Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires

by Adrian Phoenix

  Tommy-boy had also told him that he’d been programmed; programmed, charted, graphed, and predicted, then turned loose.

  E’s jaw clenched. Predicted? Programmed? Fuck, no! Tommy-boy had then offered him the opportunity to return to the one who’d been stupid enough to think she controlled him. The opportunity to stand before her, shivs in hand.

  The opportunity to say, I’m home. Did you fucking foresee that?

  Stretching up, E turned his head and looked in the window. Glowing blue light from a thin monitor shimmered upon the face of a figure reclining in a black leather chair, goggled eyes aimed at the ceiling. Information flashed across the monitor with mind-numbing speed. Metal-capped fingers flicked and danced through the air. Data blurred across the monitor. The figure’s waist-length dreads nearly brushed the floor, twisting like tentacles with his motion. A thin cable extended from the computer to the base of his skull, the jack hidden beneath his dreads.

  Holy shit! Dante not only had a web-runner, he had a vampire web-runner. With his reflexes and—according to Tom-Tom, but E still wasn’t convinced—superior brain power, this bloodsucker could rule the fucking world. Or burn out computers at an astonishing rate. E voted for the latter.

  The blonde vamp from the club slipped in through the partially opened door and crouched beside the web-runner’s chair. Her mini-skirt hugged her ass and black tights stretched along her legs. She touched the web-runner’s arm and spoke, her words indistinct, although E could hear enough to know she spoke in French or Cajun or some goddamned thing. The only thing he heard clearly was the web-runner’s name: Trey.

  Trey continued to ignore the blonde, his fingers flickering through the air. Exasperation highlighted the blonde’s face.

  E pulled away from the window, then dropped down to the grass on his belly. Pretty stupid of ol’ Trey to ignore such a hot chick. With her lovely, pale face and slender curves, she was a shiny in a world of dull. He collected shinies. Gina was shiny. Or had been. E pressed his hot face into the night-dewed grass, his heart pounding against his ribs so hard he half expected worms to vibrate up out of the soil.

  With the scent of wild mint and wet grass in his nostrils, E bellied through the grass toward the next patch of yellow light, hoping to catch a glimpse of the single human in a houseful of bloodsuckers—his lovely Heather, the brightest of the sheep.

  Tucking up against the house again, his back against the wood, E stretched up and peeked in the window. And lo, there she was, sitting at a kitchen table, hands wrapped around a coffee mug, gaze lost in the coffee’s depths. Her red hair coiled past her shoulders. Her skin seemed almost luminous in the dim light, her lips flushed with deep color. Her violet sweater clung to her curves and her fitted black slacks revealed her trim, athletic figure.

  E touched a finger to the window for a split second, then pulled it away. Was she thinking of him? Did he haunt her dreams? Did he lurk faceless in the ragged edges of nightmare, shivs gleaming? Did he make her pulse race?

  Did she, like E, hope the chase would never end?

  The kitchen door swung open and Dante stepped into the kitchen. Heather lifted her head and looked at him. He paused for a moment, meeting her gaze. She said something, her voice a low murmur. He answered, his voice also low and indistinct, then opened a cupboard and pulled down a black mug. As he poured coffee into it, Heather leaned forward against the table, speaking to him in an urgent but level voice.

  Dante set the coffeepot back on its hot plate, then stood still, his head cocked as though listening.

  E couldn’t make out everything Heather said, but he did catch the words “danger,” “stalked,” and “serial killer.” Proof that she was, indeed, thinking of him; a fact that would normally slather a sloppy grin across his face.

  But not this time. E ducked down from the window, plastering himself against the house. His heart banged away in a frantic, disjointed rhythm. An image seared itself into his mind, an image that scorched and blackened his self-control:

  Heather looks up, her gaze sliding the length of the fucking bloodsucker’s lean, hard body, lingering for a long moment on his pale face. A smile curves her lips. She seems lit from within, vibrant, alive—then she composes her face, dims the light, and becomes Ms. FBI again.

  Heather had fucking fallen for a goddamned bloodsucker.

  E’s muscles tightened. His knuckles rapped against his thighs. He stared into the night. A shadow suddenly divided the puddle of light on the grass, and E held his breath.

  He just knew Dante stood at the window. Knew that he’d sensed something raging outside, right under his fucking nose.

  The shadow vanished.

  E sprang to his feet and ran. Thighs pumping. Breath burning. Adrenaline flooding. Heart hammering. The stone wall jittered closer with every step across the dew-slick grass.

  Then a tree stepped into his path and E slammed into it. Pain grated his consciousness like cheese. The world whirled. His vision grayed. His legs, suddenly boneless, dumped him onto the ground. Nausea clutched his belly.

  A deep voice rumbled, “He knew you’d spotted him.” Ah. The big guy. Also the unexpected tree.

  “I felt him,” said a low voice—Dante. “I didn’t see him.”

  From further away, Heather’s voice, sharp and clear and protective. “Get away from him,” she called. “He might be armed.”

  “Peeping Tom’s assistant,” Dante murmured. “So this is how he spends his evenings off. Figures.”

  Fingers brushed over his face. Little electric bursts sparked beneath his skin; sizzled blue and cool along his spine. The world whirled even faster. His vision darkened.

  Hands patted him down—De Noir’s, he thought. Fingers plucked. Once. Twice. Three times. Nah, nah. Didn’t find ’em all.

  “Are knives required equipment for a journalist’s assistant?” De Noir rumbled.

  “Depends on the journalist,” Dante said.

  The cheese-grating-world-spinning-nausea-lurching-head-aching suddenly torqued. E spun off the world into a starless void.

  11

  A Breathing

  Connection

  LUCIEN DUMPED THE UNCONSCIOUS assistant onto the sofa in the front room. A huge purple and blue lump had knotted up on the man’s forehead. Dante knelt beside the sofa and searched through the man’s pockets, his hands sure and fast.

  Done this before, Heather mused. Looks like more than once.

  Dante tossed a small ring of keys to the floor, along with a cell phone, several coins, and a tinfoil-wrapped stick of gum. Another sharp knife tunked onto the pile.

  De Noir sucked in his breath. Heather glanced at him. He shook his head, jaw tight, clearly angry that he’d missed the weapon.

  When she returned her attention to Dante, he held a slim black wallet in his hand. Flipping it open, he pulled up several credit spikes and a few bills.

  “Elroy Jordan,” Dante said. “According to his ID, anyway.”

  “Where from?” Heather said, kneeling beside him to read over his shoulder.

  “New York.”

  Dante scooped up the assistant’s cell phone. “Let’s see who Elroy spoke to last,” he said, punching the redial button.

  Heather scanned Jordan’s photo. Thinning hair, loopy grin—classic DMV shot.

  Dante held up a finger, then a grin lit his face. “If it ain’t Peeping Tom,” he said into the cell. “I met your assistant, Elroy the Perv.” Dante listened a moment, his grin widening.

  Heather stared at his fangs, which she told herself had to be implants. Didn’t they?

  “I don’t think so,” Dante said, grin vanishing. “He’s a little unconscious right now. Since he had the night off, he must be a voyeur on his own time, huh?”

  Dante listened again, running a hand through his hair. He glanced at Heather and smiled. Then he laughed, a low, smooth sound full of dark humor.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll turn him loose when he wakes up.” Dante thumbed the end button. He tossed the cell back
onto Jordan’s pile of stuff.

  “What’s the journalist’s name?” Heather asked.

  “Ronin. Thomas Ronin.”

  Heather stared at Dante. “Ronin? That bastard’s here?”

  “Apparently you weren’t impressed by his cool black business card either,” Dante said, a smile tugging up one corner of his mouth. “What gives?”

  “He turns up at crime scenes before we even have a chance to process them,” Heather said, voice hard. “He takes pictures of the victims and sells them to tabloid rags or Internet death-porn sites. He’s a good writer, I’ll give him that, but he’s always accusing the police and the Bureau of being incompetent. Or worse, claiming that we plant evidence and arrest the innocent. His articles always end with him knowing who the ‘real’ killer is.”

  Heather stood, brushing off the knees of her slacks. “Where’d you run into him?”

  “On the street,” Dante said, easing to his feet with a fluid, unconscious grace. “Said he wanted to interview me.”

  He slipped the driver’s license from the wallet and tucked it into his back pocket. He tossed the wallet onto the pile of stuff on the floor.

  “You didn’t agree to that, did you?” Heather asked.

  “Fuck, no,” Dante snorted. Striding across the room, he pushed open the kitchen door and stepped inside.

  Heather sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Great. Insult the man.

  A small crowd had gathered around them in the front room. Silver sprawled in the easy chair beside the sofa, his legs draped over the arm of the chair. Simone stood near the hall entrance beside a man with waist-length dreads, goggles pushed on top of his head. Simone nodded at Heather. “My brother, Trey,” she said touching his arm.

  “Trey,” Heather murmured.

  “Would someone be willing to keep an eye on this creep while I talk to Dante?” Her gaze skipped from Simone to De Noir.

  “I will,” De Noir said. “Just keep it short, Agent Wallace.”

  “Let me know the instant this guy comes to,” Heather said. She walked from the room.

  Dante sat at the kitchen table, coffee mug and a bottle of brandy in front of him.

  “Look,” Heather said. “I know you don’t give a lot of interviews to the music mags and I didn’t mean to question your integrity, I—”

  “Forget it,” Dante said, shrugging. “I have.”

  Heather sat at the table across from him. Steam curled up from her cup and she suspected that Dante might’ve reheated her coffee in the microwave. She smiled.

  “So…you said that I’m being stalked by a…serial killer?” Dante splashed brandy into his coffee cup. He glanced at Heather and lifted the bottle.

  She shook her head. “I believe so. Somewhere along the line he fixated on you. Maybe he’s a fan.”

  Heather took a sip of the cream-and-sugared chicory coffee. She studied Dante as he stirred brandy into his mug, noting the tension in his shoulders. He seemed very aware that she was watching him and his expression was guarded.

  “Did you know Daniel Spurrell?” she asked. “The victim from the pizza parlor’s courtyard,” she clarified when Dante frowned.

  “That his name? Daniel?” Dante shook his head. “I’d seen him at the club and he’d talked to me about Inferno’s last album, but I didn’t know him.”

  “How long had you known Gina?”

  Dante looked away. His fingers squeezed the coffee cup. “Had known? I can’t get used to thinking of her in past tense.”

  “I know this is difficult, but I have to ask.”

  Trailing his fingers through his hair, Dante leaned back in his chair, tipping it. “We’d been hanging out for…oh…maybe six months or so.” He glanced up. “I suck at dates and times. Always have.”

  “So…you and Gina were an item? A couple?”

  Dante took a long swallow of the brandy-laced coffee. “No. We were friends. She has…had—fuck!—a boyfriend.”

  “Does the phrase ‘Wake Up S’ mean anything to you?”

  Dante’s muscles tensed and his hands locked around his cup. He shut his eyes. “No,” he whispered.

  Heather set her coffee cup on the table. She hated this part, poking and prodding the grief, stirring up the pain. She knew just how much it hurt when you realized a loved one had been murdered. Hadn’t died in their sleep or even in a tragic car accident. They’d been murdered, their life deliberately stolen, and they were never, ever coming back.

  Just like her mother.

  She reached across the table for Dante’s hand. He glanced up and she froze, her breath caught in her throat. She felt drawn into his dark eyes like blood into a needle. Heart fluttering hummingbird fast, Heather wrenched her gaze away and pulled her hand back to her coffee cup, wrapped her shaking fingers around it.

  What was it about him? He was gorgeous, sure, but she was no schoolgirl; in fact, she was pretty sure she was a handful of years older than him. Why the hell did he leave her tongue-tied and flustered?

  Heather reached for the brandy. Dante handed it to her. His fingers brushed against hers and an electric tingle zipped from Heather’s hand to her belly. She nearly dropped the bottle.

  “You mentioned that Gina had a boyfriend,” Heather said, carefully pouring a little brandy into her coffee. “Do you think he…what’s his name?…could’ve—”

  “Fuck, no! Jay loves…loved her.”

  Heather looked up from her cup and set the bottle of brandy down on the table. Dante’s expression remained guarded and his body language—averted gaze, white-knuckled grip on his mug—revealed his tension.

  Softening her voice, Heather continued, “Maybe out of jealousy? You were spending time with his girlfriend.”

  “Nothing to be jealous of.” Dante met Heather’s gaze. “He was always included.”

  “In everything?”

  “Everything. Yeah.”

  Scooting back his chair, Dante stood. He walked to the counter, gripped the edge.

  Heather swiveled in her chair. “Where can I find Jay? What’s his last name?”

  “As far as I know Jay’s missing,” Dante said. He turned around, his back to the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “He left with Gina last night. I plan to look for him. As soon as we’re done here.”

  “He left with her? How do you know he’s not dead? Or even the killer? Do you need me to spell this out for you?” Heather said, finger stabbing the table for emphasis. “A killer is studying you. He knows who is close to you. Give me Jay’s last name.”

  Dante held her gaze, but said nothing. Heather sighed. Good-looking, sexy, but pigheaded. “You can’t go looking for him. Let me help. I can get cops—”

  “Fuck the cops.”

  “I’ve tracked this psycho for three years,” she said, voice low, “and you’re my only breathing connection to him.”

  Dante stepped beside the table. He reached for the brandy. As his fingers wrapped around the brandy bottle’s neck, Heather locked a hand around his wrist. His skin was velvet-smooth and warm. “I want to keep you that way,” she said. “So you’re stuck with me for the time being.”

  Dante looked at her, his face less guarded, his eyes thoughtful, serious.

  “You trusted me at the club this morning,” she said. “What’s different now?”

  Dante gently pulled free of her hold. Bottle in hand, he leaned against the counter. Light sparked from the hoops in his ears. “Shit, I don’t know. Everything. Nothing. What do I call you, anyway? Special Agent Wallace? Lady Law? Mistress? What?”

  Scooting her chair back on the linoleum, Heather stood and joined him at the counter, hands braced behind her. “I have a feeling you’re not half the asshole you pretend to be.”

  A brief smile touched Dante’s lips. “How accurate are your feelings?” He took another quick drink from the brandy bottle.

  “Good enough,” Heather replied. “Let’s do first names, since that’s the only name I have for you. Mine’s Heather.”

&nb
sp; “Fair enough. Heather.”

  “You know, I can’t find any legal surname for you,” she said, holding Dante’s gaze. “Just one tacked on from your foster family in Lafayette—Prejean. Daniel Spurrell was from Lafayette, too.”

  Dante remained silent, expression wary, muscles tight.

  “You have a local rap sheet,” Heather continued. She knew she was pushing him, but maybe the reason for the messages rested in Dante’s unrecorded past. “Aside from a sealed juvenile record, I can’t find anything on you—no driver’s license, no social security number, no credit history—nothing. Why is that?”

  Dante winced and touched a hand to his temple. Sweat suddenly beaded his forehead. Heather touched his shoulder, alarmed. Another migraine? Triggered by her questions? How was that possible?

  “Hey. You okay?”

  Dante stumbled away from her, then leaned against the refrigerator, his body tensed, almost shaking with strain. “If your psycho wants me,” he said, voice ragged, “let him have me.”

  “Are you nuts?” Heather stepped toward him. “You need to be placed in protective custody.”

  “Fuck that. Bait the hook, okay? Bait the hook. I’m night-kind, remember?”

  The bottle of brandy slipped from Dante’s fingers and shattered on the floor. Amber liquid sprayed the cabinets and Heather’s feet. Dante dropped to his knees, one hand still at his temple, the other braced against the refrigerator. Racing around in front of him, Heather knelt and grabbed his shoulders. Blood trickled from his nose. His eyes rolled up white.

  The kitchen door whanged open, hitting the wall and punching a hole in the plaster as De Noir flew into the room.

  Dante slumped in Heather’s grasp, head lolling. She sat down hard on the linoleum, holding him tight, her pulse roaring in her ears. Blood streamed from his nose and spattered on her arms, her hands, her trousers.

  De Noir reached for Dante, something close to fear on his face.

  12

  An Unremembered Past

  DANTE IN HIS ARMS , De Noir walked with innate grace across the darkened bedroom, stepping around and over the CD cases, clothes and books cluttering the floor. The bed, a futon, was unmade and rumpled, the bedding and sheets all black—or maybe dark blue, Heather thought, following De Noir into the room.