Maker's Song 3 Beneath the Skin

by Adrian Phoenix

  March 26

  HEKATE SLIPPED OUT OF the golden and gleaming hall and into the starlit night. A complicated and trilling chorus of wybrcathl rang behind her; a melodious and heated debate regarding the future of the unnamed creawdwr still eluding the Elohim, free and unbound in the mortal world.

  Hekate glanced over her shoulder, her pulse winging through her veins. Beyond the glittering hall’s wide mouth, Gabriel walked before the gathering in a royal blue kilt, his golden wings fluttering in emphasis as his smooth and honeyed voice detailed his plans for the creawdwr and the Elohim.

  Plans that didn’t require the creawdwr’s consent.

  “We need both—tradition and a new age—and we need a sane creawdwr to achieve them,” Gabriel said, his voice carrying above the tumult of song.

  “The creawdwr has turned our emissaries to stone!”

  A smile touched Gabriel’s lips. “So the Morningstar claims. I find it intriguing that he, out of all of them, managed to remain flesh.”

  “It’s a sign. The creawdwr is saying things need to change. Gehenna should die and so should all the old ways. It’s time to begin fresh, to join the mortal and vampire worlds, and craft a new and golden age with a young Maker to lead us.”

  “A creawdwr who’s already insane?”

  “Soon this very young Maker will be bound and stabilized by strong and caring calon-cyfaills, and ready to take his place on the Chaos Seat,” Gabriel said.

  Wybrcathl quieted. The burring buzz of chalkydri wings echoed through the hall as the little demons helped the nephilim servants fetch and pour iced pitchers of wine.

  “But,” Gabriel continued, “perhaps it is time Gehenna was allowed to fade away.” His golden wings fluttered, capturing attention. “And a new Gehenna created.”

  Shocked and outraged songs pealed through the air at Gabriel’s words. Hekate unfolded her gleaming white wings and launched herself into the fragrant spring evening.

  She hoped her plan would work. She hoped that Gabriel and his high-blood old guard debated the creawdwr’s and Gehenna’s future late into the night.

  Her wings cut like blades through the chilly air, each stroke bringing her closer to the Royal Aerie’s east terrace where Lucien awaited her. Ghost-pale moonlight rippled along the mouths of the aeries she flew past.

  As she kited down to the terrace, Lucien tipped his face up from the balcony he leaned against. A handsome face, but each passing day siphoned away more of its vitality, dimmed the heat in his black eyes to embers.

  She saw the golden coil of her geis looped around his mind: You would be forbidden to leave my side.

  And felt his snaking warm around her thoughts in return: You would be forbidden to lead anyone to my son or reveal his location.

  Hekate’s sandaled feet lit on the marble floor and she fluttered to a stop, folding her wings behind her. Lucien saluted her with his glass of plum purple wine.

  “Very pretty,” he said. “I enjoy watching you fly.”

  She joined him at the balustrade. “A debate is taking place at the Hall of Voices,” she said. “We should leave as soon as I have you disguised.”

  Lucien nodded, then tossed back the last of his wine. “Do you need anything from me?” he asked, swiveling around to face her.

  Weariness etched his face, pooled dark beneath his eyes. At times, his skin seemed almost translucent. Gabriel’s punishment—binding Lucien’s fate to the dying land—seemed cruel to her. But perhaps it was deserved. Lucien was a murderer, after all. Calon-cyfaill to the creawdwr he’d slaughtered. A chill shuddered along the length of Hekate’s body; it was an unthinkable betrayal.

  “No,” Hekate said. “Just hold still and keep quiet until I complete the illusion.”

  Lucien set his empty glass on the balcony’s edge, then straightened, head high. Hekate plucked energy out of the air, shaping it and weaving it around Lucien, chewing on her lower lip in concentration.

  A quick bending of light rays finished her illusion. Lucien looked nothing like himself, his hair red, eyes green, his build slimmer and his face angled and sharp, his wings golden.

  Hekate blew out her breath, then nodded. “Hold still,” she said, stepping behind him. She sparked blue flame into the bands on his wings. Seals melted and they fell apart, clinking onto the marble floor. She scooped the pieces up and tossed them into the night.

  “Ah,” Lucien sighed, unfolding his wings. He flexed and fluttered them, tested their strength.

  “Are you strong enough to fly?” Hekate asked.

  “If I’m not, let me fall.”

  “Not very helpful,” she said, turning away from him. She touched Menakel’s waiting mind and the dark-haired nephilim servant padded past the guards and onto the terrace.

  Hekate nodded at the couch. Without a word, Menakel went to it and laid down. She crossed the terrace, the nephilim’s eyes drinking in each stride, then knelt beside his couch. She bent, kissed his lips, and murmured, “Thank you.”

  “Just don’t get caught,” he whispered.

  “I won’t,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Drawing in a deep breath, she gathered more night energy and wove another illusion. A few minutes later, Lucien, wings banded, regarded her from the couch with dark eyes.

  Joining the true Lucien at the balustrade once more, she said, “Shall we?”

  A smile curved his lips. “Try to stop me.” Walking to the terrace’s open edge, he threw himself into the star-pricked sky.

  Hekate’s heart skipped a beat when he dropped from sight, but he rose a moment later, his false golden wings stroking through the air.

  With a final glance at Menakel on the couch, Hekate snapped out her wings and followed Lucien to Gehenna’s gate.

  GABRIEL WALKED AWAY FROM the symphony of debate in the hall, seeking fresh air out on the terrace, seeking a glimpse of Hekate’s white wings slicing through the night.

  He wondered if she was even now flying from Gehenna and into the mortal world with an illusion-draped Samael winging at her side.

  He rested his forearms on the cool stone balcony. He’d glimpsed the geis she’d placed upon the murdering aingeal and had known what she intended to do.

  Search for her mother and her calon-cyfaill.

  Ah, but Samael would search for the Maker and would, no doubt, find him. As would the agent Gabriel had tasked with following the pair.

  Another part of him insisted that he not allow Samael and Hekate to escape, to have them captured at the gate and both tossed into Sheol.

  But doubt chained his mind. The Morningstar claimed to be following the creawdwr. Claimed him to be Fola Fior and Elohim. Claimed him to be injured. But honesty had never been the Morningstar’s gift.

  Samael had said the Morningstar played games. True. But they all were guilty of that charge—games within games within games.

  Insanity hadn’t caused the creawdwr to turn Gehenna’s emissaries into stone. No, Gabriel was quite certain that it had been done at Samael’s command. And it was just as certain that Samael had sent Lilith into a trap, knowing what awaited the Elohim who answered the Maker’s anhrefncathl.

  Samael was guilty of the very thing he’d accused Gabriel of—chaining a creawdwr to his will. But what did he hope to accomplish? Could he be planning to reclaim Gehenna’s Black-Starred throne?

  Of course, if the creawdwr couldn’t be located until after Gehenna and treacherous Samael had faded out of existence, he’d no longer need to worry about Samael’s possible plans.

  the captain of the royal guard sent.

  Gabriel studied the star-flecked night. Good question. A very good question.

  Despite their centuries together, despite the fact that he’d never denied her anything, Hekate had sought help from his enemy—an aingeal who would trick and use her, despite her geis, instead of simply asking for Gabriel’s assistance in searching for her loved ones trapped in
the mortal world.

  A child’s game. A foolish girl. But useful.

  Gabriel’s talons bit into his palms. He felt the hot trickle of blood.

 

 

 

  Perhaps the Morningstar would be more forthcoming once he learned his daughter hung chained in Sheol’s embered guts.

  Games within games within games.

  33

  THIS TIME IS ALL WE HAVE

  OUTSIDE NEW ORLEANS, DANTE’S HOUSE

  March 27

  BROWNING IN HAND, HEATHER surveyed the night-drenched yard, searching for anything out of place, for a sign of anyone watching since she’d pulled the SUV into the house’s circular drive at 4:30 that afternoon.

  She’d studied the house and yard then too, before locking up the vehicle and tucking herself against Dante’s fevered warmth for a nap until his nightkind household awakened.

  Dante draws in a deep breath and opens his dark eyes. Heather says, “We’re home.”

  A warm, almost happy, smile curves his lips. “C’est bon, yeah?”

  “Definitely.”

  Heather bends and kisses his lips. Everything she sees in his eyes, she also feels. Ever since her journey through the dark forest of his mind, she feels connected to him in a way that reminds her of the temporary blood-link she shares with him whenever he drinks a little of her blood.

  Bonded, he explains to her. Connected mind-to-mind and heart-to-heart.

  “I can feel you, catin, and you can feel me—no matter if we’re together or not.”

  Dante returns her kiss passionately and heat ripples through her belly – hers and his. This is going to be interesting.

  “All clear, doll,” Von said, joining her on the cracked and root-tilted sidewalk. He slid his Browning back into its holster.

  “Good.” Heather tucked her gun into the back of her jeans, automatically tugging the hem of her shirt over the Browning.

  Need to get my own gun.

  “Cool house,” Annie said, stopping beside her, gym bag in hand.

  “No one watching, not from cars parked on the street, anyway,” Dante said, slipping back into the driveway through the partially opened wrought-iron gate.

  The front door flew open, smacking against the house, and Simone raced down the steps, her long blonde spirals bouncing against her back. She stopped in front of Dante and threw her arms around his neck.

  The sweet smell of magnolias permeated the air.

  “Mon ami,” she cried, kissing first his lips, then his cheeks, over and over again.

  A radiant smile lit Dante’s pale face. He laced his arms around her waist. “Hey, chère,” he said, Simone’s kisses muffling his words. “Missed you.”

  “Hey, sugar,” Von said, tipping Simone’s face toward him. “Plant some on me.”

  Grinning, Simone loosened her hold on Dante and kissed Von thoroughly.

  Annie arched an eyebrow and glanced at Heather. Heather forced a smile to her lips and tried to relax, reminding herself that Simone and Dante’s relationship was one of friendship. At least, she thought so. All the same she itched to pluck the blonde away from Dante.

  Silver, his Midnite Purple hair anime-styled and gelled, leaned in the doorway in black tee and jeans, a mischievous smile on his lips, streetlight gleaming in his silver eyes.

  “Hey, Annie.”

  “Hey back.” Hoisting the strap of her gym bag onto her shoulder, Annie climbed the steps to the front porch. Silver pushed away from the doorway and led the way into the house.

  “Let’s take this inside,” Von said. “Might not be safe out here in the open.”

  Dante kissed Simone’s forehead, then eased free of her embrace. “He’s right.”

  Von snorted. “That goes without saying.” He slipped an arm around Simone’s waist. She looked at the nomad for a long moment, then face stricken, she leaned into him. She glanced at Dante, concern in her dark eyes. Von shook his head.

  Heather had a feeling Von had just told Simone about Dante’s loss.

  Dante stretched a hand out to Heather and she grasped it. Lacing his fingers through hers, they walked up the sidewalk and into the house.

  Home.

  GILLESPIE WATCHED THROUGH HIS binoculars as Prejean, McGuinn, the Wallace sisters and the other two vampires—the gorgeous blonde and the slinky teenager—disappeared inside the house.

  He’d also watched as Prejean had prowled the street and neighboring driveways looking for surveillance vehicles. Moonlight had glinted in his hair and along his leather pants, seemed to flow beneath his white skin.

  Gillespie had pulled back from the window, heart pounding, wondering if the True Blood could sense him even across the street and through walls.

  When he’d looked again, no one walked the street’s edge and he’d suffered a bad moment imagining Prejean climbing in through the laundry room window.

  He’d remembered Rodriguez’s savaged throat in vivid detail.

  Lifting his binoculars with shaking hands, he’d seen Prejean inside the gate, the blonde vamp draped over him and Heather Wallace looking none too pleased.

  Gillespie rested the binoculars on the windowsill and went downstairs to fetch a couple of Pacificos from the fridge of the house he’d broken into when he’d learned the owners were on vacation.

  Trudging back up the stairs, Gillespie settled into his chair again. He glanced at the sniper rifle in its case. When the time was right. No matter how long it took for that time to come around.

  Through Prejean, he finally had a chance to redeem himself, to do something that mattered. Through Prejean, he had a chance to remove an evil from the world. An evil that unmade people and murdered others; an evil that had transformed a little girl into someone else.

  An evil partially created and released by the SB itself—Dante Prejean.

  Taking a long swallow of the lime-laced and frosty brew, Gillespie picked up his binoculars and went back to watching.

  HEATHER DRAPED THE CLOTHES Simone had given her—panties, black bra, purple tank top, black leather pants, socks—on top of Dante’s rumpled bed. The bra would be snug since she and Simone wore different cup sizes, but it’d work until she could buy clothes of her own.

  Leather pants—a first. But Simone apparently didn’t own a single pair of jeans— just a few pairs of leather pants and a closetful of skirts and dresses.

  Mewing, Eerie inspected the clothes with delicate sniffs, decorating them with orange fur.

  “Hey, you,” Heather said, rubbing his head. “Quit helping.”

  Closing his eyes, Eerie stroked his jaw against her fingertips. He purred.

  Dante had offered her and Annie rooms of their own, an offer of personal space that Annie had snatched up immediately.

  Don’t want you to feel like you hafta share a room with me, chérie. Until we get things figured out—

  Do you want me in your room?

  He answers her with a kiss that steals her breath away and weakens her knees.

  Then shut up, Baptiste. There’ll be time to figure things out later.

  Heather stepped into Dante’s bathroom and turned on the shower. A sense of loss shafted through her heart. Tears prickled in her eyes. Bewildered, she shut off the water. Then it hit her—it was Dante’s grief, not her own.

  She walked from his room and into the hall. She peeked in each door she passed until she found him two doors down and across the hall. He stood at the closet of a neat, Spartan room, a white tailored shirt in his hands.

  A shirt that had to be Lucien’s, given the size.

  Dante rubbed his ringed thumbs back and forth across the material. He blinked hard and fast several times.

  Heather swiveled around and walked away, a lump in her throat. If she’d said anything or had stepped into the room, he would’ve put his grief aside. She couldn’t do that to him.

  Returning to the b
athroom, Heather turned the shower back on and pulled off the Mad Edgar T-shirt. Steam curled into the air. As she reached to unfasten her bra, her hands brushed against hot fingers already working the bra hooks. Even hotter lips kissed her neck. Her bra dropped to the floor with a quick push and then those hot hands slid around and cupped her breasts.

  Heather gasped, pleasure fluttering through her belly in intense waves.

  Fangs pierced her flesh, a quick-vanishing sting at her neck. Dante drank her in with a low growl, his fingers squeezing and teasing her nipples. Pleasure spiraled through her in quick, ever-tightening loops.

  She felt him hard against her, his erection pressing against her ass.

  His hunger, his need, poured through her, stealing her breath and weakening her knees. One hand trailed away from her breast and down her bare belly to the top of her jeans. Heather moaned low and leaned into Dante—wanting his touch more than she’d ever wanted anyone’s. She reached back, grabbed his ass, and pulled him closer still.

  Dante’s questing hand unbuttoned her jeans and wormed its way inside, slipping underneath her panties. Her breath caught rough in her throat as his fingers found her—circling and dipping and tracing. Pleasure rippled through her with every touch.

  His breathing quickening, Dante kissed her neck, then trailed moist, fevered kisses along her throat. Heather turned her face toward him so he could kiss her lips; she yearned for his kiss.

  Hunger gleamed in Dante’s eyes, a dark and ravenous fire. He slid his hand free of her jeans, then stepped around in front of her. He pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the floor. Hooking a finger through the ring on his collar, Heather reeled him in and down.

  He kissed her long and deep—hot, bruising kisses—as he backed her up against the bathroom wall. Fire burned through Heather at the touch of his tongue, at the heat of his tight-muscled body pressing against her. She cupped her hands around his beautiful face and kissed him even deeper, devouring his sweet amaretto lips and savoring the grape-and-copper tang of her own blood on his tongue.

  Working a hand between them, Heather grasped his hard length through his leather pants. Dante growled against her lips. His hands tore at her jeans, breaking the zipper in his effort to get them off of her.