Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (30 page)

Heather rocked down as Dante thrust up, pumping, creating a tempo of their own; a rhythm of heat and sweat and ragged breath. As Dante's lips caught her nipple, sucking it into the warmth of his mouth, Heather was certain nothing existed beyond this moment and that nothing ever would. Just Dante burning inside her, fitting against her like no other; the air thick with the smell of musk and candle wax and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh.

Sensation built within her, ring after ring spiraling up and up and up, until it toppled, plunging her into a depthless pool and sluicing away all thought. She gasped as she came, the orgasm's intensity rushing through her like a river,
increasing
with every ripple instead of fading.

Dante moaned, as though he felt it too. He shivered, but never paused in his pounding rhythm. Blue light filled Heather's vision. Her muscles quivered, taut. She clutched Dante, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, her face pressed against his head, buried in the autumn fragrance of his hair.

One hand on the small of Heather's back, the other still on her hip, Dante lowered her onto the futon. His tempo altered; he drove faster, harder. His eyes closed. His lips parted. Pleasure seemed to light him from within. Wrapping her legs around his waist again, she held him tight and released herself to his rhythm.

Just as dawn grayed the room, Dante opened his eyes and looked into Heather with gold-streaked eyes. His breath caught in his throat, held there, the sound a near sob. Orgasm surged through her again as he came and she cried out as he shuddered in her arms. Dante's movement gradually slowed, then stopped. Heather held him close, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Beyond the curtains covering the French windows, night shifted into morning. Dante eased off of Heather and she snuggled against him, head against his shoulder, his arm around her. His heart thumped strong and steady beneath her cheek, not thudding fast like her heart.

“Do you have any idea how many rules I've just broken?” she said, draping a leg across his.

“Mmm…all of 'em, I hope.”

“Now I know
two
things you're talented at.”

Dante snorted.

Heather tipped her head and looked at Dante. His dark eyes were absent of gold flecks, his expression relaxed.

“Simone said someone's gunning for you,” Dante said. “Do you know who?”

“Someone high up, I think,” Heather replied. “At least, that's what I've been told. Because I won't drop the investigation.”

“I'm gonna find Peeping Tom and Elroy the Perv.
And
whoever's hunting you.”

The quiet intensity on Dante's face, the whisper of barely restrained violence in his voice disturbed Heather. She squeezed his hand.

“You know he's waiting for you, right? Don't go to him this time.” She touched her fingers to his face, drew his gaze down. “We can bring both of them in for questioning, DNA samples, whatever,” she said. “The evidence will link Jordan to the killings. You're a witness to Jay's murder…We'll buy time.”

“You'll never bring Ronin in,” Dante said, “ 'cause he's gonna burn first.”

“Too dangerous.”

“Ain't asking permission.”

“Pigheaded.”

“It's still quiet,” Dante said, voice sleepy, fading. “Stay here,
chérie
.”

“I will.” Rising up on her elbow, she kissed him. His eyes closed, and she knew he was gone then, lost to Sleep. “Good morning and sweet dreams,” she whispered, pulling up the blankets and tucking herself back into his embrace.

Heather closed her eyes and tumbled into welcome darkness.

“I
'
VE LOST CONTACT WITH
my people in New Orleans,” Gifford said quietly. “I'm afraid they may have failed.”

Johanna's fingers tightened around the phone. “Finish it yourself. If you find Stearns and Wallace together, make it a murder-suicide.” She glanced at the bedroom window. Dawn glimmered behind the curtains. Sleep pressed down upon her.

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Since E's gone off the grid, I think we need to conclude his part of the project.” Johanna's head nodded. She jerked it up. Forced her eyes open.

“And S?”

“Let him be. For now.”

H
EATHER AWAKENED, HEART POUNDING,
mouth dry. She stared at the shadowed ceiling as the nightmare's stark images faded: the recurring dream about her mother's last stumbling walk, and the ride she'd accepted. Or at least the way she imagined it might've been.

Suddenly aware of the arm around her shoulder, the body nestled against hers, Heather turned her head. Dante slept, lashes dark against his skin, black hair tousled, his breathing so low she slid her hand over his heart. After a moment, she felt a reassuring thump against her palm. She trailed her fingers up past the bondage collar, past his lips, to his smooth cheek.

No whiskers,
she mused.
Can't be just a nightkind thing, Von has a mustache and Ronin a beard.

Heather traced her hand down his chest, the skin cool beneath her fingers, to his flat belly. She longed for twilight, longed to awaken him with kisses, with her hands, her mouth.

Sighing, Heather glanced at her watch. 2 p.m. She had work to do. Bad guys to catch—without Bureau help or blessing. A file to read. And if it was bad? A knot formed in her stomach and she pushed the thought away. She climbed over Dante, pausing to kiss his cool lips.

“
Très belle
, yourself,” she murmured before easing off the futon.

The floor creaked beneath her feet as she pulled the blankets up and over Dante. He didn't stir. Heather had a feeling she didn't need to worry about being quiet. He'd sleep no matter what.

Must be nice
, she thought, half stepping and half skipping over the CD cases and clothes on the floor on her way to the adjoining bathroom.

She flipped on the light. The room was painted black and lavender. Several things cluttered the counter: eyeliner tubes and pencils, black lipstick, a brush, toothpaste, soap, an MP3 player.

Toothpaste? Weren't vampires immune to cavities?

Clean, plush towels hung from the rack, and shampoo and conditioner stood on a shelf in the shower. And beneath the towels, her overnight bag.

Who…? Then she realized it must have been De Noir. The others would've been sleeping like Dante, hibernating in the daylight.

Turning on the water in the shower, Heather let it warm up while she looked at herself in the mirror. She glanced at her throat, touching the spot where Dante had bitten her. No visible mark, no tenderness. Fire flared within her again, kindled in her belly, as she thought of him drinking in a part of her. She closed her eyes.

Playtime's over. Focus on the case. Focus on keeping alive—if you're dead, who will speak for Jay and all the others?

Unbidden and unexpected, an answer disrupted her thoughts:
Dante would.
Somehow that felt right to her—heart-true.

Opening her eyes, Heather stepped into the shower and closed the door. As hot water sluiced across her neck and shoulders, she realized Dante had
become
the case, that in her struggle to keep him alive, she hadn't noticed that the game had changed; she no longer knew if the Ronin-Jordan team wanted Dante dead or wanted him to
join
them.

Her name was Chloe. And you killed her.

She's been creating sociopaths for years.

It's quiet when I'm with you.

Turning around, Heather braced her hands against the water-slick tiles and tipped her face up to the shower spray. She hoped the water would ease the sudden kinks out of her shoulders, would loosen the tightness constricting her breathing, melt away the fear frosting her guts.

She remembered the thought she'd
shouted
at Dante:
I won't walk away from you.

Her breath caught, ragged, a sob. A fist closed around her heart. Her chest ached. She realized she was scared, scared of what she'd discover in the file, scared of what she might be forced to do.

D
RESSED IN A ROYAL
blue blouse and khaki slacks, Heather walked down the stairs, shoes in hand. The house was silent, hushed. Feeling like she was in a church, she resisted the impulse to tiptoe. Dante's whispered words circled through her mind:
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus
.

Treading down the hall, she paused beside the computer room. The recliner was empty, the computer off. Coiled cables rested on the table beside Trey's goggles. She suddenly thought of Annie, drugged and peaceful as she slept in a hospital bed, her restraints removed and curled up on the night-stand.

Shaking the image from her head, Heather continued down the hall, walking into the kitchen. She sat at the table and, bending, laced on her shoes. The briefcase still stood beside the chair; her purse and Stearns's keys rested on the cobalt-blue tablecloth.

She grabbed her purse, dug out her cell phone. She flipped through the caller log, noting several calls from Collins. She felt a pang of guilt. She'd left him pretty much out in the cold, no word, no explanation. Could she trust him? She didn't know where she stood anymore, and a few hours of sleep hadn't made the situation any clearer.

Rogue agents, Bureau-ordered hits, mad-scientist experiments in psychopathology, vampires and fallen angels and a slicing-dicing serial killer: the world and her understanding of it had spun one-eighty degrees in a few days time. The only thing she was certain of was her promise to the CCK's victims, the slaughtered dead—a voice and justice.

And her promise to Dante? Pain clenched around her heart again. She still felt him against her, inside of her, remembered the feel of him, hard muscle and hot skin, saw herself reflected in his dark eyes.

It's still quiet. Stay here,
cherie.

I won't walk away from you.

Promises were made to be kept, not broken. She'd believed that as a kid and she believed it now. Nothing had changed. She'd do everything possible for Dante, keep him close and alive. And if the file proved Stearns right? If Dante was a voice needing to be silenced?

Was it even that simple anymore? She'd stepped into a world colored in shades of gray—a twilight world more layered and complex than she'd ever imagined.

You'll see him for the monster he is.

She knew that was a statement she'd have to examine and soon. But first, she had a pair of monsters—one nightkind, the other mortal—that she needed to stop before they killed someone else, someone Dante loved.

Highlighting one of Collins's missed calls, Heather hit send. He answered on the first ring. “Wallace, where the hell have you been?” Strain edged his words.

“Tied up. Look, I'm sorry. I know I should've gotten back to you—”

“We need to talk. In person. All kinds of shit's coming down.”

Apprehension curled around Heather's guts. “What kinda shit?”

“In person. Didn't you say there were two bodies at that slaughterhouse?”

“Yeah.”

“We only found one. The kid in the straitjacket.”

Heather went still. She'd watched Étienne burn. “Can you pick me up?” she said. She gave Collins the address.

“ 'Kay.” He paused, then asked, “Is this Prejean's address?”

“When will you get here?”

“Twenty, thirty minutes.”

“See ya then.”

How could Étienne's body be
gone
? Unless nightkind had auto-recall in case of death, it meant someone had come for his remains or he'd walked away. Either proposition was unpleasant.

Heather pulled her .38 out of the trenchcoat's pocket and, despite the fact that she'd reloaded it last night, checked to be sure the clip was still in place. It was. She didn't know who'd emptied it before—Jordan, probably, after he'd awakened on the sofa.

Slipping on her trenchcoat, Heather slid the .38 back into the pocket. She slung her purse over her shoulder and, after a moment's hesitation, dropped Stearns's keys into her purse. She picked up the briefcase and walked into the front room.

“Anything you wish me to tell Dante?” a deep voice said.

Startled, Heather whirled. De Noir sat in the easy chair, back straight, eyes closed, his body language alert and attentive. The X-rune pendant gleamed at his throat.

“I thought everyone was asleep.”

“And so they are,” De Noir said, opening his eyes. His gaze shifted to the briefcase, then back to her face.

“I left a message for him,” Heather said. “Can you keep him here?”

Gold glinted in the depths of De Noir's black eyes. “As I said before, Dante does as he wishes.”

“Then ask him to wait for me.”

“Patience is not his strong suit, but I'll ask.”

“I appreciate it.”

Heather crossed to the door, pulled it open and stepped outside into afternoon sunshine, the briefcase in her hand a black-barred shadow across her thoughts.

E
STOWED THE LAST
of his gear into the new van, tucking his satchel o' tricks beside the narrow air bed installed in the back. Humming, he knelt and made the bed, smoothing a long section of plastic over the sheets.
Should keep the worst of the blood
off the sheets.
He folded the blankets at the foot of the bed. One pillow or two? E opted for one and placed it at the head of the bed. Sitting on his heels, he glanced at the black-tinted, UV-protected windows. Totally groovy.
Hope Dante appreciates the effort. All for you, bro.

E strode into the house, sliding the van's keys into his jeans pocket. He closed the door and locked it. He walked through the curtained gloom, heart jittering, thoughts ping-ping-pinging through his skull. He grinned. He couldn't help it.

Tom-Tom still slept, the day not yet dead. E paused outside the bloodsucker's room. Golden light flared around his body, spiked the hall with his radiance. He touched the knob, twisted. Locked.

E's grin widened. Could it be that Tommy-boy was afraid? Of a god seeking retribution for the desecration of his altar?

That stocking was fucking mine.

Locked door. No problem. A god was always prepared. E tugged his lock-picking kit from his back pocket and opened it. Selecting a bobby pin, he inserted it into the knob's hole and pushed. The push-in button on the opposite side of the knob popped out. E's grin widened. Returning the bobby pin to the kit, he zipped it shut and tucked it into his back pocket.

E turned the knob, then stepped into the bloodsucker's darkened bedroom. Golden tentacles of light whipped through the room, illuminating Tom-Tom stretched out on his bed, hands at his sides, eyes closed.

E dropped into a squat and peered under the bed. No pretty blond toy curled among the dust bunnies. All gone. Except for the dust bunnies. Sighing, he rose to his feet, walked to the closet, and opened the door. The cardboard boxes and zippered black bag were missing.

E's heart thudded against his chest. Whirling, shivs sliding into his hands, he faced the bed. Tom-Tom slept, his position unchanged. E wiped at the sweat beading his forehead.

Motherfucker knows.

E's golden light ebbed to a dim glow. His fingers touched the Band-Aid on his neck.
He couldn't track me. Of course he knows.