Live and fucking learn.
As for the lovely and treacherous Heather Wallace, he’d hoped to warn her, but she was beyond redemption. Cortini could have her.
ALEX STOOD OUTSIDE VESPERS and kept watch on Inferno’s bug-spattered tour bus. Shaking another cigarette from his nearly empty pack of Winstons, he stuck it between his lips and lit it, hands cupped around his Zippo. He breathed in the smoke, felt the nicotine rush through his veins.
The show had ended early and, according to the buzzing conversations swelling around him, it became clear that something had happened to Dante. Some whispered overdose; others whispered seizure. Alex wondered if something dark and deadly and hungry had awakened within the young vampire and knocked him on his ass.
Most of the people who’d been hanging out near the bus hoping for a photo, an autograph, or maybe a quick fuck had dispersed when the nomad vampire in his Nightwolf leathers had strolled outside and squelched their hopes.
No photos. No autographs. No fucks, quick or otherwise. Dante was down for the count, but he’d make it up to his fans later, that was a promise.
Inferno’s fans had lingered for a moment longer in the rain-damp parking lot as if they thought the nomad would laugh, say it was just a joke, that Dante was actually waiting to see each and every one of them with the intention of fulfilling their wettest dreams.
When that didn’t happen, they finally gave up and wandered away, their makeup-streaked faces disappointed. Quite a few were discussing Dante’s “drug overdose” in heated tones as they passed Alex, trailing the pungent nostril-pinching aromas of patchouli and sweat.
Alex sucked in one last drag from his cigarette, then flicked it into the gutter. It looked like the opportunity to talk to Dante was growing slimmer with each passing moment. He’d planned to pose as a fledgling musician with a Inferno tribute song on his iPod and ask Dante—Oh, would you, please? It’d mean so much to me!—to listen. The only possible hitch would’ve been Heather, but he could’ve worked his way around her.
Time to improvise. He’d follow the band to wherever they were staying, bide his time, and hunker down until twilight. Then he would knock on Dante’s door.
Better let Father know about the delay.
Alex leaned against the building, stone gritting beneath his shoulders, and pulled his cell from his hoodie pocket, his fingers brushing against the iPod’s slender shape. For a moment, he thought he’d punched the wrong button when Athena answered the phone and on the first ring, no less.
“The tightrope walker wants to talk to you,” she said.
Alex stood up straight, pulse double-timing. “Who? Athena, what’s going—”
“Your sister’s safe.” An unfamiliar female voice curled into his ear. “But I have the muzzle of my gun against your father’s temple.” The SB’s assassin’s tone—and Alex had no doubt that’s who she was—was low and level, reciting facts. “I can pull the trigger and walk away or I can holster my gun, for the time being. It depends on how you answer the next question.”
“BOB? SWEETHEART?”
Wells shifted his gaze from the artfully textured ceiling—like whirls of cake frosting—and looked at his wife. All the little glowing lights that displayed Gloria’s vitals beeped and blipped, a steady and reassuring sound.
“How on earth did Athena get the drop on you?” Gloria asked, her voice as parchment thin as her fragile skin.
Wells managed a rueful chuckle. “I planned for the SB, I planned for a coup d’etat from Alexander, but I never planned on our daughter.”
Leather creaked as Wells twisted his wrists once more, testing for any hint of slack. And, as with each prior attempt, he found none. How long since Athena and the other woman—a killer, an assassin, but one who hadn’t pulled the trigger…yet—had left the room? An hour, perhaps.
“Bob?”
“I’m listening, honey.”
“Alexander probably instructed Athena. This is his coup d’etat.”
Wells frowned. That made no sense. “No,” he said. “Alexander would wait until after he’d learned how to wield S. He’d want to look in my eyes as he twisted the knife. No. Athena acted on her own.”
“Alexander the Great had his father assassinated.”
A familiar argument. Even now, with Gloria dying in one bed and himself strapped to another, they still disagreed on one point of history. Wells sighed. “He had nothing to do with King Philip’s death. It would be complete foolishness for Alexander, our Alexander, to kill me before I’ve passed on my knowledge. It’d be—”
“Insane,” Gloria finished flatly. “Didn’t I warn you to put the twins down the moment Athena started slipping? Her madness is Alexander’s madness. I warned you, sweetheart, I warned you.”
“You did. But I still think Alexander had nothing to do with this.”
Beeping and blipping. The creak of the straps. His wife’s fretful silence.
“Is the syringe still under your pillow?” Wells asked. Neither Athena nor the assassin would be expecting an attack from Gloria.
“Yes.”
“Get it. Keep it in your hand.” Wells watched as his wife weakly fumbled a hand beneath her pillow. “Careful.” She pulled her hand free, the syringe clutched in her palm. She offered her husband a faint smile.
Wells smiled back. “Good. Keep strong.”
Gloria tugged the cap from the needle’s end and angled the syringe toward the inside of her arm. The syringe slipped from her grasp and her fingers frantically patted the blankets, searching for it.
Wells stared at her, mute and motionless. Cold iced him from the heart out, rimed his soul. “No,” he whispered finally. “Not for you…”
“Your heart is and always will be your undoing,” Gloria said, her voice tender.
“Alexander will bring S. The boy can heal! He can remake you—”
“Bobby, please. I’m so tired. Let me go.”
Gloria’s searching fingers discovered the syringe and closed around it. She looked at Wells, a relieved smile on her lips, lips that had once known his own so well.
S could save Gloria, he knew it; felt it bone deep.
A soft sound breezed into the room, snaking around all the beeping and blipping, a sound like the wind in the trees.
“Welcometohellwelcometohellwelcometohellwelcometohell welcometohell…”
Wells’s heart thundered in his chest. Gloria’s eyes widened and she yanked up the syringe, but it flew from her shaking fingers and bounced onto the carpet.
“No,” she moaned. She grabbed the bed railing and pulled herself over to the side of the bed. Teeth gritted, sweat already beading her forehead, she reached a trembling hand to the floor.
“Welcometohellwelcometohell.” Athena stepped into the room, spear in hand.
Gloria’s fingers scrabbled for the syringe, but it was just out of her reach.
“Athena,” Wells said, struggling to keep his voice calm, hoping to distract his smiling daughter, “has your brother called? Does he know what you’re doing?”
Athena ignored him. She stepped between the beds, bent and picked up the syringe. “Drop something?” Straightening, she fixed her wild, Aegean gaze on Gloria.
“Athena, sweetie, listen to me—”
“Shut up, Daddy.”
Gloria hauled herself back up and sank into the pillows, gasping. Athena sauntered to the chair beside the door and propped the spear against it. Wells breathed a little easier with the weapon out of his deranged daughter’s grasp.
“Athena, child, Father never helped you, but I will,” Gloria said, her voice breathless, but steady. “I’ve always fought for you. You’ve always been my favorite.”
Yes, Wells thought, that approach might work. Bad parent–good parent.
“Call me Hades,” Athena said, turning around to face her mother again. Her smile vanished and her eyes darkened. She dropped the syringe into her lab-coat pocket. Returning to the bed, she yanked one of the pillows out from under Gloria’
s head. Pressed it over her mother’s face.
“Welcome to hell,” Athena whispered.
Wells screamed.
26 THE LINE BEGINS TO BLUR
Seattle, WA
March 23/24
VON CARRIED DANTE INTO Heather’s room and eased him onto the bed. Dante never stirred. “Are you sure he’s okay?” Heather asked, dropping Dante’s travel-worn duffel bag on the floor beside the bed.
“Yeah,” Von replied, brushing Dante’s hair back from his face. “Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure? What does that mean?”
The nomad shrugged, leather jacket creaking. “We just pumped him full of morphine, doll. He’s as good as the need to do that implies.”
Heather bit her lip, then nodded. “Gotcha.”
Von bent, his fingers working the straps on Dante’s boots.
“I’ll do that,” Heather said. “You go get the guys settled. There are blankets and towels in the hall closet. And there’s a sleeping bag on the bottom shelf, too. You can help yourselves to the food in the kitchen.”
A smile flashed across the nomad’s lips as he straightened. “You got it, doll.” He headed for the door, then paused. Bracing a hand against the threshold, he looked at her from over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, you’re good for him,” he said.
Heather looked up at him, surprised.
Von’s green gaze held hers. “Family,” he said. “It all comes down to who has your back when your tires are running down a strange road and who’ll stop to help you patch a flat when that road turns nasty. Family.” He paused, his hand tapping the threshold once, twice, as though he was considering saying something more, or maybe something else, then he walked away.
Von’s words played over and over in Heather’s mind as she sat down on the bed and set her fingers to work unstrapping Dante’s boots. Tugging off one boot, then the other, she dropped them on the floor. She looked at Dante. You’re good for him. She hoped that was true. She was having a hard time imagining her life without him. And she still didn’t know if that was good or bad.
She pulled his socks from his feet and tucked them into his boots. She thought of the music that’d rippled between them at the show and in her kitchen—wild and dark and restless. Joining them somehow, defining them.
Scooting to the head of the bed, Heather peeled Dante’s T-shirt off, followed by the long-sleeved mesh shirt underneath. Flat belly, hard chest, lean muscles, his white skin gleamed under the low lamplight; and his scent, burning leaves and dark earth, dizzied her.
Anytime you want, I’m yours.
I want.
But she drew in a deep breath and slowed her racing pulse. She was a grown woman and she would not take advantage of him when he was drugged and sleeping. The thought of all the people who’d walked down into the Prejean basement and had taken advantage of him was all the cold water she needed.
Sliding off the bed, Heather gathered up the quilt folded at the foot of the bed and settled it over Dante’s sleeping form. Eerie jumped onto the bed with a concerned trill. He hopped over to Dante and sniffed him delicately for a few moments before curling up beside him.
Heather smiled. “Little guardian. You watch over him for me, okay?” Eerie lifted his orange head and blinked at her as if to say, Duh.
Switching off the lamp, Heather walked from the room to check on her other guests. Eli was curled up on one end of the sofa, the TV remote in his hand, light from the screen flickering across his face.
The clunk of the refrigerator door being closed drew her gaze to the kitchen. Jack was slathering mayonnaise across multiple slices of bread. Scattered on the counter was a package of cheddar, a bottle of mustard, lettuce, sliced tomatoes, ham and turkey lunch meat—all the makings of a bunch of sandwiches or one monumental Dagwood-award-worthy sandwich. Playing drums was obviously hungry work.
The sound of water spraying against glass told her Antoine was in the shower.
Her stomach rumbled and she realized she was hungry; starved, actually. She was about to join Jack in the kitchen when it dawned on her that she didn’t see Von.
Swiveling around, she asked Eli if he’d seen the nomad. He nodded. “Outside,” he said. “Checking the perimeter.”
Perimeter? “Thanks.”
Outside, it was sprinkling again, a fine mist more than actual rain, and cool water quickly beaded on Heather’s face and clothes. The driveway held only her Trans Am.
The tour bus, its driver, a couple of roadies, and the band’s equipment were already headed home to New Orleans, rolling along the Interstate southeast. Everyone else had tickets for an evening flight home tomorrow.
Heather’s Skechers crunched on the gravel as she walked around to the side of the house. A pale hand grabbed the top of the wood fence, and Von vaulted over as easily as if he’d jumped from a trampoline. He landed with feline grace.
“Everything looks clear,” he said, ambling over to join her. His eyes gleamed in the dark, reflecting streetlight. Rain glittered like diamonds in his dark hair. “I don’t think there’s gonna be any trouble from Seattle nightkind. Not here, at least. What good’s an ass-kicking if the guy you’re pissed at ain’t conscious enough to appreciate it? Ruins the whole thing.”
“Ass-kicking appreciation. Could be a freshman course at college,” Heather said with a quick grin. “But right now I’m more worried about mortals with an agenda.”
Von nodded. “Yeah, I was thinking about that too—that Bad Seed shit you told me about, not to mention that so-called Spin photographer. You see any cars that don’t belong? Anyone outta place?”
“No,” Heather said. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not watching.”
“Better to be too paranoid, doll, than not paranoid enough. I’ll be taking the night watch,” Von said. “Jack said he’d take over at dawn.”
“Does Jack know how to handle a gun?”
“Yup, he’s a bayou boy.”
“Has he ever played guard before?”
“Nope. Lucien was always there in the past.”
Heather shook her head. “Then I’ll take dawn duty. Jack’s gotta be tired after the show. He can take over later in the morning.”
“You’ve got time to catch a nap. It’s only two.”
“Annie’s not home yet, and I—”
“It’s okay, doll. I hear you.”
“So…how do the clans feel about one of their own being turned?” she asked.
“It’s an honor, yeah, a big deal,” Von said. “You shoulda seen the bash my clan threw when I was chosen and turned. Everyone was drunk for nights.”
“So it was something you wanted? Being turned?”
“Yeah, you could say that.” He looked at Heather for a long moment, stroking the sides of his mustache with forefinger and thumb, thinking deep.
“Tell me,” Heather said. “Whatever it is. I’ll keep it safe.”
Von stopped stroking his mustache. “I know you will,” he said softly. “No matter who or what Dante might be, no matter what he has done or might do, his heart’s true. I’ve never regretted giving up the Road for him.”
“Did Dante ask you to?” Heather asked.
“Nah, my choice. I saw him. And I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“He is the never-ending Road.”
“But to where?” Heather said, holding Von’s steady gaze.
“Don’t matter and don’t care. I’ll be with him.”
“I’m glad you are,” Heather murmured, then added, “Nightkind for forty years, huh? So how old are you, anyway?”
“What kinda question is that, woman? How old. Seventy-one. I’m still jailbait, nightkind-wise.” Von bumped her with his shoulder, a surprisingly catlike gesture. A mischievous grin parted his lips. “You’re wet.”
“So are you.”
“Okay, then. Inside?”
Smiling, Heather bumped him back. “Inside, Mr. I’m Still Jailbait.”
Von laughed.
; Inside, all was quiet. Eli snoozed on the couch while Jack watched TV, plate of sandwiches in his lap. Antoine relaxed in the recliner, reading one of Heather’s books about vampires, a look of amused disbelief on his face.
Heather locked the front door and twisted the dead bolts into place before grabbing a towel from the bathroom and then walking into the bedroom to check on Dante. He’d moved; he was curled on his side, facing the door, Eerie tucked in the crook of his arm. Eerie’s eyes slitted open. He mewed, then closed his eyes again. Very content.
She’d never seen him take to anyone like he’d taken to Dante. And that particular endorsement meant a lot to her, since she trusted Eerie’s judgment. Heather kicked off her shoes, then pulled off her wet clothes. Toweling herself dry, she slipped into her jammies and slippers.
Pulling her .38 from her purse, she automatically checked both the safety and the magazine, then, gun in hand, she hung the towel up in the bathroom to dry. As she walked back into the living room, she saw Von unbolting and unlocking the door.
“What’s up?” she asked.
Von opened the door. Annie walked in, followed by Silver. Both were wet and disheveled—Annie’s makeup smudged, her skirts in reverse order—and, in her sister’s case anyway, reeking of booze and cigarette smoke.
Relief flooded through Heather and she felt her tension unwind. She opened her mouth, then closed it. No point in saying anything to Annie when she was drunk and, besides, she was just glad she was home, safe.
“Hey,” Silver said. “Everything okay?”
“Golden,” Von said, relocking the door.
“How’s Dante?”
“Still out.”
“Oh.”
Heather heard something sad and a little lost in Silver’s voice, and she wondered at it, remembering some of his pensiveness in New Orleans. She wondered if he was homesick.
“I’m back,” Annie announced, lifting her chin. “C’mon,” she said, grabbing Silver’s hand. She led him into the guest room—her room now—and slammed the door.
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