Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (28 page)

Dante went still. “Heather's at the house? Is she…okay?”

“Fuck, yeah. She's wiped out, like you, but fine. Sleep'll do you both good.”

Dante nodded, then shrugged out of his leather jacket. He tossed it, metal jingling, into the MG. Spotting his shades on the passenger seat, he grabbed them, then slid them on. The fluores-cent glare dimmed. His headache toned down a shade. He unstrapped his latex shirt, then walked to the car wash controls.

Patting his pockets—an image of dollar bills wadded up on the tavern's counter popped into his mind—Dante glanced at Von. “Got any money?”

“Yeah,” the nomad said, digging in his jacket pocket. He looked at Dante as he pulled a spike free, lifted his eyebrow. “So what was your plan? Wait for someone to overlook your sorry-ass state and load your palms up with quarters?”

“Fuck you. Twice.” Dante pulled the wand from its metal sleeve.

Grinning, Von slid the swipe through the price slot. “Choose your poison.”

Dante clicked the dial over to light rinse and pressed the on button. Water sprayed from the wand. Turning the wand around until the high-pressure stream hit his torso, Dante edged it up and down, washing blood from his clothes and skin. The cold water stung.

“Listen to me,” Von said, stepping out of spray range. “You're exhausted. You're fevered. You need Sleep.”

“Ronin's waiting for me.”

“Let him wait. Dawn's a few hours away. He's gotta Sleep, too.”

Sudden weariness coiled through Dante and he leaned a shoulder against the smooth concrete wall. Bloody water swirled into the grated drain in the stall's center. His temples throbbed with dull pain. He scrubbed at a stubborn stain on his leather pants, the water sluicing past his fingers. Setting the wand on the floor, he peeled off his latex shirt. Tossed it onto the MG's hood.

A small voice whispered his name—

Dante-angel.

Shutting his eyes, he leaned a bare shoulder against the wall. His right hand pressed against the concrete, the touch tentative, seeking…what?

Behind his closed eyes, a corona of light surrounded a key, puzzle-fractured and spider-webbed with black lines.

Is this the right one? Will it work on the handcuffs?

“Hey, Dante.” The sharp sound of snapping fingers. “Hey, little brother.”

Dante opened his eyes and looked up into Von's concerned gaze.

“You okay?”

Nodding, heart pounding, Dante picked up the still spraying wand and started washing himself again.

“What happened between you and Lucien, man?”

Dante looked at Von for a long moment, then resumed washing. “Are you asking as
mon ami
or
llygad
?” He suddenly thought of Heather—her gorgeous face half-shadowed in the club as she said,
I'm both, Dante. Friend and cop.

“Friend.”

“He lied to me.” The spray slowed to a trickle, stopped. Dante straightened, shaking his wet hair back from his face. He slid the wand back into the sleeve.

Von whistled, then reached into the MG and grabbed Dante's jacket. Tossed it to him. “If Lucien lied to you, there musta been—”

“He knew my mother. All this time. He never said one word. Never said shit.” Dante tugged the jacket on over his wet skin, leather creaking, metal clinking.

Memory flared one more time, Lucien's face, dark wonder in his golden eyes, his finger reaching up to stroke Dante's hair.

Genevieve…

The world spun suddenly—cathedral, car wash, slaughterhouse, gleaming pews, wet concrete walls, swaying hooks—and Dante grabbed the open car door to keep from falling. Pain spiked behind his eyes. His vision grayed out for a moment, then cleared.

He realized that Von had latched a hand around his biceps, steadying him. Dante glanced at the nomad. Von returned his regard, face troubled.

“Merci,”
Dante said.

Von released his hold, his posture tense, reluctant. “Go home, little brother. Sleep. Ronin'll still be waiting for you come evening. Go home. Please.”

But Dante heard the thought behind Von's words, saw it in his eyes:
You're scaring me.

“I plan on it,
mon ami
,” Dante said, climbing into the MG. “I need to talk to Heather.”
Need to make sure she's all right.
He keyed the engine on. It rumbled to life, the sound echoing against the concrete walls.

A smile quirked up one corner of Von's mouth. “So he
can
see reason.” With a gentle push of his fingertips, he swung the driver's side door shut, then strode away.

Dante shook his head, amused, and shifted the MG into first. His amusement faded as darker thoughts circled through his mind.
Why the hell don't I remember my past? And why has that
never
bothered me?

And darker still:
What if it's never bothered me because it ain't supposed to?

Darkest:
What if it's never bothered me because I don't
want
to remember?

Again he heard Ronin's knowing voice:
What are you afraid of, True Blood?

Fingers clamped around the steering wheel, Dante drove the MG out of the stall.
Not you, Peeping Tom. Or what you know.
But he wondered just how Peeping Tom had come by his knowledge.

Troubled, Dante hit the gas, shifting into second, then third. He was missing something, forgetting something important, but the memory—like so many others—refused to come.

H
EATHER
SAT CROSS-LEGGED
on the hardwood floor, examining the printout Trey had provided. Her exhaustion vanished in a buzz of excitement. Elroy Jordan
was
from New York, but before that he'd lived in Seattle—born and raised—during the time of the first two murders. He'd even lived close to the first victim, Karen Stilman. Credit receipts pegged him in Portland, Oregon, and Boise, Idaho during the times of the murders in those cities. In fact, Elroy Jordan could be placed at each kill site.

Paper rustled as Heather flipped to the page on Ronin. Nothing placed the journalist in Seattle until
after
the second murder. Ditto for the murders in Portland, Boise, Salt Lake City, and Helena. She frowned, scanning the data for parallels, for inconsistencies. She was positive Jordan and Ronin were working as a team. But, so far, the evidence dusted that theory.

After the Helena, Montana murder, Ronin's receipts and rental history placed him in New York—
before
the estimated date of Byron Hedge's death. Not after.

If what Stearns had said was true, that Moore had created sociopaths to study, then was Ronin working with her? How else would he know how to trigger Dante? Why would he want to? What would he gain? Or was Ronin working
against
Moore? If so, why? Again, what would he have to gain?

Heather glanced at the sheet again, flipped back to the page on Jordan. The two couldn't be connected during the murders in Omaha, Chicago, or Detroit—Ronin didn't show in those cities until after the murders. But he
was
in New York prior to Hedge's murder. Shortly afterward, Ronin and Jordan had arrived in New Orleans together.

The next murder? Daniel Spurrell's.

For some reason, Ronin had intercepted Jordan, interrupting Moore's study of her wandering sociopath, and led him to New Orleans. To Dante.

So…maybe Elroy Jordan alone was the Cross-Country Killer. What was Ronin's role? Either he or Étienne had killed Jay. Jordan hadn't even been present.

Heather rubbed her face with one hand, her buzz fading. Nothing was making sense. She needed sleep, but she needed to find Dante first.

Leather creaked as Simone's brother shifted in his recliner. His fingers darted through the air, rearranging data and flipping it back into the net. The smell of hot circuits and ginger mingled uneasily in the room's close air.

“Thanks for your help, Trey,” Heather said, easing to her feet.

Silence but for the creak of leather as the vampire's capped fingers blurred through the air. His dreads brushed the floor. Heather doubted that he'd even heard her. She wondered if Trey, in his own way, was just as lost as Annie. Maybe turning him hadn't worked out as well as Simone had hoped. Heather stepped out into the hall and quietly closed the door behind her.

Stearns's keys jingled in Heather's pocket as she walked and she thought of him cuffed in the kitchen; thought of the file in his car.
What're you gonna do, Wallace, keep him prisoner? For how long?

She folded the printout in half.
He wants Dante. He thinks he's a monster.
Stopping in the kitchen doorway, she caught Stearns dozing, chin to chest, eyes closed.

What if he's right?

“I'm going to get the file,” Heather said.

Stearns lifted his head, met her gaze, clear-eyed. Pretending, then. “Good.”

“And after I do,” she said, walking into the kitchen, “I want you out of here.”

“Call me when you've read the file.”

“No promises.” She set the folded printout on the table.

Heather stepped to her chair and the trenchcoat flung over it, digging in the pocket for her Colt Super. Her fingers slipped past the cool shape of Stearns's Glock and locked around her .38. She pulled it free, tucked it into the waistband of her slacks; felt its hard, reassuring shape against the small of her back. She smoothed her sweater over the gun.

“Back in a minute,” she said.

At the front door, as Heather grasped the doorknob, a hand touched her shoulder. She glanced into Simone's dark eyes.

“I'll walk with you,” she said. A deep-red latex minidress hugged her curves, pale flesh visible through the side laces. Her long golden curls spilled down her back.

“Thanks, but I don't need a bodyguard.”

Simone shrugged. “I could use the fresh air.”

Nodding, Heather opened the door and stepped into the humid, rose-scented night. Rain misted against her face, beading on the front of her sweater. Walking the broken-stone path to the gate, she felt Simone just behind her, but the only footsteps she heard were her own.

When Heather reached the gate, she paused and looked back at the house. De Noir hadn't moved. He still hunched on the roof, rain-glistening wings folded along his back.

“Did you get what you needed?” Simone asked.

“Yes,” Heather said. “I have an address for Ronin in Metairie. Nothing for Jordan, but I imagine they're together. Custom Meats is owned by a real estate firm—”

Simone held up a finger, her gaze flicking inward. After a moment, a smile curved her lips. “Von found Dante. They're on their way home.”

“Is he all right?”

“Mostly.”

Relief curled through Heather, unknotting kinked muscles and pushing away her fatigue. She decided not to dwell on “mostly.” Dante had been found and was on his way home. That was all that mattered. She slipped through the partially opened gate, walking with Simone to the road.

“You said you'd known Dante three or four years,” Heather said, keeping her voice light.

“
Oui
. He is
mon cher ami
.”

“Have you been friends the entire time?”

Simone looked at her, oak shadows twisting across her pale face. She opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of a car pulling up behind them on the gravel-edged road closed it again. She turned, lifting a hand against the glare of headlights.

Heather swiveled around, as well, reaching back with her right hand and sliding her fingers around the .38. A car idled in front of the gate.

“Excuse me,” a woman's voice said from the passenger side. “Could you help us with directions?”

“Oui.”
Simone stepped over to the car. She bent down to look in through the lowered window. A point of red light appeared on her forehead.

Heather swung her .38 around, yelling, “Simone! Down!” She pulled the trigger and heard two shots crack through the night.

Simone dove for the ground, but hit hard, sprawling in the gravel and gasping in pain.
She's been hit,
Heather thought. The .38's bullet starred the car's windshield on the passenger side. The driver gunned the engine.

Heather dropped down to one knee and opened fire, pulling the trigger until she emptied the clip. “Stay down, Simone!” she yelled, hoping the vampire hadn't taken a shot to the head or the heart.

The car lurched toward her. Heather rolled toward the concrete and black iron-topped fence, then back up to her feet. Wishing she'd worn her trenchcoat, she sprinted for the dark bulk of Stearns's rental car, pulling the keys from her pocket as she ran.

Thoughts burned crystal clear in her mind:
Find Stearns's backup. Failing that, start the car and ram it into those motherfuckers.
Adrenaline fueled her muscles. Her heart triple-timed and the air burned in her throat.

She slid to a stop beside the Crown Victoria, gravel skittering beneath her shoes. Behind her, the sound of the car's engine deepened, picked up speed. She fumbled through the keys, their edges sharp against her fingers, until she found the alarm control.

The doors unlocked. Heather yanked open the passenger side door and lunged inside. Patting beneath the seat for any backup pistol Stearns might've planted, she squinted out the rear window into the blue-white glare of the headlights.

A form leapt onto the car. Simone stretched across the roof and reached in through the window for the driver. Brakes screeched. Tires squealed. The smell of burning rubber scorched the air. The car slid sideways and slammed into the Crown Victoria.

The impact knocked Heather shoulder-first into the dashboard. Pain lanced through her shoulder and down her right side. She bit her lip. The glove box flew open and several maps and a gun tumbled to the floor.

Bingo!
Heather grabbed the gun and slid out of the car. Steam plumed into the air from under the hood of the car accordioned against the Crown Victoria. Flicking off the gun's safety, she cautiously approached her pursuer.

The female shooter was slumped to one side, a dark hole in her forehead. Simone lay across the car's roof, one hand latched onto the struggling driver's shoulder, the other twisting his hair. She'd pulled him halfway out the window. Blood trickled down his face.

Heather stepped around the rear of the car and walked up to the driver's side, the gun held in both hands. The driver squirmed in Simone's grasp, his grunts panicked, wild.

“Let him go,” she called. “I've got him in my sights.”

Simone yanked the driver the rest of the way out of the window. He skidded across the pavement, sliding to a stop next to the yellow dividing lines.

“Stay there,” Heather said, stepping toward him. “Hands behind your head.”

Cool air gusted through her rain-damp hair as powerful wings whooshed through the sky above her. A shadow darkened the road.

De Noir swooped over the driver, seizing him by the collar, and soared up into the sky. The driver's shriek, rising in terror and pitch, cut through the night.

“No!” Heather shouted. “Bring him back! De Noir!”

The shrieking ended abruptly. Something hit the pavement with a splat, something that steamed in the chilly air.

Heather's stomach lurched. She swallowed hard, tasting blood. She leaned against the car and lowered the gun. “Shit.”

A figure blurred through the gate and raced up the road, dreads and cables snaking through the air behind him. Moonlight glinted from his fingertips. Trey stopped beside the car, his goggled gaze on his sister, panic etched into his face.

The car wobbled as Simone slid off of it. Blood glistened on her pale flesh. A hole marred her dress's left shoulder, just below the collarbone. Trey touched the spot with a net-capped finger.

Wincing, Simone said, “I'm okay.” She lifted Trey's finger and kissed it before releasing it. She laced an arm around his waist, leaned against him.

A rush of wings drew Heather's attention. De Noir touched bare feet to the road, the driver's torso in one taloned hand, the man's lower half in the other. He walked to the car. Heather felt her gorge rise and jumped aside, not wanting a good look at De Noir's burden. He stuffed the remains in through the window.

“Why the
hell
did you kill him?” she asked. “I wanted to question him.”

“He and his partner intended to kill you, Agent Wallace,” De Noir replied. “And anyone near you.” He stepped next to Simone and touched her face with one taloned finger. Simone's eyes closed. “Could you have trusted any information he might've given you?” De Noir's gaze flicked up to meet Heather's.

“Probably not. But I still could've asked.” Shoving the gun into the waistband of her slacks, she marched back to the Crown Victoria.

After she tucked the gun back into the glove box, Heather discovered the locked briefcase on the floor behind the front seat. She tried a small key on the keyring, and the briefcase unlocked. She flipped the latches and looked inside. A computer CD, photos—her heart jumped into her throat when she recognized Dante's face—and manila folders. Shutting the briefcase, she eased out of the car.

De Noir waited for her, shadows and moonlight slanting across his body, his wings. “Go inside,” he said. “I'll take care of things out here.”

Heather nodded, deciding against asking for details and turned away. She trudged up the road to the house, heavy-limbed and weary. She'd burned off all the adrenaline and now she was almost dizzy with exhaustion.

She walked through the empty front room and into the kitchen. “I got the file and—”

Trey and Simone sat at the kitchen table. Silver stood at the sink, wetting a cloth. Stearns's chair was turned on its side. Empty.

“Where is he?” Heather asked.

Simone shook her head. “He was gone when we came in.”

Heather sank into the trench-draped chair, setting the briefcase on the floor. She checked the trench's pockets; Stearns's Glock was gone. A glance at the table confirmed the printout was missing, as well.

Elbows on the table, Heather buried her face in her hands. “Shit.”