Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (26 page)

Dante slammed his fist into Davis's chin, snapping his head back. At the same moment, he seized the cop's gun hand and wrenched the pistol from it, tossed it away. He punched the cop again. Stumbling, spitting blood and teeth, Davis grabbed at a table for balance, but missed. As he went down, the back of his skull connected with the edge of a chair with a loud crunch. He slumped onto the floor, eyes half-closed. The smell of blood and shit curled into the air like smoke.

Dante winced as a hoarse scream behind him pierced his ears, his aching head. It was followed by
klik-klik-klik-klik
. He turned.

Ernie held Dickhead's nine mil in a white-knuckled, two-handed grip, his eyes squeezed shut. On the floor at his feet, Beer Gut—Wayne—had toppled, a bullet hole in his temple.

Dante jerked the gun out of Ernie's trembling grasp and saw that the safety was on. He looked up from the nine mil, caught a glimpse of his reflection in Ernie's ever-widening eyes. Then both eyes rolled up to the back of Ernie's head as he crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

Tucking LaRousse's gun into the back of his pants, Dante swiveled in time to see the detective scuttling along behind the bar, headed for the restroom hallway. Dante started after the detective, but a low, harsh sob stopped him at the bar's edge.

He vaulted over the bar, landing in a crouch in front of the black-haired bartender. She'd huddled down against the counter. Terror rippled across her face when she saw Dante and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Gaze locked on him, she groped for the baseball bat propped against the counter. Dante swatted it out of her reach. It
tunk
ed to the floor, then rolled away.

“Mother Mary, Papa Legba, protect me from this angry
loa,
” she whispered.

She smelled of jasmine and deep water, but fear edged her scent, stealing the sweetness from it. Dante lifted his shades to the top of his head. Tears spilled over her dark lashes. He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. He wiped away one of her tears with his thumb, smearing blood across her dark cheek.

He thought of red hair and cornflower-blue eyes and creamy skin. Remembered a friend saying,
I'm your backup
.

Dante pulled back. Stood. Lowered the shades over his eyes again.

Dante walked past the counter and down the hall. He paused at the men's room door and listened. Dripping water. Crossing the hall, he walked into the women's room. No urinals, but just as graffiti-etched and grungy as the men's room. Dante strode across the stained floor.

Dickhead stood beneath the no-escape window, smoothing his sweat-damp hair back with his hands. Bruises darkened the skin around the detective's eyes and across the bridge of his smashed nose. He watched Dante warily, but made no move to run.

“Wallace's boss is looking for her. He called.”

Dante seized LaRousse by the lapels of his jacket and jerked him close. Only an inch separated their faces. Reeking of blood and beer, LaRousse stared at him, fresh sweat beading his forehead.

“Whatcha tell him?”

“To look for you.” A sardonic gleam lit LaRousse's eyes. “That you had her all hot and bothered. That's what you do, right? Stir people up. Suck them dry.”

The detective stank of envy and frustration.

Prick thinks I'll murder everyone in their beds.

“Who you working for?” Dante asked, voice low. “Besides fucking Mauvais?”

“Look, I can spy for
you
, if you want. I—”

Fingers still latched onto the detective's lapels, Dante shook him. “Who else?”

Wouldcha?

Yeah. Probably.

All color drained from Dickhead's face. “The writer, Ronin.”

“Whatcha do for him?”

“I helped him contact Étienne—”

Vision blurring, Dante flung LaRousse into one of the stalls. The door
whang
ed against the metal side. The detective landed on the toilet, his head and shoulders thumping against the tiled wall. Pain contorted his face.

Is the rock god over there good for it?

We gotta go, sexy. Tomorrow night?

Shhhh. Je suis ici.

You can still save him, True Blood. All you have to do is—

“Wake up,” Dante whispered. The drone of the wasps died.

Walking into the stall, Dante pinned LaRousse with a hand to one shoulder and a knee snugged against his crotch. He forced the detective's head to one side, baring his throat. The rose tattoo sparkled under the fluorescents.

“You never cared who killed Gina,” Dante said, lowering his head, listening to LaRousse's galloping heart. “You only wanted to nail me.”

“I have Mauvais's protection—”

“Not from me, you fuck. Not. From. Me.”

Dante tore into the detective's throat. LaRousse screamed.

H
EATHER WRAPPED HER FINGERS
around the .38 in her pocket. Stearns's tousled hair and shadowed eyes told her he hadn't slept in a while and his steady hand told her he'd pull the Glock's trigger without hesitation.

“Let go of her,” Heather said. “If you want to talk to me, fine. Since when do you need hostages?”

“I don't think you understand the situation,” Stearns said. His gaze flicked to Simone. “Or what you've allied—”

Simone twisted and ducked with mind-boggling speed. The silenced Glock went off with a hushed
thffft
at the same moment she seized Stearns's gun hand and wrenched it back. The Glock dropped into the dew-glistening grass.

“Down. Or I snap it,” Simone said.

Eyes squeezed shut, hissing in pain, Stearns dropped to his knees. The blonde eased up on his wrist, but kept it in a firm grip.

Heather scooped the Glock up from the grass and pocketed it. She pulled her .38 free of the trench and aimed it at Stearns. “What are you doing here?”

He opened his eyes. A wry smile stretched his lips. “Rescuing you.”

“Are you involved in the cover-up?” Heather asked. Her aim didn't waver. “The Pensacola murders?”

“No. But I know who is. And I know what they're protecting.”

She stared hard at the man who'd guided her career, who'd attended her Academy graduation, and who'd helped her with Annie when her father refused. Stearns held her gaze, hazel eyes steady. Stubble darkened his face. Unshaved. Sleep-smudged. Wired. A man on the run?

All through my career, he's had my back.

Would that change if the Bureau asked it of him?

Heather lowered her .38.
If so, I'd already be dead.
She nodded at Simone. With a dry tsk and a toss of her head, Simone released him. He stood, wiping at the wet, grass-stained knees of his trousers.

“Where's Dante Prejean?” he asked.

Heather stared at him. “Why? What does he have to do with this?”

Stearns looked at her for a long moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw, then he glanced away. “He's not what you think he is.”

“And what do I think he is…sir?”

“Human.”

“I know what he is,” Heather said quietly. She lifted the .38 again. “Nightkind. Maybe True Blood.”

“True Blood…?” Simone whispered.

Stearns stared at Heather, his hands motionless at his side. She thought she saw a sudden spark of fear in his eyes, then it was gone, swallowed by the shadows.

“He's also an experiment,” Stearns said finally. “I have a file in the car and a CD that you need to see. Then you'll know
exactly
what Dante Prejean is.”

“His name's not Prejean,” Heather murmured.

Simone circled Stearns. “I'll never let you near him,” she said. Moonlight gleamed in her narrowed eyes and from her revealed fangs.

The whoosh of massive wings drew Heather's attention to the house.

Moonlight shimmered along De Noir's huge black wings as he landed on the roof above Dante's bedroom. His long black hair spilled unbound to his waist. Pale blue light flickered around his shirtless form and glimmered from the pendant at his throat.

He dropped into a crouch, wings folding behind him. A breeze stirred his hair, but otherwise he was motionless. Twin points of golden light starred the night as he stared into the darkness.

Heather's breath caught in her throat. Fallen. Étienne's voice slid through her thoughts:
Nightbringer.

“Good God,” Stearns whispered.

“You see, sir,” Heather said. “I know
exactly
who I've allied myself with.” She turned. Looking into Stearns's stunned eyes, she added, “Right now, I trust them more than I trust you.”

R
ONIN WATCHED AS A
female face, pale and stark with fear, bolted from the tavern. She ran full-out for the flame-painted Chevy, fumbling keys out of her pocket. Unlike terrorized females in movies, she didn't trip, didn't fall down, and her Chevy roared to life the first time she turned the key. Throwing it into reverse, she nearly backed into the black MG parked at a slant across from her. She stomped on the brakes, slammed the gearshift into first and peeled out of the parking lot.

Interesting. What mischief is my little True Blood up to? Although True Blood is no longer accurate, is it? Born vampire, fathered by one of the Fallen.

Excitement curled through Ronin. To pit himself against a True Blood/Fallen hybrid…what greater test of his abilities existed? Especially after he
trained
the child?

Leaving the engine running, Ronin slid out of the Camaro. He kept his shields tight and his own energy tamped down. The last thing he wanted was for Dante to sense him—to come for him before he was ready.

Ronin glanced at his reshaped left hand. Definitely not in the boy's file. After he'd split from CUSTOM MEATS, he'd sat down and followed the fading wormhole created by Dante's touch. His fingers weren't merely gone, they'd been plucked from his genetic code.

The best part? Johanna had no idea that Dante had managed to keep a secret from her. A world-altering secret.

The tavern door flew open and a mortal in a baseball hat, grubby T-shirt, and jeans rushed into the parking lot. Nearly tripping over his own two feet, he skidded across the gravel to one of the pickups. He yanked the door open, then spotted Ronin.

“Mister!” he cried. “Don't go in there! There's a vampire inside! An honest-to-God fucking vampire.”

Ronin smiled.

The mortal shrieked, eyes wider than a cat's, and practically threw himself into the pickup. He started the engine, but it died. The pungent smell of gasoline wafted through the air. Flooded. Throwing anxious glances over his shoulder, the mortal tried to start the pickup again. The engine caught, sputtered, then evened out into a low
chug-chug
.

Ronin stood in the parking lot, arms crossed over his chest, wondering if the mortal would give it too much gas again when he backed up.

Grinding gears as he shifted into reverse, the mortal slammed the gas pedal. The pickup lurched backward a couple of yards, then sputtered and died.

Ronin was considering putting the mortal out of his misery when the driver's side door flew open and the mortal jumped out. He ran across the parking lot, through the bushes and weeds at the edge of the road and onto the highway. He pelted away into the night, his work boots clumping against the pavement.

Shaking his head, Ronin walked to the tavern's front door. He curled his fingers around the handle, then listened. Silence. He eased the door open. Peeked inside. Bodies littered the blood-smeared floor. He counted four.

Dante's been a busy boy. Or maybe I should say S.

A throat-scraping scream sliced through the silence, then stopped abruptly. Ronin adjusted the body count to five. He wondered how many bodies Dante had left on the floor of CUSTOM MEATS. Wondered if Agent Wallace still breathed.

Ronin closed the door. He'd seen enough. He returned to the Camaro. Time to get things ready for Dante's homecoming.

Flipping open his cell, he speed-dialed E's number. Instead of the voice mail message he'd been receiving all night, Ronin heard the sullen mortal's voice.

“Yeah?”

“Where have you been?”

“Out. What are you? My daddy?”

“It's time. Trade the Jeep in for a van. Remember the specifications?”

“Duh. Got Dante, huh?”

Ronin remembered the scream he'd heard inside the tavern. “Oh, yes.”