Silver’s heart leapt up into his throat as the fallen’s tall form rippled, a shadow undulating behind a thundering waterfall, dark and primal and as terrifying as the thing lying in wait beneath every three-year-old’s bed. Before Silver could shut his eyes or look away from the disturbing sight, the rippling stopped.
Dante stood in front of him dressed in the black latex jeans and fishnet-PVC-metal-strapped shirt he’d been wearing that night in the Cage when he’d done his coming out gig.
Fear iced Silver’s heart.
Shape-shifter.
Dante was pressing against him, his heated lips brushing against Silver’s. Energy electrified the air, tingled along Silver’s skin, raced along his spine, into his skull. The smell of ozone filled his nostrils. Dante’s gleaming hair lifted in a blue-black corona around his head. He touched a long, taloned finger to Silver’s forehead.
Lightning strike.
Standing under a tree in a downpour.
Finishing that final lap in the pool while thunder rolled overhead.
White light exploded through Silver’s skull. His body stiffened, muscles locked and thrumming as electric energy sizzled through him.
A soft voice sounded through his thoughts, a pealing bell that he couldn’t ignore, a lover’s seductive command.
A cold sweat beaded Silver’s forehead. Not Dante. Not Dante.
The pealing bell reverberated through his consciousness, ringing and echoing and vibrating, crumbling to dust all other thoughts. Shattering his focus.
Silver’s shields fell.
And a dark, complicated, and powerful presence poured in. Silver felt no pain as his memories were—not ransacked, not precisely, but clicked open like folders on a computer. Each folder held hundreds of interconnected memories, images, sensation.
No pain, but he felt despair in spades.
As the search continued, Silver thought he heard/felt a song—wild and searing, hungry. A song that left him breathless and dizzied. A song that filled his mind with Dante’s image, his autumn scent. Then it was gone.
“Anhrefncathl,” the fallen angel whispered in Dante’s voice.
The dark presence withdrew from Silver’s mind and the electric thrumming pinning him like a moth against the alley wall vanished. Boneless, his legs dumped him onto the alley’s rain-puddled floor.
Silver sucked in air, head throbbing, oddly soothed by the zydeco bouncing from the tavern speakers across the street. The world hadn’t ended after all. Not yet, anyway. He glanced up in time to see the fallen angel’s form ripple, shifting back to himself. Black wings unfolded from wing-slits cleverly tailored into his suit jacket.
With a single strong stroke, he took to the air, a triumphant smile on his lips. Silver’s despair deepened. He had a feeling that somehow, some way, the fallen angel had managed to lock onto Dante.
That song . . .
Silver drew his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, then rested his forehead against his denim-clad knees. “Jesus,” he whispered, his voice sounding as shaky as he felt inside.
“Are you all right?”
Silver lifted his head and looked up. Burgundy hair, concerned hazel eyes. Mauvais’s buddy—Mr. Esquire Euro Edition. A quick glance down the alleyway confirmed the Creole bastard’s absence.
“No, I’m pretty fucking far from all right. Where did Mauvais go?”
“He left for his riverboat some time ago,” the stranger said in a low voice flowing with European grace. He crouched down beside Silver. “Said he needed to check on something, hoped that it still worked.” He spat on the alley floor. “Bastardo.”
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” Silver asked. “And what are you doing here?”
“My name is Giovanni Toscanini. And I know yours, as well—Silver. Along with the fact that you’re a member of Dante Baptiste’s household.”
“You ain’t said what you’re doing here.” Silver rose to his feet. He walked from the alley to the sidewalk, knowing Giovanni Tosca-whatever was following, then turned to face him.
“I’m here to help Dante Baptiste.”
Silver snorted. “Yeah, right. Help him how?”
Giovanni glanced to his left, face wary. Silver followed his gaze to the club. The crowd had grown even larger.
“Ass-kissers and idiots,” Silver muttered. He returned his attention to Giovanni. “What makes you any different?”
Giovanni considered him for a long moment, illumination from the gaslight dancing reflected in his eyes, ghost flames. When he finally spoke, he pitched his voice low. “I believe it best we speak elsewhere. Too many potential eavesdroppers—including the SB agents who keep eyes and ears on the club at all times.”
Silver straightened, startled. “How do you know that?”
Closing the distance between them with one quick step, Giovanni whispered into Silver’s ear, “The same way I know what all those ass-kissers and idiots over there don’t—that Dante Baptiste is a creawdwr.”
Silver’s heart gave his ribs one hard kick. Creawdwr. Giovanni knew.
Giovanni stepped back and answered the question that Silver knew had to be burning in his own eyes, the same question knuckling his hands into fists, and pumping adrenaline into his blood. A fatal question for Giovanni if he didn’t answer it right: How, motherfucker? How do you know?
“An inside source—one who is working for Dante Baptiste.”
Silver gave the buzzing, restless crowd a long look, then returned his attention to Giovanni. Was he ally or smooth-talking foe? Should he trust him or stake his ass? There was no one Silver could ask. Von was out of commission and missing and Lucien was silent in Gehenna. This time, he was on his own.
“C’mon, then,” Silver said. He started across the street for Aunt Sally’s Tavern & Heavenly BBQ without waiting for an answer.
He knew Giovanni would follow.
33
NIGHTKIND AND CATS
THE TANGY AROMA OF honey-and-whiskey-barbecued pork ribs permeated the air inside Aunt Sally’s Tavern & Heavenly BBQ, thick enough to taste, alongside the buttery smells of skillet-fried corn bread and dark, foamy beer.
Annie and Merri had grabbed a booth near the rear of the tavern, probably the only one available, given the surprising late night crowd. Sliding in beside Annie, Silver made introductions as Giovanni sat beside Merri with a murmured, “Bella.”
Merri gave him a cool, professional once-over, her dark eyes drinking in details Silver suspected he would’ve—and probably had—missed. “Look like you could use a drink,” she said, handing him her half empty bottle of Dixie Crimson Voodoo Ale. “Rough night?”
Giovanni slanted a wry glance at Silver before returning his attention to Merri. “Sì. But it’s starting to improve,” he said, raising the moisture-beaded bottle to his lips and taking a long, grateful swallow.
“Go on and finish it,” Merri said. She pulled a pack of Djarum Black from her jacket pocket. “I’m going outside for a smoke.”
Giovanni scooted out of the booth, denim squeaking against vinyl, and stood so Merri could slide out and leave. Once she had, he sat back down again.
“Okay. So spill—” Silver began, only to be interrupted by a cheery female voice.
“Here’s your pork special, sugar,” the waitress said, resting a heaping platter of sauce-slathered ribs, collard greens, and corn bread in front of Annie. The aroma—spicy and sweet and savory—filled the booth. “Anyone else need anything? More beer? You fellas need menus?”
“No menus, thanks,” Silver said, “Just a round of Abita Amber.”
“You got it, sugar.” With a wink, the caramel-skinned waitress sashayed away. Once their beer had been delivered in frosted mugs, Silver looked at Giovanni. “One more time,” he said. “Your inside source—the one working for Dante. Spill.”
“She’s an SB agent,” Giovanni replied, voice
low. “And my sister. Caterina Cortini.”
“Shit, you’re that assassin chick’s brother?” Annie said, eyes wide with surprise. “She mentioned that her mother was nightkind, but I didn’t realize that her entire family was too. She never said a fucking word about that.”
Giovanni shrugged. “Why would she? She was adopted into a vampire household as a toddler. For her, it is the norm and not worth mentioning.”
Silver glanced at Annie. “The chick you told me about, right? The one in Oregon, at the motel?”
“That’s the one,” Annie confirmed. She tucked her napkin into the front of her tee, grabbed a sauced-up rib and tore into it with her teeth, making happy little humming sounds as she chewed.
“So who sent you to offer Dante help?” Silver lifted his mug to his mouth and took a long swallow of the smooth, malty brew. Hunger nudged him like an elbow to the gut, reminding him that he needed to feed.
“The high priestess of the Cercle de Druide,” Giovanni replied. “Renata Alessa Cortini—my mère de sang. I’m to offer Dante support and guidance and protection from those who would use him.”
Silver snorted. “Yeah, and that’d be everyone—from those ass kissers gathering across the street, to the Fallen, to the average mortal Joe—once they find out what you already know, that Dante’s a Maker.”
Giovanni flashed a pointed glance at Silver from beneath his dark lashes, before his gaze flickered over to Annie. His tone was light, despite the warning seeded within his words. “I don’t believe this is information a mortal should be privy to.”
“Too late, asshole, this little mortal’s been all privvied up,” Annie said, her voice even despite the irritation scorching the sweetness from her scent of vanilla, lavender soap, and nicotine. “My sister’s Dante’s girlfriend, so, yeah, I know what he is. And he scares the holy living shit out of me. You should be scared too. I’ve seen him knock fallen angels from the fucking sky and turn them to fucking stone.”
“Where is your sister, bella? And Dante?” Giovanni said, leaning across the table, his pale face lit with a predatory curiosity. “We thought perhaps that Dante and his household had gone underground following the rumored shootout and the very real club fire. But why would your sister leave you behind?” He flicked a look at Silver. “Or Dante, you?”
“Heather and Gorgeous-but-Deadly are out and about,” Annie returned, not even blinking. “No one’s been left behind. And as for street rumors or rumors of any kind, dude, never listen.”
Silver had to admit she was good, damned good. She had him convinced and he knew she was lying. Yet all Giovanni had to do was slip inside her mind and ferret out the truth for himself—just like Lucien had done.
Just like that shape-shifting fallen angel did to you, kissing you with lips like Dante’s, peeling back your defenses.
“She’s right,” Silver said, the hard edge in his voice shifting Giovanni’s penetrating gaze away from Annie and to himself. “You ain’t gonna score points by accusing us of lying. And if you ever hope to meet Dante, you need to be talking to me, not grilling Annie.”
Giovanni blinked, raked a hand through his hair. “Ma naturalmente. Ti prego di perdonarmi. I meant no disrespect”—his expression soured—“I’m afraid my dealings with Guy Mauvais have left a bad taste in my mouth. My apologies.”
Silver shrugged. “There’s your problem right there—dealing with Mauvais.”
“I was supposed to bring Dante Baptiste a gift,” Giovanni said with a sigh. “But Loki’s presence aboard the riverboat made that rather impossible.”
“What gift was that?”
“The head of Guy Mauvais.”
“Forget it, man. Find something different. That bastard belongs to us.”
“Seriously?” Annie asked, staring at Giovanni. “A motherfucking head as a motherfucking gift? Nightkind are just plain weird. Or maybe they’re cats. How is that different from a tabby magnanimously dropping a mouse butt at your feet? Well, okay, yeah, a person’s head is way different from a mouse butt, but still . . .”
“No, not so different, bella,” Giovanni murmured. “Perhaps we are cats.”
Silver sipped at his beer, wondering what he should or shouldn’t tell Giovanni, wondering if he could risk trusting him, when he saw two men in jeans and light jackets walk into the tavern, paper to-go coffee cups from Cafè du Monde in hand. Authoritative strides and posture. Clean-cut. Com sets disguised as Blue Tooth units curving around an ear on both men.
Undercover agents.
Those Shadow Branch eyes and ears that Giovanni had mentioned earlier.
And they’ve been right across the goddamned street this entire time. Watching. Listening. Recording. Maybe even eating chips and drinking and taking notes while Heather’s father did his thing.
Maybe they even knew who’d grabbed Dante. It couldn’t have been an SB snatch, otherwise Giovanni’s sister—SB assassin and Dante’s spy—would’ve passed the word along to her brother. Or to Von or Lucien or someone.
Unless she’d been dropped from the info loop. Or been made.
Silver stared, blood pounding through his veins, as one of the men, tall and dark-haired, pulled open a door marked TENANTS ONLY near the restrooms. Both men stepped inside. Before the door swung shut, Silver caught a glimpse of a shadowy staircase leading to the apartments above. Footsteps thudded against wood risers, the sound a faint and temporary zydeco back beat.
The tavern’s front door opened, then Silver smelled nicotine and cloves as Merri walked inside. She stopped beside the booth, her gaze also on the door marked TENANTS ONLY.
“You see them?” she asked, voice tight.
“Sure did.”
“What is it?” Giovanni asked, his words followed by a knowing, “Ah.”
Gaze still fixed on the door, Silver said in a low, flat voice, “You knew, right? Because your sister told you the fuckers had rented a room upstairs.”
“Sì. It was information I’d hoped to hand over to Dante. But,” Giovanni added after a thoughtful pause, “perhaps ending this particular little problem will make an even better gift than Mauvais’s head.”
Feeling a gentle nudge against his shields, Silver thinned them enough to admit the Italian’s sending.
Hunger, sharp as a straight razor, gleamed in Giovanni’s hooded hazel eyes. Silver’s own hunger awakened and, judging by the knowing smirk on his lips, the Italian saw the same straight-razor gleam in Silver’s eyes.
“Bad idea,” Merri said, scooting into the booth beside Giovanni, effectively blocking him in. “You take these guys out, the SB will know that their surveillance op has been blown. I can guarantee you they won’t shut it down. They’ll simply move it to a different location. And amp up their security. You won’t solve anything. Right now, you know exactly where your enemies are. Better to keep it that way.”
Giovanni sighed, the hunter’s fire in his eyes dimming. “She’s right, bello.”
“Those bastards upstairs might know where Dante is,” Silver said, holding Merri’s gaze. “Hell, maybe they watched the whole thing unfold. I can go up there and rip it right out of their minds.”
Giovanni went still. “Watched what unfold?” He looked from Silver to Merri to Annie, his expression darkening. “Has something happened to the creawdwr?”
Silver groaned in disbelief, slumping against the booth’s cushioned back. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can’t believe I just did that—spilled the beans. No torture involved. Lucien is gonna kill me.”
Annie, slab of corn bread poised near her lips, regarded Silver with smug blue eyes. “And you thought I’d be the one to blab, didn’tcha?”
Merri raised her hand. “I know I did. Glad I didn’t bet on it.”
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Silver repeated, raking both hands in frustration through his hair. Once Giovanni learned the truth and passed it on to his mère de sang, Silver had no doubt that the entire Cercle de Druide would kno
w as well.
The secret was unraveling.
“Tell me what’s happened,” Giovanni urged, leaning against the table. “I give my word that I will do anything and everything possible to help. But if you keep silent, I can do nothing.”
Silver saw honest concern in Giovanni’s hazel eyes, heard it in his voice. Time to roll the dice. Trust him or stake him. But first, a little insurance. Silver tapped at Merri’s shields and the former SB agent thinned them immediately.
Shifting his attention to Giovanni, Silver said, “Okay. But I need your word that it goes no farther than you until we get Dante back.”
Giovanni drew in a breath, considering. The fact that he didn’t immediately agree to the terms suggested sincerity to Silver, that Giovanni actually valued his word. Sitting beside the Italian, Merri sipped at her beer, her casual demeanor deceptive. She was a coiled cobra.
Giovanni slanted a sideways look at the petite former SB agent, before returning his gaze to Silver. A knowing smile brushed his lips. He nodded. “You have my word. I will keep to myself anything and everything you confide in me—until Dante is safe. Besides,” he added in a low voice, “I’d hate to be so rude as to force bella Merri to abandon her beer in order to stake me. Or would she shoot me?”
“Who says I can’t do both?” Merri murmured.
Giovanni held both hands up in mock surrender. “Not me.”
Tension uncoiled from Silver’s muscles. Picking up his mug, he drained it, then leaned forward against the table and started talking. He skipped over most details—like Dante’s slipping between the past and the present and his lack of control over his power—and sketched events in broad terms, finishing with, “Something went wrong with Lucien’s search for Heather, so now we’re just waiting for him to haul his winged ass from Gehenna with a new and improved plan B.”
Fire burning in his eyes, Giovanni opened his mouth, then snapped it shut when a sudden buzzing noise—like the world’s largest bumblebee—vibrated into the air. Annie twitched, startled. Reaching into her jeans pocket, she yanked out her cell phone. She frowned as she read the caller ID.
On Midnight Wings Page 23