In the Blood

by Adrian Phoenix

  He closed his eyes, the lashes black against his skin. Three words whispered from his lips and knotted around Heather’s heart.

  “Little fucking psycho.”

  Little fucking psycho.

  Chains looped around his ankles, he hangs upside down above the bodies of the men he killed. Above the body of the girl he tried to protect, but slaughtered instead.

  Chloe. Chloe. Chloe.

  A heart pulsed, hummingbird fast and delicate, and Dante smelled sage and lilac and smoky sorrow. Hunger scraped his heart hollow.

  You’re not alone. I’m with you. I’m here and I’m with you.

  Cool white light encircled him, a sacrament of silence. Heather’s promise.

  “On your feet, Baptiste,” a voice whispered. “C’mon.”

  Dante opened his eyes and looked into Heather’s blue eyes. Fear glimmered in their twilight depths. “Chérie,” he breathed.

  The fear faded and she nodded, a smile brushing her lips. “We gotta move now.”

  Dante slid the rest of the way off the sofa. The room spun around him. His head felt full of broken glass. Heather slid her flex-cuffed hands through his arm and tried to haul him to his feet. Black spots flecked his vision. Pain prickled through him, twisting like a thorned vine through his insides. He stumbled upright with Heather’s help. She steered him toward the door while he concentrated on moving his feet.

  The quiet shush of wind through the treetops stopped.

  A chill crawled up Dante’s spine. Heather pushed him forward, urging him on.

  “Little god,” a woman’s voice said, a familiar voice. Lyons’s whacked-out sister. “If you want to rescue Heather from death again, I’ll be pleased to oblige you.”

  Dante pulled free of Heather’s grasp, and turned around. Athena/Hades stood a yard behind them, her spear lifted and aimed at Heather. Curiosity lit her eyes. Dante stepped in front of Heather. Pressed his back against hers. “Keep walking for the door,” he said.

  “Gotcha.” But as Heather took another step forward, Dante felt some splintered thing shift inside his head and an electric shock surged through his skull. His muscles locked. A blinding burst of light exploded through his vision, scintillating white light.

  Memory sheared up.

  Très joli, dis one, like an angel. Play with him all you want, but don’t put nuthin’ in his mouth. Boy bites.

  Like an angel, ah, kiddo, that doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  The man strokes Dante’s hair, curls a black lock around his finger. Fucker’s name is Eddie. He’s visited Dante in the basement a bunch of times. This time he brought a present—a handful of comics. Dante wishes he’d finish and leave so he can look at the comics and practice his reading. And, later, share them with Chloe.

  This time Eddie’s tender and full of careful kisses. Some of the things he does feel good, make Dante close his eyes and suck in a breath. Yeah, feels good, but he still hates Eddie and everyone else who tromps down those fucking basement steps.

  Do you think you could love me?

  Nope.

  If I had Papa remove your handcuffs, could you love me then? Nope. I’d kill you then.

  When Eddie leaves, the fucker takes the comics with him. And Papa, pissed as hell, comes downstairs.

  The world spun away. Time spun away.

  And Dante felt himself falling and falling and falling.

  38 UNTIL THE VERY END OF ME, UNTIL THE VERY END OF YOU

  Damascus, OR

  March 25

  THE SEIZURE ENDED.

  Dante laid motionless on the floor, eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Sweat trickled down his temples, blood from his mouth and nose. Heather knelt beside him. She blinked hard until her vision cleared. Her hands trembled as she pushed his hair back from his face.

  “You’re killing him,” she said, her throat almost too tight for words. She shifted her gaze to Athena/Hades. “He’s not going to remember. For all you know, your father programmed a self-destruct safeguard into Dante’s mind.”

  “Self-destruct,” Athena/Hades mused. She tilted her head. “You might be right. I wanted him to know why he was killing father, but maybe that doesn’t matter.”

  “I thought Dante was supposed to heal you.”

  “Heal me?” Athena/Hades smiled. “No.”

  “But your brother said—”

  “I said what?” Lyons asked. He walked into the room, a body slung over his shoulder. Sneakers, taped ankles, black jeans, and a black sweater, hands flex-cuffed behind the back, slim but rounded hips—female.

  “That you wanted Dante to heal your sister,” Heather said.

  “I don’t need to be healed,” Athena/Hades said. “I’m who I was intended to be.”

  A dark, desperate emotion flitted across Lyons’s face. “Of course, but Dante can make it so you’ll never need meds again. You’ll be able to sleep.”

  “We won’t need sleep once we’re joined—Conqueror, Counselor, and Creator.”

  “Do you know how we’ll be joined?”

  The whisper-wind sprang to life. “Holytrinitydantewillmakeusoneholytrinity…”

  Shooting Heather a furious look, Lyons dumped the woman he was carrying onto the sofa. She landed on her side, her dark hair fanning across her face. Duct tape sealed her lips. She was conscious and her calm gaze skipped from Heather to Dante. Recognition sparked in her hazel eyes.

  She knows who we are or who Dante is, at least.

  She also seemed to be very cool and collected for a woman bound and gagged and about to be offered to nightkind. Heather wondered who she was and how she’d ended up on Lyons’s sofa.

  “Your father wanted to know if Dante had compromised your humanity,” Lyons said, his gaze locking with Heather’s. “Betcha he’d give you up to the SB without hesitation if he believed Dante had.”

  Heather held his gaze. “Is that the best you can do?”

  A muscle in Lyons’s jaw flexed. “Just warming up.” Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulled out a pocketknife. He flipped open the blade. “Ever seen your boyfriend feed?”

  A chill touched Heather’s heart. She remembered Rodriguez’s body sprawled on the floor of his office. Remembered how Dante had torn into Étienne at the slaughterhouse in New Orleans. Remembered the pungent tang of spilled blood.

  Lyons bent over the woman on the sofa and nicked her throat with the knife. A thin line of blood trickled from the cut, disappearing into the collar of her sweater. Then Lyons swiveled around and passed the knife’s bloodied blade underneath Dante’s nose.

  “Wake up and feast,” Lyons said.

  Dante’s nostrils flared. His eyes opened. “J’ai faim,” he whispered.

  HOLDING HER BREATH IN the stinking room, Annie hurriedly unbuckled the last strap around the man’s ankle. He eased up into a sitting position, then swung his legs off the bed. One slippered foot brushed against the IV stand, an IV stand topped with a woman’s gray-haired head, her face with its gaping mouth aimed like a spotlight—a flesh spotlight—at his bed. Something Annie was trying hard to avoid looking at again.

  And failing.

  When she’d seen Alex come out of this room with a woman draped over his shoulder, she’d wondered just how many people the Psycho Twins had stashed in their House of Horrors. Wondered if anyone she found and freed would help her rescue Heather and Dante.

  “Who are you?” the man whispered. He seemed to be close to her father’s age, maybe a bit older, with graying blond hair.

  “Annie,” she whispered. “Who are you?”

  “Bob.”

  Annie glanced at the door. It was awfully quiet out there. She crept across the carpeted floor to the doorway and listened. A low voice, then another. No sound of footsteps headed down the hall. She released her breath, relief curling through her.

  Glancing back at Bob, she noticed the glass sitting on the nightstand beside his bed/prison. Her throat felt cactus-spiked. “Is that water?”

  Bob followed her gaze to t
he glass. “Yes.”

  Carefully skirting the IV stand and its flesh spotlight, Annie laid the pocketknife down on the nightstand and grabbed up the glass. She drank the room-temperature water down in two throat-stretching gulps and wished for more. When she set the glass back down on the nightstand, she noticed the pocketknife was gone.

  Musta fallen, she thought, scanning the beige carpet.

  The bedsprings squeaked as Bob stood up.

  “Did you see where my knife went?” she whispered.

  Bob’s arm slipped around her shoulders as if for support and he leaned against her, stinking of BO and piss like an old wino. “It’s right here,” he murmured and pressed something sharp and steel-cold against her throat.

  DANTE BAPTISTE ROLLED ONTO his knees, his gaze on Caterina’s bleeding throat. Hunger and delirium burned in his dark, dilated eyes. His beautiful face was etched with pain. Weariness smudged the skin beneath his eyes blue. He knee-walked to the sofa, then pressed himself against it.

  Heather Wallace was kneeling on the floor behind him, her attention not on Dante, but focused on something either on the floor or maybe under the sofa. Caterina wondered what she’d discovered, hoped it was a possible weapon. She’d seen bitter hatred simmering in Wallace’s eyes when she’d locked gazes with Lyons.

  A hatred Caterina understood and shared.

  Dante’s screams still echoed in her mind. Dante might have escaped Bad Seed but his torture had never ended.

  Dante leaned over Caterina. He lowered his face to her throat, his lips parting and revealing the points of his fangs. Wishing she had the use of her hands, Caterina tried to shake her hair back, then arched her neck to make it easier for him to feed since he also didn’t have the use of his hands.

  She felt the heated touch of his lips and her heart raced. She forced herself to remain still as his fangs pierced her skin. Renata had taught her the skills necessary to keep her alive among vampires.

  Never struggle, my little love. That will awaken the hunter, especially among the young ones. If you struggle, they will tear and rend, seize their prey. Keep still. Keep centered. And shout your thoughts—you will be heard. And that will save your life.

  Dante’s body, hard and coiled and fevered, pressed against hers as he drank her down in deep ravenous swallows. Caterina caught a whiff of his autumn scent, fallen leaves and rich, dark soil, earthy and warm. Her eyes closed.

  She felt like curling up and sleeping. Dreaming deep. Dreaming long.

  A thought darted into her mind: Dead, how can you protect this True Blood prince, this Fallen child? If you nourish him with every drop of your blood, who will guard him?

  Caterina forced her eyes open. Her heart no longer raced. Its rhythm had slowed. Biting the inside of her cheek, she used pain to push back the tide of sleepiness washing over her. Cold sweat beaded her forehead. She focused her thoughts at Dante.

  I’d be honored to be your fille de sang, if you would be my père de sang.

  Dante paused in his swallowing, held himself still. Listening.

  Caterina funneled all of her concentration, her remaining energy into what might become her last words: I always thought that when I was ready, I’d take the blood sacrament from my mother, but I’d be honored to be your fille de sang, Dante Baptiste, if you would have me.

  His head lifted. His gaze now seemed clear, lucid—his delirium gone. He licked her blood from his lips, gorgeous lips, Caterina thought drowsily. Gold light glimmered in the depths of his eyes.

  “Your mother’s nightkind?”

  Caterina nodded. Wonder flashed across Dante’s face. “Merci for the gift of your blood,” he said, voice low, the cadence of his words Cajun-musical. “But I ain’t taking any more. I’ll leave the night of choosing between you and your mom.”

  Despite the hunger lingering in his eyes, Dante pulled away from her. Caterina regretted losing the fevered heat of his body. Her skin goosebumped and she shivered, cold inside and out.

  “Your name,” he said. “You know mine.”

  Caterina, daughter of Renata Alessa Cortini, she thought, finally sliding into the long deep dream promised when his lips had first touched her throat.

  WITH THE TASTE OF Caterina’s blood on his tongue, Dante swung around on his knees to face Heather. She sat back on her heels, her gaze on his face.

  “Did you…?” She glanced past him to the sofa. “Is she…?”

  “No.”

  Relief flickered across Heather’s face.

  But if Caterina hadn’t arrowed her thoughts to him the way she had, he would’ve drained her without thought, and that troubled him. It was one thing to hunt those who hurt others, or to accept offered blood, but it was another thing altogether to feed upon a trussed-up and helpless mortal.

  Von’s words returned to him: You’re too young and in too much pain.

  Maybe so, mon ami. Still ain’t no excuse.

  “Don’t you want to finish your meal?” Athena/Hades asked.

  Dante shook his head, and the broken glass in his head shifted and scraped. Light danced through his mind in green electric sparks. His breath caught in his throat.

  Heather reached for him, a tendril of red hair sliding across her face, and Dante’s vision whited-out…

  Chloe bounces out of the bedroom wearing the purple Winnie the Pooh shirt he nabbed for her from Walgreens. Grinning, blue eyes bright, she throws her arms around him and hugs him. She smells like strawberries and soap.

  It fits, Dante-angel! It’s perfect!

  He laughs.

  Dante blinked. The ceiling with its dark wood beams whirled into focus. He tasted blood, his own. His muscles trembled from strain. Pain bit into his joints.

  “Do you need more blood?” Heather leaned over him, her eyes glistening, her lashes wet. “I’ll feed you, if you need more.”

  Crying? For him? His throat tightened. He wished he could touch her. “Merci beaucoup, chérie, but no. Help me up.”

  “I’ll do that.” Lyin’ Lyons locked a hand around Dante’s bicep and yanked him upright. The room spun, dipped, and Dante struggled to get his feet under him. Once he had his balance, he jerked free of Lyons’s grip.

  “You’ve fed,” Lyons said. “You should be strong enough to do what you promised.”

  “Ça y est. Fuck yourself. I promised nothing.”

  With a soft sigh, the whisper-wind awakened. “Holytrinitydantewillmakeusone…”

  “You said you’d heal my sister.”

  “Yeah, if you let Heather and Annie go, but ’cha didn’t.”

  Lyons glanced at his sister as she circled the sofa, her spear tapping out the rhythm of her whispers against the carpet. He blinked hard several times. “All right. What’s it going to take?”

  “Ain’t doing nothing till these fucking cuffs come off. Heather’s too.”

  Lyons looked at Dante. His pale brows angled down. “How can I trust you?”

  “You can’t,” Dante said, holding his gaze. “Gonna hafta take your chances.”

  Shaking his head, Lyons walked over to Heather, pulling his gun from the back of his jeans at the same time. “Up,” he told her, motioning with the gun. She unfolded gracefully from the floor, her chin lifted.

  “You think threatening Heather’s gonna put me in a helpful mood?”

  “No,” Lyons said. He pushed aside a lock of her hair with the muzzle of his gun. “I’m hoping the fact that I’ll kill her will keep you from doing something stupid.”

  “Go to hell, Lyons,” Heather said.

  Lyons shoved the muzzle’s mouth against her temple. Wrapped his finger around the trigger. “We’re already there.”

  Dante’s pulse double-timed. Fire raged through his veins, his mind. “You hurt her and I’ll put you in the ground.”

  The whisper-wind fell silent. The Lord of the Underworld stopped pacing. “My realm. No one goes underground except through me.”

  A fetid graveyard reek followed Athena/Hades as she walked around the s
ofa and joined her brother. Mud flaked from her skin, her coiled hair. “Maybe it’s time to give Father to him.”

  Dante’s heart thumped hard against his chest. “He’s here?” The room suddenly whirled, and his vision grayed. He sat down on the sofa and lowered his head. He drew in deep, slow breaths. From beside him, he heard the steady beat of Caterina’s heart.

  “You okay?” Lyons asked.

  “Blow me.”

  “I need you—”

  “Tais toi,” Dante said, raising his head. The room remained in one place, a good sign. “Don’t wanna hear it. You can still go fuck yourself—twice and hard.”

  “It’s time for the transformation,” Athena/Hades said, her voice light and girlish again. “To rule the Underworld, I must first enter it as one of the dead.”

  “No, no, no, Athena…”

  “Hades,” she corrected gently. She cupped a mud-streaked hand against her brother’s face. “Once our Dante has resurrected me, we shall rule the Underworld together. Isn’t that what it says in Godhead and Divinity for Dummies?” she teased.

  Lyons laughed, the sound a near sob. “All I want is you, my little oracle. Healthy and happy, the circuit closed.”

  The Lord of the Underworld smiled. “But I am healthy and happy, Xander.” She lowered his hand from his face. She walked into the center of the living room, spear in hand. “And soon the circuit will be closed forever and always.”

  She fixed her luminous, self-torched gaze on Dante. “Once you resurrect me, little god, and I return from the Underworld to rule it, I’ll bring your mother back with me. You can create a body to hold her. Give it any form or shape you wish.”

  Dante stared at her. Create a body. Those words strummed across his thoughts like fingers across guitar strings, resonated deep.

  Athena propped the butt of her spear on the carpet in front of her, then leaned forward until the point rested between her breasts.

  “NO!” Lyons yelled, bolting for his sister. But just as he reached her, her gaze lifted past him. A smile trembled upon her lips.

  “See, Daddy? See?”

  Athena/Hades threw herself onto the spear.