Laughing, Dante walked from the room and Heather watched him go, his autumn scent lingering in the room, his words sitting uneasily in her mind—I feel like I’m running out of time—and wracking her brain for a way to make a liar out of him.
34
NEVER BETTER
NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 28
ANNIE ENDED THE CALL, then slipped the cell phone luscious Lucien had given her into her jeans pocket. She sat on the floor in the darkened entrance hall, her back against the black-painted wall, her knees drawn up to her chest. Red light from the neon BURN sign jittered against all the black like electric blood. She sucked in a lungful of smoke, cigarette crackling as it burned.
Fucking Dad.
She’d been an idiot to even think that he might’ve been worried about them. No. Correction. He’d been concerned plenty. About Heather. And about his career and how Heather’s little joyride with Dante had damaged his reputation at the mother-fucking Bureau.
As for herself? Not so much.
Annie, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been worried sick. You need to tell me where you are so I can get help to your sister.
It’s no secret we’re in New Orleans, Dad. And you’re a lying sack of shit.
You quit taking your meds again, didn’t you?
My fucking meds or the lack of my fucking meds have nothing to do with the fact that you’re a lying sack of shit who took something I shared in confidence. You remember me telling you how Gorgeous-but-Dea . . . I mean . . . Dante healed Heather when she got shot?
I remember, Annie. I also remember that I was grateful.
Yeah. In fact, you were so grateful that you went and spilled that little secret to one of those motherfucking federal agencies. And now they’re hunting Heather. They want to dissect her like some fucking biology lab frog. And it’s all my fucking fault because I fucking trusted you. Daddy.
A long pause, then: You are off your meds.
That doesn’t change the fact that you’re a lying sack of shit.
Maybe not. But you need to believe me when I tell you I never betrayed your confidence, sweet pea. Maybe my phone was tapped. Maybe there was a bug in the house. But I’m just as much a victim of all this as you are.
Somehow Annie doubted that.
Welcome to Annie’s list of Most Annoying Shit Ever. Number one on the list? James William Wallace and his “I’m just as much a victim of all this as you are” speech. And just underneath it at the number two position—Heather Wallace and her “we’re linked and we don’t know exactly how it happened” ditty.
Annie blew blue-gray smoke rings into the neon-lit air. She watched the smoky circles expand, then thin, then fall apart. From beyond the club’s entrance, she heard the eager voices of people lining up, waiting for the club to open.
She wondered if any of them had any dope to sell. A little something-something would clear her fucking father’s voice from her mind.
That bloodsucker has your sister under his control. We need to get her free. He’s ruined her career, her life. She isn’t thinking straight.
Then you’re gonna love learning that she’s now mentally linked to him. He’s inside her head twenty-four seven.
Linked? Are you sure?
That’s what she said. How do you know this bloodsucker, this fucking beautiful vampire, isn’t doing stuff to me too? Maybe he’s drinking my blood. Fucking me. Maybe he’s pimping me and Heather out to other nightkind and we have nightly orgies of fangs and hot vampire dicks.
Annie . . .
No, really. How do you know?
Is he?
I wish. Wow. Looks like the lying sack of shit doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Listen to me closely, sweet pea, so I can get you and your sister out of there, safe and sound, and back home again.
Oh, so we can be a family again, Dad? A family like we never were?
Annie, listen now. I need you to make sure the doors are unlocked during the day. Can you do that for me, sweetie?
Sure. But I won’t. So fuck you.
Annie finished her cigarette, stubbing it out against the hallway’s black-painted concrete floor in a little shower of sparks. As she studied the fluorescent graffiti spray-painted on the wall across from her—INFERNO RULES! RANDY SUKS DIK (Go, Randy!) and WE DIE YOUNG—she heard the sound of footsteps heading into the hall. She turned her head and saw her sister walking toward her. Red neon flickered like flames across Heather’s face.
“Hey, there you are,” Heather said, stopping beside her.
“Yup. Here I am.”
“I heard that you’re going to help with soundcheck for the band.”
Annie nodded. “Yeah, I get to play roadie for a night.”
Heather sat down on the floor beside her and rested her head against the wall. She looked at Annie. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said. “You seemed upset earlier, and with the fire and everything . . .”
For a moment, Annie considered telling Heather about her conversation with Dad, then remembered all the secret conversations her sister shared with Dante and decided to keep this one to herself.
Annie shook another cigarette from her diminishing pack and slipped it between her lips. She struck a match, the flame dazzling her sight in the darkened hall.
“I’m good,” she lied. “Never better.”
35
SOMETHING HIDDEN
NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28
“HEY, DANTE! HEATHER!”
Dante swiveled around at the sound of Antoine’s voice. The bass player trotted down the Cage’s steps, his arm stretched behind him as he led a chick across the dance floor by the hand, his fingers entwined with hers.
“Who’s that with Antoine?” Heather asked. “She’s beautiful.”
“Betcha it’s his baby-to-be’s mama.”
“Given her belly, I’m betting you’re right.”
Antoine stopped in front of them, a grin on his lips. A chick with loose black curls and skin just a shade lighter than Antoine’s dark brown stepped up beside him.
She stared at Dante with eyes the color of melted dark chocolate, a shy smile on her full lips. Her pregnant belly was so round that it looked like she’d swallowed a basketball. Or two.
And her scent—warm caramel and coffee, with a heady brew of pregnancy hormones bubbling beneath it—reminded him of someone else. But he wasn’t sure who. He tried to trace the olfactory memory, but it eluded him.
“Hey back, you,” Dante said to Antoine with a smile. “This must be Sharika, yeah?”
Antoine nodded, black curls swaying, toffee-colored eyes alight. He made introductions, and Heather shook Sharika’s hand, a welcoming smile on her lips.
“A pleasure, chère,” Dante said, brushing his lips against hers in greeting. “You here for the Saints of Ruin gig?”
“No, I just came by to say good-bye to Toine,” Sharika replied shyly, her voice a silky alto.
“Yup,” Antoine agreed. “She’s on her way to Houston to spend time with her mama before the baby’s born. Since Annie’s helping set up, I thought I’d go to the Amtrak station and keep her company.”
And that’s when the memory hit—who Sharika’s scent reminded him of—and Dante’s eyes widened in disbelief. Holy shit.
Sharika glanced at Antoine from beneath her lashes. “And we should get going or I’ll be late for the train. It’s been nice to meet both of you.”
“Same here,” Heather said. “Have a safe trip.”
Antoine nodded, then they walked away, hand in hand, her belly in the lead.
“Spill it, Baptiste,” Heather said, then deepened her voice. “I felt a disturbance in the Force.”
Dante trailed a hand through his hair, replaying the scent through his memory. Sharika here, Annie in the SUV on the way to New Orleans. He’d noticed something different in her smell, something he couldn’t name.
He looked
at Heather. “I think Annie might be pregnant.”
“What?” Heather stared at him. “How do you know?” Her breath caught. She thumped the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Shit. She was puking this morning. I thought it was a hangover, even though she never gets hangovers, but . . . Are you sure?”
“It’s in her scent, catin, but no, I ain’t positive.”
“If she’s pregnant, the father couldn’t be Silver, could it? Can nightkind put a bun in a mortal female’s oven?”
Dante shook his head. “Can’t be Silver. Nightkind can’t knock mortals up.”
His stomach did a slow flip as something occurred to him, something he’d never even considered before, since he’d never had reason to think it applied to him. Turned nightkind couldn’t get a mortal pregnant. But born nightkind could.
Now that he knew he was True Blood . . .
“Fuck,” Dante whispered. Shock iced his blood. “But I can. In theory, anyway.”
Heather’s mouth opened, then she closed it again. Her eyes darkened from twilight to midnight blue. Finally she said, “I’m on birth control, but will it work? I mean, it’s designed with humans in mind, not nightkind . . .”
They stared at each other for a moment, then Heather exhaled and shook her head. “Christ. We’d better use condoms until we find out.”
“I’ll pick some up at the market. I’ll pick up a pregnancy test kit for Annie too.”
“Pick up two kits,” Heather murmured.
Dante felt her concern flow through their bond and thread with his own, a concern he’d never experienced before—what if it was already too late for condoms?
“TEST. TEST,” ANNIE SAID into one of the standing microphones set up in the Cage. A half empty bottle of golden José Cuervo sat on the floor near her feet. “One-two-three. Test. Test.”
Eli and a mortal roadie that Dante didn’t recognize but figured worked for Saints of Ruin were busy tuning guitars and checking equipment behind Annie.
After discussing it with Heather, Dante had volunteered to break the potentially bad news to Annie. It wouldn’t matter to him the same way it would to Heather if Annie got pissed off at the messenger.
Annie shook her blue/black/purple razor-cur hair back from her face. She looked happy and in her element, maneuvering around the musical equipment with an easy confidence Dante hadn’t seen in her before.
She misses it. Music, being onstage, performing, drinking in the energy from the audience—she misses it all. And no wonder, she and her band were fucking musical napalm.
He wondered what it would take to get her back onstage, then thought of the bag in his hand. Whatever it was might have to wait. But picturing her performing with a huge, round, pregnant belly, snarling and flipping off the audience, made him laugh. Fuck yeah.
Stopping at the foot of the steps leading up into the Cage, Dante called, “Hey, WMD frontwoman! When’s the band getting back together?”
Annie spun around on the balls of brand spankin’ new Doc Martens to face the opened Cage door. A pleased smile danced across her lips even as she slanted her dark brows together in a mock scowl.
“Shove off, asshole.”
“Words to make any man hot. Got a minute? Need to talk to you, p’tite.”
Annie shrugged. “Sure, dork.” Crossing the stage, she slipped past the steel-barred entry and bounced down the steps. Her gaze flicked to the paper bag in his hand. “Ooo. You got candy for me?”
“Not exactly.”
She smelled of tequila, and her usual vanilla and cloves, but he caught another whiff of a buzzing hormone undertone. Just like Sharika’s, only less intense.
“Well, that sucks. So what’s in the bag if it ain’t candy or porn?”
Dante nodded at the hallway leading to the restrooms. “Let’s make this a private talk, yeah?”
Annie’s eyebrows lifted. “Now I’m really intrigued. Are you gonna make a play for me? I know I’m fucking irresistible and I’ll bet I’m more bendy than Heather in the sack—”
Dante snorted. “Don’t go there,” he advised. “You ain’t gonna come out ahead, p’tite. Not even close.” Turning, he bee-lined for the dimly lit hallway.
“And you would know this how? You need to give me a whirl before you make up your mind. I promise I’ll be naughty.”
Dante laughed. “No doubt. But it ain’t happening.”
He halted beside the door marked HELLIONS accompanied by the circle-and-cross symbol for females and waited for Annie to catch up.
She joined him with a pout on her bee-stung lips and mischief in her eyes. The low light winked from the piercing at her eyebrow and lower lip. “What’s a girl gotta to do to get laid?”
“In your case, probably not much. Just ask anyone—other than me—and you’ll find yourself on your back in a heartbeat. “Catch.” Dante tossed her the bag.
Opening it, Annie peered inside. She frowned. “Is this a fucking joke?”
“Nope. Look, I noticed something in your scent, something that made me think you might need that.”
Cheeks flushed, Annie crumpled the bag closed again and hurled it at him. He caught it at chest level, then lowered it to his side.
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Annie, I’m not trying to be an asshole . . . much, anyway . . . but if you’re knocked up, you should know, yeah? The booze, the smokes, even meds—all bad for a baby.”
Annie narrowed her eyes. “Even if I was pregnant, what makes you think I’d even fucking keep it?”
“I don’t. And that’s your decision—if you’re pregnant.”
“If I am, it’s probably Silver’s.”
Dante shook his head. “No, it ain’t. You can’t get knocked up by turned nightkind.”
“Then I can’t be preggo cuz I ain’t slept with anyone else. Lately. That I remember, anyway.”
Dante held out the bag. “Go find out. Prove me wrong and you can call me an asshole fifty different ways onstage.”
Annie snatched the bag back from him. “Looking forward to it.” She stalked off to the little female Hellions room and slammed inside.
She returned five minutes later, fury blazing in her eyes, and hammered a fist into Dante’s shoulder. “I fucking hate you. It’s positive.” She pulled back her fist to punch him again, but Dante caught it, her knuckles smacking into his palm.
Just as he parted his lips to say, Sorry, p’tite, a tiny crystalline note tinkled across the edge of his awareness, a ghost finger whispering across a piano key.
Dante went still. Listened. Tuned out the soft shush-shush of the blood racing through Annie’s veins, the chatter of the guys in the Cage, the beating of his own heart.
Another note chimed through his mind, pure and small and clear, drawing Dante’s gaze to Annie’s T-shirt-covered abdomen. “Holy fucking hell,” he whispered.
“What?” Annie said, voice sharp, uncertain. “What are you staring at? You aren’t going to have a fucking seizure or go all blue—Hey, man, what the fuck?” she protested when Dante pressed his palms against her belly.
At his touch, a cascade of tiny, diamond-sharp notes spilled across his consciousness—not quite a song, not yet, but a beginning. A buoyant and busy energy hummed under his hand, nestled deep beneath Annie’s body heat-warmed T-shirt, her flat muscles, a creative pool. Life.
Dante’s song swirled up in response to the happy little melody, and he imagined himself strumming chords and plucking strings, rearranging, fine-tuning, shaping, his fingers sliding along a twisting helix-shaped fretwork . . .
Nononono.
Dante yanked his hand away from Annie’s belly, knotted it into a fist, and squeezed his eyes shut. Fire crackled along his fingertips. Annie gave an alarmed squeak.
Sweat beaded along his hairline as he struggled with the urge—the hunger—to Make. After several tense moments, his song quieted. The electric tingling in his hands vanished.
Dante opened his eyes. Annie was gone. Not that he blamed her. That
had been too fucking close. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. He shoved both hands through his hair.
What the hell just happened?
One thing—okay, several things, but one in particular—troubled Dante about the incident: Annie’s not-quite-a-baby-yet had sang to him, Sharika’s hadn’t. And a dark suspicion as to why roosted in the back of his mind, since he had a feeling that non-singing unborn babies were the norm.
Heather’s words trickled through his memory: I think I found out what the Morningstar did that morning in our motel room.
Yeah, me too, catin. Anger surged through Dante. Motherfucker . . .
He glanced down the hall toward the Cage, regretting that he’d ruined Annie’s night and siphoned away the buoyant joy that she’d carried inside the Cage. Sighing, he pushed away from the wall and went to join Von in the courtyard.
36
INEXTRICABLY BOUND
NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28
“SUMMONED?” BLUE FLAMES FLARED around Dante’s fingers, snapping the electric smell of ozone into the jasmine and honeysuckle-sweetened air. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at his glowing hands.
Von tensed, sitting up straight on the black wrought-iron bench as Dante paced in front of it, his boots silent against the courtyard’s brickwork.
“It’s not a big deal,” Von said, keeping his voice an easy drawl, “so put out the fire, little brother. I like the courtyard just the way it is.”
Dancing yellow light from the gargoyle candle sconces burnished the ring in Dante’s collar, flashed from his studded belt, the rings on his fingers and thumbs. His burning hands clenched into fists.
“Dante . . .”
“Working on it. It ain’t like flipping a fucking switch. Not yet, anyhow.”
Dante stopped pacing and closed his eyes. Tension seemed to thrum beneath his skin like a plucked piano wire. He drew in a deep breath of air and closed his eyes. The creawdwr flames around his hands winked out.
Von sagged against the back of the bench, his pulse easing off the throttle.
Etched in Bone Page 27
