Etched in Bone

by Adrian Phoenix

  She studied the street, looking for stakeout vehicles, tourists with the wrong stride, anything or anyone out of place. Her gaze shifted up as she scanned the windows in the buildings on Purcell’s side of the street.

  Purcell eased back from the window like a long afternoon shadow. He counted to ten, then chanced another glance.

  Wallace had stepped outside and was being followed by a guy wearing faded jeans and a black wife-beater, with tribal-style tattoos black-inked along his neck and sculpted arms, his hair a horse’s mane of red braids. Together, they walked down the tourist-thronged sidewalk to a black and dented van parked against the curb.

  Purcell identified the guy as Jack Cheramie, aka Black Bayou Jack, the drummer for Inferno.

  Wallace unlocked the vehicle, slid the door open, and hopped inside. A moment later, she shoved a lidded carton with worn seams into the drummer’s muscled arms before jumping out of the van with a carton of her own.

  Touching the rim of his networked Ray Bans, Purcell toggled the binocular lenses into place and studied the black marker–scrawled numbers on the cartons, knowing they and everything else he viewed was being transmitted to Díon.

  WALLACE, SHANNON, CASE NO. 5123441.

  Purcell frowned as he mentally scrolled through his knowledge of Wallace and her family. If he remembered right, her mother had been murdered some fifteen or twenty years ago. He wondered why Wallace was looking into the case file on her long-dead mother and how she happened to be in possession of the files in the first place.

  Late afternoon/early evening sunshine sparked fire in Wallace’s red hair as she scanned the street again, across, down, and up. Purcell wondered if the FBI agent was always this careful or if she was feeling particularly paranoid today.

  After a moment, Wallace slammed the van’s door shut, re-locked the vehicle with a tap of the smart key, then returned to the club with Cheramie.

  Flipping the regular lenses back into place on his sunglasses, Purcell relaxed against the sun-heated canvas back of his chair, the warmth soaking in through his Hawaiian shirt. He plucked the bottle from the window sill and took another long sip of the lemon water.

  Díon’s plan was simple.

  We’re not going to kill S, we’re going to break him.

  He planned to bash S’s sanity to little tiny pieces with several crowbars: Heather Wallace was one, a little girl named Violet Sullivan another, and the skin-peeling, angel-freeing lunatic priest named Matthew Moses was a third.

  All Purcell needed to do was wait for the right moment, the perfect opportunity, to grab Heather Wallace, transport her to the Doucet-Bainbridge Sanitarium in Baton Rouge—S’s old stomping grounds—hand her over to angel-freeing Father Moses, then make sure S knew where to find her.

  And wait for him to come claim his property.

  28

  WRITHING WORMS

  WASHINGTON, D.C.,

  GEORGETOWN

  March 28

  CATERINA DISABLED THE SECURITY camera nearest the cranberry red Cadillac Escalade with a beam of light from her laser pointer, then crossed the parking garage to the vehicle. She unlocked the SUV with the remote that had once belonged to the late Stephen Underwood, then slipped inside.

  Climbing into the back, Caterina sat down behind the driver’s side captain’s chair with its cream-colored leather, her presence hidden by the black tinted side and rear windows. She thumbed the remote, relocking the car, then dropped it onto the carpeted floorboard.

  She reached inside her black blazer, pulled her Sig from its holster. She rested it against her black-clad thigh, leather creaking as her gloved fingers curled around the gun’s grip.

  As Caterina waited for her mark to arrive, her restless thoughts skipped back to the camera feed from Purcell’s surveillance, the images she’d studied on Díon’s computer.

  Lucien De Noir walks out the club’s front door dressed in black trousers and a black button-down shirt, his waist-length hair tied back and gleaming like polished black onyx.

  Not dead, after all, Caterina had mused.

  Even through the monitor, Caterina had felt the intensity of De Noir’s presence like a hand to her chin, focusing her attention on his face. A sense of childlike wonder had twirled around her for a split second, a wish to see his wings unfurl, a yearning for magic.

  I am looking at one of the Fallen.

  Then he’d climbed in behind the wheel of the travel-spattered SUV Von had rented back in Damascus and driven away.

  Caterina couldn’t help but wonder if De Noir was in on the plan to betray his son, and the thought twisted her muscles tight.

  A voice, muffled and faraway, whispered: That makes no sense. Why would he turn against Dante? Why would he use him to gain power—now? He has always known Dante was a creawdwr, shared a bond with him before it was severed. That makes no sense, Caterina.

  Pain ashed the voice, and Caterina realized she couldn’t even remember what it had been saying. Pain throbbed at her temples, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  She knew something was wrong. Very wrong. Her mind felt full of writhing worms. But whenever she tried to root them out, to lift them into the light of reason and look at them, they wriggled in deeper.

  Caterina drew in a long, slow breath. The air inside the Escalade was stuffy and warm and smelled faintly of apples and cinnamon and leather.

  Her headache eased off the throttle, downshifted into a dull, manageable ache, and she felt the tension start to unwind from her shoulder muscles. She released her breath in a low, grateful sigh.

  What had she been thinking about?

  Writhing worms . . .

  She remembered. Protecting her True Blood prince from the treachery of the woman who had claimed his heart. Caterina opened her eyes.

  Wallace had me fooled. If Díon hadn’t revealed the truth, I’d still be fooled.

  Caterina had promised to guard Dante Baptiste and all he cared for with her life. But the woman Dante cared for was working undercover for the FBI—had been from the very start—and was planning to hand him over. So Heather Wallace was no longer a part of Caterina’s vow. And soon, she would no longer be a part of Dante Baptiste’s life.

  Purcell would intercept the lying bitch and transport her to a safe location to be interrogated. Caterina would’ve preferred to simply put a bullet in Wallace’s brain, but Dion had explained that in order to protect the creawdwr they had both dedicated themselves to, they needed to know who else was spying on Dante. Once Wallace had spilled all that she knew . . .

  A smile touches Díon’s lips. “Then she’s all yours, Caterina.”

  Worms tunneled and writhed inside her head.

  Caterina reached up to rub her forehead and was surprised to see her hand trembling. She fisted her hand and lowered it, shaking, to her lap. Fear burrowed in deep like a den-digging badger.

  Again, the sense that something was horribly awry sank through her consciousness like a stone into deep water, then vanished.

  She had a job to do.

  The click-click-clickety-click of heels against concrete echoed throughout the parking garage. Caterina thumbed off the Sig’s safety, eased the slide back ever so quietly, and chambered a round.

  A beep-beep rolled like thunder through the garage as the mark unlocked the SUV with her remote.

  Lifting the Sig to head level, Caterina waited.

  VALERIE UNDERWOOD YANKED THE SUV’s door open, then tossed her purse into the passenger seat. She slid in behind the wheel and thumped the back of her skull against the headrest.

  Shit-sucking, money-stealing attorneys.

  They were determined to get every last goddamned cent of Stephen’s life insurance money and pension. She’d hoped that her acquittal would dissolve her of any responsibility for legal fees and court costs.

  By the time it was all said and done, she’d be lucky if she even had money enough for the girls’ college funds.

  I was found innocent. Shouldn’t I sue the state for my lega
l fees? For my emotional and mental distress? My husband was murdered and I was accused.

  You were acquitted, Valerie. I think I’d count my blessings and move on.

  Easy for her attorney to say. He’d have the majority of her funds. The cheapest part of this whole ordeal? Hiring Baxter to do the job on Stephen. He’d only cost her 5K and a couple of blow jobs.

  Shit-sucking, money-stealing attorneys.

  At least she’d had one slice of good news today—a heaping slice. Her ball-busting mother-in-law had dropped dead of a stroke in some diner on her way to work.

  She wondered if Celeste had changed her will to exclude her yet.

  Sighing, Valerie sat up. She needed to get over to Georgetown and pick up the girls at her folks’. She strapped on her seat belt, then slid the key into the ignition. When she glanced into the rearview mirror, her heart hurtled into her throat.

  A woman with dark hair and shadowed eyes aimed a gun at the back of Valerie’s head. “Stephen and Celeste send their regards,” she said, pulling the trigger.

  29

  WORDS SHE SHOULDN’T KNOW

  NEW ORLEANS,

  CLUB HELL

  March 28

  “THANKS, JACK,” HEATHER SAID as the drummer set the carton down on the bedroom floor beside the one she had carried up from the van. A musty smell wafted up from the cartons. “I appreciate it.”

  Jack straightened in the dim light shafting in from the hallway, then shrugged, muscles cording in the shoulders displayed by the black wife-beater stretched across his chest.

  “Ça fait pas rien, hun,” he said, his Cajun accent spiced thicker than Dante’s. “Glad to help, me.” He nodded at the time-weathered and stained cartons, the faux hawk of cherry-red colored braids atop his buzz-cut dark blond hair swinging against his shoulders. “Still working on your mama’s case?”

  “I hope to—once things have quieted down,” Heather replied.

  “If you wait until things quiet down, hun, you might be waiting a long fucking time. Things ain’t never quiet around Dante.”

  Kind of what she’d figured, but . . . “Point taken, m’sieu.”

  Jack’s gaze drifted over to the bed, his attention on Dante’s Snoozing form. “How’s Tee-Tee doing, anyhow?”

  Heather smiled at Dante’s nickname—earned for being the youngest member of Inferno—but her smile faded as she realized what Jack was asking. How’s he holding up? “Blaming himself,” she said quietly.

  Jack shook his head and returned his attention to Heather. “Bet he is, him. I was afraid of that. Simone wouldn’t like that, no.”

  “You should remind him of that,” Heather said.

  “Good idea. I’ll do that, me.”

  “Dante and Simone used to be more than friends, didn’t they?” she asked, surprised to hear the question spill from her lips. She knew it didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, not anymore, but still . . . she couldn’t help wondering.

  “At the start, yeah, but it was a short-lived thing. Then they became friends.”

  “Were they in love?”

  Jack snorted. “Nope. Just lust and curiosity. A getting-to-know-you thing.”

  “That’s one way to get to know someone, I suppose,” Heather muttered, daggering a glance at the beautiful nightkind stretched on top of the bed, one pale arm across his waist. Her beautiful nightkind. Her man. “Does he do that often?”

  Jack’s eyebrows rose. He leaned one shoulder against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. His hazel eyes held hers. “Maybe you should be having this conversation with Tee-Tee, not me.”

  Heat crept into Heather’s cheeks. He was right, of course. How would she feel if Dante started quizzing Annie over her past lovers and relationships?

  “What you need to keep in mind is that I ain’t never seen Dante look at anyone like he looks at you, Heather. And me, I think you ought to leave the past right where it belongs.”

  Claim the present. Forge a future. Together. All the things she was trying to help Dante accomplish with his life and here she was, getting worked up over people he’d gotten to know in the past.

  Heather blew out a breath and trailed both hands through her hair. “Christ. You’re right. I’m being an idiot.”

  “You’re being human, is all,” Jack said, “I think your feelings are natural enough. Just talk to Tee-Tee. Let him know what you expect from him. He’ll listen, for true.”

  “Thanks, Jack,” Heather said. “I’ll do that.”

  A soft trill drew her attention to the doorway. Eerie rubbed his furry side against the doorjamb, golden eyes blinking.

  “Look who it is,” Jack said, nodding at Eerie. “Hey, minou.” Heather crouched and held out her hand. “C’mere, you. How’s my kitty-boy?”

  Eerie padded into the room, tail held high, the tip curving into a question mark. He moseyed around the room, pausing to rub the side of his face against each piece of furniture as he leisurely made his way over to Heather’s hand and bumped his orange head against her waiting fingertips.

  Heather scratched behind his ears. “Thanks for gracing me with your presence, oh regal and magnificent one.”

  Eerie chirped that she was, indeed, fortunate to have been graced with his feline presence, then sauntered back across the room to the door. He glanced over his shoulder. Mewed.

  “Yes, Master. Right away, Master,” Heather said, rising to her feet. “I take it that you need to be fed.”

  “I do need to be fed, me,” Jack agreed. “And I appreciate the offer and all, but I ain’t too comfortable with the word master.” A wicked smile curved his lips, sparked mischief in his golden-brown eyes. He winked. “Jack alone will do.”

  Heather cocked an eyebrow. “As Dante would say, tais toi. And unless you’d like a heaping bowl of kitty kibble, Mr. Jack-Alone-Will-Do, you can fix your own damned food.”

  “Which flavor of kibble?”

  “Fake tuna.”

  “Yum. My favorite.”

  “Mew,” Eerie insisted, managing to sound both impatient and disapproving at the same time. Tail twitching, he disappeared into the hall.

  Laughing, Heather and Jack followed him downstairs.

  ANNIE SAT ON A stool at the counter, watching what looked like Robot Chicken reruns on the flat screen TV bolted to the wall above the bar, a cigarette smoldering between the fingers of one hand.

  As Heather walked around behind the bar, she noticed that her sister was wearing new jeans and an Inferno T-shirt—all courtesy of De Noir—the bandages still secure on her arms.

  “Hey,” Annie greeted, taking a sip from a black mug with painted flames licking up from its base. The pungent scent of peppermint and tea leaves curled into the air. But the bottle of Wild Turkey resting on the counter beside the half-empty pack of Camels told Heather that tea wasn’t the only thing her sister was drinking.

  You’d think after all the puking and groaning she’d done earlier this afternoon that the last thing she’d want would be more booze.

  “Hair of the dog?” Heather asked, lifting one eyebrow. “Doesn’t the bourbon cancel out the tea and peppermint? I thought you didn’t get hangovers.”

  Annie shook a wayward lock of blue/black/purple hair back from her eyes and blew a ring of smoke into the air. “First time for everything. And I hope it’s the last. Because this fucking blows.”

  “Have you eaten anything? Maybe some toast—”

  Annie shuddered. “Dear God, no.”

  Heather fetched the bag of kibble and poured a handful into the small plastic bowl sitting beside the water dish on the floor. With a happy chirp, Eerie started crunching tuna-stinky nuggets.

  “My hard-earned advice?” Annie said. “Never try to keep up with vampires. Nightkind will drink ya under the table every fucking time.”

  “Sounds like a no-brainer, actually.”

  “So does not hanging out with someone who can turn fucking fallen angels to stone and cemeteries to slag. But here we are.”

  Ja
w tight, Heather rolled the top of the kibble bag shut, then slid it under the sink. Gripping the counter’s edge, she locked gazes with her sister. “Don’t. Start.”

  Annie rubbed a hand over her face, then sighed. “Shit. I don’t wanna start a fight. That’s not my intention. You’ve both been through hell. Fuck, Dante just lost his house, his friend. Maybe he would be safer in Gehenna with the other fallen angels.”

  Heather stared at Annie. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Gehenna. How the hell do you know that name?”

  “I don’t know. I musta heard it somewhere.” Annie took a final puff from her cigarette, blue smoke pluming from her nostrils, then stubbed it out in the butt-brimming glass ashtray. “What fucking difference does it make? The point is, the longer he stays here in our world, the more danger he’s in, right?”

  Gehenna. In our world. Words that shouldn’t be slipping past Annie’s lips. Heather was pretty damned sure that neither she nor Dante had mentioned Gehenna in front of her sister, and she doubted that Caterina Cortini was the source of Annie’s disturbing knowledge, since she’d been against Annie knowing anything.

  “The thing is,” Annie continued, her blue eyes meeting Heather’s, her expression earnest, “it’s where Gorgeous-but-Deadly needs to be. Gehenna. He could be himself there. He wouldn’t hafta hide who or what he is. He’d be free.”

  Heather shifted her weight onto one hip and folded her arms under her breasts as she studied her sister. What game was Annie playing this time? Was it a game?

  “Don’t call him that,” Heather said. “His name’s Dante. This is his world. This is his home, where he was born. Why should he have to run?”

  Ain’t running. Ain’t hiding.

  “I’m not saying he has to run,” Annie said, with a defiant lift of her chin. “But his blue fire mojo is outta control and his past is outta control and that scares the shit outta me. He’s gonna hurt you, Heather. Not because he wants to, but because he can’t fucking help it.”