Etched in Bone (Maker's Song #4)

by Adrian Phoenix

  Antoine nodded, then they walked away, hand in hand, her belly in the lead.

  “Spill it, Baptiste,” Heather said, then deepened her voice. “I felt a disturbance in the Force.”

  Dante trailed a hand through his hair, replaying the scent through his memory. Sharika here, Annie in the SUV on the way to New Orleans. He’d noticed something different in her smell, something he couldn’t name.

  He looked at Heather. “I think Annie might be pregnant.”

  “What?” Heather stared at him. “How do you know?” Her breath caught. She thumped the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Shit. She was puking this morning. I thought it was a hangover, even though she never gets hangovers, but . . . Are you sure?”

  “It’s in her scent, catin, but no, I ain’t positive.”

  “If she’s pregnant, the father couldn’t be Silver, could it? Can nightkind put a bun in a mortal female’s oven?”

  Dante shook his head. “Can’t be Silver. Nightkind can’t knock mortals up.”

  His stomach did a slow flip as something occurred to him, something he’d never even considered before, since he’d never had reason to think it applied to him. Turned nightkind couldn’t get a mortal pregnant. But born nightkind could.

  Now that he knew he was True Blood . . .

  “Fuck,” Dante whispered. Shock iced his blood. “But I can. In theory, anyway.”

  Heather’s mouth opened, then she closed it again. Her eyes darkened from twilight to midnight blue. Finally she said, “I’m on birth control, but will it work? I mean, it’s designed with humans in mind, not nightkind . . .”

  They stared at each other for a moment, then Heather exhaled and shook her head. “Christ. We’d better use condoms until we find out.”

  “I’ll pick some up at the market. I’ll pick up a pregnancy test kit for Annie too.”

  “Pick up two kits,” Heather murmured.

  Dante felt her concern flow through their bond and thread with his own, a concern he’d never experienced before—what if it was already too late for condoms?

  “TEST. TEST,” ANNIE SAID into one of the standing microphones set up in the Cage. A half empty bottle of golden Josй Cuervo sat on the floor near her feet. “One-two-three. Test. Test.”

  Eli and a mortal roadie that Dante didn’t recognize but figured worked for Saints of Ruin were busy tuning guitars and checking equipment behind Annie.

  After discussing it with Heather, Dante had volunteered to break the potentially bad news to Annie. It wouldn’t matter to him the same way it would to Heather if Annie got pissed off at the messenger.

  Annie shook her blue/black/purple razor-cur hair back from her face. She looked happy and in her element, maneuvering around the musical equipment with an easy confidence Dante hadn’t seen in her before.

  She misses it. Music, being onstage, performing, drinking in the energy from the audience—she misses it all. And no wonder, she and her band were fucking musical napalm.

  He wondered what it would take to get her back onstage, then thought of the bag in his hand. Whatever it was might have to wait. But picturing her performing with a huge, round, pregnant belly, snarling and flipping off the audience, made him laugh. Fuck yeah.

  Stopping at the foot of the steps leading up into the Cage, Dante called, “Hey, WMD frontwoman! When’s the band getting back together?”

  Annie spun around on the balls of brand spankin’ new Doc Martens to face the opened Cage door. A pleased smile danced across her lips even as she slanted her dark brows together in a mock scowl.

  “Shove off, asshole.”

  “Words to make any man hot. Got a minute? Need to talk to you, p’tite.”

  Annie shrugged. “Sure, dork.” Crossing the stage, she slipped past the steel-barred entry and bounced down the steps. Her gaze flicked to the paper bag in his hand. “Ooo. You got candy for me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She smelled of tequila, and her usual vanilla and cloves, but he caught another whiff of a buzzing hormone undertone. Just like Sharika’s, only less intense.

  “Well, that sucks. So what’s in the bag if it ain’t candy or porn?”

  Dante nodded at the hallway leading to the restrooms. “Let’s make this a private talk, yeah?”

  Annie’s eyebrows lifted. “Now I’m really intrigued. Are you gonna make a play for me? I know I’m fucking irresistible and I’ll bet I’m more bendy than Heather in the sack—”

  Dante snorted. “Don’t go there,” he advised. “You ain’t gonna come out ahead, p’tite. Not even close.” Turning, he bee-lined for the dimly lit hallway.

  “And you would know this how? You need to give me a whirl before you make up your mind. I promise I’ll be naughty.”

  Dante laughed. “No doubt. But it ain’t happening.”

  He halted beside the door marked HELLIONS accompanied by the circle-and-cross symbol for females and waited for Annie to catch up.

  She joined him with a pout on her bee-stung lips and mischief in her eyes. The low light winked from the piercing at her eyebrow and lower lip. “What’s a girl gotta to do to get laid?”

  “In your case, probably not much. Just ask anyone—other than me—and you’ll find yourself on your back in a heartbeat. “Catch.” Dante tossed her the bag.

  Opening it, Annie peered inside. She frowned. “Is this a fucking joke?”

  “Nope. Look, I noticed something in your scent, something that made me think you might need that.”

  Cheeks flushed, Annie crumpled the bag closed again and hurled it at him. He caught it at chest level, then lowered it to his side.

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  “Annie, I’m not trying to be an asshole . . . much, anyway . . . but if you’re knocked up, you should know, yeah? The booze, the smokes, even meds—all bad for a baby.”

  Annie narrowed her eyes. “Even if I was pregnant, what makes you think I’d even fucking keep it?”

  “I don’t. And that’s your decision—if you’re pregnant.”

  “If I am, it’s probably Silver’s.”

  Dante shook his head. “No, it ain’t. You can’t get knocked up by turned nightkind.”

  “Then I can’t be preggo cuz I ain’t slept with anyone else. Lately. That I remember, anyway.”

  Dante held out the bag. “Go find out. Prove me wrong and you can call me an asshole fifty different ways onstage.”

  Annie snatched the bag back from him. “Looking forward to it.” She stalked off to the little female Hellions room and slammed inside.

  She returned five minutes later, fury blazing in her eyes, and hammered a fist into Dante’s shoulder. “I fucking hate you. It’s positive.” She pulled back her fist to punch him again, but Dante caught it, her knuckles smacking into his palm.

  Just as he parted his lips to say, Sorry, p’tite, a tiny crystalline note tinkled across the edge of his awareness, a ghost finger whispering across a piano key.

  Dante went still. Listened. Tuned out the soft shush-shush of the blood racing through Annie’s veins, the chatter of the guys in the Cage, the beating of his own heart.

  Another note chimed through his mind, pure and small and clear, drawing Dante’s gaze to Annie’s T-shirt-covered abdomen. “Holy fucking hell,” he whispered.

  “What?” Annie said, voice sharp, uncertain. “What are you staring at? You aren’t going to have a fucking seizure or go all blue—Hey, man, what the fuck?” she protested when Dante pressed his palms against her belly.

  At his touch, a cascade of tiny, diamond-sharp notes spilled across his consciousness—not quite a song, not yet, but a beginning. A buoyant and busy energy hummed under his hand, nestled deep beneath Annie’s body heat-warmed T-shirt, her flat muscles, a creative pool. Life.

  Dante’s song swirled up in response to the happy little melody, and he imagined himself strumming chords and plucking strings, rearranging, fine-tuning, shaping, his fingers sliding along a twisting helix-shaped fretwork . . .

&n
bsp; Nononono.

  Dante yanked his hand away from Annie’s belly, knotted it into a fist, and squeezed his eyes shut. Fire crackled along his fingertips. Annie gave an alarmed squeak.

  Sweat beaded along his hairline as he struggled with the urge—the hunger—to Make. After several tense moments, his song quieted. The electric tingling in his hands vanished.

  Dante opened his eyes. Annie was gone. Not that he blamed her. That had been too fucking close. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. He shoved both hands through his hair.

  What the hell just happened?

  One thing—okay, several things, but one in particular—troubled Dante about the incident: Annie’s not-quite-a-baby-yet had sang to him, Sharika’s hadn’t. And a dark suspicion as to why roosted in the back of his mind, since he had a feeling that non-singing unborn babies were the norm.

  Heather’s words trickled through his memory: I think I found out what the Morningstar did that morning in our motel room.

  Yeah, me too, catin. Anger surged through Dante. Motherfucker . . .

  He glanced down the hall toward the Cage, regretting that he’d ruined Annie’s night and siphoned away the buoyant joy that she’d carried inside the Cage. Sighing, he pushed away from the wall and went to join Von in the courtyard.

  36

  INEXTRICABLY BOUND

  NEW ORLEANS,

  CLUB HELL

  March 28

  “SUMMONED?” BLUE FLAMES FLARED around Dante’s fingers, snapping the electric smell of ozone into the jasmine and honeysuckle-sweetened air. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at his glowing hands.

  Von tensed, sitting up straight on the black wrought-iron bench as Dante paced in front of it, his boots silent against the courtyard’s brickwork.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Von said, keeping his voice an easy drawl, “so put out the fire, little brother. I like the courtyard just the way it is.”

  Dancing yellow light from the gargoyle candle sconces burnished the ring in Dante’s collar, flashed from his studded belt, the rings on his fingers and thumbs. His burning hands clenched into fists.

  “Dante . . .”

  “Working on it. It ain’t like flipping a fucking switch. Not yet, anyhow.”

  Dante stopped pacing and closed his eyes. Tension seemed to thrum beneath his skin like a plucked piano wire. He drew in a deep breath of air and closed his eyes. The creawdwr flames around his hands winked out.

  Von sagged against the back of the bench, his pulse easing off the throttle.

  Dante opened his eyes and looked at Von, the intense molten color of his eyes cooling back to brown. He wiped absently at the blood oozing from one nostril.

  Boy’s still hurting, dammit.

  “So spill. What’s going on? Why are you being summoned back to Memphis?”

  Von held Dante’s gaze, realizing a choice he’d never anticipated waited for him in those dark, unguarded depths.

  If I tell him the truth, that I went dark—that I chose to go dark—to keep his secrets safe until he was ready to share them, he’ll blame himself for whatever consequences are heaped on my plate.

  And that’s the last fucking thing he needs at the moment.

  If I lie to him, he’ll walk out of this courtyard unaware that I’ve betrayed his trust, unaware that I decided what’s best for him and what his limits are.

  Unaware, for now. He’ll find out eventually. And when he does, there will be no coming back from that. He’ll never trust me again.

  He’s had all he can take. Mind and heart.

  Von drew in a deep breath, decision made. “I stopped reporting about a month ago. I went dark. They want to know why.”

  Dante stared at him, dark brows knitting together. “A month ago?” He shut his eyes and groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ. You went dark because of me.”

  “Look, it was my decision to hide your secrets until you chose to share them. I knew the consequences. Withholding information is a llygad’s greatest sin. That and lack of impartiality, and I’m guilty of both—no regrets.”

  Opening his eyes, Dante raked a hand through his hair. “Fuck, man, I appreciate it. I do. But I never would’ve asked that of you.”

  “I know. Like I said, my decision, my consequences. Right now, all they want is an explanation. Like I said, no big deal.” Von figured it was more likely they’d drum his ass out of the llygaid and cut off his access to the mind-net, but saw no harm in downplaying that particular possibility.

  “I can go to Memphis with you, help explain shit,” Dante said. “Whatever I can do to help, mon ami, just let me know.”

  “Don’t worry about it, little brother. I think your coming-out gig tonight will do the trick.” At least, he hoped so. Stretching his jeans and leather chaps–covered legs out in front of him, Von crossed his road-scuffed scooter boots at the ankles. “Now since I’ve shown you mine, it’s time you showed me yours—starting with that goddamned mark the Morningstar put on your chest.”

  Dante studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “D’accord.” He unstrapped his PVC and fishnet shirt and peeled it off. Candlelight and shadows rippled against his white skin. Glinted in his eyes. “This is still new to me, so hold on.”

  New? Von watched him, mystified, his attention fixed on the scar looped on his chest like the ivy on the stone wall behind him. Did the sigil do something?

  Face tight with concentration, his dark brows knitted together, Dante flexed his shoulders. Von heard the soft shush of velvet against flesh, then Dante flexed his shoulders again and a whoosh filled the room—like the rush of wings.

  Von felt his jaw drop open. He perched on the bench’s edge, the cold iron biting into his fingers as he gripped its edge, his heart kicking against his sternum. He stared at Dante, his mind on pause. “Holy fucking hell,” he breathed.

  “Holy fucking shit was my initial reaction,” Dante drawled, dry amusement leavening his voice. “But holy fucking hell works too. But we’re in a rut. We gotta come up with some new expletives.”

  “Holy fucking hell.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Wings. You’ve got wings.”

  Dante nodded. “Yup.”

  “But . . . how? When?”

  “Be easier to just show you,” Dante said, touching a finger to his temple.

  “Agreed. Yeah.” Von lowered his shields in anticipation, pried his fingers loose from their deathgrip on the bench, and stood.

  Dante took a step closer, but the edge of his right wing brushed a planter full of yellow roses and knocked it to the bricks in a shower of dirt and petals, while the arched tip of his left wing thumped into a branch of the dogwood tree overhanging the bench. White blossoms and green leaves bounced from Dante’s hair and shoulders, slid along his wings to the ground. Wood creaked.

  Irritation flashed across Dante’s pale face. “Fuck.” Scowling, he flexed his shoulders until his wings folded behind him. “Jesus Christ.”

  Von grinned. “Beauty and grace. Killer combo, little brother.”

  “The complete package, yeah.”

  “By the way, I noticed the left wing popped out before the right one,” Von commented, stroking his mustache thoughtfully with thumb and index finger. “Having trouble getting ’em up, man?”

  “Fuck you,” Dante said, flipping him off. “Oh, wait. Look at what I just found.” He extended his other middle finger. “Fuck you twice.”

  Von’s grin widened. “Twice is a good warm-up.”

  Dante laughed, tension spilling like water from his muscles. “For true, mon ami.” He sauntered to a stop in front of Von.

  “You flown yet?” Von asked.

  “Nope. I’m gonna give it a try later.”

  Von tilted his head, studying Dante’s gorgeous wings up close and personal. And they were gorgeous—just like the rest of Dante. Blacker than a moonless night and edged with crimson, the blue and purple undersides smelled of wing musk and of Dante—burning leaves and November frost
and deep, dark earth.

  An image strobed behind Von’s eyes, a dizzying vision of time and chance and destiny. A vision he’d had before.

  Tendrils of Dante’s black hair lift into the air as though breeze-caught. Gold light stars out from his kohl-rimmed eyes, He looks up as song—not his own—rings through the air. The night burns, the sky on fire from horizon to horizon.

  The never-ending Road.

  The Great Destroyer.

  No matter which Dante turned out to be—one or neither or both—Von knew beyond even the thinnest whisper of doubt that his fate was inextricably bound to Dante’s. Knew that, no matter what, he would always stand beside him.

  To the very end.

  “Hey, you ready?” Dante asked.

  From inside the club, a woman’s voice cried out over the microphone, “Glad to be back in New Orleans! Here’s a nightmare just for you!” Music exploded into existence, crashing dark and wild against the walls as the band tore into their set.

  Von looked into Dante’s dark eyes, looked straight into the intelligent, compassionate, burning heart of him, and nodded. “More than ready, little brother.”

  Dante cupped heated hands against Von’s face, then slid his fingertips up to his temples. Von closed his eyes. Images flooded his mind, a violent, churning current of sensory detail that his llygad-trained mind was able to channel and process without tumbling beneath the surface like a hiker swept up in a flash flood.

  Dante punches his blue-glowing fist into the tomb . . .

  “Jesus Christ,” Von whispered.

  37

  RUMOR’S END

  NEW ORLEANS,

  CLUB HELL

  March 28

  THE MOURNFUL AIR-RAID SIREN wailing beneath the pensive chords of “End of Days” spoke of impending loss and irreversible disaster, of hearts stripped bare.

  Dante stood in the courtyard door, Heather beside him, watching as Saints of Ruin ruled the fetish-and-gris-gris-hung Cage.

  Black hair edging her pale face, frontwoman Ruby curled her hands around the microphone. “Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days to end,” she sang, her scarlet-glossed lips almost brushing the microphone in a lover’s kiss. “Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days . . .”