Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (24 page)

She shook her head. “Sorry. No.”

The nomad released her. “Did Dante say anything?” he asked.

Yes. Run from me as far as you can.

“He mentioned De Noir, but I don't know why.”

Simone sucked in her breath. A muscle flexed in Von's jaw. “We've lost contact with Lucien,” he said, face grim.

“He also said
sanctus
several times,” Heather said. “I think it's Latin for holy, but I don't know why he said it. He was dazed, hurt.”

Von glanced down the street, a finger stroking his mustache. He tilted his head as though listening. After a long moment, he said, “Dante asked Trey to do a search on lying Mister Ronin and his creepy friend.” He fixed his attention on Simone. She met his shaded gaze, her pale face still, listening.

They're communicating somehow.
Heather looked from one to the other, feeling cut off, out of the loop. And alone.

Simone nodded. She shifted her gaze to Heather, and smiled. “We should go to the house and speak to
mon frère
. He'll know where Dante went.”

“Can't you call him?” Heather said. “Or
speak
to him?” She tapped her temple.

Simone laughed. “You've changed since we last spoke. No. He doesn't listen when he's online. Come.”

“Shit.” Heather rubbed her face, weariness blurring her concentration. “Okay. But we're gonna get Ronin's address, right? And go after the bastard?”

Fire flickered in Simone's dark eyes. Her lips parted, revealing the tips of her fangs. “Oh, yes,” she said.

“Y
OU
KNEW
MY MOTHER?
”

Dazed by the
creawdwr
energy still prickling through his body, Lucien looked into Dante's disbelieving, gold-flecked eyes and realized he'd spoken aloud, that he hadn't been dreaming when he'd opened his eyes and seen his son's beautiful face.

Dante shook free of his hand and, sliding out from under him, rose to his feet. Blood trickled from his nose. His muscles trembled. Fury spiked his aura; exhaustion smudged it nearly black.

“Child, listen, I was—”

“You knew her all this time? And you never said anything?”

Lucien struggled to his knees, his wings fluttering behind him. His healed—or remade—flesh was tender. He tasted Dante's blood in his mouth, sweet and dark, intoxicating.

Child, how much of yourself have you poured into me?

“I was waiting for the right time,” Lucien said.

“How 'bout the night we met?” Dante said, voice husky, edged with rage. “Huh? Why not then?” His gaze dropped to the pendant hanging at Lucien's throat. “Fuck!” He looked away, his jaw muscle jumping. He wiped absently at his nose, smearing blood across his face and the back of his hand.

Wings flapping, Lucien stood. Cool night air, caught by his wings, breezed through the chamber. The thick smells of incense and beeswax faded for a moment.

Lucien remembered the pain that had blasted through his mind and dropped him from the skies; remembered the rage and grief that had poured in through the link. And remembered with heart-stopping clarity: Dante's shields had been breached.

But how? Had it been some
one
or some
thing
?

“Why the fuck didn't you tell me?”

“You were dealing with so much at the time,” Lucien said, voice low, soothing. “I didn't want to add to your concerns.”

Dante squeezed his eyes shut, shuddered.

“Let me take you home,” Lucien said, stepping toward him. Wood snapped beneath his feet. “You're hurting, exhausted. Dante,
s'il te plaît
.”

Dante looked at him then, his eyes blazing, pale face cold. He backed up the aisle. “What was her name? Genevieve…what?”

“Later, after you've Slept. I don't think you know how much you've been hurt.”

“No!” Dante shouted. “Tell me, damn you! What's my name?”

Lucien sighed. “Baptiste.”

“Baptiste,” Dante repeated. The fire ebbed from his eyes. He swayed, then grabbed the back of a pew. “Genevieve Baptiste.”

“Let me take you home.” Taking another step forward, Lucien held out his hand.

Dante looked at him, and Lucien's heart constricted. He saw the hungry, hurting stranger from the wharf; the beautiful and deadly boy, ready to drain him of every drop of blood without a second thought.

His friend, his child, his companion was gone. The X-rune pendant burned against his skin like ice.

“Did you know my father, too?”

“Dante…enough. Not now.”

A rush of rain-damp air, smelling of clove and old leather, whirled into the cathedral. Von suddenly stood next to Dante. The nomad looked up at the hole in the cathedral's ceiling and whistled.

“Holy shit! Someone sure ain't gonna be happy about the new ventilation.”

Von's gaze skipped from the shattered ceiling to the blood-speckled pews, then to Lucien. He stroked the sides of his mustache thoughtfully. He held Lucien's gaze for a long moment, and Lucien had no doubt that the
llygad
sensed and smelled the tension between him and Dante. Questions glimmered in the nomad's eyes, questions he didn't voice.

Von glanced at Dante. “You okay?”

Dante shook his head.
“Je sais pas.”

“I heard about that lying bastard Ronin,” Von said. “And Jay. I'm sorry, man.”

Dante glanced away, jaw tight, body coiled, practically vibrating with checked rage. Blood trickled from his nose.

Lucien straightened, startled by the nomad's words. What had happened since he'd winged down into St. Louis No. 3 and dealt with Loki? Had
Ronin
breached Dante's shields? Awakened Dante's memories?

Brow furrowed, Von touched a hand to Dante's forehead. “You're burning up.”

“I could burn forever,
llygad
, and it wouldn't be enough.”

Lucien felt Von reach for Dante's unshielded mind. “No!” he cried.

Von jerked his hand from Dante's face and stumbled back a step. Sweat beaded his forehead. He touched a trembling hand to his temple. He stared at Dante, face stricken.

Dante met his gaze. Mingled streaks of gold and red slashed his dark irises. Stepping forward, he squeezed the
llygad
's shoulder with a blood-smeared hand.

“Later,
mon ami
.”

To Lucien, he said nothing.

Dropping his hand, Dante turned and walked down the aisle. As he strode toward the wide-open double doors, he stretched his arms out to either side and trailed his fingers over the tops of the pews.

Lucien watched, throat tight. Dante's wintry, unrecognizable gaze had iced his heart. Unforgiven, he wouldn't be able to teach Dante how to use his
creawdwr
gifts. Unforgiven, he wouldn't even be able to teach his son to
hide
those gifts. He'd hoped for more time. Or, more exactly, the
right
time. But Loki's appearance meant that time had run out. But even forsaken and unforgiven, he'd still do everything possible to protect and hide Dante from Elohim eyes.

Von whirled and started after Dante.

“Wait,” Lucien said. “Let him go. He needs to be alone.”

“Are you kidding? He's all fucked up.”

Lucien clamped a hand onto the nomad's shoulder. Pressed with his talons. And stared. His talons seemed thicker, and shot through with deep blue. He looked up as Dante reached the doors and the crowd gathered at the threshold.

Fervent mortal voices whispered,
“L'ange de sang. L'ange de sang.”

“Let him release his rage,” Lucien murmured. “Then go after him. Take him home and to Sleep.”

Dante slipped through the mortals crowding the doorway as though they were insubstantial, the last tattered dream before waking. The mortals watched him as he descended the steps and climbed into his MG. They watched, perplexed, but awed. He'd walked through them like a true immortal. Like True Blood.

And they loved him for it.

Von twisted free of Lucien's hand, leaving strips of leather clinging to his talons. He looked at Lucien, green eyes wondering. Candlelight and shadows flickered across his face. He glanced at the yawning hole in the vaulted ceiling again.

“Musta been a hell of a fall,” he said.

Lucien's fingers curled around the X-rune pendant. He nodded. “It was.”

The nomad nodded as well, then turned and strode down the aisle to the doors. He breezed through the crowd—who stared in wide-eyed wonder at the black-winged creature standing beneath the cathedral's shattered ceiling—then disappeared from view.

Lucien's fingers gripped the smooth curving back of a pew. He could find Dante through the link, whether the boy responded to him or not. He'd told Von the truth: Dante needed to be alone. He needed to unleash his rage. But now was also the time when he needed someone most—to guide him through his rage, to help him survive it.

But it wouldn't be Lucien. Maybe never again.

With a sharp echoing crack, the pew splintered beneath Lucien's hand.

S
he stands beside him, little fingers clasped around his hand, stuffed orca tucked under her other arm. Her blue eyes are too direct for an eight-year-old. Red hair tumbles beside her freckled face.

I'll send them to hell, Chloe. Promise.

And you? What about you?

I'm already burning.

Chloe's body wavers, her image fades. Her warm fingers slip from his grasp.

That's not enough, Dante-angel.

“I know,” Dante whispered, shifting the MG into fourth gear. His foot smashed the gas pedal to the floorboards. The engine whined. Headlights blurred, blue-white streamers streaking the night.

He didn't remember getting in the car. Didn't remember keying it on. Didn't know where he was going. Didn't recognize the road. But he knew one thing:

The voices no longer whispered.

You can still save him, True Blood.

Mon ami,
I'm so sorry…

How does it feel,
marmot?

He wondered if he could travel faster than sound.

A horn blared, a long, angry wail. Beyond the windshield, a double yellow line disappeared beneath the MG. Light circled ahead, expanding, brighter than a UFO. Another horn bleated. Dante yanked the steering wheel to the right, swerving back into his own lane.

Sweat trickled down his temples. The night blurred past the MG. The gearshift vibrated against Dante's palm. He tasted blood.

You look so much like her.

A fist clenched around Dante's heart. His breath rasped in a throat suddenly too tight. He pushed away the image of Lucien's face. Tried to forget the sight of him sprawled and broken on the cathedral floor.

Good thing he's restrained…fuck! What's he screamin'?

The yellow lines dividing the highway blurred then doubled. Eyes burning, Dante blinked. A blue neon rectangle shimmered against the windshield. Fractured. Twinned. Letters and characters squiggled within the rectangles, but Dante couldn't make any sense out of them.

He's making a very loud, very clear, demand.

“Kill me.”

Dante squinted, trying to make out the wriggling letters inside the expanding blue rectangle. Words. A sign.

So do it. He's too dangerous. Little fucking psycho.

The blue rectangle morphed into a neon roadside sign proclaiming: TAVERN.

Say that again and I'll give you to that little fucking psycho.

Swinging the steering wheel to the right, Dante downshifted the screaming MG into the tavern's parking lot. Gravel and dust sprayed out from beneath the tires. A couple of pickups, gear-laden nomad bikes, and an old flame-painted Chevy huddled in front of the weathered building.

AS THE CROW FLIES flickered in red over a flapping neon crow.

Dante parked the MG across from the other cars, skidding in sideways. He switched off the engine. Pocketed the keys. For a moment, all he heard was his pounding heart. For a moment, he thought he could board up the broken window, nail it shut with rage and blood. For a moment, he thought his heart was caged and guarded with fetishes.

I knew you'd come for me.

You look so much like her.

For a moment.

Then the boards rotted and the nails shifted into wasps. The cage crumpled, the fetishes false.

Shhh. Je suis ici.

Blood dripped on his hand, trickled down his throat. His head ached. Squiggles of white light bordered his vision.

The pain needed to be
more
.

I'm already burning.

That's not enough, Dante-angel.

Scooping a pair of shades out of the glove box, Dante slipped them on, then stepped out of the MG.
A drink. Need a drink.
Gravel crunched beneath his boots. As he walked toward the tavern's front door, it opened, spilling light into the parking lot.

Two nomads stepped out wearing dusty road leathers and disgusted expressions. Laughter and bouncing zydeco music followed them out into the night.

“Motherfucking squatters,” the horse-maned male muttered, then spat into the dirt. Silver gleamed at his eyebrow, his ears, his throat. A black bird-shaped V was tattooed on his right cheek.

Clan Raven, Dante thought, remembering what Von had taught him. Ravens and Nightwolves often traveled together, guarding each other's flanks.

The dreadlocked female, bird V inked on her right cheek, glanced at him. She looked him over, head to toe, then back again. A smile curved her lips. Light sparked in her eyes.

“Not your kind of place, nightwalker,” she said, stepping off the porch. Her smile vanished as she got a closer look at him. “You hurt?”

Dante caught the door before it closed. Warmth and booze and tobacco and sweat-laden air curled against him. His head throbbed.

“Maybe,” Dante said. Then he stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him. A moment later, he heard the deep, throaty roar of the bikes as the nomads tore out of the parking lot, flinging gravel behind them.

“Terry, look at that, wouldcha! Do ya think he's lost?”

“Kee-rist! First nomads, now Bourbon Street gutter trash. What the hell's this place comin' to?”

Dante glanced at the speakers, two mortals in baseball caps and work-stained T-shirts hunkered at a table toward the rear of the bar. A haze of cigarette smoke hung motionless over the table. One of the mortals leaned back in his chair and met Dante's eyes, his tight smile daring him to say anything.

Two other mortals stood at a pool table, cue sticks in hand as they stared at Dante, game interrupted. One had a beer gut and the other was muscled like an athlete. Brutal energy spiked with an overdose of testosterone rippled around the athlete.

“Look at the collar, will ya?” Athlete said to Beer Gut. “Don't see no leash. Musta gotten away. Better call the pound.” He laughed, pleased with his wittiness, and nudged Beer Gut. “Call the pound. Get it?”

Dante looked away and weaved past empty tables to the bar. The bartender looked up as he approached, a mixture of concern and wariness on her face. She was pure New Orleans with her brown skin, green almond-shaped eyes, and curly black hair. Haitian, Spanish, French, Chinese, whatever. The true heart of Louisiana.

The bartender touched a hand to the bar rag slung over her shoulder. Bottles of booze lined the shelves behind her, fancy labels and fascinating colors.

Dante stopped at the counter, gaze flicking over the bottles.

“Can I help you?” the bartender said. The badge on her black AS THE CROW FLIES t-shirt read: Maria.

“Tequila. Bourbon. Whatever's closest.” Dante reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled-up old bills, tossed them onto the bar.

“You all right? Your nose is bleeding.”

“Got a place to wash up?”

“Sure.” Maria pointed to a short hall on the right.

Pushing himself away from the bar, Dante followed the arrow sign reading RESTROOMS to a grungy men's room featuring stained porcelain, graffiti-etched walls, and the reek of old piss.

A small window sat high above the urinals, too small to squeeze out on your tab or your bad-ass date. Dante stepped over to the chipped sink and turned on the faucet. He slipped off his shades, tucked them into the front of his shirt. He rubbed his hands together under the stream of water, then bent over the sink and splashed water on his face.

He burned. He half expected the water to hiss and turn to steam when it touched him. Instead, it was so cold it stole his breath. Dante gripped the sides of the sink, as bloodstained water swirled down the rusty drain.

Dante? I'm cold. Can I get in bed with you?

C'mere, princess. Snuggle close. I'd hold you, but…

How come Papa Prejean handcuffs you at bedtime?

Cuz I don't sleep at night. The prick thinks I'll murder everyone in their beds.

Wouldcha?

Yeah. Probably.

Dante-angel, if I found the key and let you go, wouldcha take me with you?

A spreading pool of blood surrounds Chloe's pale face like a halo. Her half-open eyes stare sightlessly at the orca just beyond her reach.

I'd never leave without you, princess. Just you and me—

Meat hook, chain-wrapped ankles, bare feet. Light flashes from the hook.

Forever and ever.

Water splashed into the sink, spattering against Dante's knuckles. His muscles coiled. He stared into the sink.

She trusted you, kid. I'd say she got what she deserved.

Pain torched him. He lifted his head and looked in the mirror. He didn't recognize his reflection; the pale face and smeared eyeliner and damp, tousled hair were his, sure, but the expression was cold and distant and unforgiving, eyes red-streaked with fury.

Is this what Lucien just saw?

He dropped his head, shaken. No, the pain stabbing his temples wasn't nearly enough. Not by a long shot. But like he'd promised, he wouldn't burn alone. Peeping Tom, among others, would join him in the flames. Étienne was already ash.

He wiped his face dry with a brown paper towel, then slid on his shades and walked out of the men's room. As he approached the bar, he caught a familiar scent, Brut and soap, and yet another—smelling of dry cleaner's chemicals and deep, dark secrets. He slowed. Remembered a lazy smile and a wink.

Take him in. Lock him up. He'll be asleep in no time. I guarantee.

What the hell are
they
doing here? No coincidence. No fucking way.

Dante walked past without glancing at either detective. He stopped at the counter. Maria poured something golden into a shot glass.

“Y'all left nearly eighty bucks on the bar.”

“Keep twenty for yourself,” Dante said, picking up the shot glass. “Let me know when I've drunk up the rest.”

“Sure thing, sugar.” Maria tapped a finger under her nose, looked meaningfully at Dante, then handed him a napkin.

He took the napkin from her, pressed it against his nose. It came away red.

“Fuck.” He tossed back the shot. Tequila. It burned down his throat, cleared out the lingering blood. He felt sweat trickle along his temple.

Dante-angel?

Forever and ever, princess. Forever and ever and ever—

A smooth voice drawled, “Abita for me and Davis, darlin'. And lookee here! If it ain't a
small
fuckin' world.”

Dante set the empty shot glass on the bar.

“How's it hangin', rock god?
Comment Ça va,
eh?”

As Maria poured Dante another shot, he glanced to his right. Perched on a stool, Dickhead LaRousse leaned against the bar, a smirk tilting his lips. He held what looked suspiciously like an arrest warrant in one hand.

“Talk about luck,” Dickhead said. “We were on our way back from your place. Seems you weren't there. Then we saw your car in the parking lot.” He slapped the warrant down on the counter. “You here all by your lonesome?”

Dante lifted his hand and flipped him off. Shifting his attention to the refilled shot glass, he picked it up, tossed it back.

“Dirtier than original sin, this boy, believe you me,” Dick-head said to his partner, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “The shit I found in his juvie records. No wonder they sealed 'em.”

Dante carefully set down the empty shot glass. He grasped the edge of the bar to keep his hands from trembling. Even
he
didn't know what was in those records. His memory only tracked back a handful of years and even then there were gaps. Hell, he didn't even know how old he was.

“Christ,” Maria said, a hint of anger in her voice. “If y'all are going to arrest him, do it outside.”

“A word to the wise, sugar,” Dickhead said, his voice all Southern charm. “Mind your own fuckin' business.”

Maria glanced at Dante from beneath her lashes as she filled a stein at the tap. He met her gaze and shook his head.