In the Blood

by Adrian Phoenix

  Von lowered his shades and winked at Annie. “This must be your sister. Looks sure as hell run in the Wallace family.” He grinned wolfishly.

  “Thanks,” Heather said, and glanced at her sister. Annie stared intently at the fangs Von’s grin revealed.

  He jumped down off the stage and into the area between the stage and the rail. He motioned for people to move aside and, reluctantly, they did. “C’mere, doll,” he said, motioning to Annie.

  Chin lifted, Annie stepped forward and a path to the rail opened up for her as people shuffled to either side. Von slid his hands around her waist and lifted her to the stage as though she weighed nothing.

  “Your turn.”

  Heather walked to the rail and Von slipped an arm around her waist and jumped onto the stage with her at his side. For a moment, she felt like they were flying.

  Von led her and Annie across the darkened stage, past the shadowed equipment and speakers, to the curtained wings. Dante walked out, pale face lit, eyes gleaming, light glinting from the steel ring in his bondage collar. And Heather stopped, her heart in her throat, breathless.

  Dammit. Gotta quit doing that. It’s just Dante.

  And that was the whole thing in a nutshell: It’s just Dante. No one else like him.

  “Catin.” He looked her up and down, appreciation lighting his eyes. “Très fucking sexy.” He looked at Annie. “Hey, p’tite. You clean up good.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Annie said, rolling her eyes.

  Dante wrapped his arms around Heather. His latex-and leather-clad body burned against hers. His hands slid up to her face and cupped it, his rings cool against her skin. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her. His lips tasted sweet, like black licorice, and she tasted alcohol. Electricity arced to her belly and between her legs.

  “Glad you’re here,” he said when the kiss ended.

  “Me too,” Heather murmured.

  “Geez,” Annie said. “Get a room, why don’t you?”

  “Tais toi, p’tite.”

  “Speak English, dork.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s better. Heard you were a WMD fan.”

  A smile tilted Dante’s lips. Releasing Heather, he stepped back and gave his attention to Annie. “Yup. Y’all ever gonna get together again?”

  “Maybe,” Annie said. “Depends. You ever gonna let me put that collar to use?”

  Dante laughed, but Heather sucked in a breath, stung, and whirled on her sister. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Nothing. Just teasing. Fuck, relax!” Annie crossed her arms over her chest and a familiar, sullen look masked her face.

  “He’s…” Heather paused. What was she about to say? He’s mine? He’s taken? Was that true? Sudden heat warmed her cheeks. When had she made that decision?

  “You’re fucking blushing,” Annie said, her tone incredulous.

  A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “I think I like it when she blushes,” he said. Then he stepped forward and touched his forehead to Heather’s. His hands settled on her waist, his fingers hot against her mesh-draped skin. Heated tingles rippled though her. “Anytime you want,” he whispered. “I’m yours.”

  “Yeah?” she whispered back.

  “Yeah. Leash optional.”

  Heather laughed, her embarrassment fading. She was grateful Dante hadn’t asked her to finish what she’d been about to say. Especially since she still didn’t know what she’d intended to say in the first place.

  Dante lifted his head, his hands sliding away from her waist. He clasped her hand, his fingers folding through hers. He walked her and Annie backstage to the sparsely furnished greenroom. “C’mon, let me introduce you and Annie to the guys.” Sticking his index finger and thumb into the corners of his mouth, he whistled—sharp and loud. All activity in the greenroom stopped. All faces looked in his direction.

  “Everyone, this is Heather,” Dante said, inclining his head toward her, “and her sister, Annie.” He draped an arm around Annie’s shoulders.

  People nodded, smiled, waved and yelled “Hey!”

  Dante directed Heather’s attention to the easy chair and the person just rising from its sagging depths. “This is mon cher ami Eli,” he said, his voice warm and low and affectionate. “We’ve been making music together for…how long?”

  “Almost five years, Tee-Tee,” Eli said. He was a blend of bloodlines. Café au lait skin, almond-shaped jade-green eyes, tall and rangy, mid-to-late twenties.

  “And over there in front of the mirror,” Dante said, “is Black Bayou Jack. A helluva drummer. Kicks fucking ass.”

  Jack grinned. “A pleasure, m’selles, for true.” His Cajun-musical tone marked him as another Louisiana native. His faux hawk had been transformed into a braided horse mane, the dark blond hair buzzed short at sides and back, the braids dyed deep cherry red. Black-ink stylized tattoos twisted around his neck and muscular arms.

  “And over there, twitching to go out and triple-check the fucking equipment, is Antoine, the man who puts the funk and the sex into the bass.”

  “Hey,” Antoine murmured, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Also in his mid-to-late twenties; dark brown skin, toffee-colored eyes. Topped by a sexy, untrimmed and natural ’fro, the last member of Inferno was clearly itching to get away.

  Dante jerked his head toward the curtains and, flashing a smile, Antoine disappeared behind their thick velvet folds.

  “Gonna go make sure things are set up right,” Dante said, squeezing, then releasing Heather’s hand. His breath caught. He touched his fingers to his temple.

  Panic burned through Heather when she saw his eyes dilate. She reached for his hand, but he backed quickly out of reach. “You’re hurting,” she said.

  He shrugged. “No big. See you soon, chérie.”

  But Heather saw his jaw tighten as he turned away. She looked at Von, but the nomad’s attention was already fixed on him, brow furrowed. Dante slipped past the curtains and out of sight.

  “Simone said his migraines were getting worse,” Heather said.

  “Ain’t the half of it,” Von said, voice low. “He’s been having seizures, too.”

  “Seizures?” Heather suddenly felt cold.

  “Keep it quiet for now, doll,” Von said.

  “He shouldn’t be going onstage.”

  Von snorted. “You tell him that.”

  “I will.” Heather turned and started for the curtain. Fingers latched around her arm. She jerked, but the fingers still held. She looked up into Von’s serious face.

  “Let him be,” he said. “Now’s not the time. You understand? Not now.”

  Heather paused, then nodded. “Okay. Not now.” Von released her arm. She held his gaze. “But he needs help. He can’t heal if he refuses to admit he’s hurting. And I don’t think he can heal alone.”

  Von nodded. “That’s the fucking truth. What happened between you two, anyway? He’s never said.”

  Heather hesitated, mingled regret and uncertainty pricking her heart. She drew a breath and said, “I saw him unmake a woman.” Understanding flickered in Von’s eyes. “He saved my life and I’ll always love him for that alone, but…what do you know about True Blood?”

  “Just a little,” Von admitted. “I’ve only been nightkind for forty years and I ain’t heard much because born vampires are fucking rare. I know they’re supposed to be powerful and light-speed fast and brimming with magic. Hell, just take a look at Dante.”

  “Do the nomad clans know about vampires?”

  “Oh, hell yeah,” Von said. “But the clans see True Bloods as night elementals; y’know, as Nature’s voice, avatars of the night.” He shook his head. “But since Dante’s also Fallen, he’s something else altogether.” He hesitated for a moment like he was about to say something more, but he shook his head again instead.

  Heather had known that the nomad clans were mostly pagan, holding to ancient nature rites and worship, but she hadn’t realized nightkind—vampires—w
ere a part of the nomad belief system.

  We’re a part of the natural world.

  “C’mon, let’s get you and your lovely sister set up to enjoy the show.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” She glanced over her shoulder, and stiffened when she saw who Annie was talking to.

  Midnite Purple dyed hair gelled to maximum bedhead effect, his lean frame draped in black jeans, biker boots, a vintage TV ON THE RADIO tee, and looking no older than sixteen, Silver smiled a fanged smile and chatted with Annie.

  Annie shifted her weight to the ball of her foot and pivoted one shapely and booted leg back and forth while her fingers plucked at the edges of her short crinoline skirts. Her gaze was bewitched and dazzled, her blue eyes gleaming with desire.

  “What’s he doing here?” Heather asked. She’d never gotten a good handle on the enigmatic vampire while in New Orleans, had bristled at his knowing smiles.

  “Silver’s under Dante’s tutelage,” Von said with a shrug. “An exchange student kinda thing among nightkind. Anyway, since Dante’s responsible for him, he couldn’t leave him in New Orleans.”

  “Ah, I see,” Heather murmured. “Well, I don’t want him messing with Annie.”

  A puzzled smile quirked at one corner of Von’s mouth. “Funny. She looks old enough to make her own decisions, doll.”

  Ignoring Von’s comment, Heather joined Annie and Silver, wedging her body between them. “This is my sister,” Heather said to Silver, holding his gleaming silver gaze. His amused silver gaze. “Hands off. Got it?”

  “Butt out,” Annie said, her voice low and tight. “I’m twenty-fucking-six years old and more than capable of running my own life.”

  “Really? Since when?”

  Silver opened his mouth to say something, then glanced in Von’s direction and closed it again. Shrugging, he walked away.

  Heather grabbed her sister’s hand. Annie yanked free. “Quit treating me like a baby!” she yelled. Fire burned in her eyes. “I’m bipolar, not retarded!”

  “I’m not treating you like a baby,” Heather said, struggling to keep her voice level. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d quit acting like one. Silver’s nightkind. I’m just looking out for you.”

  “Really? Is this another guy you’re not dating, but want to keep for yourself?”

  “No!”

  “Oh. Okay. So only you can date nightkind? Is that it, Ms. I Have Everything?”

  “Annie, no—”

  “Well, y’know what? Fuck you!” Annie whirled and dashed past the curtains.

  “Shit!” Calling her sister’s name, Heather shoved the heavy curtains aside and ran across the stage after her. But Annie dove into the crowd pressed up against the rail. Arms passed her to the back. Dropped her. Her multicolored head disappeared from view.

  Heather jumped down from the stage, ducked under the rail, and pushed her way through the crowd. The house lights dimmed, and the crowd roared. Heather found her way blocked by burly male bodies reeking of sweat and beer. She bounced up on her toes and looked for any sign of Annie, but a swaying field of heads blocked her vision.

  The crowd surged forward, jabbing and shoving Heather with elbows and hips, and the roar intensified. Knowing she couldn’t get free at this point, not as Inferno hit the stage, Heather turned around and resigned herself to watching the show.

  ALEX SHOVED AWAY FROM the bar, plastic cup of Rogue ale in hand, and joined a group of idlers at the back of the crowd. Colored spots lit up the stage as four figures took their places. Fog machines churned pale, incense-scented mist into the crowd. Alex downed a swallow of the frosty ale, then twisted earplugs into his ears.

  Hard-edged industrial music, a pissed-off wall of sound, slammed into the crowd, and Alex’s heart pounded in time with the heavy bass throb. He fixed his gaze on Dante’s lean, shadowed figure standing before a microphone at the front of the stage, his hands wrapped around the stand, his gleaming black guitar hanging at crotch-level.

  Dante curled his hands around the microphone as he sang. His voice, low and simmering with rage, meshed with the music pounding through the club and up along Alex’s spine.

  “On my hands and knees,” Dante sang, his voice a seething whisper. “For you. I’ll crawl, on hands and knees, across shattered glass, over splintered hearts, nothing is left of us. Nothing remains. But to crawl. On hands and knees.”

  The music came to a sudden halt. But the crowd didn’t stop hurling themselves against each other with bruising and skull-jarring abandon.

  “Now that I’ve got y’all’s attention,” Dante said, “I’ve got something I wanna say to the nightkind in the audience.”

  Several people—male and female—shrieked “I love you, Dante!” A few laughed, thinking he was just doing a bond-with-the-audience spiel. Enthusiastic screams pierced the air.

  Most had no idea that he truly was what their dark fantasies imagined: vampire.

  And more.

  “Everyone here came to enjoy a show, have a few drinks, and maybe get laid,” Dante continued, his voice clear and strong, his rhythm Cajun-spiced. “If you’re here for a different reason, if you want la passée, go hang out at a Smashing Pumpkins revival show or some other lame-ass gig and drink your fill. Touch anyone here without their consent and you’ll fucking regret it.”

  A voice rang out from the crowd. “Is that a challenge?” More laughter followed.

  A spotlight focused on Dante, lit him up with blue-gelled light. He slowly extended a middle finger. “Whattya think this means?” Then he lifted his head.

  Alex’s heart jackhammered against his ribs, a stunned and frantic tattoo. The sudden collective intake of breath that he felt, more than heard, told him that this preternatural beauty, this Medusa of heart-stopping loveliness, hadn’t ensnared him alone. Lifting the plastic cup of ale to his lips, he drained it.

  Light glimmered from the row of hoops in each ear, gleamed blue upon Dante’s glossy black hair; slender coiled muscles; and that pale, breathtaking face—full lower lip, high cheekbones, kohl-rimmed eyes. He moved across the stage with natural and untamed grace.

  “Crawl with me, on your hands and knees, for me,” Dante growled, jerking the stand back up, rocking back, and pressing his lips close to the rounded microphone. “I’ll kiss away your fears. If you crawl. With me. Fall with me. For me.”

  Every move of his tight-muscled body, every toss of his head, whispered sex. Promised dark pleasure. Hinted at willing, pale flesh. His leather pants clung to his thighs and blue light sparked from the ring on the collar buckled around his throat.

  Dante nestled the curve of his guitar against his thigh as his white hands flashed across the strings and frets, his attention riveted on the searing music pouring out from beneath his fingers. His body moved with the music, booted feet sliding, stomping, bracing.

  Alex realized as he watched Dante, unable to slow his pounding heart, unable to tear his gaze away, that Dante was dangerous in ways he’d never anticipated. Never would’ve believed possible.

  Seductive. Irresistible.

  “We’ll go down together. I won’t let you fall alone.” Dante’s low, smoky voice curled into Alex’s heart and set it ablaze. “We’re both to blame. Crawl crawl crawl…”

  Alex forced himself to turn around and fought his way through the heaving, moshing, sweat-rank crowd, making his way outside. He leaned against the wall, sucking down fresh night-chilled air, Inferno’s music vibrating into his muscles through the masonry. Alex pounded his fists against the stone until they bled, until the pain cleared his head.

  Fury, blade-sharp and cold, cut into him. He straightened and pulled his Winstons and Zippo from his hoodie pocket. He shook a cigarette from the pack, jammed it between his lips, and sparked it up. As he smoked, a new plan mapped itself out, a way to conquer and control Dante after he’d seized him from Father and made the True Blood his own.

  Alex would hurt Dante. Over and over. Long and deep and often. If Heather figured into that pl
an, so be it. And if hurting him in every way possible wasn’t pain enough to keep Dante from spinning another sticky web of lust to snare him in—and Athena? Would she be trapped the same way? Burning hot as a star?—then he’d tell Dante the truth.

  Cram it down his throat. Every last bit of it.

  And let him choke.

  THE CROWD JUMPED AND slammed to the music, smashed into each other, sweat and fists flying as those behind tried to dislodge those up front from the rail. The crowd handed along a girl in a latex dress and little else, Heather noted, over the heads of the venue’s security guards and to the stage.

  Eyeliner-streaked face glowing, she darted for Dante, but he stepped out of reach, still singing. Since her slow speed marked her as mortal, the odds she would ever catch him were nil, Heather reflected, unless he wanted to get caught.

  Heather wasn’t sure how she’d feel if Dante allowed the girl to touch him, kiss him, feel him up. The tightness in her chest at the image that particular thought created told her: Not well, Wallace. Not well at all.

  One of the venue’s thick-muscled security guards, his bulky torso sausaged into a yellow VESPERS T-shirt, climbed onto the stage, scooped Latex Girl up and tossed her back into the crowd. The crowd roared, but whether in approval or anger, Heather couldn’t tell.

  Dante whirled, so fast his movement was a blur, a streak of motion. The mike rolled across the floor. Then the security guard flew into the air, mouth open, eyes wide. The crowd parted, and he hit the concrete floor. Hard.

  The crowd roared again, louder than before, and this time Heather had no doubt they were cheering Dante’s violent action. Before Dante had stepped back from the edge of the stage, three other figures hurtled over the rail and the open-mouthed security guards, jumping onto the stage and whirling on Dante—nightkind fast.

  The crowd yelled and screamed, unaware of what Heather had just realized: Dante’s challenge had been accepted.

  A female in a PVC tank and velvet mini, her hair pulled back into a glossy black and red ponytail, swung on Dante, her fists blurring beneath the blue spots.

  Dante was already gone when Ponytail’s fists cometed one-two through the air. She nearly overbalanced when her punches didn’t connect and spun around, confusion on her pale face. Dante tapped her on the shoulder and she spun again, fists flying. Dante ducked, straightening up right in front of her. He grabbed her by the shoulders, kissed her, then tossed her back into the crowd.