Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (43 page)

As Johanna unlatched the cabinet, the door flew open and slammed against the wall, denting the plaster. She brought up the Glock. S stepped into the room and she couldn't breathe for a moment, dazzled, as always, by his beauty.

“Welcome home,” she said.

S stopped, dark eyes perplexed. He winced, touched a hand to his head. Blood trickled from his nose.

“Dante!”

S spun. The red-haired agent grabbed the doorway's threshold as she slid across the tile in her stocking feet. She looked past S to Johanna.

He wants to save Wallace.

Ah, but what if he doesn't?

“Shit,” Wallace said.

Johanna fired.

A
GUNSHOT CRACKED DOWN
the corridor. E's heart leapt into his throat. He edged around the corner. Hugged it. Dante knelt on the floor,
his
Heather cradled in his arms. She touched a shaking hand to the backstabber's pretty face. E tensed.

Had her eyes gleamed
golden
? For
Dante
? For his cheating/ lying/backstabbing Bad Seed bro?

Looks like Heather won the race.
Fire charred E's heart. He reached into his sling, his fingers finding the syringe. He regretted emptying the vial into the ponytailed blonde, wished he'd saved just enough for Dante. Hand shaking with cold, with rage, he pulled the syringe free.

Something on the floor glinted in the red light. A gift to an angry god?

The bad-ass bloodsucker bent his head and kissed Heather's lips.

E's cindered heart crumpled to ash.
Does she taste of honey? I bet she does.
Syringe full o' eye-pricking pain in hand, he stepped forward, back still pressed against the red-lit walls.

A dart suddenly sprouted from Dante's neck. The bloodsucker shivered, but continued to kiss Heather. Or was he giving mouth-to-mouth? No,
his
Heather's fingers were wrapped in Dante's black hair.

Where had the dart come from?

E went still and watched. Johanna Moore stepped from the room behind Dante, leaned over him and plucked the dart free. Stroked his hair.

“You failed,” she whispered. “Again.”

Another shudder snaked the length of Dante's spine, then he slumped to the side, Heather still in his arms, her fingers still entwined in his hair.

Together.

A strange wailing noise filled the corridor, rising and falling, like a siren. E became aware that he was running, the syringe raised in his bad hand like a shiv, when Bitch-Mommy's head jerked up. Looked at him.

“Ffffuuuucccckkkkkk yyyyooooouuuuuuu!”

E scooped up the shining gift from the floor with his good hand. Metal, sharp and slender. A nail file.

Bitch-Mommy Moore lifted the Glock. Fired. Pain flowered in E's chest, hot and full of thorns. Grinning, he kept running. Bitch-Mommy fired again. Another pain-flower blossomed in E's belly. He launched himself. He flew, a golden arrow, a god of death, pure and terrible. Golden light starred from his body, piercing, white-hot, and unerring.

The god slammed into Johanna Moore, knocking her back into the room. The syringe broke off in her throat. The nail file punctured her gut. Choking, she shoved the god to the floor. The god's stomach heaved blood up into his mouth. The god grinned. Bitch-Mommy clutched at the broken syringe in her throat and pulled it out. Then she lifted her eyes up and up and up.

So she finally sees me
, the god thought.

Bitch-Mommy's face turned fifty shades of white.

Pleased, the god closed his eyes.

S
OMETHING HOT AND WET
spread across the front of Heather's blouse. She glanced down. Blood, bright red. Arterial. Dante caught her as she fell, gathered her into his strong arms. She looked at him and tried to say,
I'm sorry
, but couldn't find her voice.

Cradling her against his chest, Dante dropped to his knees. She touched a shaking hand to his beautiful, devastated face and smoothed her thumb beneath his left eye.

“Not for me, Dante,” Heather whispered, showing him the moisture on her thumb. “No tears for me. Not your fault.”

Dante pulled her closer. His heat radiated into her. “I won't lose you.” He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit it. Dark blood welled up on his pale skin. He pressed the wound against her lips. “Drink,” he urged.
“S'il te plait.”

Dante's blood smeared across Heather's lips as she turned her head away. It smelled of dark sun-warmed grapes and tasted like Dante's kisses, heady and tempting. Her throat tightened.

“No,” she whispered. Her vision swam. “No. I want to stay what…I…am…” She shivered, suddenly cold. Sleepy.

Gold fire lit Dante's eyes. Lowering his head, he kissed her.

D
ANTE'S SONG STIRRED WITHIN
him, layering chord upon chord. Bending his head, he kissed Heather's bloodstained lips and breathed his song into her. He filled her with his essence, kindling blue fire at her core. He imagined her whole, healed, and wove blue-lit thread through her wound. Heather's fingers twisted around his hair. Her faltering heart beat strong and fast.

Something stung Dante's neck.

“You failed,” a familiar voice said. “Again.”

Dante shivered as cold spread through him, crackling like ice through his veins. His song faltered.

“Not true,” Heather murmured against his lips.

He tasted the salt of her tears. Fire flared for a moment, and he breathed it into her before they sank together beneath the ice, plunging through starless night.

P
AIN AND GRIEF SLAPPED
against Lucien's shields like twin tsunamis, receding to return in ever stronger waves, deadlier surges. He ran, following his bond to Dante. Loss reverberated within Lucien like a broken song. Power swirled into the air, buoyed by a
creawdwr's
energy. Then, Dante lapsed into unconsciousness.

As Lucien rounded the corner, he saw Jordan fling himself at Johanna Moore, a syringe in one fist, a bit of metal in the other. He saw Moore shoot Jordan twice before the mortal tackled her. They both hit the floor hard. Her gun skittered across the tiles, coming to a stop against Dante's back.

Dante lay in the corridor, his arms wrapped around Wallace. Fading blue flames sparked and danced around them. Lucien heard Dante's slow, measured heartbeat, smelled the chemicals flowing in his blood. Wallace's heart pulsed, as well, a rapid patter.

In one long stride, Lucien stood beside his drugged child and the woman he cared for—cared for enough to sacrifice his own safety to ensure hers—but hadn't that always been his way?

It was one of the things Lucien loved and treasured most in Dante—his compassionate heart. All the things Moore had subjected his child to hadn't stolen that compassion or broken his spirit. He was wounded, yes, and some of the wounds might never heal, yes. But he'd survive. And he'd love.

Lucien saw Genevieve in every act of love Dante performed, in every kindness he showed. In those moments, Lucien saw his laughing, dark-haired little Genevieve.

But, as for the woman who'd killed her…

Lucien swiveled and watched as Johanna Moore pushed herself free of Jordan's body. Her hand reached up, grabbing the broken syringe in her throat. She yanked it out, blood trickling from the puncture, then froze, her gaze traveling up the length of Lucien's body.

Johanna Moore paled. Her fingers froze around the sliver of steel in her belly.

Jordan's blood-frothed lips curved into a smile. His eyes closed.

“Do you remember Genevieve Baptiste?” Lucien asked, kneeling beside Dante. “My son's mother?” He picked up Moore's gun and tossed it down the darkened hall.

Shock blanched Johanna's face. Widened her eyes. “
Your
…son?” she whispered.

“Oui, mon fils,”
Lucien said. He glanced at Heather; she opened her eyes. “But, I believe my question was—do you remember Genevieve Baptiste?”

Lucien slipped an arm around Heather and eased her up, helping her to sit against the wall. Her gaze remained on Dante, reluctant to leave him. Lucien touched a talon beneath her chin. Heather regarded him with shock-dilated eyes.

“It's all right,” he promised.

Heather drew in a deep breath, then winced. Lucien brushed her hair back from her face. Her wound no longer bled, but she needed medical attention. The drugs had kept Dante from finishing whatever it was he'd started.

“I'm waiting,” Lucien said.

“Yes, I remember her,” Moore stammered, voice rough. She yanked the file from her flesh. It hit the floor with a sharp tink.

Lucien drew a talon across his wrist. Blood welled up. He looked at Moore from beneath his brows. “Say her name.”

“Genevieve Baptiste,” Moore breathed. “I didn't know. I wouldn't have—”

“Be silent,” Lucien said, gathering Dante into his arms.

Moore closed her mouth.

Lucien pressed his bleeding wrist against Dante's lips. The blood smell roused Dante's nightkind instinct and he sucked at the wound, swallowing the healing blood. Lucien knew it wouldn't cleanse all of the drug's effects, but it would lessen them.

Looking back at Moore, Lucien said, “I've read the file. I've seen the CD. I know what you've done to Dante. To him and to his mother, my love.”

Moore looked away. She trailed a shaking hand through her blonde hair.

Why have you abandoned us?

Lucien tasted the ashes of bitter regret. He deserved Dante's hate, perhaps.

My Genevieve, I am with our son. He is safe at last.

Lucien pulled his wrist away from Dante's mouth, then bent and kissed him, breathing energy in between his lips. Urged his son up to consciousness.

Awaken, child. Time to take your revenge.

Time to free yourself from the past.

Dante's eyes opened, revealing dilated gold-rimmed pupils.

“A
VENGE YOUR MOTHER,” LUCIEN
whispered. “And yourself.”

Pushing Lucien's arms aside, Dante sat up. The corridor spun. Colored flecks starred his vision. His head ached, but a different kind of pain knifed his heart.

Heather.

He looked for her, saw her resting against the wall, a smile on her pale lips. Rising to his feet, he crossed the floor and, kneeling, touched a hand to her face.

He breathed a little easier knowing she'd live. He'd flooded energy and song into her, seeking what was broken. He wasn't sure what he'd done, but it had worked. He hadn't lost her.

Heather laid her hand over his, her skin cool. Wonder lit her face. “I hear a song. It's dark and furious and heartbreaking. So beautiful. Is it coming from you?”

Dante nodded. Leaning in, he kissed her. Her fingers inter-laced with his. “Don't listen,” he said against her lips. “Shut it out.
D'accord?
”

“Let it go. I can build a case against Moore,” Heather said. “Let it go, Dante.”

Dante leaned back. “No.” He squeezed her hand, then released it. He stood.

Heather closed her eyes. “Pigheaded,” she whispered.

Dante spun on his heel and strode across the corridor, past Lucien, Heather's fear pressed like a rose against his heart. For him. She was scared
for
him.

<
Guard her.
>

<
Of course.
>

Elroy the Perv's body stretched across the doorway, his shirt bloodied, his eyes empty, his heart silent. Dissipating heat shimmered up from the body. Dante's hands curled into fists.
Gina.
Elroy had taken the last little bit of her to the grave.

“Name the one you love,” Dante whispered, stepping over the Perv.

Tomorrow night?

Always,
ma petite.

Dante walked into a room rank with buried memories and the smell of old blood and medicine. He looked at the woman standing at the opposite wall—tall, blonde, nightkind. Never taking her eyes from him, she reached for a dart gun on the counter beside her.

Images sparked:
She looks down at him, smiling. He smells Chloe's blood congealing on the floor, on the straitjacket wrapped around him. “You've done well, little one. You failed to protect her, but you protected yourself. No one can ever be used against you if you're willing to kill them yourself.”