He knelt beside the bed and eased Dante onto the sheets, then tipped Dante’s head back against the pillows and wiped at the blood trickling from his nose with a dish towel he’d scooped up in the kitchen. Moonlight softened De Noir’s angular features, changed his grim expression to one of sorrow.
Heather tilted her head, studying De Noir as he tended to Dante, watched his large hand skim delicately against Dante’s hair, brushing it back from his face. What was it between them?
“Is he going to be all right?” she asked. “Does he have medication for his headaches? A doctor?”
“All he needs is rest,” De Noir said.
“Didcha ask him about his past?” a voice said from the doorway. “That’s usually when he gets ’em real bad like this.”
Heather glanced over at Silver. He leaned in the doorway, one foot braced on the threshold behind him, his silver eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
“I only asked a few basic questions,” Heather said.
“Dante was raised by the State of Louisiana, Agent Wallace,” De Noir murmured. He held out the bloodied dish towel.
“Yeah, yeah,” Silver muttered. Uncoiling from the doorway, he slouched into the room and took the dish towel. Then he was gone.
Heather blinked, startled. Superhuman speed seemed to be a common thing in this household. Taking a deep breath, she refocused on De Noir.
“Yes, I know,” she said. “He was raised in a foster home by the Prejeans.”
Lucien shook his head. “That was only the last one. He was shuffled from foster home to foster home for years.”
Heather went still. De Noir had just given her information that hadn’t been in Dante’s file. Why had only the last foster home been listed?
“The past is something Dante does not remember well,” De Noir said quietly. “And perhaps it’s best that way.” He held out his hand.
A cool rush of air blew past Heather, fluttering her hair. Silver appeared in front of her and placed the dampened dish towel in De Noir’s waiting hand. With a quick, sharp-toothed grin, the boy disappeared again.
“Maybe he needs to remember,” Heather said. “Maybe that’s what causes the migraines.”
“No,” De Noir whispered. He daubed at the slowing trickle of blood beneath Dante’s nose with the damp towel. “No.”
A sudden pang of sympathy sliced through Heather’s weariness and she realized in that moment that De Noir loved Dante, and that it was regret that shadowed his face and roughened his voice.
Regret. For what? An unremembered past that needed to remain unremembered? No matter the cost?
“Dante told me he was a vampire,” she said.
De Noir closed his eyes. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Do you believe vampires exist, Agent Wallace?”
“No. But I’ve got a feeling Dante does.”
De Noir’s eyes opened. Gold light flecked his eyes. “Indeed,” he murmured. He unbuckled Dante’s boots, then tugged them off his feet. Each hit the floor with a dull thud.
“He thinks he’s invulnerable and that’s gonna get him killed,” Heather said, crossing to the futon.
De Noir said nothing. The hand at Dante’s temple trailed back through his tousled black hair, then away. De Noir unfolded from the floor and stood.
“I won’t let that happen,” De Noir said. He turned away from her.
She stared at him, stunned by his dismissive attitude. Stepping forward, she seized De Noir’s forearm. It felt hard and cool as marble beneath her fingers. But fire flared within her, tightening her muscles.
“There’s a man out there who wants…who’s looking forward to torturing him,” she said, voice low and hard. “Rape. Mutilate. Kill. It’s not a thing you can control. You don’t have a say in it.” She released his arm.
De Noir stood still for a long moment, tendrils of his long hair snaking into the air. Barely visible blue light sparked around his body. Heather’s skin tingled. The sharp smell of ozone cut through the air. Dante stirred on the futon, suddenly restless, pale face troubled. Silver straightened in the doorway, gleaming eyes wary.
Then, like a sudden clap of thunder or an implosion sucking all the air from the room, it was gone. No blue light. No snaky hair. Just a tall man standing motionless beside a bed. Étienne’s voice whispered through Heather’s memory: Fallen.
“I won’t let it happen,” De Noir said again. Bending, he pulled the blankets up over Dante, then sat on the futon’s edge. He touched a hand to Dante’s temple.
“Good night, Agent Wallace,” De Noir rumbled.
Heather stalked from the room, brushing past Silver, her body as tight as her fists. She’d told Dante she’d stick with him. She meant it. De Noir could cram his good night up his ass. She trotted down the stairs, one hand gliding along the polished wood banister.
When Heather walked into the front room, Simone looked up from the easy chair, a book in her lap. Jordan was still sprawled on the sofa, one hand dangling on the floor, his mouth slightly open.
“Thank you for keeping an eye on him,” Heather said.
Simone closed her book, then stood. “I’ve been looking for time to read,” she said with a shrug. “How’s Dante?”
Heather shook her head. “He’s out cold, but at least the nose-bleed stopped. De Noir seems to think all he needs is rest.”
“Ah,” Simone breathed. Concern tightened her face. “It’s not rest he needs,” she murmured. She walked toward the hall.
“How long have you known Dante?” Heather asked.
“Three, four years.”
“Are his headaches getting worse?”
Simone paused at the threshold. “Oui. Why do you ask?” She glanced over her shoulder, her face watchful and closed.
“He needs help—”
“We will help him,” Simone said. “You can’t. He told you true, m’selle. He’s nightkind.” Simone walked from the room.
Sighing, Heather sank into the chair opposite the sofa and buried her face in her hands. They were all mad. Delusional.
Or they were all vampires. How would she even write that up on a report?
The subject refuses to submit to protective custody because he’s a vampire. When I informed the subject that serial killers are quite capable of pounding a stake through his heart, he laughed. “Bait the hook,” he said.
Heather’s hands dropped from her face. She stared at the floor, pulse racing. Bait the hook. Vampire or not—and she wasn’t ready to admit to anything but the possibility—would it work? After three years, could she lure the bastard in? Reel him in and net him? If it worked…
And if it didn’t work? If her perp wiggled through the net with Dante in his jaws? She rose to her feet and headed for the kitchen. She pushed the door open, then paused, her gaze on the brandy-and-blood spattered floor. Dante’s strained voice curled through her memory: Let him have me.
What if her bad guy believed Dante was a vampire?
Most of Inferno’s fan sites seemed to adhere to that belief. Interviewers asked and Dante walked away, the question unanswered.
Wake up. Wake up S.
What did he want Dante to wake up to? And what was S—the first letter of Dante’s true surname? Did he think it time Dante lived up to his vampiric reputation? Did he want the answer the interviewers never received?
Edging around the blood stains out of habit, Heather hurried to the table and her purse. She pulled out her cell phone. As she returned to the living room, she flipped the cell open. No bars. And her charger was at the hotel. Maybe someone here had a charger she could use—
Her gaze fell on the snoozing Jordan’s cell phone on the floor beside his wallet. Crossing to it, she bent and scooped the cell phone up. Four bars. She plopped back into the chair and tapped in Collins’s number.
Collins picked up on the second ring. “Collins,” he said, voice curt. “Who’s this?” Heather realized that his phone would’ve IDed the incoming call as Elroy Jordan.
“Collins, it’s Wallac
e. I had to borrow a phone.”
“Goddamn, Wallace,” he replied, relief evident in his voice. “I’ve been trying to reach you—”
“Listen,” Heather bulldozed right over the detective’s words, eager to share her discoveries. “I found Dante Prejean and I’m staying close to him in case our perp puts in an appearance.”
“But—”
“No, listen, did you go to Lafayette and talk to the Prejeans—get some history on Dante? Did the Prejeans and the Spurrells ever come into contact with each other?”
“Didn’t need to,” Collins said. “Our perp won’t be targeting anyone ever again.”
“What?” Heather sat up straight.
“I take it you haven’t talked to your supervisor,” Collins said. “The bastard was nailed in Pensacola.”
“Pensacola?” Heather repeated. “That’s impossible. He’s here. At least he was this morning when he murdered—”
“Traveling man, Wallace,” Collins said. “That’s why he was called the Cross-Country Killer, right?”
“Right, right. You said he’d been nailed. Do you mean as in dead?”
“Yeah. Another agent happened to catch him in the act.” Collins paused a moment, paper rustled in the background. “Victim didn’t make it, though.”
“Was there another message?”
More paper rustling. “No, but he never finished, ya know?”
Dead. And in Florida. How could she have been so wrong? Her thoughts spun—Lafayette, anarchy, Club Hell, Dante—all of the connections felt true.
“Are they positive it’s him? I mean, they wouldn’t have the all the lab work back yet and—”
“I’m flying to Pensacola in the morning,” Collins said. “I figured you’d want to go too, so I reserved a seat for you.”
Heather smiled. “Good man,” she murmured. “I’ll meet you at the airport. What time?”
“Eight in the a.m., sunshine,” Collins said. “See you there.” He ended the call.
Heather thumbed the cell off, then switched it back on. Punching in more numbers, she called Stearns. No answer. Just voice mail. Maybe the damned caller ID had screwed her again. “It’s Wallace, sir,” she said after the beep. “I’m heading to Pensacola in the morning to check out the dead suspect and look over their evidence. I’ll be in touch soon after.”
Heather slumped down in the chair, placing the cell on the armrest. She ran a hand through her hair. She wanted to tell Dante the turn of events. She also wanted to have a little chat with Mr. Jordan about the dangers of window-peeping for prime tabloid shots.
She closed her eyes. Weariness weighed her down like concrete overshoes. Pensacola. After murdering Gina shortly before dawn? Killing another woman the same day?
Jack the Ripper had done two in one night—a double event—not even an hour apart. Jack had never been caught—at least officially.
She strongly suspected that the Cross-Country Killer hadn’t been caught either. Officially or otherwise.
Heather sank into a black ocean, her concrete overshoes dragging her to the bottom. Somewhere in the darkness, Leigh Stanz sang, his husky voice rippling beneath the waves.
I long to drift like an empty boat on a calm sea / I don’t need light / I don’t fear darkness…
You should, Heather thought, sinking and sinking and sinking—
She staggers along the highway’s edge, thumb out, peering into the darkness. Her car won’t start and she’s left it in the tavern parking lot. She really has to get home. She only stopped in for a few drinks while out on errands. The kids were at soccer practice or guitar lessons or Scouts and she had a few moments to herself.
The next thing she knows, it’s dark and the moon’s high in the sky. Her new friends try to talk her into staying and, for a moment, she considers it. But she pulls free of her friends’ beseeching hands and escapes into the chilly October night. She can’t find her cell phone. Did she leave it at work? In the tavern?
She abandons the car and decides to thumb a ride home. She stumbles, her heel catching on the asphalt’s ragged edge. She giggles. Good thing she isn’t driving. Point in her favor. She licks the tip of a finger and strokes an imaginary line in the air. Sliding off her shoe, she peers at the heel.
Headlights pierce the night. She sticks out her shoe instead of her thumb, cocking her weight onto one hip and smiling. The car pulls over, tires crunching on gravel, the muffler streaming a plume of exhaust, the heady smell of gasoline in the air.
She wobbles as she tries to put her shoe back on. She hops backward before sprawling onto her ass. She throws her head back and laughs. Good thing she isn’t walking the line for a cop. Another point in her favor. She draws another imaginary line in the air. Slipping off her other shoe, she climbs to her feet, stumbling only a little. She’s brushing the dirt off her hind end when the driver’s door opens.
A man slips out of the purring car. Something gleams in his hand.
Dante stood in the doorway, hands braced against either side of the threshold. Wallace—Heather—slept slumped in the easy chair, her head turned to the left. Her red hair tumbled across her cheek, edged her half-parted lips. Her breathing was slow and easy. Candlelight flickered orange and gold across her face.
Beautiful, he thought. Easy to forget she was a cop.
He padded barefoot into the front room. Scooping a folded blanket up from the back of the empty sofa, he shook it out, then spread it over her. His bracelets clinked against each other with the movement, but she didn’t stir.
Dante sat cross-legged in front of the chair. She’d stood up for him—in front of other cops. Had even tackled the chicken-shit bastard with the gun. Why would she stand up for me? What gives? He breathed in her fresh rain scent, detecting a hint of lilac and sage laced beneath. He listened to the deep, steady beat of her heart.
Asleep, she looked even younger than the twenty-eight or thirty years he pegged her at. Asleep, curled and warm, she wasn’t a cop or an FBI agent, but a woman with heart; a woman with steel for a spine. A woman, so far, true to her word.
Trust me. I’m asking you to trust me.
How many times had he heard those words? Spoken by mortals and nightkind alike, the words empty, void: Trust me.
But not with Heather. He’d looked into her and she’d met his gaze, her own open and steady, hiding nothing. For a moment, as he’d looked into her blue eyes, the voices raging inside had hushed.
And so he’d put his hands behind his back and let her handcuff him.
The ceiling creaked. Lucien stirred on his rooftop perch, watching the night. Listening to a rhythm that Dante heard at times, felt it pulsing in sync with the blood in his veins.
Heather shifted in the chair, a slight frown on her lips. Her heart rate picked up speed. Bad dream? Rising to his knees, Dante leaned in and brushed her hair back from her face. Adrenaline spiked her scent. Her brows drew together, face troubled, maybe scared. Beads of sweat sprang up along her hairline.
“Heather.” Dante gently shook her shoulder. “Heather, wake up.”
She jerked awake, eyes wide. She sat bolt upright, knocking Dante’s hand aside, the blanket sliding from her lap and puddling on the floor. She brought up both hands together as though she held her gun.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t get in the car….”
“Hey,” Dante said. “It’s okay.”
At the sound of his voice, Heather shuddered, then leaned forward, elbows to knees, head to hands. She drew in a long breath. The frantic pounding of her heart gradually slowed.
After a moment, she lowered her hands. Her face was night-kind-white, her eyes dilated and rimmed with brilliant blue.
“T’est blême comme un mort.” Dante said. “Nightmare?”
Heather glanced at him. Her heart double-thumped. Her breath caught in her throat. Dante tensed, his fingers curving in toward his palms. He almost looked away, not wanting to see the frustrating mix of adoration, lust, and wonder that lit the eyes of mo
st who looked at him. But she held his gaze, her heart calming, her breathing evening out. She looked in.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Nightmare.”
“I know about nightmares.”
Heather tilted her head and looked at him intently. “I bet you do,” she said. “How’s your head?” She touched a finger to her own temple.
“I’m good,” he murmured, shrugging.
Heather glanced about the room, her gaze stopping at the sofa. “Where is he?” she said, jumping to her feet.
“Peeping Tom’s perv assistant?” Dante asked, looking up at her. She nodded. “He was gone when I came downstairs.”
“So are his things,” she said. “The stuff you took from his pockets.”
Heather searched the chair she’d been sleeping in, sliding her hands between the cushion and the chair, kneeling to look underneath. “So’s his cell phone,” she said, pushing her hair back from her face. Color flushed her cheeks. “I had it on the arm of the chair.”
Dante caught her meaning. “So he stood over you while you slept.”
Lips pressed together, Heather nodded. Frustration and renewed weariness tightened her face. “I was going to recommend that he find a less sleazy boss, but…”
“Bon à rien, both of ’em,” Dante said, standing. “A perfect match.”
Heather smiled, then it faded from her lips. Her mind was unshielded, wide open, and he could go in and snag every single thought—if he wanted.
But if someone were to go into his mind unwelcomed—force their way in or seduce their way in—and take what they wanted…he tensed. He had no desire to look into Heather’s unguarded mind.
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Can we go somewhere private?”
Dante nodded. “Sure.”
“Looks like you’re recovering from that cooperation problem.”
He snorted. “Keep thinking that.”
She smiled again.
Dante led Heather out of the front room and down the hall to his studio. Just as he opened the door, Trey rushed out of the web room, goggles swinging from his hand. He stopped in front of Dante, reeking of adrenaline.
Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires Page 11