Etched in Bone

by Adrian Phoenix

  “No,” Heather murmured. “He didn’t. Dante wanted to wait until we were back.”

  Von nodded, then poured a long, burning swallow of whiskey down his throat. Felt the tightness ease. “Back from where?” he asked.

  “Gehenna.” Heather looked at him, her twilight blue eyes troubled. “Dante punched his way in, Von. Made a gate, a doorway, through a tomb.”

  Von stared at her, pulse roaring in his ears, the bottle of Jack frozen in the air halfway to his mouth. “The explosion,” he whispered. Worlds colliding. “Holy hell.”

  “He destroyed the cemetery,” Heather said. “And damn near used himself up. It took everything he had to stay here and now.”

  “And you, doll? How much of you did it take to keep him here and now?”

  “Almost everything she had,” Dante said, easing up against the bar at Heather’s other side.

  “Almost,” Heather agreed.

  She handed Dante the hoodie she’d brought from the van, then shrugged off her trench coat and draped it across the bar. The faint smell of smoky incense—myrrh, maybe frankincense—wafted from the coat and mingled with her lilac and sage scent.

  With a quick smile, Dante accepted the hoodie, tossing it onto the bar.

  Von glanced over his shoulder. Lucien walked slowly up the stairs, his face shadowed, his hand sliding along the banister. “How’d he take the news?”

  “Hard.” Dante’s voice was ragged with emotion. “After Sleep, we’re gonna hunt that motherfucker Mauvais and his chienne of a daughter down.”

  “I’ve got the word out to your tayeaux to contact us if they spot Mauvais’s riverboat hunkered down anywhere during the day.”

  “Bon.”

  Silver leaned forward against the bar and slid the bottle of absinthe down the counter to Dante.

  Pale fingers blurred. “Merci beaucoup.” Dante lifted the intercepted and now-opened bottle to his lips and took a long swallow of the green liquor.

  Von didn’t know how Dante managed to drink the stuff. Shit was bitter as hell and tended to make the tongue curl—and not in a good way. At least, that’d been his experience. He’d take a smooth bourbon any day.

  Closing his eyes, Dante breathed out a low sigh of relief and pressed the green-glassed bottle against his forehead.

  “I’m going upstairs to check on Annie,” Heather said, squeezing Dante’s forearm.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I’m gonna feed. I’ll be up later.”

  “Annie’s out cold, by the way,” Silver volunteered. “She passed out after the second bottle of vodka. But I put her to bed and covered her up. And I made sure a trash can was near her in case she felt like puking.”

  “Christ.” Heather rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. “Good to know, Silver. Thanks.” With a rueful glance at Dante, she headed across the room and up the stairs.

  “I called Jack and Eli and Antoine when you were gone,” Von said, grabbing his shot glass and pouring himself another round. “Let them know about everything that’s happened—about Simone, the fire, Mauvais, the FBI’s smear campaign against Heather. They volunteered to come over at dawn and keep an eye on things here while we Sleep.”

  Dante lowered the absinthe bottle to his lips. “No. I fucking hate involving them in all this—”

  “Too late. I took ’em up on their offer. And I plan to contact any clans who might be in the area about providing daytime security until we get this shit resolved.” Von tossed back his shot. “I get why you ain’t running or hiding, man, I do, but that means everyone hunting you and Heather—from the SB to the FBI to the Fallen to fucking Mauvais—is gonna know right where to find you. And no matter how bad you wanna take them on—”

  “I ain’t ready,” Dante finished. “I heard you the first dozen times, llygad.”

  Dread twisted a cold knife in Von’s guts. He might not be llygad much longer. He had a feeling the filidh planned to strip him of his rank and boot him out into the cold. He splashed more whiskey into his glass.

  “Holly’s question made me realize something,” Dante said, pausing to take another long swallow of absinthe before setting the bottle on the counter. “I need to put an end to the True Blood rumors.”

  Von nodded, then tossed back his shot. “Given Holly’s question, yeah, it’s time—especially if you wanna direct the info flow. But you gotta be sure. You do this and once your statement’s been verified, nightkind from all around the world will be coming to camp on your doorstep, hoping for a taste of your blood. And the power it’ll give them.”

  “Then they’re gonna be real fucking disappointed. But, yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Some of the fuckers won’t be planning on asking for a taste.”

  “Really? You think so? Gosh. Can’t imagine such a thing.”

  “Smart-ass,” Von growled. “Fine. When do you want to do your coming-out gig?”

  Dante considered. “After Sleep. Get it done and outta the way.”

  “Sure, little brother, but it’ll still need to be verified.”

  “How’s that done?”

  Von shrugged. “Records will be searched for any data on when, where, and by who you were turned. Once that results in a big ol’ blank, one of the filidh—our master-bards,” he explained when Dante lifted a questioning eyebrow, “will drop in to personally check out your claim.”

  “Sounds like a long-ass process. And I think I know a way around that.”

  “And that would be?”

  Dante rubbed his face wearily with his hands, then replied, “Later, mon ami.”

  “Okay, then. You gonna tell me what all happened tonight? Gehenna, the cemetery, the Fallen? How you found Lucien?” Von nodded his head at Dante’s chest. “That mark?”

  “Yeah, I will. But not now. We’ll swap stories after Sleep.”

  Von eyed Dante carefully. “Given the dried blood on your back, you must be running low. Me and Silver are gonna head over to Mistress Feral’s place. I gave her a jingle earlier in case no one had time to scare up a meal. She and a pretty friend are warmed-up, willing, and waiting. You wanna come with? Or I could send a donor back.” He glanced over at the empty staircase, thinking of Heather. “A male donor.”

  “No. I wanna hunt.”

  Dante’s low, taut voice sketched dark pictures in Von’s mind of shadowed alleys, moonlight-glinting fangs, and ravaged throats, of life pulsing away in thick gouts between a pair of blood-smeared lips. A primal hunger stirred within Von.

  Dante’s version of hunting was as true as that of any silent-pawed predator—pouncing, tearing into warm and frantic flesh, rending. Killing. The lion never allowed the gazelle to live.

  Of course, Dante possessed the ability to reason in a way the lion couldn’t, but Von couldn’t help but wonder if Dante’s lethal feeding tendencies were the natural instincts of a born nightkind or the result of the damage wreaked by Bad Seed, or a bit of both.

  “Alone?” Von asked. “Ain’t sure that’s wise.”

  “Yeah, alone. And at the moment, I don’t give a fuck if it’s wise or not.” Tension corded Dante’s muscles, peppered his scent. Hunger and something darker, something feral, tightened his features. “Gotta hunt.”

  Von knew that some low-life, small-time predator was about to disappear from among the ranks of the living, leaving the Big Easy with one less scumbag.

  The right or wrong of it didn’t matter. Not right now. He could work on teaching Dante how to hunt without needing to kill some other time. This wasn’t it.

  “You’d better get moving then, man,” Von said. “Dawn’s in less than two hours.”

  “I know,” Dante murmured. In a rush of air smelling of frost and burning leaves and blood, he stepped in front of Von and cupped his face between fevered hands. Von’s breath caught in his throat at the heat baking against his skin.

  He’s burning up, like his core is white-hot, a sun about to split the night as it goes nova. How long can he burn like this
before everything inside a him goes dark?

  Dante kissed him with lips as hot as his hands and tasting of amaretto and blood. “Thanks, mon ami, for staying behind and keeping an eye on everyone, for keeping them safe. That means everything to me.”

  “You’re welcome, little brother. Not that I exactly had a choice.”

  “You coulda told me to fuck myself.”

  “I almost did.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Knowing that you were right. Won’t save you next time, however.”

  A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “That works. Don’t wanna be saved.”

  “You might change your mind about that after I’m done with you.”

  “I’ll take everything you’ve got and more.”

  Von laughed. “Bet you would too, you pigheaded sonuvabitch. Only question is—are we talking about the same thing anymore?”

  “Hope so, could be interesting otherwise.” Dante’s hands slid away from Von’s face and the air suddenly felt cold as winter against his skin in their absence.

  Von’s amusement faded as he registered the strain edging Dante’s voice. He almost made me forget with his kiss and his hot hands and his hunger. “Why you pretending that you ain’t in pain?”

  And even as the words left Von’s lips, the answer flashed through his mind: He doesn’t know anything else. He probably figures that as long as he’s upright and conscious, he’s just fucking fine.

  “Ain’t pretending nothing. And fuck you, by the way.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and fuck you back. You don’t hafta keep hurting, little brother. After you feed, I can grab some morphine so you can—”

  “Spike myself right into la-la land?” Dante shook his head. “Don’t think so. Ça va bien.”

  “Ça va bien, my ass,” Von grumbled. “But, hey, you’re a big boy and all.”

  “For fucking true.” Dante whapped Von’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Stop worrying about me. Go feed, you.” He looked past Von to Silver. “You too, cher.” Pushing away from the bar, he headed for the club entrance.

  Studying Dante’s blood-streaked back as he walked away, Von frowned. The blood patterns on his skin looked almost like an outline of wings.

  “Hey!” Silver called, scooping Dante’s hoodie up from the counter. He wadded up the pile of black material and tossed it at Dante. “Catch!”

  Dante spun around, his pale hand blurring up to snag the hoodie in midair.

  “Thought maybe you wouldn’t want to attract too much attention,” Silver said with a shrug.

  A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “You thought right. Merci beaucoup.” Shrugging the hoodie on—the one with the red, safety-pinned letters he’d been wearing when the evening had begun ages ago—he turned back around and continued across the floor.

  “Hey,” Von called as Dante stepped into the red-lit hall. “Just one question.”

  Dante paused, and looked at Von from over one black-clad shoulder. “Yeah?”

  “Who put that mark on you?”

  “The Morningstar,” Dante said, pulling up his hood and shadowing his pale face. He resumed walking, his boots soundless against the hardwood.

  Von stared after him, his heart kicking against his ribs. Holy hell. A glacier of fear settled in his belly, radiating cold throughout his body.

  “Who’s the Morningstar?” Silver asked.

  “Lucifer,” Von replied, each word as bitter and tongue-curling as absinthe. “The Prince of fucking Darkness.”

  16

  NIGHT HUNT

  NEW ORLEANS

  THE FRENCH QUARTER

  March 28

  DANTE STEERED HIMSELF TOWARD Bourbon Street, hunger drumming a savage tempo through his veins. He extended his senses, listening for a dark and violent heart, a mind bursting at the seams with blood-slicked shivs and steel cuffs and motherfucking lies.

  That’s my Bad Seed bro.

  Pain throbbed against Dante’s temples, behind his eyes. Wrong, motherfucker. Not anymore. Bad Seed is dead. Like you.

  Sure about that?

  “T’es sûr,” Dante muttered. “Now shut the fuck up.”

  Laughter trickled up from below. Laughter that sounded familiar—like his own—and left him uneasy.

  He picked up his pace, breezing past a couple of hard-partying tourists stumbling back to their hotel rooms and reeking of rum and strawberries. The last of the street regulars were heading home, done with souvenir selling and impromptu guided tours and fast-hand card tricks, disappearing into the dying night like twists of smoke.

  Dawn was on the way.

  The Quarter was about to curl up and take a catnap—except for Bourbon Street, party jamboree and flesh-fest central, twenty-four/seven, and as wide awake as a lap-dancing tweaker go-juiced to the eyebrows.

  Party jamboree, yeah. And a strobe-light beacon for pervs on the prowl.

  And the reason he’d aimed his hunt in this direction. The past stirred, restless and full of venomous whispers.

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

  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.

  Searing pain shoved a red-hot poker behind Dante’s left eye, and blood trickled hot from his nose. Jaw clenched, he wiped at his nose automatically with the back of his hand, smearing blood across the skin.

  You could kill them all, y’know. Nothing and no one could stop you.

  Dante’s breath caught in his throat as those words soaked into his mind like melting ice—clear and cold and true.

  Dante-angel?

  It’s okay, princess. I ain’t listening.

  More laughter, warm and low and too familiar, spiraled up from below. Liar.

  Dante jammed his fisted hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

  Halfway to Bourbon, Dante’s searching senses brushed up against that dark and violent heart he was scouring the night for, a mind bursting at the seams with blood-slicked shivs and steel cuffs and motherfucking lies, but this predator/perv was cold and efficient, a gutter shark fueled by survival, by power and money, and not lust—at least not for sex.

  Pulling his hands from his pockets, Dante paused on the empty sidewalk, his gaze on a sleek old Caddy gleaming like a white-washed tomb beneath the street lights, nestled against the curb on Saint Peter, just before Preservation Hall.

  The beats of two mortal hearts—one hammering out a desperate rhythm, the other a lazy roll of thunder, the shark’s unhurried tempo—echoed from the car’s interior.

  Behind the Caddy’s windshield, Dante saw a dark-skinned boy with close-cropped black curls struggling to slide across the passenger seat to the door. One hand reached for the door handle. But the Caddy’s driver wasn’t having it. His fingers twisted into the teen’s long-sleeved black T-shirt and yanked him back. Shook him.

  “You think I don’t know a lie when I hear it, you little shit?” The driver’s face was impassive, without a flicker of emotion, his voice matter-of-fact. “Robbed, my ass. You done smoked-up my money again. And for the last fucking time. You’re gonna be a lesson for the rest of the little shits.”

  Hard-knuckled images flashed through the man’s mind as he doubled up a large fist. Bullet to the temple. Body dumped into the Caddy’s trunk. A quick drive out to the bayou. A Happy Meal for hungry gators.

  From the darkness below, Papa-fucking-Prejean laughed. Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson.

  Dante moved.

  Before the fi’ de garce had even lowered his fist, Dante had wrenched open the Caddy’s passenger side door, tearing it from its hinges in an eardrum-scraping shriek of metal and tossing it to the sidewalk. Steel clanged against brick.

  Two pairs of dark and startled eyes focused on Dante, bodies frozen in a stark still-frame of impending violence.

  Dante breathed in the
smell of sweat and beer and the heady, smoky aroma of panic-peppered adrenaline and shivered as hunger twisted through him. He moved again. Leaning into the car, Dante grabbed the teen’s wrist and jerked him free of the driver’s grip, out of the Caddy, and onto the sidewalk.

  The boy—maybe fourteen or fifteen and meth-skinny—stared at Dante, mouth open, panic still bright in his eyes. “God-damn,” he breathed.

  Dante spun the teen around, then pushed him away from the Caddy with a shove to the back of his How to Destroy Angels T-shirt with its skeletal beast graphic.

  “Fucking go. And don’t look back.”

  The boy bolted toward Bourbon Street, his sneakers slapping against the sidewalk bricks with ever increasing speed.

  Dante turned back around to face the Caddy and its driver—nah, make that pimp—who was reaching under his seat—no doubt for the gun he’d planned to use on the now-fleeing teen, his dead-eyed gaze on Dante.

  “You’ve just made the last mistake of your life, asshole,” the man stated, his tone level and easy, a man ordering mashed potatoes with his BBQ ribs, as he swung the gun out from beneath the seat.

  Dante moved, blurring into the Caddy, across the front seat, slamming against the pimp, a forearm pressed against his throat. The back of the pimp’s head smashed against the driver’s side window, a spiderweb of fractures crackling across the glass behind his trimmed ’fro. Dante snugged his leather-clad knee against the man’s crotch.

  Wincing and struggling for air, the pimp fi’ de garce shoved the gun muzzle underneath Dante’s hoodie and against his ribs. Dante reached down and wrapped his fingers around the gun’s barrel. And twisted. Fingers and other small bones in the pimp’s hand and wrist snapped.

  The man screamed, the sound scraping like fingernails across Dante’s aching mind. Dante released the gun and it bounced onto the seat before thudding onto the floorboards. Grabbing the pimp’s chin, Dante forced his face aside, exposing his throat.

  “Still thinking this is the last mistake of my life, motherfucker?”