In the Blood

by Adrian Phoenix

  The plane he was watching vaulted into the sky, a moving constellation of blinking wing lights. Sheridan watched until the plane vanished from sight. He finally gave up on the coffee in disgust and ordered a Foster’s. No harm in one beer while waiting for his red-eye flight to Seattle. It was going to be a long night.

  Rutgers had given him very specific instructions while walking together outside the building and away from listening ears, flesh or otherwise.

  “If I have to lose a good agent like Wallace and a valuable resource like Wells, then Dante Prejean goes too,” Rutgers says, head bowed, her words clipped and tight. “I refuse to let him walk from this mess. He dies. The SB can shove their decisions up their collective asses.” She looks up and her eyes are shadowed, her voice bitter and cold. “Adapting to darkness isn’t difficult in our profession. Be sure to remind Cortini of that when you kill her.”

  14 EVEN DEEPER

  Seattle, WA

  March 22

  DANTE STARED AT THE paper, his heart drumming out a frenzied rhythm. The photo blurred and pain skewered his temples with each attempt to focus on it.

  Avenge your mother and yourself.

  But if what Heather said was right—and he had no reason to doubt it—then he’d failed. Genevieve Baptiste’s killer still breathed and ate and slept. Enjoyed life.

  But not for much longer.

  “Give me that name again,” Dante said, chest tight, muscles coiling. “I can’t read it. Say it again. Say it slow.”

  Heather’s brows slanted down, worried. “You don’t look so good,” she said.

  “The name.”

  “Robert Wells.”

  “Robert…” Dante repeated. He opened his mouth to say the last name, but it was gone, slipped from his grasp, paingreased. Deep inside, wasps droned. Pain needled his temples. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Say it again.”

  “Robert Wells. Dante, I don’t think—”

  An image strobed into Dante’s mind: A man with gray-flecked blond hair and a friendly smile leans over him. Blood spatter decorates his white lab coat. His hand strokes Dante’s hair as he sticks a needle into Dante’s throat.

  My beautiful boy. You’ll survive anything I might do to you, won’t you?

  And pushes the plunger.

  The image broke apart. Vanished. Pain scratched across Dante’s awareness, white light flickering at the edges of his vision. “Say it again,” he whispered, knuckling his fists against his temples. “Again.”

  Fingers grasped his chin, forced his head around. He met Heather’s concerned blue gaze. Her lips moved, but all he could hear were the voices rising like a hurricane from within.

  We need the straitjacket. And the chains. Hurry!

  Little fucking psycho.

  Say that again, and I’ll give you to that little fucking psycho.

  Run, Dante-angel, run!

  “Dante, come back.” Heather’s voice cut through the whispers and he locked onto her face. She looked in so deep. Deeper than he thought was safe. Safe for him? Safe for her? He wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling it wasn’t safe for either of them. Things stirred in the darkness within. Restless. Hungry.

  Dante’s muscles tensed. Drawing in a deep breath, he focused on Heather’s twilight gaze. Breathed in her lilacs-and-sage-in-the-rain scent. Then her arms wrapped around him and the whispers faded. The droning vanished.

  All was quiet but for the mingled beating of their hearts, a dual rhythm of daylight and moonrise. He laced his arms around her and rested his face against her head, breathed in the lilac fragrance of her hair.

  “Dante?”

  “J’su ici.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “Comme çi, comme ça.” He lifted his head and saw the pieces of broken wood at his feet, and then looked at the ruined chair. “Fuck. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Sit down,” Heather urged.

  Dante released her, then shook his head. “No, I gotta go.”

  A strange look crossed Heather’s face. “What did I just tell you a moment ago?”

  Dante searched his memory, felt something shift and slide from his grasp. Pain snaked through his mind. He sniffed. Tasted blood. “Something about the guy who delivered me, killed my mother, but I can’t remember his name,” he muttered. He wiped at his nose, smearing blood across the back of his hand.

  “Robert Wells,” Heather said. “Dr. Robert Wells. And your nose is bleeding.”

  “Robert…” Dante said, then searched his memory. He knew the name was there, could almost hear it as an echo, but an empty one. “Fuck!”

  “Sit.” Heather pushed at his shoulders. “Dante, sit down.”

  He sat, and ran his fingers through his hair. Something felt wrong inside, almost like something was winding up, some broken, splintered thing trying to spin to life. His heart pounded hard and fast. Heather knelt in front of him and dabbed at his nose with Kleenex. “How come I can remember Johanna Moore’s name, but not this asshole’s?”

  Heather shook her head, her face dead serious, worried. “I don’t know, but I’ve got a feeling Wells programmed a safeguard into you that Moore was unaware of, maybe something to keep him alive in case things went sour between them.”

  “Okay, then let’s bypass that fucking safeguard. Where does he live? How do I find him?”

  “Later. Put your head back.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, grabbing for the wad of tissues in her hand. “Give me that.”

  “You are not fine!” Heather threw the bloodstained Kleenex at him. Fire blazed in her eyes, and he smelled the blood flushing her cheeks. “Your mind has been messed with since you were born, Dante. You are far from fine! Why are you so goddamned pigheaded?”

  “It’s the only way I know to be.”

  A sad smile brushed Heather’s lips. “And that’s how you survived.”

  “I ain’t the only stubborn one in this relationship.”

  “I’m tenacious, not pigheaded,” Heather murmured. “There’s a big difference.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.”

  Heather chuckled deep in her throat, a warm, sexy sound. “Do you remember what I told you a bit ago?”

  Dante nodded. “A guy whose name I can’t keep. A guy who’s responsible for my mom’s death.” The Perv’s words snaked through his mind. Being a bloodsucker and all, they cut off her head and torched her.

  “That’s right. We’ll deal with all this tomorrow. I think we’ve both had enough tonight and you’ve still got to perform.”

  “And you’ve got Annie,” Dante said.

  “Yeah,” she sighed. Exhaustion shadowed her eyes. “I’ve a couple of leads I want to follow up tonight after I get my sister settled. I’m safe until Monday. And you, you’re probably safe on tour. But watch your back in case I’m wrong.”

  “You too. Keep your gun handy, chérie.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  Dante walked over to the window and shoved it open. “I’ll fix this tomorrow, first thing in the evening,” he said, tracing a finger over the broken lock.

  “Damn straight you’re gonna fix it,” Heather said, though she couldn’t picture him wielding a screwdriver. She joined him at the window, then asked, “Why don’t you use the front door?”

  Dante shrugged. “Going out the way I came in.”

  He turned and lowered his head, and Heather found herself tipping her face up for his kiss, her heart pounding hard and fast, but instead of the heated touch of his lips, she felt his fingers brush against her face, a lingering touch. His forehead touched hers and she breathed in his smoke and deep, dark earth scent.

  “Je te manque,” he whispered. His fingers trembled, then vanished from her face.

  Heather looked up into Dante’s eyes; hunger glinted in their dark depths. She touched his face and, tensing beneath her fingers, he pulled away. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Dante kissed for many reasons—he kissed friends, he kissed strangers, she’d even
seen him kiss an enemy. So what did it mean when he didn’t kiss? When the touch of his lips was denied?

  Pushing the curtain aside, Dante ducked down and swung a leg over the window sill. Straddling the sill, he glanced up at Heather. “I’ll put you and Annie on tomorrow night’s guest list if you’d like to come to the show.”

  “I’d like that,” Heather said with a smile. “Thanks.”

  “Bonne nuit, chérie,” Dante said, dropping to the ground. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Dante pulled up the hood on his hoodie, his fingers tugging the edges past his face. He stepped backward several paces, his gaze on hers, his lambent eyes gleaming in the darkness. Sliding on his shades, he whirled, and ran.

  Heather closed the window, leaned her forehead against the glass, and closed her eyes. The pane felt cool against her skin. Her fingers grasped the windowsill. The weeks apart hadn’t changed her feelings for Dante. But she still hadn’t yet sorted out those feelings or her fears. Before she could do anything about those feelings, they both had to survive the fall of Bad Seed.

  Closing the curtain, Heather turned and walked over to the sofa where she’d tossed her purse when she’d come in—blind-sided by Annie’s dramatic swoon and Dante’s breathtaking presence. She eased her Colt Super from her purse, then tucked the .38 into the back of her jeans. The cold barrel nestled against the small of her back.

  Quiet sobs, forlorn and raw, drew her back to the guestroom and her now weeping sister. Dante’s whispered words circled through her mind: Je te manque.

  I miss you too, she thought.

  15 NEW GODS ARISE

  On I-205 Between Damascus and Portland

  March 22

  ALEX LYONS STEERED HIS Dodge Ram along I-205 north, headed for Portland to pick up more material for Athena’s experiments. She slept, but he knew it’d be brief, even with the drugs. Her restless mind would soon have her on her feet, chasing her thoughts.

  Inferno’s music pounded from the truck’s speakers, filled the cab with raging, sharp-edged sound. Dante’s voice snaked around Alex’s awareness, husky and heated.

  I’m waiting for you / I’ve watched / and watched / I know your every secret…

  I don’t think so, Alex thought. But I know yours. An insistent off note trilled underneath the music and Alex realized his cell was ringing. Muting the music, he pulled the Ram over into the emergency lane and stopped. He flicked on the hazard lights. He yanked the cell from his hoodie pocket. The ID read unknown.

  Thumbing the answer button, he said, “Lyons.”

  “Did your meeting with Heather Wallace produce anything of interest?” His SB contact’s voice was smooth and deep and slightly nasal. A New England native, Alex mused, maybe Boston.

  “Nothing new,” Alex said. “She kept everything close to the vest. She’s smart enough to know she’s being watched, pumped for info.”

  “She said nothing about Prejean? Or Bad Seed?”

  “No.”

  “And nothing about Moore or the events at the center, I imagine.”

  “You imagine right.”

  His contact sighed. “Ah, well, it probably wouldn’t have made much difference even if she had, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean?” Alex went still, listening carefully for nuance.

  “She’ll be joining your father in…retirement.”

  “Is that necessary?” Alex asked.

  “Yes.”

  Alex pictured Heather’s lovely heart-shaped face, her deep blue eyes. Remembered what she’d asked of him: Could you keep my father in the dark? And his promise. “I learned some interesting info about Wallace, indirectly,” he said.

  “And that would be?”

  “It wasn’t luck or prompt medical attention that saved her life like she claims. Dante Prejean healed her, but he did it without using his blood.”

  “Interesting, indeed. I also find it interesting that you didn’t give up that fact until after I mentioned Wallace’s retirement.”

  A cold sweat beaded Alex’s forehead. “Sorry, I just thought of it.”

  “Is there anything else I should know? Anything else you just thought of?”

  Alex paused before replying, pretending to give it thought. “No.”

  The line went dead, his contact’s typical good-bye. Alex slid his cell phone back into his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the heel of his hand. He hoped he’d bought Heather more time; hoped the SB would be more interested in studying her now than in ending her life. She was smart and sexy and full of secrets, one of which they now shared.

  I’ll keep your old man in the dark.

  Alex switched off the hazard lights and, hitting the gas, merged the Ram back into traffic. A few drops of rain hit the windshield and he clicked on the wipers. Inferno shredded the silence, Dante’s whispered lyrics slicing to the bone like a razor-edged shank.

  Break me / I’m daring you / see if you can / break me / with your whispers and your lies / fucking break me / with your kiss / I’m daring you / put me on my knees / see if you can…

  The Ram’s headlights silhouetted a figure walking backward in the emergency lane, thumb out. Alex lifted his foot off the gas and guided the truck off the road. Even before he’d stopped, the figure was loping toward the truck.

  A moment later the passenger-side door yanked open and a rush of cool, rain-laden air swirled into the cab. A youthful, bearded face poked inside. “How far you going?”

  “Portland,” Alex said.

  “Cool, that works.” The hitchhiker tossed his stained and road-weathered backpack onto the floorboards and climbed into the passenger seat. He fastened his seat belt and grinned. “Thanks, man.” His damp, collar-length hair curled at the edges.

  “Sure,” Alex said, returning the hitchhiker’s grin. “You’re doing me a favor too.”

  “By keeping you awake?”

  “By helping me out with an errand.”

  The hitchhiker’s grin faded. “What kinda errand?”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to do anything.” Telekinetic energy surged through Alex, rushing up his spine, electric and tingling, as he focused it on his passenger.

  Energy snapped against the hitchhiker, pinning him to the seat and knocking the air from his lungs. The hitchhiker gasped. The hair on his head and beard lifted. His eyes widened as he flailed to free himself, but remained right where he was, held by invisible hands.

  Alex reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled the syringe free. “You’re saving me a lot of time and trouble,” he said over the hitchhiker’s panicked grunts. “Now I won’t have to arrest another unlucky vagrant camping under the Burnside Bridge.”

  Alex wondered what Athena hoped to accomplish with her experiments. He knew she was trying to emulate what she’d seen Dante do to Johanna Moore, fascinated with the idea of unmaking.

  How else will I understand him?

  Alex didn’t have an answer for that, but the experiments kept her happy and occupied and that was all that mattered.

  Sometimes Alex lay awake at night, listening to the Athena-wind rushing through the house and pictured her spinning out of control. Murdering their parents. Torching the main house. He could even smell the acrid smoke, hear the fire crackling, felt its heat tighten the skin on his face.

  Call me Hades.

  Then he’d remember the Bad Seed CD he’d watched of beautiful fourteen-year-old Dante murdering his abusive foster parents, then torching their house. And Alex would grow calmer. Perhaps such scenes were rites of passage. Fires to forge and temper blades of flesh.

  When the old gods are slain, the new gods arise, drenched in blood.

  So it was. So it would ever be.

  “Amen, brother,” Alex murmured, then jabbed the needle into the hitchhiker’s throat and thumbed the plunger.

  16 NOTHING MORE THAN MYTH

  Seattle, WA—Vespers

  March 22

  DANTE STRODE INTO THE greenroom backstage at Vespers. Von, spra
wled in a ratty-looking easy chair, glanced up from the issue of Newsweek he was reading.

  “’Bout time,” he drawled. “You missed sound check.”

  “Nope,” Dante retorted. “I didn’t miss it one bit.” He grabbed the back of the metal folding chair set up in front of the dressing table and mirror, flipped it around, and straddled it. He watched in the mirror as Von draped his magazine over the chair’s arm.

  “Y’know, that line never gets old,” the nomad said.

  “Glad to hear it. That’s me all over, aiming to please.”

  Von snorted.

  Dante took off his shades and tossed them onto the table. He closed his eyes. He still saw Heather at the window looking into the night, still smelled her, lilac and sage and bittersweet hurt, still felt the softness of her cheek beneath his fingers.

  Opening his eyes, Dante shoved his hood back, then combed his fingers through his hair. He shivered, cold and knotted up. He rubbed his hands over his face. He just needed to feed, and he would, after the gig. “You and Silver fed yet?” he asked.

  “Yeah…but is that a cut I see in your shirt?” Von’s voice was low with suspicion. “You been scrapping again? Or did tough little Heather greet you with a big ol’ knife?”

  Dante looked at Von’s watchful reflection in the mirror. “Nah. Her sister did.”

  The humor vanished from Von’s face. He sat up. “Seriously? You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” Tugging off his hoodie, Dante draped it over the chair. His personal kit was on the table, beside a tall, deep green bottle of black market European absinthe; he unzipped the kit and felt around inside for his kohl stick. Pulling it out, he uncapped it, leaned forward, and touched up the kohl smudged around his eyes.

  “Seattle nightkind are here for the show,” Von said. “Well, some of ’em, anyway. The Lady of the leading household asked for some time with you before the show.”

  “She can wait for the meet-and-greet like everyone else,” Dante replied. “Why should she get special attention just cuz she’s nightkind?”

  “That’s you all over, aiming to please,” Von said.