill an FBI agent.”
Move away from me, chérie. Get outta reach.
“Holy fucking hell,” Von breathed. His gaze lit on Dante’s pale face. “Motherfuckers.”
“He gave himself for Annie,” Heather said, voice low, “knowing they were going to use him. He didn’t even hesitate.”
A smile ghosted across Von’s lips. “He wouldn’t.”
“What happened to the sniper outside the house?” Cortini asked. “Did you kill him?”
Von shook his head. “Nah. I put a bullet in his leg to keep him from going anywhere so we could question him later, but between the house exploding and the frickin’ Fallen popping out of the sky, I lost track of him.”
“Probably long gone,” Cortini agreed.
“Hell,” Von muttered. “I suppose it’s too much to hope the fucker bled to death. We’re gonna hafta continue this later.” He glanced at Heather, then nodded at Cortini. “Think you can work with her while I Sleep?”
“You tell me,” Heather said.
Von crooked a finger. “C’mere, Cortini. Time for a little heart-to-heart.”
Cortini padded across the carpet to where Von stood in front of the dresser, her footsteps almost nightkind-silent. And no wonder—she’d been raised by nightkind, a mortal in a household of vampires.
Von’s words, spoken not even an hour ago in the pouring rain, curled through Heather’s memory: a child of the heart. She couldn’t help but wonder what that meant exactly, what it entailed, and what had happened to Cortini’s mortal parents.
Cortini knelt on one knee in front of Von. “Llygad,” she said, bowing her head, her shoulder-length hair swinging forward to frame her elfin face in dark, rain-damp strands.
The fact that Von was wearing only his boxers made the scene a little surreal, but didn’t lessen his rough dignity one bit. The crescent moon tattoo beneath his right eye glittered like moonlit frost. Llygad. Keeper of history. Poet warrior bard. Nomad. Nightkind.
Von was all of these things and much more. Heather remembered what he’d told her the night before … the long, heartbreaking, furious night that had just ended.
We’re the keepers of nightkind history, the impartial Eyes of truth.
“I need to take a look inside,” Von said, tapping a finger against his own temple. “Wanna know if I need to shoot you or not so I can Sleep.”
Heather stared at him, hoping he was kidding, but his face remained deadly serious. No hint of a smile tugged at his mustache-framed mouth.
“I understand, llygad.” Cortini lifted her face, shook back her hair. Her gaze, steady and open, held Von’s. “All my life, I’ve walked the tightrope between the mortal and vampire worlds,” she said. “But that changed yesterday when I learned that a True Blood prince and Fallen Maker had been born. Then hidden and abused. Programmed.” Cortini’s body remained still, but Heather heard the edge in her voice, each hard word stropping that edge razor-sharp. “I’ll guard Dante Baptiste, and all those he cares for, with my life.”
Fire sparked in the green depths of Von’s eyes. “We’ll see, darlin’.”
He leaned over and tipped Cortini’s chin up with a finger. She drew in a deep breath, then closed her eyes. Von’s gaze unfocused as he dipped into the assassin’s mind.
Cortini’s breath caught in her throat. She swayed as though dizzy. Shivered. After a few moments, she touched fingertips to her temple, and opened her eyes.
Von’s gaze refocused and then he nodded. “C’mere,” he said to Cortini. She rose to her feet in a single, graceful motion and followed him to the bed Heather sat on beside Dante’s Sleeping form. Von pulled one of the Brownings free of the double holster slung over the bedpost.
Heather’s heart kicked hard against her ribs. She couldn’t just let him execute Cortini. “Wait, she’s got info on—”
Von handed the gun to Cortini. He glanced at Heather, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Ain’t gonna shoot her.” His gaze flicked back to Cortini. “Not yet, anyway,” he drawled.
He pulled the Browning’s twin from the holster and handed it to Heather. “Extra ammo’s in my jacket pocket. But I’m hoping to hell you ain’t gonna need it.”
“Me too.” The pistol’s weight felt good in Heather’s hand and a bit more of the tension uncoiled from her muscles. She checked to make sure the safety was on. She missed her Colt, and mourned its loss along with the purse and cell phone Lyons had stripped from her.
Cortini tucked the pistol into the back of her black jeans, snugged it against the small of her back. “An honor, llygad.”
“Name’s Von, darlin’.”
Von’s gaze shifted to Dante’s Sleeping form. His brows slanted together. “I sure as hell wasn’t expecting him to have another seizure after we spiked him fulla morphine. That worries me, doll.”
Heather shivered, her wet clothes clinging to her skin, cooling the hot ache in her battered thighs. But more than wet clothes chilled her. She remembered what Dante had said, words whispered and broken, just as the morphine took him the first time.
Her name was Chloe. She was my princess. And I killed her.
“He’s remembering things,” Heather said, fighting to keep her voice level. “Lyons and his sister kept showing him images from Bad Seed, kept trying to shove his past down his throat and he was having seizures over and—”
A creak of bedsprings, a whiff of motor oil and frost, then warm hands cupped her face. Callused thumbs wiped away the tears from her cheeks, tears she hadn’t even known were there. “Hey, hey, hey,” Von murmured.
Heather bit down on the underside of her lip to keep from bawling like a baby. She was too drained, too exhausted, to feel embarrassed.
“We’ll get him through this, doll, whatever it takes.” Von’s voice, low and rough with emotion and thick with coming Sleep, brushed against her aching heart like fingers against her cheek. “We ain’t gonna lose him to those fuckers.”
“He never stopped fighting,” Heather said.
“And he ain’t gonna quit now.” Von released her face to wrap her hands up in his. “You know why?”
“Because he’s pigheaded?”
“Like a goddamned mule.”
Heather felt a smile tug at her lips. “A pig-headed mule?”
“Thanks for that mental image, doll.” Von smiled, squeezed her hands once, then released them.
“How is Lucien’s death going to affect him?” Heather asked. “To have that dumped on top of everything else …”
“Not good.” Von rubbed his face with his hands. “I still can’t believe Lucien’s dead. I don’t know how the severed bond’s gonna affect Dante. If it was gonna kill him, I think it woulda done so the moment it was cut.”
“Not always, llygad.”
Heather twisted around to look at Cortini. She leaned one shoulder against the wall, her gaze on Dante, her dark hair framing her face. “Sometimes the damage is subtle,” she said, “and takes hours to reveal the extent—a hemorrhaging brain or one seared from the inside out.”
“Thanks,” Von growled. “Just the note I wanna Sleep on.”
“I c
an hang towels over the curtains if it needs to be darker in here,” Heather said, scooting off the bed.
“Nah, we’ll be just fine. Keep the curtains closed and the blankets up.” Turning around, he yanked down the comforter and blankets on his side of the bed and tucked himself underneath. “Bonne nuit, y’all,” he slurred. “Don’t let the bedbugs …”
The nomad’s eyes closed and he was gone, lost to Sleep’s narcotic embrace before he’d even pulled up the blankets. His breathing slowed. All the tension eased from his handsome face, smoothing worry lines and creases from his skin. He looked peaceful.
Heather pulled the blankets up over his head, making certain he and Dante were 100 percent covered. “Sleep well,” she wished them both.
She sat down on the unoccupied bed and slid the Browning underneath the pillow. Despite Von’s words, she was worried, deep and down to the bone. What had been unleashed inside of Dante?
Weariness burned through Heather, fogged her mind. Her thoughts kept circling, taking on a looping Wizard of Oz singsong rhythm: the Bureau, the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my. She’d bet anything an APB was out on them—Dante, because of Rodriguez’s murder, herself as an accomplice.
But Dante had been no more responsible for the death than a fired gun. He’d had no choice, his programming triggered by the man who’d implanted it. Dr. Robert Wells and his twisted son, Alexander Lyons, had used Dante like a weapon.
How could she keep Dante hidden and safe—and, most importantly, unused? The walls barricading his hidden past had been breached; how much of it had slipped through? The memory of Chloe’s loss alone and his role in it would be enough to break his heart. And coupled with Lucien’s death …
Heather’s fingers felt along the outline of the plastic-case protected flash drive in her pocket. The drive contained all of Dante’s documented life in Bad Seed from the moment he’d been born and his nightkind mother, Genevieve, slaughtered.
Heather had hoped to help him regain his past bit by bit, together, so he wouldn’t have to face the nightmare hell of his childhood alone.
Dante needed time to come to terms with his past. To come to terms with himself. Time to grieve. To heal.
But they were fresh out of time.
The Bureau, the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my.
“You should catch some sleep while you can.”
Heather blinked, then looked up. Cortini still leaned against the wall, her body language relaxed, her gaze sharp. Heather forced her hands open. She shook her head. “I’ll take first watch.”
“Second would be better,” Cortini said. “You’re dead on your feet.” Her gaze slipped over to Dante’s blanketed form. “I won’t let anyone near him or you.”
“How did—” Heather’s question died unasked when the bathroom fan fell silent and the bathroom door was yanked open.
Annie stepped out in too-big blue plaid pajama bottoms and a faded black Danzig skull tee, a white bath towel wrapped around her hair.
“We need to get more clothes and stuff,” she said, bee-lining for the easy chair. “And I need shoes since I left my Docs at …” She waved a hand toward the window to indicate out there. She flopped into the chair, the vinyl squeaking beneath her.
“She’s right,” Cortini said. “When everyone’s awake, that should be one of the first things you do. You also need to dump your car and get another.”
Heather studied Cortini for a long moment, mulling over her choice of the word you instead of we. The assassin held her gaze, her face unreadable.
Even though she hated the thought of abandoning her Trans Am, she knew Cortini was right. Heather sighed, then nodded. “We can’t risk renting a car. My bank and credit accounts are probably being monitored. What about you?”
“I doubt I’m being monitored,” Cortini said. “Not yet. But if my handlers don’t hear from me by the end of the day, that’ll change.”
“So what’s your plan?” Heather asked. She slid her hand underneath the pillow, the sheets cool against her fingertips. “I’m getting the distinct feeling that you won’t be traveling with us.”
A faint smile curved Cortini’s lips. “I plan to return to the SB.”
Heather’s fingers wrapped around the Browning’s grip. Her pulse picked up speed. Von had looked into Cortini’s mind. Was it possible for her to fool him? “Part of your plan to guard Dante?” she asked, keeping her voice light.
“I’ll be more use to him—and you—inside the SB.”
“How do you plan to explain your absence?”
“I don’t exactly punch a time clock,” Cortini said. “I’m allowed downtime between assignments. I’ll simply tell them I decided to sightsee.”
Heather searched for deception in the assassin’s face, her posture, her hands. Everything about her—from the top of her head to the toes of her sneakered feet—suggested sincerity. Steady gaze, open hands, relaxed posture.
If Cortini was planning to betray them, she never would’ve said she was returning to the SB. All she would’ve had to do was simply wait for all of them to fall asleep.
And Cortini was right. A pair of eyes inside the SB would be more than a little useful. “Christ,” Heather muttered, sliding her empty hand out from under the pillow.
Cortini nodded her head at the pillow. “I would’ve done the same in your place,” she said. “Except I probably would’ve pulled the trigger.”
Heather met her gaze. “That’s one of the differences between us.”
A smile quirked up the corners of Cortini’s mouth. “You should sleep. It’s going to be a while before anyone knows what’s happened or puts all the pieces together. We’ll never be safer than we are right now.”
Small comfort, but true. “I will. In a bit.” Heather looked at Annie slumped in the easy chair, fingering one of the small hoops piercing her eyebrow, pretending not to be interested in the conversation. “I owe my sister some answers first.”
“The less she knows, the better,” Cortini said.
“Too late for that,” Heather replied. “She’s involved now.”
Annie flashed Cortini a triumphant look, then pulled her feet up into the chair and wrapped her arms around her legs. “So what’s the SB?” she asked, returning her attention to Heather.
Cortini shook her head and folded her arms over her chest. Tension sharpened the planes of her face.
“The SB is the Shadow Branch,” Heather replied. “A branch of the government that officially doesn’t exist. Its members are composed of DOD, FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security agents. The SB and the FBI together initiated a black ops program called Bad Seed to create sociopaths.”
“To create?” Annie said. “You fucking kidding me?”
“I wish I was,” Heather said, pushing her fingers through her damp hair. “They wanted to see if certain criteria could create a sociopath. They studied their subjects’ development and progress right up until they were either imprisoned or killed.”
“And Dante? What’s he?” Annie stabbed a finger in Dante’s direction. “I just saw him create the Underworld and turn angels to fucking stone.”
“Not angels, exactly,” Heather said. “Well, they are, but they’re the Fallen.”
“Oh, excuse me,” Annie muttered. “The Fallen, huh? First, vampires, now fallen angels. When will the unicorns and fairies prance on over for a visit, huh? What’s next? The Flying Dutchman? Howling werewolves?”
“I know this is a lot to swallow—”
Annie laughed. “A nine-inch dick is a lot to swallow, this—this is just insane. I watched Dante twist the Psycho Twins and their unhinged Dr. Evil dad into … shit, I don’t know what he twisted them into. And you want me to tag along with you and Gorgeous-But-Deadly? Nope. Nuh-uh. No way.”
“I’m not leaving you behind,” Heather said, rising to her feet and walking to the foot of the nightkind-only bed. She bent and scooped up Dante’s wet clothes, intending to throw away his rain- and blood-soaked hoodie and PVC shirt. But as s
he straightened, breathing in the mingled scents of blood and anise-spiced absinthe and crisp autumn leaves, she hesitated, hugging the clothes to her chest instead.
“What if I went someplace else? Australia or China or Russia?”
“They’ll find you,” she said, holding Annie’s gaze. “And they’ll hurt you—because of me, because of Dante. I’m sorry I got you into this, I really am. But you can’t stay behind.”
“I got myself into this when I climbed into that asshole’s pickup,” Annie muttered, shifting in the chair and sitting cross-legged. “I could really use a smoke. Hey, hit woman, you got any cigarettes?”
A smile tugged up one corner of Cortini’s mouth. “No.”
“Fuck,” Annie sighed. “Suppose there ain’t any booze in this shithole either.”
“No, and that’s the last thing you need,” Heather said. She dumped Dante’s ruined clothes in the trash bin beside the desk, then sat down beside Dante, bedsprings creaking beneath her.
“So what the hell is he?” Annie asked. “I mean, besides a freaking vampire?”
“Dante Baptiste is a Maker and a True Blood prince,” Cortini said.
Annie frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
“True Blood means he was born nightkind,” Heather said. She pulled the blankets from Dante’s face. Even with blood trickling from his nose, the sight of him caught at her heart, his beauty lit from within, incandescent and riveting. She touched the backs of her fingers to his pale, fevered cheek.
“You can be born vampire?” Annie said. “Holy shit.”
“Yes, but True Bloods are rare,” Cortini said. “Very rare.”
“So what’s the Maker part?”
“Dante’s father, Lucien De Noir, is … was … Fallen,” Heather replied. “It has something to do with that. Do you know what?” she asked, glancing at Cortini.
The assassin’s gaze lit on Dante, lingered. “A Maker is a Fallen creator. A creawdwr. According to vampire lore, the last known Maker was called Yahweh, though most knew him by his Old Testament name, Jehovah.”
Maker's Song 3 Beneath the Skin Page 5
