Dante caught the faint tang of brine in the air and heard the rhythmic pounding of surf against rocks. He realized that an ocean seethed on the other side of the mountains.
Landing terraces shadowed the mountain faces like opened and chocolate-emptied windows on the Christmas advent calendars that Simone had insisted on putting up on the fireplace mantel every December.
Simone.
Grief coiled around Dante’s heart. It’d only been a few hours since that Creole asshole Mauvais, the so-called nightkind Lord of New Orleans, and his chienne of a daughter, Justine, had torched Dante’s house—payback for his killing Justine’s play partner, Étienne.
Dante remembered his answer to Justine’s accusation of murder.
Oui, I did. And I’d do it again. No regrets.
And Justine’s furious response, her words like daggers of ice.
Trust me, I’ll make sure you regret every breath you’ve ever drawn.
Simone had helped Heather’s sister Annie escape the Molotov-cocktail birthed firestorm engulfing the house before the intense flames had blocked her from following Annie and the others to safety.
Fire scorches her lungs. Blackens her skin. Devours her with relentless teeth.
Pain pulsed at Dante’s back and at his temples. Within his heart.
Chloe’s voice whispered up from the darkness deep inside.
She trusted you too, huh, Dante-angel?
Yeah, she did, princess. Now hush, p’tite, and go back to sleep.
Knowing laughter slithered up from below. Still no regrets?
Dante didn’t know who had asked that last question, even though the voice and the laughter had sounded familiar. He struggled to put a name or face to the voice, but the memory capered at the edge of his recall, out of reach and beyond his grasp.
Still no regrets?
And the answer to that question?
The hard truth torqued through Dante, ratcheting every tendon, nerve, and muscle piano-wire tight. Simone would still be breathing if I hadn’t killed fucking Étienne.
Dante’s budding migraine intensified, spiking a red-hot poker of pain through his left eye. He shoved the pain ruthlessly below. Blood trickled hot from his nose as white light jittered like Times Square neon across his vision. Sniffing back blood, he wiped at his nose with the back of his hand.
Ain’t got time for this. Focus, dammit.
“Dante.”
Dante looked across the Morningstar to meet Heather’s questioning gaze. Night shadowed the curve of her jaw, pooled in her eyes.
“Your nose is bleeding. That’s a migraine I’m feeling, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Just beginning.” Dante wiped his nose against his mesh sleeve.
Her brows slashed down in a frown. “Christ, Baptiste. That’s just the start?”
“Yeah, but it’s nothing I wanna share, so you need to tighten your shields.” Dante tapped a finger against his temple. “You know how to do that?”
Heather nodded. “Visualization and focus, right? Von told me to picture something that I believe secure and impenetrable, like steel walls.”
“Yeah, c’est bon, chère. Just imagine the walls thicker, reinforced. I’ll tighten mine too and that should stop any more pain bleedthrough.”
“If I fed you energy, maybe it would—”
“Heather, no. Merci, but not here. Not now. And you ain’t got none to spare.”
“Neither do you.” Heather sighed. Weariness and something else Dante couldn’t name—regret or sorrow or maybe a grim and quiet determination—sculpted her face, carved hollows beneath her cheeks. “I’ve got morphine with me,” she said. “If it comes to that.”
“I can’t afford to go on the nod, catin, no matter how bad it gets.”
“I know,” Heather agreed quietly. “But if you have a seizure, I’ll have no choice.”
“I could ease your pain,” the Morningstar said, glancing at Dante sidelong.
Remembering how Lucien used to ice the pain in his head with quicksilver curls of energy, Dante said, “You could, yeah. If I trusted you. Which I don’t.”
“You mean you don’t trust me yet.”
“I mean, maybe I trust you never.”
A smile quirked up one corner of the Morningstar’s mouth. “I love a challenge.”
Dante snorted. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
Wybrcathl floated into the air, a buoyant song, a nighthawk gliding on thermals.
Our creawdwr comes!
Dante focused his attention on the Royal Aerie’s torch-lit main landing terrace. His muscles knotted a twist tighter when he saw the crowd of Fallen waiting on the other side of the terrace’s white marble balustrade.
“It looks like we have a welcoming committee,” Heather murmured. “How do we want to play it, Baptiste?”
“As soon as our feet hit the ground, we grab Lucien and haul ass for the gate.”
“And if they won’t let us?” Heather asked.
“Then we fight, catin.”
“There’s no need for that,” the Morningstar said. “They only wish to greet you, to look upon you. The ones who would try to stop you aren’t here. At least, I don’t see any of the Celestial Seven. Perhaps they’ve heard how you knocked Gabriel to the floor and feasted on his blood, and are exercising a bit of caution. We can hope, in any case.”
“The Celestial Seven?” Dante questioned. “Even though that sounds like the name of the cheesiest Christian rock band ever—”
“Or a gospel choir group composed of seven plump divas,” Heather suggested with a quick smile.
A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “Nice,” he approved. “But I’m betting it’s neither.”
“You’re right. They are the Dominions,” the Morningstar replied. “Princes of the Elohim and the leading members of Gehenna’s senate.”
“Politicians, yeah? So why the concern?”
“They’re much more than that, but never underestimate a politician, boy. It never ends well—for anyone.” Having closed the distance between them and Lucien and Hekate, the Morningstar leveled his wings and glided in the slipstream created by the pair. “The Seven are charismatic, charming, and treacherous egomaniacs hungry for power and glory.”
Dante snorted. “There’s a surprise.”
“And what does that mean for us?” Heather asked. “For Dante?”
“Whoever can claim and bind the creawdwr will be exalted above all others,” the Morningstar replied. He turned his head to look at Dante. Moonlight gilded his blue eyes silver. “They will never allow you to leave Gehenna, not unbound.”
6
ÇA FINI PAS
GEHENNA,
IN THE AIR
Night of March 27–28
“Allow? IT AIN’T UP to them,” Dante said, voice low and tight. “I’m leaving, un-fucking-bound.”
“Perhaps a compromise could be worked out,” the Morning-star said. “We’ve—”
“A compromise requires trust, yeah?” Dante cut in. “And trust needs to be earned. Over time. We ain’t anywhere near there yet. So fuck the compromise.”
“Ah, cranky. Must be getting close to your bedtime,” the Morningstar murmured. “Well, let’s see if we can get you home. And, yes, I know—I can go fuck myself.”
Heather laughed. “He’s got your number.”
Dante couldn’t help the grin that slid across his lips. “Must be psychic.”
“More like a glutton for punishment,” the Morningstar said, dipping his right wing and following as Lucien and Hekate descended in graceful swoops to the crowded terrace.
Lucien landed first, stumbling a little as his sandaled feet hit the marble, but recovering quickly. His belted
black kilt swirled around his legs. Folding his wings behind him, he drew himself to his full six-eight, shoulders back, an arrogant tilt to his chin, as he put his back to the balustrade.
The gathered Fallen bristled at Lucien’s presence, tension prickling through the crowd like a thorned blackberry cane. Expressions darkened. Taloned hands fisted. The scorched rubber smell of anger threaded into the air.
“Looks like they’re ready to put Lucien right back on those hooks, Baptiste,” Heather commented.
“Of course they are,” the Morningstar said. “He murdered Yahweh and we’ve been forced to live without a creawdwr ever since. They don’t want to risk their new Maker’s safety.”
“Do they know he’s my father?” Dante asked.
“No one did, until you named him as such to Gabriel,” the Morningstar replied. “Although I imagine rumors are winging through Gehenna even now.”
White wings fluttering, the Morningstar’s daughter, Hekate, landed on the marble landing terrace with grace. She smoothed her pale tresses with one elegant hand, then moved to stand beside Lucien.
The Morningstar descended to the terrace with powerful sweeps of his wings, fanning the scent of wing-musk and bitter orange into the perfumed air. He touched his sandaled feet to the marble floor, landing with ease and precision, despite his passengers.
Wybrcathl chimed and trilled into the air, hundreds of voices, the earlier tsunami’s intense second surge. Instructing. Praising. Suggesting.
Welcome home, young Maker! Take your place upon the Chaos seat.
Holy, holy, holy!
We shall love and serve you and you shall feed Gehenna.
But underneath the crystalline multiple-voiced choir battering at Dante’s shields, he detected a quiet, desperate vibrato, a warning song.
Don’t listen, little creawdwr. They will enslave you, just like they have us.
Pain rapped brass knuckles against Dante’s temples.
The Morningstar released Dante from his hold. His silver brows knitted in concern. “Your nose is still bleeding and you look like you’re about to drop. I could ease your pain and clear your head, if you’d only allow it. Just say the word, child.”
“Ça va bien. Ain’t your worry.” Dante unlooped his arm from around the Morningstar’s neck. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. Blood glistened on his skin. “And don’t call me child. I don’t care if you’re older than the fucking pyramids, you ain’t got the right.”
Frustration shadowed the Morningstar’s handsome face, thinned his lips. He regarded Dante through hooded, silver-lashed eyes. “You truly are a pain in the ass,” he muttered. Nodding at the fallen angels gathered on the terrace, he asked, “What shall I tell them? And the thousands who haven’t yet arrived?”
“Tell ’em we’re gonna hafta schedule a meet-and-greet some other time.” Dante crooked a c’mere finger at Lucien—who seemed to be in a heated conversation with the Morningstar’s silver-haired daughter. “We ain’t sticking around.”
Heather slipped past the Morningstar and joined Dante. She pulled her Browning free of its pocket. “Ready when you are,” she said, her twilight gaze meeting his.
“I’m ready, catin.”
As Lucien started across the terrace, a frowning Hekate padding in his wake, several golden-winged Fallen stepped into his path, taloned fingers resting on the Celtic-scrolled hilts of the long knives sheathed at their sides. Lucien stopped, and a cold smile brushed his lips.
“Creawdwr-slayer!” someone shouted.
Mutters rose from the gathered Fallen, droned like wasps. The sound burrowed behind Dante’s eyes, beneath his skin. White light flickered at the edges of his vision. The terrace blurred into a white-padded room from whose ceiling a light-slicked hook hung. Dante’s heart kicked against his ribs.
Ready for business.
No escape for you, sweetie.
The terrace returned. Steadied. Blinking, Dante focused on Heather’s worried gaze, suddenly aware that she was holding his hand and squeezing it with everything she had. Sweat trickled along Dante’s temple. “J’su ici, chérie,” he whispered.
“Your shields are slipping,” she whispered. Sweat beaded her forehead. Pain—his pain—had dilated her eyes to blue-rimmed pools of black/night. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
Dante nodded and the terrace tilted. He sucked in a breath. Focus. “We’re going. I just gotta set them straight about Lucien first.”
“Hurry, then.” Heather squeezed his hand one more time, then her warm touch vanished.
Dante stepped forward, intending to shove his way through the towering Fallen blocking Lucien’s path, but the angry rumblings died at Dante’s approach. A Fallen male in a silken green kilt dropped to his knees on the marble and, like nudged dominos, the others knelt as well.
“Terrific.” Pain prickled at Dante’s temples. “Ya’ll need to stand the hell up,” he growled. “Knock this kneeling shit off.”
One musical voice lifted into the air. “But you are the creawdwr . . .”
Dante raked a hand through his hair. Something dark and weary curled through him. Ça fini pas. “Yeah, yeah. Still. Stand up.”
One by one, the fallen angels complied, their movements awkward and unsure, their rapt faces—all gleaming eyes and parted lips—fixed on Dante. He felt their heated, hungry gazes nibbling at him, seizing whatever they could grab—whatever he allowed them to grab—just like the Cage-climbing audiences at Inferno gigs.
He pictured the fallen angels offering him CDs, clothing, and bared flesh to sign. Sign just above my boob. A coy flutter of wings. I plan to get it tattooed on permanently.
Dante smiled at the image and a measure of calm stole through him, easing some of the tension from his muscles. Stabbing a finger in Lucien’s direction, he said, “No matter what he has or hasn’t done, he’s mon père, my father.”
A hundred pairs of eyes shifted their attention to Lucien—most wide with shock or surprise, even disbelief. Dante heard the scrape of Lucien’s sandals against the marble as he straightened and folded his arms over his blood-streaked chest, looking uncomfortable.
“And,” Dante continued, “no one here is going to lay—”
Trumpets bellowed, shattering the night, a deep, resonating, and unnerving primal blast of sound that vibrated up Dante’s spine and into the back of his aching skull.
“So much for slipping away,” the Morningstar said, voice grim. “The Seven have arrived to greet your return from the pit and to escort you to your place upon the Chaos Seat.”
Dante’s song, dark and savage and hungry, slashed out from his heart, a primal and furious aria slicing through the night. Energy prickled along his fingers, pooled blue in the palms of his hands. Pain throbbed at his temples.
“That’s what they think,” he said, voice tight.
7
TO DIE AS SAMURAI
ALEXANDRIA, VA,
OLD TOWN
Night of March 27–28
NIGHT-VISION GOGGLES DRAPED AROUND her neck, Caterina Cortini slipped out of the stolen van and into the quiet residential street, looping a small knapsack containing her B-and-E gear over one shoulder. Her Sig P220 was tucked into the shoulder holster she wore beneath her black workman’s jacket and over her black T-shirt, its weight nestled comfortably against her ribs.
Avoiding the cone of pale light radiating from the street light, she crossed the road in an unhurried stride, her black-soled Air-walk sneakers silent against the pavement.
Three a.m. And all was still, the neighborhood asleep—including Epstein.
Caterina had been in place and watching when her boss/handler had returned from his nightly workout at the dojo, gym bag in hand, around seven P.M. The lights in his hou
se had switched off near midnight and Caterina had waited inside the stuffy van for the next three hours, studying every shadow slanting in the driveway, inspecting every branch of the evergreens growing in front of Epstein’s dark and curtained living room window.
She gave the man plenty of time to fall asleep. Gave him time to stay that way.
She couldn’t take chances, didn’t dare assume—not with Joseph Epstein. Not with the man who’d taught her everything she knew about wetwork, the man who’d mentored her career in Shadow Branch black ops; a kindred spirit.
Not if she hoped to see another dawn.
Words Epstein had said less than forty-eight hours ago as they’d stood together in front of the filing cabinet in his office, audio jammer burbling away to guarantee that their words remained secret, burned bright in Caterina’s mind—a torch carried by a solitary runner.
With each life we end, we alter the future, end possibilities. We become agents of destiny. Severing some, fulfilling others. A hard and honorable duty.
Words she believed in. Words she’d always followed. Even now.
Caterina’s chest muscles cinched tight. Her hands knotted into fists, leather gloves creaking. Especially now.
She drew in a slow, deep breath of frost-crackling air and forced her muscles to relax. Once they had, she padded down Epstein’s hedge-shadowed driveway, past his Crown Victoria, and to his front porch.
A quick peek through the glass panes inset in the mahogany door revealed an alarm keypad set into the foyer wall. Its green all-systems-armed-and-functioning light glinted in the darkness, matching the green pinpoint light winking from the door’s lockbox.
Just as Caterina had expected. No secondary system. None was necessary. She knew Epstein well enough to know that he considered himself his home’s secondary security system. And for good reason.
She’d sparred with him often during training sessions and knew from painful experience how quick, deadly, and ruthless he could be. Several tours of combat duty in Iraq, then Pakistan, had honed the man’s reflexes guillotine-sharp.
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