Heather’s heart jumped into her throat when a pair of security guards stopped and turned, hands diving inside jackets.
She swung up the Browning and squeezed the trigger.
MAUVAIS LICKED AT THE blood trickling from Dante’s throat, then, with a low moan, his lips fastened to the wound. Dante tried to jerk away from the Creole’s hungry mouth, but pain ripped through his shoulder with every movement he made. His vision grayed.
“Keep him still,” Justine snapped.
“Why don’tcha come over here and keep me still yourself, chienne?”
“If he says another word, hurt him.”
“Here’s a couple of my favs—Fuck. You.”
A fist knuckled into Dante’s aching ribs, but he held Justine’s gaze and forced a smile to his lips. “Fuck you twice.”
Fingers seized Dante’s hair and yanked his head back. He tried to calm his racing pulse, not wanting to make anything easier for fucking Mauvais and his merry little crew, but his furious heart refused to listen.
Mauvais drank deep, his hands resting on Dante’s hips, fingers kneading the leather beneath them like a contented cat. From above, Dante heard the muffled pop-pop-pop-pop of multiple gunshots.
Mauvais lifted his head. “Sounds like we have guests.”
“Oui. A vampire male and mortal female,” Justine said, a tight smile on her lips.
Her smile and Mauvais’s calm sent chills down Dante’s spine. They’d been expecting, maybe even planning, for someone to come for him.
More gunshots pop-pop-popped outside.
“Friends of yours, I presume,” Mauvais said. “That is, providing you’re able to make and keep friends.” He rose gracefully to his feet. Pulling an embroidered cream handkerchief from his breast pocket, he dabbed at his lips.
Several sets of hands released Dante as a couple of the nightkind holding him trotted out of the library to join the fight above. Felt like two remained holding him.
Send the pain below and fucking move.
White light flickered behind Dante’s eyes. Pain hacked at his skull like a dull-edged axe. Seizing the pain, he used it, burned with it and, briefly, transcended it.
With a quick inward twist, Dante yanked his right arm free of the kneeling nightkind asshole holding it. Then, teeth gritted, he reached over his left shoulder and snagged the rim of Payne’s ear. A hard jerk and the bastard’s face slammed into Dante’s shoulder, dislocating it with an audible pop.
“Fuck!” Pain poured molten through Dante’s shoulder, collarbone, and chest. The room whirled.
Blood from Payne’s nose or mouth or where-fucking-ever splashed hot across Dante’s cheek. He heard a thud as Payne toppled to the floor behind him.
“Ouch. Well, hell,” Von said. “Dante wasn’t the one in danger, after all. My mistake.”
“And you call me stubborn,” Dante muttered. He rose to his feet, muscles coiled, burning up inside.
Justine’s gaze slid past Dante, surprise rippling across her face. “Guy—a llygad.”
“You okay, Baptiste?”
Dante smelled lilac and evening rain, then felt Heather’s fingers brush against his cheek. “Better now, catin. You?”
Heather’s mingled emotions, the butter-soft warmth of relief and rose-thorned anger, flowed into Dante through their bond. “I would’ve been better if you’d followed me over that wall. But we’ll discuss that later.”
“D’accord.”
“An honor to have you with us, llygad,” Mauvais said, extending his arm across his waist in a half-bow. “But this isn’t an official … meeting.” He pursed his lips as he straightened, his gaze reflective.
Dante knew just what he was thinking: What the hell is a llygad doing storming a riverboat, gun in hand? Choosing a side and taking action—it ain’t done. He smiled. Until Von, that is. A new breed.
Von stepped up on Dante’s left side. “You’re wrong about that, Guy,” he said. “The moment your people nabbed Dante it became official. I’m here as friend and llygad both. And I’ll never just stand aside where he’s concerned unless he asks me to—so you might keep that in mind.”
A deep frown creased the skin between Mauvais’s pale brows. “What you’re saying goes against all precepts of llygaid law.”
Von shrugged. “What can I say? Times are changing.”
Mauvais’s gaze shifted to Dante. “Indeed they are.” He sat in one of the leather chairs and casually crossed his legs. “Since I have no desire to have my entire crew and staff slaughtered—at least, not tonight—please feel free to leave, Dante.”
Justine moved to stand behind the Creole’s chair, her black gown clinging to every curve. Her body language and expression were wary despite the glimmer of excitement Dante caught in her eyes.
A danger alarm prickled along his senses, intensifying the chill he’d felt earlier. Something was off, wrong. Maybe not a trap, after all, maybe something else altogether.
“You wanted my attention?” Dante said. “You’ve got it. This ain’t finished.”
“And it won’t be until you’ve paid for your crimes in full,” Justine said.
A smile tilted Dante’s lips. Extending both middle fingers, he stepped backward several paces before turning around. He met Heather’s deepest-cornflower-blue gaze.
“You thinking there’ll be an ambush?” she asked in a near whisper.
“Ain’t sure. But maybe, yeah.”
Heather nodded. She loaded a fresh magazine into her gun, then chambered a round. “Okay. How about your shoulder? I know you can’t use it and—”
“We’ll take care of it outside,” Von said. “Once we’re in the clear.”
“D’accord.” Dante looped his good arm around Heather’s trenchcoated waist. They moved out of the library, across the crowded salon, up to the main deck, and off the riverboat without a single challenge. Dante’s inner alarms flashed warnings.
A deafening whistle blasted the air, the sound echoing through the night like a monster’s bellow. Pale steam geysered above the river boat. The Winter Rose edged away from the dock.
“Let’s do this, little brother.”
Dante leaned against several stacked crates on the wharf and gingerly lowered his arm to his side. His shoulder throbbed.
“Ready?” Von asked.
Bracing himself against the crates, Dante drew in a deep breath. He nodded and tensed as Von grasped his left arm. Before he had time to blink, the nomad slammed his hand into his shoulder, popping it back into place.
Dante banged his head back against the crates as pain washed over him like a tsunami; washed over, then ebbed away. Sliding down the crates, he sat down hard. “Shit,” he breathed.
Von crouched in front of him. “You okay?”
“Fuck you.”
Von grinned. “Yup. You’re okay.”
Sudden images and sensations poured through Dante’s mind: walls of roaring flames, skin-charring heat, and choking black smoke; panicked images sent by Simone, Trey, and Silver.
Fire scorches her lungs. Blackens her skin. Devours her with relentless teeth.
“Simone,” Dante whispered. Not a trap, no. Mauvais had detained him, insuring that he was kept away from home long enough for …
How does it feel, marmot?
Heather dropped to her knees, her eyes dilated and brimming with all the dark emotions crashing into her through their bond. “What is it? What’s happening?”
“The house,” Von said. “They’re burning the fucking house!”
Simone’s anguished screams ripped through Dante’s mind, his hammering heart. He bolted to his feet, then stumbled as pain exploded behind his eyes like a fiery Molotov cocktail. Then stopped.
Simone’s link wisped away.
>
Dante saw his own shock mirrored on Von’s face. “She’s gone.”
36
THE TASTE OF HIS TEARS
NEW ORLEANS
March 27
FLAMES ENGULFED THE HOUSE. A few of the old oaks in the yard burned as well, the searing heat from the house igniting their branches. Yellow and orange lights from fire trucks, police cars, and an ambulance strobed across the night. Firemen in turnouts striped with reflective tape worked powerful hoses on the intense blaze.
Heather slid open the van’s door and jumped out before Von had brought the vehicle to a complete stop. Thick acrid smoke and the odors of burning wood and melting vinyl layered the air. Rumbling generators and engines vibrated the pavement beneath her Skechers.
Water misted the air like rain.
Several clusters of people stood across the street, watching. A couple of people sat hunched on the curb—Trey and Silver.
Another hard knot twisted up Heather’s guts as she looked for Annie. Spotting her sitting on the ambulance’s bumper, Eerie clutched to her chest, Heather exhaled.
“C’est bon, chérie,” Dante said, as he joined her, his husky voice echoing her relief. “Annie’s okay. Eerie-minou too.”
Heather felt just an edge of his raw grief. She had a feeling he’d secured his shields; both to protect her and to give himself some privacy. She clasped his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, meaning it and wishing she could say more.
Dante squeezed her hand, then released it. “I know,” he said softly. “Merci.” He strode down the street to where Trey and Silver sat on the curb, shoulders hunched, heads lowered. Silver jumped to his feet when he saw Dante, his soot-smeared face devastated. Dante grabbed him up in a tight hug.
Von stared at the burning house, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Firelight and shadows flickered across his face and the lenses of his shades. His hands clenched into fists.
“I didn’t tell her good-bye. No need, y’know? I was coming back and …” His words trailed off and he drew in a long, shaky breath. “Go see Annie, doll. I’m okay—well, ain’t okay, but I can be left alone.”
Heather hugged the tall nomad. “I’ll talk to the cops for you,” she said.
“Just tell them that Lucien is the owner, and that he’s in Russia somewhere on business and he’ll contact them as soon as he returns. If they ask about Simone, Trey’s her only kin. Don’t let them talk to Dante. He’s too wound up and will probably say or do something to get arrested.”
“Understood,” Heather said. She released Von and hurried to the ambulance.
Eerie fixed his lambent gaze on Heather, his eyes glowing golden beneath the streetlights, and mewed. Annie looked up. Soot streaked her too-pale face.
“Simone never made it out,” she said, her voice raspy with smoke. “Trey and Silver tried to go back in for her, but the flames …” She shook her head. “It was so fucking bad.”
Heather sat beside her sister on the ambulance’s bumper. “Here, let me have Eerie so the medic can take care of your other arm.” Scooping her kitty from Annie’s embrace, she cuddled him on her lap. “How is she?” she asked the medic.
“A few first- and second-degree burns on her hands and arms,” he replied. “Some smoke inhalation. Shock. But she’s doing okay. You should take her to a hospital when we’re done here.”
“Will do,” Heather said, another warm rush of relief pouring through her. She checked Eerie over. A bit of singed fur, watering eyes, and tender paws, but he seemed okay. She stroked his little head, eyes stinging. “How many lives have you used up now, kitty-boy?” she whispered.
He chirruped and bumped his skull against her hand.
“I’ve got to talk to the cops,” Heather said. “Join the guys when you’re done here, okay?”
Blinking hard, Annie nodded.
Heather looked over at the curb. Dante sat behind Trey, holding him tight against his chest, his legs stretched around him. They rocked together, Dante’s face pressed against Trey’s dreads. Silver sat knotted up beside them, his face buried in his hands.
Heather’s thoughts reeled back to earlier in the evening when she’d kissed Dante out of jealousy after he’d given Simone a good-bye smooch. A lump formed in her throat.
She glanced at the remains of the burning house—Simone’s funeral pyre.
I’m so sorry, Simone. Please forgive me.
GILLESPIE SLIPPED HIS RENTED Nissan Sentra into drive and pulled out into the street, following the black van Prejean, Wallace, and the others had piled into after the fiery action had died down.
Looked like the gorgeous blonde vamp with the long, spiraled hair hadn’t survived the blaze. Not surprising, given that he’d heard crashing glass and the whoomph of Molotov cocktails and other incendiary explosives. Just lucky that everyone hadn’t died in the raging columns of fire that’d whipped through the house at all exit points.
Or unlucky, depending on your point of view.
It seemed like Dante Prejean had more than a few enemies out there. Good to know. For now, it was time to move camp.
Sipping on a Pacifico, Gillespie hung back, allowing the van to drive out of sight. Lovely things, GPS transmitters.
Once Prejean was settled again, Gillespie would resume his work, his patient mission. The one thing that would validate his wasted life.
Learning the proper way to kill a demon-spawned vampire and waiting for the right moment to do it.
STANDING BEHIND THE LONG polished bar in Club Hell, Silver poured straight shots of bourbon for himself, Von, and Annie. He placed an unopened bottle of absinthe on top of the bar for Dante. The throat-tightening odors of smoke and singed clothing and hair curled into the air.
Annie darted a look at Heather, then tossed back her shot. But her defiance had been wasted since Heather had already decided that her sister had been through too much tonight to deny her a few drinks.
She could’ve died tonight and badly.
“You sure you don’t want one?” Silver asked, lifting his shot glass.
“In a bit, maybe,” she said. “I’m going to check on Dante and Trey.”
Nodding, Silver downed his shot, then poured another. Von said nothing, his gaze on the glass between his hands.
Heather filled a wide-mouthed tumbler with water, then placed it on the floor at the opposite end of the bar for Eerie. He lapped it up with quick darts of his tongue. Stroking her fingers along his soot-covered back, she murmured, “I’ll get you some food later.”
Heather went upstairs, following the soft and soothing sound of Dante’s voice, singing in Cajun, down the hall and past the room Gina had been murdered in just a month ago.
Trey rested on a bed, curled on his side, staring into the darkness with gleaming and unblinking eyes. Dante was spooned against him and up on one elbow. As he sang, he brushed his fingertips against Trey’s temples.
Heather leaned against the room’s threshold, not wanting to intrude. She remembered a conversation she’d had with Simone a month ago during a drive to the house.
A friend of the family turned me, just after Papa’s funeral.
Was it something you wanted?
No. But she didn’t offer me a choice.
And your brother?
He was all the family left to me. I gave him a choice. If he’d-a said no, I probably woulda set myself on fire.
Heather closed her eyes, throat aching. She wondered how Trey would survive without his sister or if he’d even try.
Dante stopped singing. Heather opened her eyes. He leaned over Trey, his hand on the web-runner’s jeans-clad hip, whispering into his ear.
“You gotta stay alive, mon ami, for Simone. I wanna kill the assholes responsible for her death, but that’s your right. Mauvais and Justine ordered it. I’ll help you find them and their house-torching buddies, and I’ll stand beside you as you kill them.”
“Can I stop living after that?” Trey asked, voice hollow.
Dante swallowed
hard and a muscle flexed in his jaw. After a moment, he said, “Ain’t up to me, cher. But ask me again when they’re all dead, yeah?”
Trey closed his eyes.
With tender kisses to Trey’s temple and cheek, Dante rolled off the bed and to his feet. He wiped at his glistening eyes with the back of a hand. Stopping in the doorway, he wrapped his arms around Heather. His fevered heat radiated into her, bone-deep. His scent of burning leaves and deep, dark earth swirled around her.
Reaching up, she cupped his face between her hands and kissed his lips. Mixed in with his amaretto-sweetness, she tasted the salt of his tears. He kissed her back, long and deep.
“What now, Baptiste?” she asked against his lips.
He touched his forehead to hers. “Gotta go make something right.”
“Side-by-side and back-to-back, remember? You’re not going out there alone.”
“Oui, je rappelle,” Dante said. “We’re in this together, chérie.”
“Glad to hear it,” Heather murmured, kissing his lips one more time. When the kiss ended, she asked again, “So what now, Baptiste?”
Dante lifted his head. Blue flames flickered in the dark depths of his eyes. Dangerous blue flames. “We go get Lucien back.”
37
WYBERCATHL
NEW ORLEANS, ST. LOUIS NO. 3
March 27
DANTE PARKED THE VAN behind Von’s Harley and shut off the engine.
“At least it’s still here,” Heather said, opening the door and climbing out onto the sidewalk in front of the cemetery.
“Good thing, yeah,” Dante agreed. He walked around the van and joined her on the sidewalk. “Nobody wants a pissed-off nomad on their ass, let alone a pissed-off night-kind nomad. Results ain’t pretty.”
And right now, that pretty much described Von—pissedoff. Convincing him to remain at Club Hell hadn’t been easy.
I’m coming with you, little brother. That’s fucking final.
I need you here. I gotta know everyone’s gonna be safe and I trust you to do that.
Maybe if I’d stayed at the house, Simone would still be alive—is that what you’re saying?
Maker's Song 3 Beneath the Skin Page 34
