Heather’s gaze whipped back to the nail file. If she could reach it, maybe she could dig the bracket loose; dig and chip and pry.
Leaning over as far as her cuffed wrist would allow, she reached for the file, her fingers wriggling through the gravel. She stretched, cuff scraping her wrist, bruising the bone. Her fingers scrabbled, dirt working up under her nails.
Breath rasping in a throat gone tight, wrist throbbing, Heather pushed herself back against the building. Too far. If she had something she could snag it with, pull it in…
Easing down on her side, cuffed arm extended behind her, she felt around in the gravel with her feet, scooping with her shoes, kicking pebbles, little bits of shells and glass, cigarette butts, and petrified wads of chewing gum up toward her hand.
Her fingertips glided over metal. She looked down into the gravel. The dirt-stained file rested next to her hand. She curled her fingers around it, clutched it tight against her palm.
Scooting back into a sitting position, Heather twisted the file around and, grasping it like a knife, worked it under one edge of the bracket and pried. The file chipped paint from the drainpipe and its bracket. Gritting her teeth, she twisted the file under the bracket. Give, damn you!
One edge of the bracket abruptly pulled away from the building. The file sliced through the air and Heather fell back onto her elbow. Dropping the file, she worked the cuff down and off the drainpipe.
She scrambled to her feet and ran to the back of the building. She jumped up, caught the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder, and pulled. The ladder slid down, the clanging metal loud as a falling Dumpster lid at four in the morning. She grabbed the cold rungs with both hands and climbed, dangling handcuff tinking against the rail.
As she stepped from the ladder onto the roof, shards of star-lit glass caught Heather’s attention. She saw a broken skylight at the roof’s midpoint.
Exploding glass. Dante.
Heather paused every few steps to break up the rhythm. Didn’t want Ronin to know she’d escaped. If he was still here. She crouched down and scanned for a gleam of metal, for the .38 Colt’s familiar shape. Then she saw it among the broken glass near the skylight.
She stood, forcing herself to continue the step-step-pause step-pause unrhythm. Slipping her hand into the trench’s pocket, she pulled out the magazine. She knelt, careful not to crunch any of the spilled glass, and picked up the .38. Slammed the cartridge-filled clip into it.
A scream sliced through the silence, desperate and raw with denial. She froze, pulse pounding. The sound died away after several time-stretching seconds, fading into a low growl of long-simmering rage.
Dante.
Heart pounding, Heather jumped to her feet and ran for the ladder. She flung herself onto it and half climbed, half jumped to the ground. She rounded the back corner and pelted up the alley to the side door, then slipped inside CUSTOM MEATS.
* * * *
Dante’s anguished howl lifted the hair on the back of Ronin’s neck, iced his blood. He almost released the boy. Almost. More than a little madness and blood rage edged that echoing cry. Even Étienne’s mouth snapped shut — gloating whispers silenced.
Ronin tumbled into Dante’s mind as the shields he pushed against crumpled inward, pain swarming against his intrusion like a disturbed hive of wasps. Images whirled, broken and fragmented, through Dante’s mind — images Ronin had difficulty deciphering.
An anarchy symbol cut into a pale torso…
A falling drop of blood forms into a metallic-looking wasp and flies away…
A shattered window, but one that stretches across the horizon…
Dizzied, Ronin withdrew from Dante’s mind. Johanna had done her job well. The boy was more fucked up than he’d imagined. Disappointment curled through him. Dante’s shields had fallen, but memory still hid, disguising itself with symbols. He’d awakened, but saw only in tarot card pictures — powerful, but confusing. True memory lurked within his subconscious.
Maybe a little more incentive?
Hooking his fingers in Dante’s silken hair, he yanked his head back, pulled his throat taut. The boy struggled against Ronin’s and Étienne’s tight hold, muscles straining.
You’ll never taste my blood.
Ronin sank his fangs into Dante’s throat, just above the bondage collar. Hot blood tasting of dark, sun-warmed grapes and spiced with adrenaline and rage spurted into his mouth. Ronin swallowed mouthful after heady mouthful. True Blood, oh yes. And more. Electric energy surged through Ronin’s veins. He wrapped his arms ever tighter around the struggling young vampire, pressed his lips ever closer against his fevered flesh. Dante’s strong heartbeat pulsed through his consciousness.
Ronin hears a rush of wings.
No longer able to separate his heartbeat from Dante’s, Ronin wrenched his mouth from the boy’s throat. The taste of Dante’s blood lingered on his tongue, simmered in his veins, blazed like holy fire in his mind.
“You were wrong, boy,” Ronin said. “I’ve had more than a taste.”
“Let me up, chien, and we’ll see how long you keep it,” Dante said, voice low and strained.
True Blood and…? The memory of Lucien De Noir’s dark and earthy scent quickened Ronin’s thoughts. And Fallen? Intriguing possibility. If so, it was information Johanna’d lacked. She’d never known or cared who had fathered Dante. Careless and a mistake.
Heart slowing, Ronin unwrapped his fingers from Dante’s hair. Slid his hand once again across the leather collar circling the child’s throat. His fingers tightened.
“All of this for you. See?” Grasping Dante’s chin with his other hand, Ronin aimed the boy’s face at the mortal’s straitjacketed body. “For you.”
Dante’s fury battered against his shields like a jackhammer. Ronin’s fingers squeezed until the boy, gasping for air, slumped against him. Étienne slammed a fist into Dante’s damaged ribs. A rib cracked. The boy hissed in pain.
“I’m gonna burn your household and make you watch, marmot,” Étienne said. “I’m gonna drink dry…” His words trailed off. He glanced at Ronin, face puzzled. “What’s that?”
A faint bluish light glowed from Dante’s palms. Ronin tensed. Inner alarms sounded, flooding his system with adrenaline. What, indeed? Power surged from the youth, chaotic and uncontrolled.
And definitely not vampiric.
Dante twisted in his embrace, struggled to bring those glowing hands up. As Ronin released the boy, flinging his arms wide, three things happened simultaneously:
Étienne said, “You’re not going anywhere, marmot.”
Dante’s skin brushed against the last two fingers of Ronin’s left hand.
Étienne’s head snapped forward, then back, braids flying, as a gunshot cracked through the building.
Ronin leapt to his feet. Chaotic energy scrabbled through his hand. Plucking. Unraveling. Unmaking. Sweat beaded his forehead. Grasping his wrist, he glanced down. The last two fingers of his left hand were gone. As in, no longer existed. His hand had reshaped itself as though it’d always possessed only two fingers and a thumb.
He stared, heart thudding hard against his chest. The pain ebbed. His mind refused to accept what it was seeing. A flash of motion caught his attention and he looked up.
Dante stood and swiveled with mind-numbing speed to face Ronin. Even blood-spattered and bruised, Dante’s beauty mesmerized. Rage smoldered in the boy’s suddenly gold-streaked eyes, a sharp-edged rage honed for twenty-three years. But beneath that — old grief, renewed.
Gold-streaked eyes. A Fallen attribute? Or was S awakening?
“Her name was Chloe,” Ronin said. “And you killed her.”
Dante froze. Pain flickered in his eyes.
Ronin moved.
Heather squeezed the .38’s trigger again. The shot tore through empty space, the sound exploding in the room. She whirled, trying to track Ronin, and caught him hitting Dante with a flurry of blows, pummeling him down to all fours on the concrete floor. Before
she could even blink, Ronin landed a vicious kick into Dante’s ribs, knocking him halfway across the room.
Heather fired two more rounds. A pained grunt told her that at least one bullet hit the mark. She circled the room, .38 clasped in her white-knuckled hands. Edged ever closer to Dante.
Dante coughed, then spat.
Silence.
Heather lowered the .38. Ronin was gone. Drawing in a deep breath of blood- and candle-wax-scented air, she stepped over to Étienne’s Raggedy Andy–sprawled body.
“Dante,” she called over her shoulder. “You okay?” She realized how inane that sounded — of course he wasn’t okay; his friend was dead and he’d had the crap beaten out of him — but she needed to hear his voice, to gauge how much he’d been hurt.
“Lucien…no!” he said, voice husky, alarmed.
Lucien? De Noir was nowhere in sight. But Dante had told her what she needed to know. He was hurt. Maybe bad. Heather crouched beside Étienne. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder at Dante. He knelt on the floor, head bowed, black hair hiding his face. His fingers touched the floor on either side of him as though for balance.
“Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.” He swayed.
“Hold on,” she said. “Hear me? We’re walking out of here together.”
A healing hole marred Étienne’s pale forehead. Blood streaked his face, trickled from one nostril. His eyes were half-lidded. Heather touched a hand to the vampire’s throat. Blood pulsed beneath her fingers. Guess he has a heart after all.
She shoved the .38’s muzzle against Étienne’s chest, right above that theoretical heart. This is an execution. You do this, you might as well leave that badge and all it stands for in the dirt outside.
Sweat trickled along her temples, between her breasts. Her muscles trembled. And how would I bring this bastard before a court? He’s a vampire, she thought, realizing she finally believed it. He’s a killer.
So is Dante.
That’s the way of it, Pumpkin. Some you bring to justice. Some you silence. Some you let walk away.
No and no and no. Her finger tightened on the trigger. Her breath rasped in her throat.
“Mine.”
Startled, Heather yanked the .38 away from Étienne’s chest, her finger easing off the trigger. She looked up into Dante’s dark, pain-dilated eyes. No glimmer of recognition lit his face.
He doesn’t know who I am. That the realization stung so sharply surprised her. Like Annie, when she was lost to migraine pain, booze, and madness: Who the fuck are you? Like Annie — pissed. Hurting. Feeling.
Heather rose to her feet, her gaze on Dante. He was definitely feeling. It burned in his eyes, fevered his pale face, coiled through his taut-muscled body. He straddled the head-shot vampire, twisted a handful of Étienne’s blood-spattered shirt around his fingers, and jerked his torso up.
“Let this go,” she said. “Dante, you’re hurt. Let me help you.”
But Dante didn’t reply and Heather wasn’t sure he’d even heard her.
Étienne’s head hung limp, his braids sweeping the floor, beads clicking against the concrete. She caught a glimpse of Dante’s fangs as he bit into Étienne’s arched throat. Saw the vampire’s body convulse and his eyes fly open. Heard him hiss. Dante ripped into Étienne’s throat. Blood sprayed.
Heather stared, pulse pounding hard through her veins. Her fingers tightened around the .38’s grip. Dante wasn’t feeding, no, this was something else. Primal. Pissed and hurting. Every instinct she’d honed during her years with the Bureau screamed at her to swing up the .38 and stop the slaughter happening right in front of her.
But —did she have a right to interfere? Dante wasn’t human, she knew that now; neither was Étienne. Did human laws apply here? Was there nightkind law? Nightkind courts?
Or was nightkind justice dispensed like this — one to one, savage and bloody and personal? Was Dante within his rights? Was Étienne?
Heather’s shoes squelched in something. She looked down. She stood in the pool of blood circling the straitjacketed body —no, Jay, his name is Jay— circling Jay. She had backed up unaware.
She swiveled around and gazed into Jay’s empty green eyes. Crouching, she brushed her fingers against his still warm cheek. Had he been killed as Dante watched? She remembered the heartbroken sound of Dante’s scream and her throat tightened. She should’ve never let him go in alone.
We’re on our own. The case has been closed. I can’t call for backup.
Me neither.
I’m your backup.
She slid her hand from Jay’s face, clenching her fingers into a fist. Some backup. When Dante’d needed her, she wasn’t there. Didn’t matter that she hadn’t counted on being sidelined by a vampire. What mattered was she’d failed Dante and the friend he’d tried to save.
Ronin and Étienne had kidnapped and murdered Jay. And Gina too? Could she have been wrong about the CCK’s involvement? The perp she’d followed for three years was human. Human DNA.
Then it all clicked into place.
Ronin’s assistant — Elroy Jordan.
A pair of killers. A tag team? It was a possibility she’d never seriously entertained. The Hillside Strangler had been two men, cousins. Were Ronin and Elroy Jordan together the CCK? Or just playing at it? She wasn’t sure how Étienne fit into the picture; maybe he’d just tagged along, lugging his hatred for Dante.
So…where was Elroy Jordan?
Something thudded against the concrete. Heather swiveled around on the balls of her feet.
Wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his wrist, Dante stood. Étienne’s head dangled from his other hand, braids wrapped around his fingers. He dropped the head onto Étienne’s chest. The braids jittered with each beat of the heart. The eyes blinked.
Stepping over the still living body, Dante picked up a candle from the crate beside the door, and carried it back to Étienne. The head’s eyes rolled, wild, white. Dante touched flame to the black braids and to the expensive shirt and designer slacks. Smoke curled into the air. Hair and clothing burst into flame.
Dante stood, the movement swift and smooth. The stench of burning hair and roasting flesh closed Heather’s throat. With a last glance at Jay, she rose and stepped out of the sticky pool of blood.
Dante watched Étienne burn.
“Hey,” Heather said, voice low. She reached for him, but he spun abruptly, knocking her hand away and grabbing her, his fingers clamping around her upper arms. He yanked her in close. Lowered his head.
Heather shoved the .38 against his ribs, heart hammering. In his eyes she’d seen loneliness and loss. Yearning. He burned against her, his body raging with an inner fire to rival the one consuming Étienne’s body.
Dante nuzzled her throat, his lips brushing against her skin and she stiffened, even though fire flared within her at his touch. She wrapped her finger tighter around the .38’s trigger. Dante lifted his head. Sweat-damp tendrils of hair clung to his face and blood trickled from his nose. He closed his eyes. The muscle in his jaw twitched. His wire-taut muscles trembled as he struggled for control.
Heather’s arms tingled, her fingers cold, as Dante’s tight grip cut off the circulation. She wondered if he was aware of the gun against his ribs. She wondered if he cared. Desperation knotted around her heart.
“Dante, don’t do this.”
His eyes opened. Pupils dilated and rimmed with red-flecked brown, he looked into her. He released her, then touched her face with shaking fingers, brushing stray strands of hair back from her face.
“Heather,” he breathed.
Pain prickled through Heather’s arms as the blood resumed flowing. She lowered the .38 to her side. The relief, the wonder, in Dante’s voice told her that he’d believed her dead. She could just imagine what Ronin had told him: Caught the fed outside. Her neck snapped real easy.
The question was, why hadn’t he killed her?
Heather touched cold fingers to Dante’s face. “You’re hurt,” she said. �
��Let’s —” She felt smooth, fevered skin beneath her fingertips, then air.
“Run as far from me as you can.” His voice was strained, edged with pain.
She spun toward the sound. Dante stood in the doorway, hands braced on either side. She opened her mouth to argue, but it was pointless.
Dante was gone.
22
Ange De Sang
Lucien’s song smoldered within Dante, its rhythm faint and faltering, dying embers of a fire that had burned hot and steady for hundreds — no, thousands— of years. He rushed up the cathedral’s steps to the locked double doors. He looked up. Shutters blinded the windows.
The image of an arched chamber —SANCTUSSANCTUSSANCTUS— strobed within Dante’s mind, then flared into a golden burst of color. He touched his link to Lucien, but it was closed. He pushed. The seal held.
Voices whispered and droned. Wasps crawled.
Lucien, mon cher ami —
Jay’s green eyes, steady and full of trust, even as the light went out of them, filled Dante’s mind.
I knew you’d come for me.
Would he fail Lucien, too? Would he watch the life ebb from his eyes?
White light etched mysterious glyphs at the edges of Dante’s vision. Blood dripped onto the concrete beneath his feet. Voices shouted and shrieked and murmured behind him, none of them making any sense. He grasped the door handles and pushed.
Dante didn’t have to look behind him to know that mortals circled the MG parked at the foot of the cathedral’s steps; he smelled them, blood and sweat, booze and desperation. He heard their hearts, pounding and hammering and pulsing; a disjointed rhythm threading through the night beneath the buzz of their voices.
With an echoing snap, the locks broke. Dante swung the heavy doors open and stepped into the golden chamber he’d seen in his mind before pain, white hot and not his own, had stolen his breath and his song.
A gold cherub stood in the aisle near the dark, gleaming pews. The smell of incense and candle wax, sharp and fragrant — sandalwood, rose oil, and sorrow — drifted through the cathedral. Silence as thick as cotton muffled the sounds from outside, but amplified the beat of Dante’s heart.
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