Maker's Song 3 Beneath the Skin

by Adrian Phoenix

  Pain needled Dante’s mind. Grief twisted the diamondthorned chains around his heart another turn tighter. Emptiness stretched dark and endless in the place Lucien had once lit with his warm, steady presence.

  “Ain’t gonna believe Lucien’s dead,” Dante said, throat tight. “Not until I see his body for myself.”

  Von paused, jeans in hand. “Did you feel Lucien die?” he asked, voice soft. “Or did you just feel the loss of your bond?”

  Je t’aime, mon fils. Toujours.

  “He told me good-bye. Then …” The words stuck in Dante’s throat. He looked away, muscles taut and twitching.

  “Did that Fallen chick tell you anything about Lucien? About what happened to him? Or how he died?” Von asked.

  Frowning, Dante looked up. Fallen chick? Memory flickered.

  Wing-musk. A woman’s rain-beaded face—golden eyes, midnight hair, a slender sapphire blue torc around her throat.

  You may call me Lilith.

  Dante met Von’s gaze. “She gave me some bullshit about Lucien sending her to protect me from the Fallen and about him being nothing but ash.”

  “Lucien wouldn’t’ve sent her,” Von said. “He warned me against the Fallen.”

  Dante’s muscles tightened and a shadow fell over his heart as his thoughts flipped back to his last conversation with Lucien and the warning he’d given: The Fallen will find you one night and bind you.

  “Do you know where to look for Lucien?” Heather asked. Even though the words remained unspoken, Dante saw them in her searching gaze: If Lucien’s still alive.

  “No, not yet,” Dante said, voice low and rough. “But I’m gonna find him.”

  Dante watched as Von and Heather exchanged a quick, worried glance. “I know we need to get home first,” he said. Angling back slightly, he lobbed the bloodstained washcloth into the bathroom. “And those hunting us? Gonna take care of them.”

  Promise?

  Promise. Cross my heart.

  The room flipped between beige carpet and blood-slick concrete.

  Focus. You gotta stay here.

  Dante straightened, moving slowly to make sure he remained in the motel room, remained a man, not a kid hanging from a hook. He squeezed Heather’s hand, palm to palm. “Gonna make sure you and Annie and Eerie are safe, catin.”

  “Not alone, Baptiste,” Heather said. “It’s our fight—all of us.”

  “Yeah, chérie. Not alone.” Dante lowered his head and touched his forehead to hers. Looked into her eyes. Concern flickered in their blue depths. He felt the heat of her body through her pink T-shirt and red plaid pajama bottoms. Her lilac, sage, and evening rain scent perfumed his senses. Awakened more than one kind of hunger.

  “Damn straight, not alone,” Von said. “We’re all in on this.”

  Dante lifted his head, a smile tilting his lips. “Hey, how’d you end up here, anyway? I thought you flew home.”

  Von shrugged. “Felt a few things. I was already on my way here when Annie contacted Silver for help. But don’t worry, the guys and Silver all made it home safe and sound.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Dante said.

  “Naturally,” the nomad drawled. He buffed his nails against the waistband of his blue boxers.

  Cupping his face between her hands, Heather kissed Dante, soft and lingering. “You’re burning up,” she murmured. “How are you feeling?”

  “Still on my feet and j’su ici. But where’s here?”

  “In a motel outside Damascus,” she said. “We didn’t have time to get far. And we’ve got to get moving as soon as possible. We’ve got the Bureau and the SB on our tails and—”

  The door cracked open, and Heather stopped talking. She tensed and broke their embrace, her hand reaching for her waistband, then balling into a fist. “Shit. Gun’s on the nightstand,” she muttered.

  A mortal’s rapid heartbeat, alternating rhythms—two.

  “Just us,” an unfamiliar female voice said.

  But Dante was already moving. He grabbed the chick’s wrist and yanked her inside. Her shoulder slammed into the door, knocking it against the wall. Plaster crunched. Dante caught a whiff of mint and wild roses—a familiar scent. He whirled her by the wrist up against the bureau. Things clattered and thudded to the carpet.

  She regarded him with calm hazel eyes, this chick with shoulder-length dark brown hair and dressed all in black. No, not calm. Her pulse pounded through her veins, her breathing fast and shallow. Something else flickered behind her calm facade. Her cheeks flushed a deep rose.

  Dante suddenly remembered the berry-sweet taste of her blood. Hunger coiled through him. Tightened his muscles.

  Memory clicked into place with a minimum of fuss and pain.

  Your name. You know mine.

  “Caterina,” Dante said, releasing his hold on her wrist. “I remember you.” He stepped back, studying her, trying to figure out the emotion he’d glimpsed hiding behind her mask. Not disappointment, but something close to that.

  “Dante Baptiste,” she murmured, straightening. “I remember you too.” She rubbed her wrist. Her gaze slid past him and her mouth tightened. She drew in a deep breath, squared back her shoulders. “Llygad.”

  Dante felt Von’s warm, strong presence behind him.

  the nomad sent, his mental touch cautious.

  Dante shoved both pain and capering stray thoughts—Put him in the trunk with the other, you; What’s the little psycho screamin’?—down below and away from Von’s mind.

 

 

 

 

 

  “Next time, I’d suggest knocking on the door first, Cortini,” the nomad said. “Dunno, Dante, should we work up secret codes in the form of knock-knock jokes?”

  “You mean like ‘knock-knock, who’s there?’ ”

  “Yup. As in ‘Ewe Butter.’ ‘Ewe Butter who?’ ‘Ewe Butter run like hell.’ ”

  Dante felt a smile tilt his lips. “Nice.”

  With a groan, Heather crossed to the open door and pulled her sister inside. “It’s okay now,” she said.

  “Easy for you to say.” Annie, in a black Danzig tee and blue plaid pajama bottoms and bare feet, shrugged free of Heather’s hand and slouched into the easy chair, the vinyl squeaking beneath her. She folded her arms across her chest and stared at the carpet as if it were the most fascinating and fucking awesome thing ever.

  The mingled odors of coconut and wet pavement trailed into the room with Annie, layered over a faint undertone of sweet, smoky incense and deep, dark earth. Something in that undertone fluttered mothlike about in Dante’s memory, seeking a light, and left him uneasy.

  A muscle in Heather’s jaw jumped. She carefully closed the door, then turned around and put her back against the door. She pushed her sleep-wild tangle of red hair back from her face. Her gaze skipped from Dante to Caterina.

  “I was about to tell them what happened,” she said to Caterina.

  Caterina nodded. “Let me do something first,” she murmured. Reaching behind her, she pulled a gun from the back of her black jeans.

  It looked like one of Von’s Brownings, so Dante was mystified when Caterina knelt on the floor in front of him and laid the gun at his bare feet. She looked up at him, and then he recognized what he’d seen in her eyes before: shame.

  “I vowed to guard and defend you, my True Blood prince, and all those you care for,” she said. She swallowed hard. Drew a deep breath in the now-silent room. “But I failed.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Von muttered.

  Dante stared at her, not sure he’d heard right. He’d heard some pretty bizarre things from Inferno fans during show meet-and-greets, things ranging from secret cousins hidden
from one another in a conspiracy to keep them apart to claims of “you stole my life and put it in your songs now you owe me royalties or a new life,” but Caterina’s statement left him off balance.

  “You kidding me? Stand the fuck up and drop the ‘True Blood prince’ bullshit.”

  Caterina blinked. “But you’re a—”

  “So? Knock it off. Christ! I never asked … Fuck, I don’t even want …”

  “No, course you didn’t ask,” Von tossed in, stepping up beside him, his jeans slung over his shoulder. “She promised all on her own. So, spill, Cortini. How’d you fail?”

  “I think I fell asleep while on watch and I believe someone broke into the room.”

  “You think? You believe?” Von’s brows slanted down, a deep vertical line creasing his forehead. “Mind explaining to me how that could happen? You promised to guard Dante with your life.”

  “Ain’t no one risking their life for me. Ain’t no one responsible for me, but me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, says you,” Von growled. He folded his arms over his chest. “So answer the question, Cortini. How’d this happen? And stand up, woman.”

  Caterina picked up the Browning and stood, rising easily to her feet. She glanced at Dante, her eyes a warm hazel—pale green and golden brown—her cheeks still flushed, before returning her attention to Von.

  “I don’t think she fell asleep,” Heather said. “I think someone put her out and possibly me too.”

  “Keep it coming. I’m listening,” Von said, but his attention remained fixed on Caterina.

  “We were messed with,” Heather said. She nodded her head at the nightstand between the beds. “I tucked the Browning under my pillow when I went to sleep. When I woke up, the gun was on the nightstand, safety off.”

  “And my Browning was in my lap,” Caterina said. “Not only was the safety off, a round’d been fired.” She slid a hand into her jeans pocket, pulled it out again and un-curled her fingers. A bullet casing rested in her palm.

  Dante glanced at Von. Frowning, the nomad plucked the shell from Caterina’s palm and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

  “That’s not all,” Heather said. She bent and picked something up from the carpet. Straightening and automatically pushing her hair back from her face, she dangled a small golden-linked chain between her fingers.

  Von whistled. “Hell. The door chain. Was it broken off?”

  “Top link looks melted,” Heather replied. “And the door lock doesn’t work anymore. Like maybe the mechanism was disabled or fried somehow.”

  Dante joined Heather at the door. Without a word, she dropped the chain into his palm. Magic sparked and prickled against his skin. His song kindled, strummed a single burning chord through his heart.

  Smoky incense and deep, dark earth.

  His moth-flitting memory finally landed. Now he knew why the smells that had traveled into the room with Annie had left him uneasy.

  Wing-musk. It’d reminded him of Lilith’s scent as she’d held him, and of Lucien’s earthy green leaves and dark earth aroma. But just different enough to unsettle instead of comfort.

  “Fallen power,” Dante said. He rubbed the chain between his fingers. His muscles coiled tighter yet. Lucien’s words sounded through his mind, clear and deep.

  I hid you from others. Powerful others who would use you without mercy.

  Dante’s throat tightened. Shoulda listened. Shoulda never shoved him away.

  “Holy fucking hell,” Von muttered. He looked at Dante. “Not that I ain’t glad, but why the fuck would they leave you behind?”

  Dante shook his head and instantly regretted it as the room dipped. Heather braced herself against him, slipped a steadying arm around his waist, offering balance. “I don’t think they woulda,” he said. “We’re missing something.”

  “Maybe whoever it was saw what you’d done to the others,” Heather said, “and was worried that you’d do the same to them.”

  “Or maybe this Fallen guy was just checking to make sure Dante was okay,” Annie suddenly tossed into the conversation.

  “Guy?” Caterina questioned.

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Just a figure of speech.”

  “Then why not just knock on the fucking door?” Von said. “Nah, something else is going on here.”

  “Time to get our asses on the road,” Dante said. “We can puzzle this out later.”

  “We need to get another car,” Heather said. “Clothes and supplies too.”

  “I’m gonna need my guns back, ladies,” Von said, sliding his jeans from his shoulder. “Still wet,” he muttered.

  “Nice boxers by the way,” Dante said.

  “I’d be telling you the same,” Von replied, pulling on his jeans. “If you’d bothered to wear anything under those pants.”

  “Wait. Hold on. Let me check,” Dante said. He glanced at the ceiling and tapped his chin, then returned his gaze to Von. “Nope. Still don’t need a nanny.”

  Von snorted. He extended a middle finger. “Sounds like you need more of this.”

  “Always. Can’t get enough.” Dante felt a smile tugging at his lips. For a moment, everything felt normal. No one hunting them and the memory of killing his Winnie-thePooh princess, her blood sticky on his hands, her body cradled tight against him, just a nightmare.

  For a moment.

  Then he slipped free of Heather’s warm half-embrace and walked into the bathroom. Flipping on the light and closing the door, he stopped in front of the sink. Turned on the cold water.

  I’m scared, Dante-angel. But I’m glad I’m with you.

  Same here, Chloe-princess. No one’s gonna do bad things to you. I won’t let ’em.

  Dante bent over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. His pulse pounded at his temples. He felt cold inside, ice-scraped raw, his heart honeycombed with frost. Clutching the sink, the porcelain slick beneath his fingers, he closed his burning eyes.

  Promise?

  Promise. Cross my heart.

  He’d kept that promise. No one else had done bad things to Chloe.

  He’d done worse instead.

  15

  SLIPPING AWAY

  OUTSIDE DAMASCUS, OR

  THE HAPPY BEAVER MOTEL

  March 25

  GILLESPIE SLID THE KEY card into the lock. A bar of green flashed. He unlocked the door to room 5 and stepped inside, switching on the light as he did. Dropping his suitcase on the carpet, he placed his laptop and the 7-Eleven branded plastic bag containing the beer he’d bought on the desk. Then he turned, relocked the door, and slid the chain into place.

  He glanced around the room. Queen bed. Desk. Bureau. Small TV. A door on the left led to the bathroom. The room stank of stale smoke and a yellowish patina stained the ’70s-style paisley wallpaper. No doubt the smoke reek permeated the beige carpet too, and the bedding, including the pillows. And lurking beneath that? A deep sniff—yup, he smelled damp and mold.

  Gillespie sighed, scrubbing a hand over his scalp. Probably a smokers-only room before cigarettes had been outlawed in public places. He reconsidered his impulsive decision to grab a room at the Happy Beaver instead of driving into Portland and getting a room at a decent hotel. His reasons ticked through his mind as if projected on a whiteboard.

  A. Closer to site. Quicker response time if needed.

  B. Too tired to drive into Portland.

  C. Time saved on drives to and from the site.

  D. See B above.

  Gillespie yawned. Fuck it. He’d stay here tonight. This was the first motel he’d spotted on his drive from the Wells compound to the highway. He could always grab a better room closer to Portland tomorrow. The room was for sleeping only, after all.

  He shrugged off his Gore-Tex jacket and dropped it over the desk chair. Reaching into the 7-Eleven bag, he pulled out a chilled and frosty bottle of Pacifico. He plopped down onto the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking as it gave beneath his weight.

  Great. Soft and smelly mattres
s to boot.

  Gillespie toed off his mud-caked Sperry Top-Siders, then popped off the Pacifico’s cap with the opener on his key chain. He poured a long, cooling swallow of beer down his parched throat. It tasted so golden and good, he didn’t even miss the fresh lime he usually enjoyed wedged into the bottle’s long neck. His muscles unkinked a little.

  Taking another long, cold draught, Gillespie closed his eyes. Something niggled at his mind. Scratched at the inside of his skull, begging attention. He allowed his thoughts to roll back over what he’d just been thinking about. Smoke reek. Too tired to drive into Portland. First place he’d seen …

  Gillespie’s eyes flipped open. He lowered the half-empty bottle of Pacifico to his lap. His pulse picked up speed. Wait. Wait. In one satellite scan, the house and cars are still on the hill at the compound. In the next scan, just before dawn, house and cars have vanished.

  What if Prejean and the others escaped whatever the hell happened on the hill and what if, in this little scenario, they needed a place for Prejean to Sleep? And let’s pretend he didn’t have any stay-awake pills or heavy-duty sunscreen, so they would’ve had to race the dawn.

  This was the first motel he’d spotted on his drive from the Wells compound.

  Gillespie lifted the beer bottle and drained it. The sun had disappeared behind the forest-thick hills a half hour ago, twilight still smudging the sky with brooding blue and purple. Prejean should be awake by now. Hell, he probably split the moment he opened his eyes.

  Wherever he’d holed up. Provided he’d survived.

  Gillespie rose to his feet, wincing at the pain in his lower back, stiffening up after only sitting still for a few minutes, kee-rist! He walked to the desk, intending to grab a second beer, but instead he found himself setting the empty bottle beside the plastic bag, then sliding his feet into his shoes. Found himself grabbing up his key card, unchaining the door, and walking outside.

  Light spilled from occupied rooms, just a soft glow behind rooms with closed curtains. Fog curled white down from the trees and hung in the moist air.

  Gillespie walked in long strides to the motel office. As he passed the ice and vending machines, he noticed a brunette in black opening the rear passenger door of an idling yellow cab. She glanced at Gillespie as he approached. Attractive, young. She offered him a quick smile, an intriguing impish curve of her lips.