In the Blood

by Adrian Phoenix

  Stuck between a sweat-soaked burly guy in an INFERNO T-shirt and his equally burly and sweaty buddy, Heather watched, heart in her throat, hating the fact that, unless she was willing to pound on these two guys, watching was all she could do. She scanned the stage for Von.

  Ponytail’s companions—a male in jeans and an ancient Ramones tee, his hair a waxed and bristling Mohawk, and a devil-locked male in leather and latex—appeared behind Dante in twin streaks of motion. Mohawk’s long-nailed fingers arced like knives for Dante’s sides, while Devil Lock, fists clenched and lifted, swung around to face Dante.

  But Dante was already going low and whirling, one hand holding his guitar steady. Heather caught only a glimpse of black hair and gleaming leather as he lunged, his movement so fast it was over by the time it registered in her mind.

  Dante’s left fist slammed into Mohawk, followed almost instantly by his right forearm into the guy’s face. Blood spurted from his nose. Seizing the dazed vampire by the shoulders, Dante yanked him in close and kissed him too. Devil Lock pounded a fist into Dante’s ribs as Dante tossed Mohawk into the crowd, the other fist blurring toward Dante’s temple.

  Dante ducked and spun, slashing his fingers across Devil Lock’s midsection. Blood sprayed into the air, glistening for a moment beneath the blue lights, a dark, jeweled mist. Devil Lock pressed his arm against his gut, his expression both pained and surprised. Dante reeled him in by the long strand of gel-slick hair hanging over his face, but before Dante could kiss him, Devil Lock jerked free and dove back into the crowd.

  The crowd roared. Jumped. Pumped fists into the air.

  Heather drew in a deep, relieved breath. She spotted the gleam of lambent eyes in the dark wings—Von, she hoped. She was worried about what would happen if ten or twenty more nightkind rushed the stage.

  Dante licked blood from his lips, scooped up the mike, stalked to the edge of the stage, and screamed, “Fuck you!” Then he stepped back and resumed singing while the other members of Inferno thrashed their instruments—flying dreads, light-starred piercings, sweat-gleaming skin—pouring energy and heart into the music.

  “I’m coming for you!” Dante screamed, neck muscles taut, bending over, the mike stand between his legs. He lifted his head, tossed back his hair, and his gaze locked onto Heather.

  For one moment, music, wild and wordless, pulsed between them like it had in her kitchen, and Heather’s breath caught in her throat. Dante’s song. Beautiful. Lonely. Forsaken. She pressed her hand to her heart, to the healed wound that now vibrated beneath her fingers.

  Dante straightened. Sweat trickled down his face. Black tendrils of hair clung to his forehead. “Nothing can stop me. I have nothing left to lose. I’m coming for you!” He screamed the last word, a long, drawn-out sound of animal rage.

  Heather pushed and elbowed her way through the moshing, sweat-pungent crowd, fighting her way to the stage. Hearing the loss behind the rage in his voice, she struggled to keep her gaze on Dante’s white face. She shouldered her way to the row behind the rail riders, knowing she wouldn’t get any closer without drawing blood.

  Dante knelt on the stage, holding his guitar against his side, his dark gaze on her face. Fingers and hands waved in the air, stretched toward Dante. Voices screamed.

  “I dream of you, in the dark,” he sang, voice strained. “Taste you. Smell you. Feel you burning inside me. I stand beneath your window and watch you sleep.”

  Dante touched several of the hands waving in the air, his own trembling. He rose effortlessly to his feet, swung his guitar around, and then stumbled. Heather tried to shove closer, but the tight press of bodies held her back.

  Dante fell to his knees. The mike tumbled from his fingers and feedback squeal reverberated through the club. The other members of Inferno stopped playing with a hesitant strum of chords.

  A tremor shook Dante’s body. He keeled over to the floor, his limbs locked, back arching. Heather fought and pummeled her way to the edge of the crowd. She caught a glimpse of blurred movement—Von running in from the wings. He dropped to his knees beside Dante’s convulsing body, unstrapped his guitar, and tossed it aside.

  Ducking under the rail, Heather dashed up the short flight of stairs leading to the stage and ran across the wood floor. The spots had been dimmed, and voices buzzed and whispered and shouted out on the floor. The other members of Inferno semicircled around Dante and Von, blocking them from view in an effort at privacy. Eli looked up, then stepped forward as if to block her.

  “Now’s not good—”

  As Heather tensed to duck and dodge, she heard Von’s voice. “Let her through.” She brushed past Eli as he stepped aside. She stopped beside Von, then knelt. The nomad held Dante’s convulsing body, his face grim. Blood trickled from Dante’s nose and across his foam-flecked lips, spattered the wood floor.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  Without taking his gaze from Dante’s pale face, Von said, “In the greenroom’s a black zippered bag. Get it.”

  Jumping to her feet, Heather slipped between Jack and Antoine and pushed past the heavy curtains. She scanned the room, spotting the bag tucked into the side of the easy chair. Grabbing it, she raced back across the stage.

  Her relief vanished when she saw that Dante was still convulsing. His booted feet pounded holes in the stage floor. His body arched and twisted and jerked with a speed and violence that left Heather’s mouth dry.

  She dropped to her knees beside Von. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Get one of the hypes outta the bag and fill it to the brim with morphine,” Von grunted, struggling to hold onto Dante. “In the vials,” he clarified.

  Heather stared at him, heart pounding. “To the brim?”

  “It won’t do nothing but ease him into sleep,” Von said, voice tight. “But do it now. This seizure’s gonna fuck him up if it goes any longer. Gonna fuck me up too.”

  Heather unzipped the bag. Syringes and vials of morphine were neatly tucked into slots. She pulled a syringe free, flicked the cap off the needle tip and stabbed the needle into one of the vials, sucked in as much painkiller as it would hold. She squirted a little out to eliminate air bubbles.

  “In the neck,” Von said. “I can’t let go of him.”

  With a deep breath to steady her hand, Heather jabbed the needle into the vein in Dante’s taut throat and pressed the plunger. Syringe emptied, she withdrew the needle and dropped the syringe on the floor. A few seconds later, Dante’s thrashing limbs and twisting body went still and he slumped within Von’s embrace.

  Heather sighed, and closed her eyes in relief. Her pulse pounded in her temples.

  “Fuck,” the nomad breathed. “Holy fucking hell.”

  Heather opened her eyes and looked at Von. Sweat beaded his forehead. His fight-scarred knuckles unclenched as he relaxed his hands. “How often does this happen?” she asked.

  Von shook his head. “Too often.”

  The blood trickling from Dante’s nose slowed. His eyes fluttered half-open, the pupils ringed by a slim circle of darkest brown. His gaze focused on Von’s face. “What’s up, mon ami?” he slurred, his voice opium-thick and dreamy.

  “Not you, man,” Von said, pushing Dante’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. “You decided to take five on the floor.”

  “J’su pas fou de ça,” Dante murmured, eyes closing. “You okay?”

  Von chuckled. “Fuck, yeah, I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  Dante’s eyes opened again. “I didn’t hurt no one, did I?”

  “No.”

  “Heather.” Dante shoved at Von’s arm, trying to get up.

  “Here,” Heather said. “Dante, I’m right here.” Leaning forward on her knees, she cupped his pale face between her hands. He burned, fevered. His gaze shifted to her face and a smile brushed his blood-smeared lips. “Thought I’d lost you,” he said.

  “You’re gonna have to try a little harder if that’s your plan,” she said.

 
“It’s quiet, chérie.”

  “I’ll be right here,” she whispered.

  Dante’s eyes shuttered closed and his breathing dropped into a low, barely perceptible nightkind rhythm as false Sleep claimed him.

  Heather slid her hands away from his hot, smooth-cheeked face and knotted them on her thighs. He looked peaceful held in Von’s arms, drugged and dreaming, his dark, thick lashes curving up from his pale face. Peaceful. Yes.

  An illusion.

  She’d heard the dread in his voice, the near panic as he’d asked, I didn’t hurt no one, did I? She knew why he’d asked that question, even if he didn’t, and her chest ached as she remembered the look on his face, the raw anguish in his voice when he’d seen Chloe, his little Winnie-the-Pooh princess, snow-angeled in a pool of her own blood.

  “Eli, man, Dante’s done.” Von cradled Dante against his chest and rose to his feet in a fluid, easy movement. “Tell ’em the show’s over.”

  Shouts of “Inferno! Inferno!” built as the crowd shifted restlessly. A few laughed, delighted, as if the front man’s seizure had been part of the show and, Heather realized, some of them probably hoped it was. Or thought Dante was faking, though how a person could fake the muscle-and-tendon-torquing convulsions Dante’d just endured was beyond her.

  Heather gathered up the syringe and vial and placed them back inside the bag. Zipping it shut, she tucked it under her arm and stood.

  Von’s gaze skipped from Eli to Jack to Antoine. “Y’all stick with Silver and avoid other nightkind. Dante pissed the fuckers off and they just might cause a ruckus now that he’s down.”

  Eli nodded, gathering his dreads together in both hands, his expression worried. “Silver isn’t here,” he said quietly.

  “He chased after Heather’s sister,” Jack volunteered.

  Heather stiffened, suddenly cold. “He followed Annie? I need to find—”

  “Hold on,” Von murmured, his gaze turning inward for a moment.

  Heather realized he was seeking contact with the missing vampire. She swiveled, searched the crowd for any sign of Annie’s blue-purple-black tresses or Silver’s gleaming eyes, but too many people filled the small venue. She sighed. Annie was a big girl, like Von had pointed out, but…she turned back around and met Von’s steady gaze.

  “Did you reach Silver?” she asked, tapping a finger against her temple.

  “Let me get Dante settled,” he said, nodding his head toward the curtain.

  Heather followed the nomad backstage as Eli announced that the show was over due to circumstances beyond their control. Shouts winged into the air like angry wasps. Even though the show had been going for over an hour when Dante collapsed, Eli said refunds would be available.

  Von eased Dante onto a worn, stained sofa. Strands of black hair slid across Dante’s face, partially veiling it. One arm hung off the sofa, his hand brushing the floor. The nomad tucked Dante’s arm against his side, then gently patted his cheek. “Sleep tight, little brother,” he murmured.

  Then he turned and looked at Heather. “Silver’s with your sister,” he said. “They’re okay. But she ain’t in no mood to come back.”

  “Dammit.” The sinking feeling in Heather’s gut told her that her sister was out drinking with Silver, drinking, doping, fucking—whatever helped her fill the void swallowing her up inside.

  I want us to be a family again.

  Heather could hit the streets and search the bars, but she knew from bitter experience that it wouldn’t do any good. Annie would refuse to leave and would create a huge, screaming scene that’d end with someone jailed or hospitalized. All she could do was go home and wait.

  “Look, doll, she’s okay,” Von said. “Silver knows how to deal with troubled mortals, and he won’t hurt her.”

  “What does he know about troubled mortals?”

  “He used to be one.”

  “She’s bipolar,” Heather said. “Not just troubled.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  Heather nodded, feeling like she had no other choice. The thought of the night ahead, waiting sleeplessly for Annie to come home drunk and hostile, or bruised and bleeding from a drunken brawl, or waiting for the phone to ring, left her tensed. She glanced at Dante. Maybe she should stay with him. Talk to him.

  And if Annie needed her in the meantime? Got arrested again? Sighing, Heather knelt beside the sofa and kissed Dante’s lips, tasted amaretto underneath the tang of his blood. His face still felt fevered, but at least the nose bleed had stopped.

  “Where are you guys staying?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Von. “In a hotel or on the bus?”

  “Hotel. The Red Door.”

  A sudden thought occurred to Heather. Maybe she wouldn’t have to just sit and wait, unable to focus on anything but the anxiety coiling through her body.

  “My house isn’t huge, but I’ve got a sofa, two beds, and a very comfy recliner,” she said. “How about you guys come and stay the night with me? In case there’s more trouble.”

  Von stroked the sides of his mustache with thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. “Let me ask the guys,” he said. “I’m gonna help ’em pack up and stow the gear first, okay?”

  Heather nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Von reached inside his leather jacket, then slipped out a pistol. He handed it to Heather. She examined it, checked the safety, then checked the sights. It lined up beautifully. A Browning Hi-Power. She’d left both her purse and .38 at home, knowing how easy it would be to lose both jammed in the middle of a club crowd.

  “Nice,” she said, hefting it in her hand.

  “Just in case the Seattle crew cause any problems. Aim for the—”

  “Head or heart,” she finished.

  Von grinned. “You got it, darlin’.” Then he walked away.

  Heather got up from the floor and perched on the arm of the sofa farthest from the curtains. Her fingers wrapped around the Browning’s grip. Her pulse was steady and her breathing relaxed. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt like she was right where she needed to be, protecting a friend.

  Just a friend? No, Dante was more than that—how much more, she wasn’t sure. But whenever she imagined life without him, she felt hollow inside.

  If the Bureau was keeping a watch on her, their suspicions would be confirmed when Dante and his band arrived at her house. Would they simply rescind the job offer or spin their threats into reality? She voted for possibility B.

  Run from me. Run as far as you can.

  Too late, she thought. Much too late.

  25 NOTHING IS WHAT IT SEEMS

  Damascus, OR

  March 23

  “ABOUT TIME,” BECK SAID, climbing to his feet as Caterina hiked up the hill. “I was beginning to worry. What took so fucking long?”

  “Sorry,” Caterina said. “The daughter was still up. I waited.”

  “I was thinking I should do Wallace and make you wait in the dark and the dirt for a change. See how you like it. But we don’t need to worry about her since the orders just changed.” Beck bent and gathered up the blanket. “You got off easy, Ms. Bad Ass.”

  Caterina looked at him. “Changed? How?”

  “They want her bagged and brought in, so they’ve sent Norwich and Shep.”

  “Brought in? Why?”

  Beck straightened, the blanket draped over his arm, and looked at her for a long silent moment. “How the hell would I know?” he finally said. “When did you start asking why?”

  “Right now,” Caterina said.

  “Well, knock it off and let’s hit the fucking road,” Beck said. “I’m hungry and I’m tired and I have a zillion bug bites.” He started down the other side of the hill toward their rented Mazda.

  Caterina drew in a deep breath of pine-scented air and lifted the Glock. “Beck.”

  Beck turned around and his eyes widened. The blanket fluttered to the ground. His fingers locked around the grip of the Colt in his shoulder holster. She aimed. The moment stretched, t
ime suddenly elastic and streamlined. Their eyes met.

  Beck yanked the Colt free of its holster. Caterina squeezed the Glock’s trigger. The bullet hit Beck between the eyes, and he was dead before his body crumpled to the ground and rolled down the hill.

  Lowering the gun, heart triple-timing, Caterina closed her eyes and stepped off the tightrope.

  THE VAMPIRE NOMAD STRODE out from behind the curtain and onto the stage, joining the Inferno members already tearing down and packing up their equipment. Sheridan moved, climbing up the side steps and sidling along the curtain’s faded edge. He slipped behind it. Then froze.

  Dante Prejean was stretched out on a well-worn sofa, unconscious, black hair half-hiding his pale face. Perched on the sofa’s arm, a beautiful red-haired woman lifted a gun in a steady two-handed grip and aimed.

  “Turn around and walk away,” Heather Wallace said quietly.

  Sheridan had no doubt that she’d pull the trigger if he didn’t comply. His mind raced almost as fast as his pulse. Wallace is guarding a fucking vampire.

  For one heart-pounding, crystal-clear moment, Sheridan envisioned shooting Wallace, then Prejean, but knew he’d never have time to kill the bastard properly before someone—the nomad, one of the mortal band members, a groupie—wandered backstage.

  Forcing a smile, Sheridan lifted a conciliatory hand, showed the digital camera in his other hand. “I’m with Spin magazine,” he said. “Just hoping for some candids.”

  Wallace didn’t return the smile. Didn’t lower the gun. Didn’t say squat. Sheridan backed away, hand still lifted, then slipped past the curtain. He didn’t breathe easy again until he was outside.

  He crossed the parking lot, sidestepping the puddles and ignoring the cold rain trickling down his face. Time to return to his original plan, which had been to follow Prejean to his hotel, then wait for daylight to snuff him; but the seizure had seemed like a perfect opportunity.