And quietly end her life.
Of course, it would be impossible for the Bureau to know that by ending Heather’s life, they would most likely trigger the world’s end as well when Dante laid waste to it transforming what remained into a funeral pyre for Heather.
Unless I stop him. Lucien’s hands knotted into fists at his sides. Like I stopped Yahweh. Unbidden and unwelcome, a memory thousands of years old played behind his eyes.
Lucien cradles Yahweh’s body against his chest. Light no longer blazes from the creawdwr’s face. Tiny drops of scarlet blossom on his skin, blood from Lucien’s nose.
Outside, the ground ripples and quakes and it feels as though Gehenna will tear itself apart. With Yahweh dead, it just might.
“What have you DONE?” Lilith screams the last word. She drops to the floor beside Lucien, hands at her temples. She grabs at Yahweh’s shoulder.
Lucien smacks her hand away and looks at her. Her hand freezes in midair. She stares at him with stunned purple eyes. “You’ll never use him again,” he says. He returns his gaze to Yahweh’s pale, lifeless face. “He’s free . . .”
Headlights shafted through the darkness as a car approached from the opposite lane. It started to slow, a potential Good Samaritan, until Lucien spared it a single molten glance. Taking in the glowing golden gaze, the dragon-winged silhouette, the driver’s eyes widened. The car sped away.
Darkness rolled in once more across the road—and across Lucien’s heart.
If it gets that far. If it comes to that. I will find Dante before it does.
A breeze fragrant with the smells of sagebrush and winter-dried scrub fluttered through the length of Lucien’s hair, whispered cool against his wings. He walked over to the Lexus’s open door, gravel gritting beneath the soles of his shoes.
He knew the car was empty even before he ducked his head inside for a peek. No heartbeats. No faint odor of death. Even so, a keen disappointment knifed through him as he searched the Lexus for any clue as to what had happened to Heather.
An open glove box, an empty gun holster, rental-car paperwork.
A blood-smeared fork on the floorboards.
Severed flex-cuffs.
A few small drops of blood flecking both front seats.
Car keys still in the ignition.
Lucien could read the story easily enough. Heather had used a secreted fork to get the drop on her father, one or both had been slightly injured; she’d managed to get her flex-cuffs off; and someone had grabbed the gun. But nothing—except the flung-open door—hinted at what had happened to Heather or her father after the car had stopped.
They got out, yes, but where did they go?
A chilling possibility occurred to Lucien—maybe it was a mistake to assume that Heather had left the Lexus voluntarily. What if the car had been intercepted, its occupants seized?
No tire marks were scorched black on the highway, no broken bits of red plastic from the taillights or paint scrapes on the bumpers. No flat tires. Nothing to indicate that the Lexus had been forced from the road.
Nothing and more nothing.
Frustration burned through Lucien, strung his muscles wire-tight. He climbed back out of the Lexus and studied the scrub and the woods beyond the road. Closing his eyes, he listened. He heard the small, rapid pulse of animal hearts, of birds, but nothing that indicated a mortal sheltered amongst the trees, hiding in the darkness.
Heather had disappeared. His only link to Dante, gone.
And Lucien no longer knew where to look for her. He felt something deep inside of him crack, then sheer away, like tons of ice sliding from a glacier into the sea.
The truth is never what you hope it will be.
Hearing a metallic double whomp, Lucien opened his eyes and watched impassively as both fists slammed again into the Lexus’s roof, crumpling it inward. The windshield exploded, spraying shards of glittering glass into the gravel.
Even while a part of himself insisted that this wasn’t productive behavior, his fists kept pounding into the car, over and over, until the roof finally merged with the seats. Metal groaned, then shrieked as he wrenched the door off its hinges and tossed it toward the woods. He heard a distant whump as it landed.
Lucien stared at the remains of the shattered, pummeled car, his taloned hands flexing. Aching to destroy something else. Anything else. It was better than admitting he’d been defeated. And with that realization, his savage fury and despair drained away like radioactive water from a broken core, leaving behind a simple, unavoidable truth.
He needed to ask for help.
I’m running out of options, out of time, and I can no longer afford to keep Dante’s and Heather’s disappearances secret. Not when every world, every life, is at stake.
Especially my son’s.
Lucien’s wings flared, sweeping through the cool air, and he rose into the night. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to take deep, even breaths. Forced his pulse to slow, his heart to calm.
Silence.
Frowning, Lucien sent again, a psionic ping to check Von’s state of consciousness. He felt the submerged and dreaming rhythm of Sleep—albeit an unusual Sleep given that it wasn’t even close to dawn. Yet Von’s Sleep seemed to be natural, no drug static blurred his consciousness. How was that possible?
And then he remembered the stay-awake pill Von had taken back at the house while trying to reach Heather. He suspected that the consequences Merri Goodnight had warned about had caught up with the nomad.
“By all that’s holy, not now,” Lucien muttered.
Contacting Silver, Lucien learned that he’d left Von at the club, preparing to head to Louis Armstrong International to catch a flight to Dallas. Silver hadn’t heard from Von since, and when he tried at Lucien’s insistence, met with the same result. And came to the same conclusion: stay-awake pill consequences.
Lucien drew in a deep breath of sage-sharp air and folded up his own fears, quietly putting them away.
Lucien ended the conversation with a promise to keep Silver informed, now that Von was down for the count.
Abandoning the now-ruined Lexus as a lost cause, Lucien unfurled his wings and took to the air. As he soared higher and higher in the star-pierced sky, frost iced his hair into translucent tendrils, glittered on his wings, burned cold in his lungs. He flew through the night, arrowing himself toward the gate high above the Gulf of Mexico, the smell of brine and deep water in his nostrils.
He’d briefly considered flying to New Orleans and St. Louis No. 3, to the gate Dante had punched into the wall of a white marble tomb, hammering a hole between worlds with just his flame-swallowed fist and a son’s determination to bring his father home again. Lucien’s throat tightened.
He went to Gehenna for me, I can do no less for him.
All out of options, yes. Nearly out of time, true. But he would be careful, all the same. If the Elohim in general learned that their creawdwr was not only injured but stolen, most likely by ill-intentioned mortals who planned to use him, the Fallen would declare war on the human race.
And if that seat-warming pretender to the throne, Gabriel, or any member of what remained of the Celestial Seven, should learn the truth, they would lead the winged and righteous brigade into mortal skies, setting it ablaze with their wrath.
Once Dante had been found, and the human world reduced to ruin and po
ckets of trembling survivors, he would be returned to Gehenna and never be allowed to leave again.
And whoever freed Dante during this holy war and kicked the most mortal ass would be bonded to him.
Lucien thought of the lie Astarte had told Dante.
No one can bind you against your will, nor would anyone wish to.
Anyone strong enough could bind him against his will, and each would slaughter the other for the chance to do so. Gabriel especially, given his precarious perch upon the black-starred throne because of Dante’s violent rejection of him and of his authority. Binding the creawdwr would guarantee his continued rule.
Not to mention being a sweet bit of revenge on both father and son.
Lucien absolutely couldn’t allow any of them to know what had happened to Dante or Heather. He needed to pretend that everything was fine, that Dante would return to Gehenna as pledged when the time came. As symbolized by the sigil on his chest.
And that very sigil was the only option left. Lucien winged through the night until he caught a glimmer of color in the frozen dark. Where once a golden gate had spun, visible only to Elohim eyes, now there was only an untethered rip in reality. One awaiting Dante’s restorative touch.
Voicing his wybrcathl as he winged through the rip and past the guards on the other side, Lucien flew into the shimmering colors of the faded aurora borealis undulating across Gehenna’s pale night sky. He breathed in the smells of jasmine and smoky myrrh and salt air. The scent of home, yes. For thousands of years. But no longer.
Wings cutting through the air in sure, strong strokes, Lucien aimed himself toward the Royal Aerie. Landing on the marble terrace, he warbled a call to the healer with hyacinth eyes and hair the color of a blue-frosted winter moon—the Morningstar’s beautiful daughter.
Hekate’s musical response came almost immediately.
22
AS MANY AS IT TAKES
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
SHADOW BRANCH HQ
WALKING INTO THE FIFTH-FLOOR cafeteria for a cup of hopefully fresh coffee, Teodoro wasn’t surprised to see only a handful of people scattered amongst its white Formica tables, given that it was nearly midnight.
What did surprise him was seeing his supervisor sitting at one, methodically eating what looked like a gravy-slathered turkey sandwich paired with a cherry tomato–topped side salad.
“I thought you’d be home in bed by now,” Teodoro commented as he stopped beside Webster’s table. “Long gone by the time I got here.”
With his salt-and-pepper hair; short, wiry build; and fierce dark eyes, Webster always reminded Teodoro of a banty rooster. At the moment, though, all he saw in the other man’s eyes as he met his gaze was a muddied, disgruntled weariness.
“That’s what I thought too,” Webster grunted, resting his fork on his plate, leaving his sandwich with its savory-smelling brown gravy—roast beef, not turkey—unfinished. “But here I am. And it seems that the interruption to my sleep and your vacation just got a little longer.”
Frowning, Teodoro pulled out the chair across from Webster and sat, resting his briefcase on the floor beside him. “Why is that?”
“We’ve picked up Heather Wallace,” Webster replied. “Stole her right out from under the feds. She’s on her way to HQ even as we speak. And the OC wants you to delve into her mind. Could be a while, though. We’re moving her by car to avoid any potential difficulties with the airlines.”
Excitement pulsed through Teodoro’s veins at this unexpected bit of news.
“Which route are they taking and when do we expect them?”
Webster told him, then added, “With food and sleep stops, we’re figuring on two days. Sorry about your vacation.” He shook his head, expression almost sympathetic.
Teodoro left Webster to finish his hot—well, lukewarm perhaps—roast beef sandwich, fetching himself a cup of coffee, before heading for his office on the eighth floor.
He couldn’t believe his luck. With Heather Wallace found, there was no longer any need to go back into the searing chaos that comprised the creawdwr’s mind.
Hey, motherfucker. I don’t remember inviting you.
All he needed to do now was intercept Heather and sever the bond she shared with Dante. A bullet fired into her skull would do the trick nicely. And Teodoro knew just the person who could accomplish both.
Caterina Cortini—an assassin for the SB and, quite possibly, their very best wetwork expert, period. The attractive brunette was much more than a killer who neatly wrapped up other people’s loose ends. She was also the mortal daughter of Renata Alessa Cortini, a vampire’s child of the heart.
And a spy for Dante Baptiste.
Or so she had been, until Teodoro had captured her while she was engaged in a bit of self-assigned and extremely unsanctioned wetwork. Once he’d sunk his mental fingers deep into Caterina’s mind, Teodoro had learned—among so many other fascinating things—that the dark-haired assassin had laid her gun at Dante Baptiste’s bare feet and sworn complete loyalty to him.
A fact that Teodoro had taken advantage of immediately.
He’d carefully seeded false information into Caterina’s mind—information transforming Heather Wallace from Dante’s lover into an undercover agent for the Bureau, a coldhearted betrayer of the True Blood prince and creawdwr that Caterina had vowed to protect.
Now Caterina was also Teodoro’s deadly little puppet.
A puppet he was about to spin into motion.
Striding across the threshold into his office, Teodoro caught a faint but fragrant whiff of frankincense, anise, and paint from the angel trap he’d painted on the floor from the threshold to his desk—just in case Dante Baptiste or even one of the Elohim paid him a visit.
Though the trap with its glyphs and sigils was hidden underneath the carpet, Teodoro still felt an electric prickling along his skin. The protection sigils tattooed centuries before above his heart and solar plexus threaded cool energy throughout his body, insulating him from the spell he’d created and painted on the floor as magical insurance.
Mortals could saunter across without feeling a thing. But if one of the Fallen—or even a Fallen half-breed—should set foot inside the trap, there they would remain, powerless, until Teodoro released them.
The prickling vanished once Teodoro stepped behind his desk and beyond the trap’s reach. As he settled into his chair, the leather squeaking comfortably beneath him, he noticed the red message light pulsing on his desk phone.
Someone delivering the news Webster already gave me, no doubt.
After resting his briefcase on the desk’s neat cherrywood surface, Teodoro reached over and nabbed the handset. He punched VOICE MAIL, then LISTEN. A woman’s voice, smooth, confident and melodic, a voice he recognized as belonging to Seraphina Ivey of the Oversight Committee. A voice he knew well.
“Agent Díon, as soon as you receive this message, please meet me in the tenth-level evidence warehouse. We need to discuss tonight’s interrogation agenda.”
Teodoro erased the message. He would join Seraphina in the warehouse as soon as he had taken care of one little thing. He had no intention of wasting an opportunity like the one the SB had given him when they’d intercepted Heather Wallace.
Flipping his briefcase open, he pulled an audio jammer and the cell phone he used for his clandestine conversations with Caterina—which comprised nearly all of them—from its interior.
He deftly set up the jammer/iPod look-alike and switched it on. It burbled and chirped, effectively desensitizing all audio recording equipment—including any routine SB office bugs.
Grabbing up the cell phone, he thumbed a brief text to Caterina: Where are you?
Less than a minute later, a quiet beep announced her reply: Germantown, TN. On assignment. Finished. What do you need?
Have urgent task. Regards D. Call me.
The message had no sooner been sent than Teodoro’s cell was ringing. “I’m listening,” Caterina said when he answered. Her faint
Italian accent was flat, all business.
“Bueno. I need you to keep listening.”
Teodoro filled Caterina in, but with selective bits of information, changing Heather’s kidnapping by her father to a meeting with FBI handlers instead.
“Our people grabbed her when she was on her way back to Baptiste’s club. If she’s brought into HQ, she’ll spill everything to avoid interrogation and then they’ll learn who and what Baptiste is—what they’ve really got on their hands. A Maker. Programmed to obey. To use however they choose.”
“Not if I can help it. I’ll intercept them and make sure she never says a word. Give me their route and time table.”
Teodoro did exactly that, then ended the call. He tossed the cell back into his briefcase; the audio jammer he slipped into a trouser pocket instead. With Heather Wallace’s death, the bond she shared with Dante would be severed, giving him that last hard shove into madness.
And stealing all hope from the Fallen.
Teodoro left his office, heading for the elevators.
AS HE WALKED INTO the evidence warehouse on level ten, Teodoro caught the gleam of ivory wings beyond the rows of metal shelves containing plastic evidence tubs and cartons piled with old files. Ivory wings frozen in mid-slash.
He followed the aisle leading to the warehouse’s center, breathing in the faint smells of ozone and musty cardboard and things forgotten. Or hidden, he reflected as he strode past the last set of shelves and saw what waited beyond them.
The work of one angry creawdwr, Dante Baptiste.
A Fallen Stonehenge.
One carefully reconstructed from photos taken at the Damascus, Oregon, site before the “statues” had been transported across the country to HQ.
Transformed into alabaster statues of exquisite detail and captured motion—standing, crouching, kneeling, flying, fleeing—the fallen angels ringed the concrete floor, capped by those medusaed in mid-flight, wings spread.
Wearing a plum-colored dress belted at the waist and elegant black pumps, Seraphina Ivey waited in front of one the statues. Tall and curvaceous, with dark, golden-blond tresses tumbling to her shoulders in glossy waves, winter-gray eyes, and flawless skin, she looked to be in her early thirties.
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