A keypad rested on the wall beside the door, a tiny green telltale glowing at its base. Father Aloysius quickly punched in a code. A beep sounded from the pad, then Rutgers heard a solid clunk as the door unlocked. Grasping the handle, Father Aloysius pushed the heavy door open. Air laced with the smells of gun oil and candle wax whooshed out of the room.
The priest ushered Rutgers inside. As she went in and looked around, her pulse picked up speed. Hope blossomed within her.
Weapons of all sorts lined the walls: pistols, assault rifles, shotguns, crossbows, stakes of different lengths. Computers rested on workstations. Books were shelved in cases hugging the lower half of each wall.
A bulletin board displayed photos of vamps beneath two headers: MISSION and ACCOMPLISHED.
Father Aloysius followed her into the room, his cassock rustling, and stood beside her. “We’re called the Hand of God, and we meet every Tuesday and Thursday,” he murmured. “We have access to information—both arcane and practical—all around the world. God bless the Church and the Internet.”
Rutgers looked at him, and a grim smile curved his lips as he met her gaze. “Trust me, Ms. Rutgers. We’ll find a way to kill this Dante Prejean. No matter what he is.”
25
A WISE MAN
DALLAS/FORT WORTH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
March 28
I WISH TO REQUEST a leave of absence, sir, effective immediately.
Slim black briefcase in hand, James Wallace entered the airport terminal from the gangway and strode past the crowd—bouncing up on tiptoes, buoyant expressions matching the enthusiasm demonstrated in their feet—waiting for friends and relatives and loved ones.
Someone else altogether would be waiting for him outside the terminal.
Does this request have anything to do with the situation involving your daughter?
Sir, it’s a personal matter.
After retrieving his champagne-pale Samsonite suitcase and wheeling it through the automatic glass doors leading out into the bright Texas sunshine, James stood at the curb, feeling the moisture practically being sucked from his Pacific Northwest skin in the dry air. A white van marked only with SI in elegant black lettering on the side panel glided to a stop in front of him.
If a man should go looking for a missing daughter during a leave of absence, it’s no one’s business but his own. Wouldn’t you agree, Wallace?
I would, sir.
With a metallic click, the van’s side door hummed open. James slid his suitcase inside, resting it on the floor in front of the empty passenger seats. As the door hummed shut again, James opened the front passenger door and climbed inside. A pine-tree shaped air freshener hung from the rear view mirror, saturating the air with the reek of artificial pine.
Of course, once a man found his daughter, he’d be wise to take her and go and forget about the off-limits male in whose company he found her.
A wise man indeed, sir.
“Good flight?” the driver asked, offering James a thinning of the lips that he most likely believed passed for a smile.
“As good as any flight can be.” James strapped on his seat belt and settled his brief case on the floor beside his feet. He looked at the driver.
Late thirties, with well-creased crow’s feet at the corners of his gunmetal gray eyes, a man who spends a lot of time in the sun and the weather, a thick-muscled and powerful build beneath his black Members Only jacket. Ex-military or law enforcement vibe.
“You must be Stevenson,” James said.
“That would be me, yup.” Stevenson edged the van into the slow crawl of cars, vans, and taxis headed out of the airport. “Do you have a lead on where the bloodsucker took your daughters yet?”
“No, but I imagine New Orleans will be the destination,” James Wallace replied, shifting his gaze to the front windshield and the traffic flow beyond.
“No offense, but I gotta ask, how the hell did this bloodsucker manage to snag both of your daughters?”
Good question.
Heather had been brainwashed. The damned vampire had wormed his bloodsucking way inside her head, inside her heart, into her bed, and taken control of her every thought, every action.
That was the only thing that made sense. Why else would she have thrown away her career, her life?
And Annie? Whether Annie had simply tagged along or been forced to accompany her sister on her cross-country flight, James didn’t know. But he had a strong feeling Annie would call him when she found an opportunity.
“I don’t see that how he managed to grab them matters,” James said. “What matters is retrieving them before he turns them.”
“How do you know that he hasn’t already turned them?”
James’s heart did a slow, painful thump inside his chest. “I don’t,” he admitted. “But again, it doesn’t matter. Turned or not, we extract them.”
“Let me make this very clear, Mr. Wallace, even though you’re in charge of this little operation. The Strickland Institute isn’t equipped to deal with bloodsuckers. And won’t. We only handle human extractions and deprogramming—unhooking people from the grip of a religious cult, a government deep-cover mission, or a bloodsucker’s influence—that’s all. Hell, the majority of our staff don’t even know that vampires exist.”
“I understand all that,” James replied. “And I won’t be asking the institute to deal with my daughters if they’ve been turned—only to pull them out. The rest would be my responsibility.”
“That it would be,” Stevenson agreed, his gaze on the heavy traffic cruising alongside them as they headed for Dallas. “Just as long as we’re clear.”
“Are all the arrangements in place?”
“That they are, Mr. Wallace. All we need is the go-ahead from you.” Stevenson nodded his head at a small paper bag resting on the console between the seats. “There’s the special item you requested. Gotta admit, that particular request was a first. But then again, we’ve never had to deal with a born vamp before either.”
“You and your team won’t be dealing with one at all. I’ll be handling that honor.”
“Bullets filled with the resin from a dragon’s blood tree. Who knew?”
Hardly anyone, as it had turned out.
James’s research had turned up almost zilch on True Bloods and how to kill them or even if a different method other than the usual bullet/stake/ice pick/what-have-you to the heart followed by decapitation and burning was even required.
The Bureau’s files had contained nothing useful regarding born bloodsuckers, and he’d been refused access to SB files. Period.
What little information he’d managed to dredge up online had possessed all the frantic factoid qualities of urban legends—only a silver stake dipped in holy water thrust into the heart at high noon; the heart needs to be cut out and burned on a pyre a la Percy Shelley—until he’d stumbled upon an obscure but enthusiastic website dedicated to nomad culture and their pagan beliefs.
The clan shuvano (shaman; shuvani to indicate a female shaman) favored me with a fantastic tale about a night elemental (born vampire) and her adventures in the ancient world, and how she died unexpectedly in Yemen after spotting a tree bleeding red sap and tasting the resin out of curiosity . . .
Myth? Folktale? Possibly. Yet somehow, the story rang with authenticity.
After more research into the dragon’s blood tree and its history, James had decided to take a gamble, feeling in his gut he had the winning number.
“The resin is medicinal for humans,” James murmured. “Poisonous and usually fatal to born vamps, depending on how much gets into their bloodstream.”
“Does it affect regular bloodsuckers?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Might be interesting to find out.”
“Agreed.”
James scooped up the bag, unrolled the top, and looked inside at the box of .38 caliber ammunition. A warm curl of satisfaction, of upcoming fatherly retribution, spiraled through him.
“You’ll like the facility, Mr. Wallace,” Stevenson said. “I’ll give you the big tour when we get there. It’ll be comfortable and cheery for your girls as they undergo their rehabilitation, and ultra-secure. No chance of anyone wandering away.”
“That’s good to know. Annie is talented at breaking out of supposedly secure institutions.”
Stevenson chuckled. “She won’t be breaking out of this one, I can promise you that. And once she’s on medication for her disorder and in therapy, she won’t want to, trust me.”
“Promises and trust mean nothing,” James said quietly. “Only results.”
“No argument here.”
Shifting his attention to the scenery blurring past the passenger-side window, James didn’t voice the other thoughts racing through his mind—that it was Heather he was concerned about, not his youngest child, and it wouldn’t break his heart if Annie quietly disappeared, taking the shame of her disease with her.
And James was certain that Annie was his, despite Shannon’s whoring; he’d discreetly conducted paternity tests on each of his children. Except Heather. He’d never doubted she was his daughter. Her intelligence, her drive, her thirst for justice, all were qualities she’d inherited from him, while Annie had inherited only Shannon’s flaws.
It seemed as though Shannon had deliberately funneled everything he’d hated about her—the drinking, the running around, the ugly mood swings, the screaming fights—into their last daughter as she’d gestated inside Shannon’s womb, just to spite him.
James honestly didn’t expect Annie to live any longer than her mother had.
Kevin? Ah, his son had been more Shannon’s boy than his, a photographer and a boozer, in a committed relationship with another man; he was full of thoughtful silences and adrenaline-fueled action—sky-diving, skiing, and surfing.
But Heather was his flesh and blood, his daughter—mind, heart, and soul.
If only he could remind her of that fact.
The paper bag rustled as James pulled the box of ammo out. Untucking the box’s end flap, he slid out the carton with its neat rows of bullets.
Of course, once a man found his daughter, he’d be wise to take her and go and forget about the off-limits male in whose company he found her.
A wise man, perhaps. But he was a father.
26
FIRE-CRACKED BONES
NEW ORLEANS
March 28
THE SMELL OF SMOKE, burned wood, and water-logged ashes hung heavy in the air. And in the sunshine, the stark sight of the fire-cracked bones of what had once been their home rooted Lucien to the fractured and stained sidewalk like an oak, one hand still grasping the SUV’s door.
Dante’s words, low and husky, whispered through Lucien’s memory.
The fire I told you about? Simone didn’t . . . make it out. She’s gone, mon ami.
The pain and sorrow shadowing Dante’s pale face had told Lucien all the things his son hadn’t voiced. Simone had died hard. And she had died alone.
Lucien’s muscles flexed. Rippled taut under the skin. Metal shrieked as the edge of the driver’s door twisted beneath his hand. Releasing the door, he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath of air, dragging the wet and smoky reek of destruction deep into his lungs.
But underneath, he caught a whiff of Simone’s night-dewed magnolia scent—or imagined he did. Thought he heard her voice, a teasing, Cajun-lilted rhythm, imagined the smile smoldering on her lips.
Such big wings, cher. What does that say about Fallen males?
He laughs: Everything, ma belle femme.
Opening his eyes, Lucien walked up the sidewalk beside the undamaged rock wall to the black iron-piked gate. The yellow crime scene tape stretched across its bars fluttered in the afternoon breeze. He ripped it off, then fed it to the breeze.
The gates creaked as he pushed them open and strode up the driveway, passing fire-twisted oaks and seared weeping willows, their branches black and skeletal. The roses and flowering shrubs that Simone had planted beside the house, the wisteria and scarlet four o’clocks, were gone along with their sun-sweet perfume. Just a few fire-hardened stems poked up from the ground like desiccated fingers.
And the house . . . Lucien’s heart drummed a savage rhythm against his ribs.
Only the charred foundation and one blackened porch column remained of their home, the interior gray and hollow. Dante’s studio, most of his guitars and musical gear, the life and history he’d forged for himself night by night—gone, along with everything else.
But none of that compared to the loss of Simone.
Stepping up onto the foundation, Lucien dropped down into the debris and ash-filled basement. Gray ash puffed up into the air when he landed, dusted his shoes and trousers. Burnt wood cracked and fragmented beneath his feet.
The smoke reek was thicker in the basement’s moist and already moldering depths. Lucien didn’t know what he was looking for, what he hoped to find, but he walked with care, kept his eyes on the rubble beneath his feet.
The police visit had gone as well as possible for an arson and murder investigation. Questions had been asked and deflected.
Who do you think torched your house, Mr. De Noir? Any recent threats?
I have no idea. And no, no threats, recent or otherwise.
What about Prejean? We’ve heard that he has a bit of a fire-bug history . . .
His name is Baptiste, not Prejean, and I believe his juvenile records and all they contain are sealed. I also don’t like what you’re suggesting. This interview is now finished. My attorney shall be contacting you.
And that was another concern twisting around Lucien’s heart—Dante’s slipping sanity. What had happened to Dante, been done to him, during Lucien’s absence?
What Lucien had witnessed in Gehenna—Dante’s inability to remain in the present without Heather’s help—had iced him to the bone.
And a creawdwr bonded with a mortal. Lucien shook his head. However it had happened, it was dangerous for Dante and Heather both. Her very mortality was a threat. If she died . . .
A metallic glint caught Lucien’s eye. Bending, he dug through the charred and broken bits of wood, tiles, glass, furniture, and what looked like a melted recliner, soot and wood oils greasing his fingers black, and fished free a spoon that was bent and scorched.
No treasure. No keepsakes. No hint of Simone. Nothing remained.
They would have to start anew. Just like he needed to do with Dante.
With a soft sigh, Lucien dropped the spoon back into the wreckage. He straightened. Brushing soot and ash from his hands, he returned to the wall, leaping with easy and powerful grace up from the basement and over the foundation.
He walked back to the SUV, straightened the door’s twisted frame as best he could, then slid in behind the wheel. He longed to take to the sky and wing over the broad, brown expanse of the Mississippi in search of Mauvais’s riverboat, the red and white Winter Rose. But he would have to wait until nightfall.
Then, once found, Mauvais and his fille de sang Justine would die slow. Hard.
And each very much alone.
Keying on the engine, Lucien steered the SUV into the street.
27
CROWBARS
NEW ORLEANS,
ABOVE AUNT SALLY’S TAVERN & BBQ
March 28
PURCELL FETCHED AN ICE-COLD bottle of lemon water from the mini-fridge the SB had so thoughtfully provided for the surveillance team. Of course, since the surveillance team had been abruptly recalled to Alexandria, they no longer needed the mini-fridge or anything it contained. Purcell, on the other hand . . .
In a few days, a paperwork snafu would be discovered at HQ and agents would be reassigned to New Orleans, but by then Purcell would be long gone and they’d have
two less subjects to watch—Heather Wallace and S.
Purcell returned to the canvas chair parked in front of the window and sat down again, breathing in the tangy aroma of barbeque wafting in from the tavern below. Twisting the cap off the bottle of water, he took a long, throat-chilling swallow of the icy lemon water as he returned his attention across the narrow street to the club with the black iron letters reading 666 above its green shuttered door.
There’d been no movement since Lucien De Noir had walked out the front door an hour or so earlier dressed in well-fitting black trousers and a black button-down shirt clearly tailored for his tall and powerful physique.
Looks like S’s sugar daddy has errands to run, Purcell mused. Wonder if it has anything to do with last night’s fire?
De Noir had folded himself in behind the wheel of a forest green and road-grimed SUV, then driven out of view.
Purcell scanned the club’s empty, ivy-looped balconies, with their baskets full of deep green–leaved ferns and white and purple little flowers hanging from the intricate scrolled ironwork. Heavy curtains masked each set of French doors and windows.
Snatches of conversation swarmed up from the tavern’s outside tables below, buzzing like bees against Purcell’s mind.
You been out there? Seen the destruction? It’s awful. They say it was terrorists.
What kinda terrorists blow up a goddamned cemetery? What would be the point?
Exactly. Maybe it was some kinda scientific project gone awry.
A scientific project in a cemetery? Run by who? George Romero?
I’m just saying. Witnesses talked about seeing a ring of blue fire.
Purcell found it interesting that wherever S went, disaster, ruin, and death seemed to follow like loyal hounds padding behind their pack leader.
The center in D.C., Seattle, Damascus, here. Enough to make a man wonder.
The club’s door swung open and Heather Wallace, dressed in hip-hugging black jeans and a short-sleeved moss green sweater, paused in the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other hand behind her. Purcell had no doubt that a gun was tucked into the back of the FBI agent’s jeans and that her fingers were wrapped around its grip
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