Maker's Song 3 Beneath the Skin

by Adrian Phoenix

  Cold fingers trailed down Heather’s spine at Cortini’s words. Her heart drummed hard and fast.

  “The gods of this world—in all cultures and mythologies—have been the Fallen,” Cortini said. “But the only Fallen who could create—places, beings, life itself—were creawdwrs, and only one creawdwr exists at a time.”

  “Wait, wait, hold on,” Annie butted in. “You saying God was a fucking fallen angel? What kinda drugs you on? And you’d better’ve brought enough for everyone, dammit.”

  Cortini leveled her gaze on Annie. “I only know what my mother taught me,” she said. “She told me that Yahweh died thousands of years ago. But only the Fallen know the details behind his death.” She hesitated for a split second and Heather realized that Cortini knew some of those details at the very least. “All we know is that there’s never been another Maker.” Her gaze returned to Dante and her face softened. “Until now.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Heather asked.

  Cortini shrugged. Her gaze shifted to Von’s blanketed form. “I think that’s a question you should ask the llygad once he’s awake again.”

  “You’re fulla shit,” Annie said. “That’s all you are—a big old pile of walking, talking shit.”

  “Annie …”

  “Well, she is!”

  Cortini shoved away from the wall. “Think what you want,” she said. “I really don’t care.” Stepping over to Heather, she said, “I’m going to move your car behind the motel, where it won’t be seen from the highway.” She held out her hand for the keys.

  “Good idea,” Heather murmured. Standing, she reached into her front jeans pocket and fished the keys free from its cold and wet interior. “Thanks,” she said, handing over the keys.

  Cortini nodded, closed her fingers around the keys, then went outside, closing the door quietly behind her. A moment later, Heather heard the low, powerful thrum of the Trans Am’s engine.

  “She’s nuts,” Annie declared. “You’re all fucking loco, y’know that?”

  “Maybe.” Heather walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light. Moisture beaded on powder blue tile and chrome fixtures, remnants of Annie’s shower. The smell of coconut oil shampoo lingered in the air. “But what if she’s right?”

  Heather wet a washcloth with cool water, then wrung out the excess. She returned to the bed and sat down beside Dante again. She wiped away the blood trickling from his nose. She hoped the wet cloth would cool the fevered heat spiking out from his pale skin and prickling against her. Dante’s face wasn’t peaceful like Von’s, and blue shadows smudged the skin beneath his eyes.

  “She can’t be right. She can’t. It’s just …” Annie’s voice trailed off. “I need a fucking smoke, dammit.”

  Heather placed her hand over Dante’s heart, covering his little bat tattoo, and pressed her palm against his heated skin. After a moment, she felt the strong, reassuring thump of his heart.

  Von’s words from two nights ago—forever ago, another lifetime ago—whispered through her mind: He is the never-ending Road.

  “So which is it?” Annie asked, her voice little more than a husky whisper. “Is he a sociopath or a fucking god? Hell”—she laughed—“maybe there ain’t even a difference.”

  “I know he’s not what Bad Seed tried to shape him into,” Heather said, straightening up. “He’s remained himself.” But at great cost—damaged, maybe permanently.

  “But you saw what he did—to those torturing assholes and to the … angels.”

  Heather doubted that the thing Dante had transformed the twins and their father into had been a deliberate decision. He’d been drug-dazed and pain-shattered, his power triggered by dark and desperate need. But still, the memory—only an hour or so old—left her queasy.

  Athena’s body twists like hot taffy into her brother’s spiraling, stretching form. Wells entwines with his children, twirling around and into them, his flesh elastic.

  They rise into the air, bathed in cool blue fire, a three-faced pillar of flesh. Arms and legs streamline into feathered tails. Eyes blink open in the triune creature’s braided torso and back. Rotating mouths open in a chorus of song: Threeintoone …

  “You sure he ain’t a sociopath?” Annie asked.

  “If Bad Seed had succeeded, Dante never would’ve saved my life, never would’ve offered himself up for you.”

  “How can you be sure? After all you’ve seen him do?”

  “Because his heart’s true.”

  “So you trust him?” Annie asked.

  “With my life.”

  Annie sighed. She pulled the towel from her head and wadded it up in her lap. She combed her fingers through her blue/purple/black hair. “I’m not like you. I don’t think I can do that. I liked him before”—she waved a hand toward the window again—“all that. And I know the only reason he was used and tortured was because of me, and I know he saved your life after you’d been shot in D.C., but he scares the shit outta me.”

  Rising to her feet, Heather walked around to the easy chair, perched on the arm, and wrapped her baby sister up in a hug. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you. Most people would’ve run away screaming a long time ago. You came back for us. Thanks.”

  “Jesus, you’re welcome,” Annie muttered, leaning into their hug, her breath warm against Heather’s neck. She shivered. “Yuck! You’re wet.” She pulled free of Heather’s embrace. “Aren’t you freezing? There’s extra pj’s and stuff in my bag.”

  The door cracked open, slanting gray light into the room and across the floor. Cool air smelling of pine and wet concrete spilled into the room. Heather whirled, dived onto the far bed, across Von’s body, and yanked up the blankets to shield Dante.

  Cortini slipped inside and eased the door shut behind her. Locked it and rehooked the chain. Releasing her pent-up breath, Heather kissed Dante’s heated lips. She gently covered his face with the blankets, tucking one errant and silky strand of hair back underneath. She scooted off the bed and stood.

  “Car’s out of sight,” Cortini said. She tossed Heather the keys.

  “Thanks,” Heather said. She slid the keys into her pocket—her cold, wet pocket—then went into the bathroom to put on something dry.

  Finding another pair of plaid pajama bottoms in Annie’s duffel bag—red, this time—and a pink Emily the Strange tee, Heather stripped off her wet jeans, turtleneck sweater, and undies. Her skin goosebumped from the cold. The flannel jammies felt warm and comfortable.

  When Heather stepped out of the bathroom, Cortini sat in the vinyl easy chair and her sister was a gloom-shadowed hump beneath the blankets in the mortals-only bed next to the curtained window.

  “Does Dante know what he is?” Cortini asked.

  “He found out a little over three weeks ago that he’s True Blood.” Heather sat down on the bed, the mattress creaking beneath her. “As for the other, I don’t know if De Noir told him or not.”

  “A shame.”

  Heather nodded, then trailed a hand through her damp hair. With De Noir dead—a fact she had trouble grasping—and Von warned against trusting the Fallen, who could teach Dante what it meant to be a Maker when he was struggling just to survive?

  Exhaustion blurred Heather’s thoughts. She pulled back the sheet and blankets and climbed into bed. “Wake me up for the second watch in four hours. Okay?”

  “Four hours. Got it.”

  Heather snuggled down into the pillow and mattress, grateful she’d rescued Annie’s gym bag from the disintegrating house. The idea of leaping out of bed in her underwear, Browning in hand, to defend herself didn’t appeal in the slightest no matter how chic and sexy it looked in movies.

  Heather closed her eyes. Everything whirled around her for a moment, like she was a knife spun on a table by a sure hand.

  One thought chased another in a looping, closed circle: The Bureau, the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my. All we know for certain is that there’s never been another Maker. Until now. The Bureau,
the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my.

  Wondering if she was too tired to sleep, Heather spun into darkness.

  4

  ANOTHER VERSION OF THE TRUTH

  SEATTLE, WA

  March 25

  GILLESPIE WALKED INTO HIS darkened living room, cell phone held tight against his ear. “Sounds like your coordinates are way off,” he said, tossing his keys onto the mail-cluttered going-out table. He shut the front door and twisted both dead bolts into place. “Recheck your data. What you’re saying’s impossible.” He switched on the lamp.

  “I’ve triple-checked the coordinates, sir,” the surveillance tech said, her words cool and precise.

  “Check again. Run it until it’s right. Then call me back.”

  “Yes, sir.” A hint of frustration sharpened the tech’s words.

  Gillespie hit the END button, then tossed his cell onto the coffee table. The phone smeared a clean spot amid all the dust layering the oak table’s lacquered surface. He hadn’t cleaned once in the six months since Lynda had split, leaving him a note and a half-empty closet and a strange sense of unbalance. And, though he kept nagging at himself, he still hadn’t gotten around to doing chores.

  Maybe this weekend. Could even run the vacuum over the carpet while he was at it. Air the place out. It stank of mildew, musty carpet, and of something ripening in the kitchen trash.

  Unzipping his jacket, he pulled it off, the Gore-Tex rustling, and draped it across an arm of the pale green sofa. Gillespie stood in the middle of the silent room, thoughts racing, his muscles kinked up so tight he felt like one touch would catapult him through the wall.

  He smoothed a hand over his head, scrubbing beads of rain into his scalp. Thibodaux and Goodnight hadn’t bought the enhanced vamp line. His lie hadn’t taken root and he was pretty damned sure they’d known he was lying. He sighed. Dropping his hand to his side, he walked into the kitchen, Special Ops Director Underwood’s words kiting through his mind.

  The truth will distract them and possibly get them killed.

  With all due respect, ma’am, so will a lie.

  You’d know, Sam. Still blaming yourself? After all these years?

  Yes, until the end of time. But those had been words he’d kept to himself.

  His muscles kinked one notch tighter.

  The white refrigerator was a pale ghost in the predawn gloom veiling the kitchen. Gillespie yanked the door open and surveyed the contents—a package of American cheese slices, a quart of milk past the expiration date, a Jell-O dark chocolate pudding cup, and two six-packs of Pacifico beer.

  Maybe he’d add grocery shopping to that mythical household task list for that mythical weekend.

  Gillespie pulled a beer free, shouldered the refrigerator door shut, then pried off the beer cap. Flipping the cap into the stinky, garbage-bag-lined can—tally another chore for the weekend—beside the refrigerator, he walked back into the living room.

  He plopped onto the sofa. Tipped the cold bottle against his lips and took a long swallow. Chilled and sharp, the beer tasted like amber liquid heaven, but did nothing to sluice away the dark thoughts rampaging through his mind like a grizzly through a tent full of steaks.

  Goodnight and Thibodaux weren’t the only ones lied to.

  He was pretty damned fucking sure he’d been lied to also.

  We have no idea what went wrong, Gillespie, but we have a situation that needs immediate cleanup.

  Not true. They’d known exactly what had gone wrong. Maybe they hadn’t been expecting it, but what had happened had been no mystery.

  An FBI agent had been murdered and two other feds—both with stellar careers, one a hero—seemed to be involved in that death. Prejean had been in town with his band, Inferno. According to Underwood, he and his band had spent the night before Rodriguez’s murder at SA Wallace’s place.

  Prejean—a True Blood.

  In Gillespie’s twenty-one years of law enforcement, the last ten with the SB, he’d never encountered a True Blood. Of course, he hadn’t even been aware of the existence of vampires until the SB had recruited him from the FBI. Then he’d learned that not only did vamps exist, but they were an active part of the country’s infrastructure.

  That fact had never rested easy with him, not even when he worked with dedicated vamp agents like Goodnight.

  Just what was project Bad Seed? And how the hell had a True Blood become part of a joint special ops program, anyway? From what Gillespie had heard, True Blood vamps were rare and elusive beings. If Prejean was a tagged and observed subject in a study devoted to sociopaths, why in God’s name had he been allowed to remain loose?

  Just how many things were wrong with this picture?

  Underwood’s words replayed through Gillespie’s mind.

  If Goodnight is told that Prejean is a True Blood, she might hesitate at a crucial moment and allow him to escape.

  The SB is her life, ma’am. She’s a dedicated agent.

  So was Wallace. And Lyons. Until they met Prejean.

  Since Prejean seems to have such a strong effect on humans, ma’am, it sounds like Thibodaux, not Goodnight, might be in more danger of letting Prejean slip away. If I warned them—

  No. Prejean’s status is classified. Your agents only need to know that they are to capture a dangerous killer—make him an enhanced one, given his speed—and two corrupted feds.

  Ma’am, I’d prefer to tell my agents the truth—

  Underwood laughs, the sound as warm as flannel on a cold day. Amused. When she speaks again, her voice remains warm: The last time you disregarded instructions, three agents died. I’m sure you don’t want to add to that tally.

  Tension ratcheted his muscles another turn tighter. Gillespie wasn’t sure who he was angrier with—Underwood for rubbing his face in a big, steaming pile of shame, or himself for creating that big, steaming pile in the first place.

  Gillespie downed his beer, then went to the kitchen and fetched two more. He paused by his desk long enough to scoop up his laptop. Time to do a little research on one Dante Prejean, SB classified subject, rock front man, and sociopath. He wondered what the feds and local Louisiana law had on the bloodsucking bastard.

  Just as he slouched back down onto the sofa, one cold, moist bottle in hand, the other bottle on the coffee table creating a new ring in the dust, the laptop resting against his thighs, his cell phone trilled.

  Snatching it up, Gillespie hit the TALK button and said, “Gillespie.”

  “Sam?”

  Gillespie sat up straight, his heart kicking his ribs, pulse thundering in his ears. Even though her voice sounded sleep-fogged, he couldn’t imagine her calling at this hour unless … “Is something wrong? The kids?”

  “No, no, I had a dream, and … Are you okay?”

  Gillespie closed his eyes and pressed the cold beer bottle against his forehead. “I’m fine.” He wanted to ask her about the dream, wondered what it meant that she still dreamed about him and cared enough to risk waking him to make sure he was all right.

  “Since you answered on the first ring, you must be up already,” Lynda said with a soft sigh. “Or maybe you haven’t been to bed yet. You drinking, Sam?”

  “Nah, just up early. Busy day today.”

  “Well, if you’re okay—”

  “Hey, I made an appointment with that therapist your sister recommended,” Gillespie said on reflex, looking for a way to keep her on the phone, a way to keep her sleepy, warm voice in his ear. He hoped she didn’t hear the lie in his voice.

  “Great, that’s, uh, good news. I hope it works out. It wasn’t your fault—”

  Gillespie’s phone clicked, interrupting Lynda’s words. He opened his eyes and lowered the beer bottle to the cushion beside him. Call waiting. With a low groan, he said, “Babe, I gotta go. Got another call.”

  “That’s fine. I gotta go too. Bye.”

  The relief in Lynda’s voice curdled his thoughts, and for an instant he caught a flash of what he must look like to
her: a man eaten so lean by guilt that guilt was all that held him together—sinew and tendons. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He switched to the incoming call.

  “Sir?” The surveillance tech’s voice curled into his ear. “I’ve run the coordinates two more times and the result was the same both times.”

  “Send me the images.” Gillespie placed the beer bottle beside its mate on the coffee table.

  “Downloading now, sir. The first image is from two hours ago. The second one is from five minutes ago.”

  Gillespie lowered the phone from his ear and watched the monitor. The first image showed two houses from above, the main building and a guest cottage, tucked into a clearing surrounded by pine and evergreens. Several vehicles were parked in the driveway: a Dodge Ram truck, Wallace’s Trans Am, a Saturn sedan, and a tarp-covered vehicle.

  The phone beeped as the next image was received. Gillespie stared at the screen, heart lurching into high gear. The guest cottage remained in place nestled into forest shadows, but now a huge hole in the earth yawned up at the sky where the main house had been. A black mouth ringed with what looked like statues—some capped like the standing stones at Stonehenge.

  No main house. No vehicles.

  Cold fear looped around Gillespie’s guts, twisted.

  “Sir?” The tech’s voice sounded small and faraway. “Instructions?”

  “Code 54,” Gillespie managed to say, his mouth dry. “Seal it up.”

  “Code 54,” the tech repeated. “Roger, sir.”

  Gillespie thumbed the END button. He picked up his condensation-slick bottle and drained it in several throat-stretching and painful gulps. Staring at the impossible image on the cell’s screen, he set the empty bottle on the coffee table. It fell over with a muted tunk, then rolled back and forth for a few seconds in an ever-diminishing arc.

  Gillespie stood and paced the floor, his cell clenched tight against his palm.

  The house was gone.

  Possibilities whirled through his mind. Earthquake. Sinkhole. Some unknown disaster. But none of those possibilities accounted for the figures—the statues—surrounding the hole.

  The house was gone.