Dante opened his eyes and looked at Von, the intense molten color of his eyes cooling back to brown. He wiped absently at the blood oozing from one nostril.
Boy’s still hurting, dammit.
“So spill. What’s going on? Why are you being summoned back to Memphis?”
Von held Dante’s gaze, realizing a choice he’d never anticipated waited for him in those dark, unguarded depths.
If I tell him the truth, that I went dark—that I chose to go dark—to keep his secrets safe until he was ready to share them, he’ll blame himself for whatever consequences are heaped on my plate.
And that’s the last fucking thing he needs at the moment.
If I lie to him, he’ll walk out of this courtyard unaware that I’ve betrayed his trust, unaware that I decided what’s best for him and what his limits are.
Unaware, for now. He’ll find out eventually. And when he does, there will be no coming back from that. He’ll never trust me again.
He’s had all he can take. Mind and heart.
Von drew in a deep breath, decision made. “I stopped reporting about a month ago. I went dark. They want to know why.”
Dante stared at him, dark brows knitting together. “A month ago?” He shut his eyes and groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ. You went dark because of me.”
“Look, it was my decision to hide your secrets until you chose to share them. I knew the consequences. Withholding information is a llygad’s greatest sin. That and lack of impartiality, and I’m guilty of both—no regrets.”
Opening his eyes, Dante raked a hand through his hair. “Fuck, man, I appreciate it. I do. But I never would’ve asked that of you.”
“I know. Like I said, my decision, my consequences. Right now, all they want is an explanation. Like I said, no big deal.” Von figured it was more likely they’d drum his ass out of the llygaid and cut off his access to the mind-net, but saw no harm in downplaying that particular possibility.
“I can go to Memphis with you, help explain shit,” Dante said. “Whatever I can do to help, mon ami, just let me know.”
“Don’t worry about it, little brother. I think your coming-out gig tonight will do the trick.” At least, he hoped so. Stretching his jeans and leather chaps–covered legs out in front of him, Von crossed his road-scuffed scooter boots at the ankles. “Now since I’ve shown you mine, it’s time you showed me yours—starting with that goddamned mark the Morningstar put on your chest.”
Dante studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “D’accord.” He unstrapped his PVC and fishnet shirt and peeled it off. Candlelight and shadows rippled against his white skin. Glinted in his eyes. “This is still new to me, so hold on.”
New? Von watched him, mystified, his attention fixed on the scar looped on his chest like the ivy on the stone wall behind him. Did the sigil do something?
Face tight with concentration, his dark brows knitted together, Dante flexed his shoulders. Von heard the soft shush of velvet against flesh, then Dante flexed his shoulders again and a whoosh filled the room—like the rush of wings.
Von felt his jaw drop open. He perched on the bench’s edge, the cold iron biting into his fingers as he gripped its edge, his heart kicking against his sternum. He stared at Dante, his mind on pause. “Holy fucking hell,” he breathed.
“Holy fucking shit was my initial reaction,” Dante drawled, dry amusement leavening his voice. “But holy fucking hell works too. But we’re in a rut. We gotta come up with some new expletives.”
“Holy fucking hell.”
“You said that already.”
“Wings. You’ve got wings.”
Dante nodded. “Yup.”
“But . . . how? When?”
“Be easier to just show you,” Dante said, touching a finger to his temple.
“Agreed. Yeah.” Von lowered his shields in anticipation, pried his fingers loose from their deathgrip on the bench, and stood.
Dante took a step closer, but the edge of his right wing brushed a planter full of yellow roses and knocked it to the bricks in a shower of dirt and petals, while the arched tip of his left wing thumped into a branch of the dogwood tree overhanging the bench. White blossoms and green leaves bounced from Dante’s hair and shoulders, slid along his wings to the ground. Wood creaked.
Irritation flashed across Dante’s pale face. “Fuck.” Scowling, he flexed his shoulders until his wings folded behind him. “Jesus Christ.”
Von grinned. “Beauty and grace. Killer combo, little brother.”
“The complete package, yeah.”
“By the way, I noticed the left wing popped out before the right one,” Von commented, stroking his mustache thoughtfully with thumb and index finger. “Having trouble getting ’em up, man?”
“Fuck you,” Dante said, flipping him off. “Oh, wait. Look at what I just found.” He extended his other middle finger. “Fuck you twice.”
Von’s grin widened. “Twice is a good warm-up.”
Dante laughed, tension spilling like water from his muscles. “For true, mon ami.” He sauntered to a stop in front of Von.
“You flown yet?” Von asked.
“Nope. I’m gonna give it a try later.”
Von tilted his head, studying Dante’s gorgeous wings up close and personal. And they were gorgeous—just like the rest of Dante. Blacker than a moonless night and edged with crimson, the blue and purple undersides smelled of wing musk and of Dante—burning leaves and November frost and deep, dark earth.
An image strobed behind Von’s eyes, a dizzying vision of time and chance and destiny. A vision he’d had before.
Tendrils of Dante’s black hair lift into the air as though breeze-caught. Gold light stars out from his kohl-rimmed eyes, He looks up as song—not his own—rings through the air. The night burns, the sky on fire from horizon to horizon.
The never-ending Road.
The Great Destroyer.
No matter which Dante turned out to be—one or neither or both—Von knew beyond even the thinnest whisper of doubt that his fate was inextricably bound to Dante’s. Knew that, no matter what, he would always stand beside him.
To the very end.
“Hey, you ready?” Dante asked.
From inside the club, a woman’s voice cried out over the microphone, “Glad to be back in New Orleans! Here’s a nightmare just for you!” Music exploded into existence, crashing dark and wild against the walls as the band tore into their set.
Von looked into Dante’s dark eyes, looked straight into the intelligent, compassionate, burning heart of him, and nodded. “More than ready, little brother.”
Dante cupped heated hands against Von’s face, then slid his fingertips up to his temples. Von closed his eyes. Images flooded his mind, a violent, churning current of sensory detail that his llygad-trained mind was able to channel and process without tumbling beneath the surface like a hiker swept up in a flash flood.
Dante punches his blue-glowing fist into the tomb . . .
“Jesus Christ,” Von whispered.
37
RUMOR’S END
NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28
THE MOURNFUL AIR-RAID SIREN wailing beneath the pensive chords of “End of Days” spoke of impending loss and irreversible disaster, of hearts stripped bare.
Dante stood in the courtyard door, Heather beside him, watching as Saints of Ruin ruled the fetish-and-gris-gris-hung Cage.
Black hair edging her pale face, frontwoman Ruby curled her hands around the microphone. “Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days to end,” she sang, her scarlet-glossed lips almost brushing the microphone in a lover’s kiss. “Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days . . .”
“You sure you wanna do this in front of everyone?” Von asked, eyeing the pulsing crowd of mortals and nightkind packing the club’s floor, the air thick with musky pheromones, sweat, and warring perfumes—patchouli, cherry-vanilla, sandalwood.
“Yup.”
M
ore nightkind than usual were present, threaded like pearls through the mortal throng, and Dante had caught more than one lambent pair of eyes directed his way, burning with a cold and preternatural curiosity.
Waiting to see what I’m gonna do about Mauvais. Gathering like crows. All tilted heads, sharp beaks, and glittering eyes.
No one had said a word about Simone—except for Vincent. And, at the moment, the Magazine Street lord stood at the bar beside Silver and Annie, smoking a Pink Elephant, his gaze on the Cage, glammed to the max in face and body glitter, lipstick, kohl, and dressed in a white faux fur vest and skin-tight silver vinyl pants.
“There will one day be peace,” Ruby sang. “There will one day be light.”
Dante doubted that, but at least the waiting was over. He felt a gentle tap against his shields and recognized Lucien’s touch. He opened to his father’s sending.
Lucien stood beside the Cage, his hair a loose spill of night down his back, his arms crossed over his black silk shirt. A teasing smile curved his lips.
Arching a touché eyebrow, Dante lifted both hands and flipped him off.
Lucien’s smile deepened.
“One day there will be no more sorrow. Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days to end . . .”
As SOR guided the song to its end, Dante turned, cupped Heather’s face between his hands, and kissed her deeply. “For luck,” he murmured against her lips.
Her fingers brushed against his temples. Her twilight-blue gaze held his. “For luck, Baptiste,” she agreed.
Releasing her, Dante moved through the crowd, Von following in his wake. Lucien unlocked the Cage and swung the steel-barred door open. The crowd screamed and cheered as they realized who was climbing inside. The jockeying for position at the front of the Cage intensified, more than one person took an elbow to the nose.
“Fuck, YEAH!”
“Oh my God! Dante! Dante!”
Ruby looked up, startled, her hands frozen on the mic stand. Tommy Dark spun around, guitar held at his side, light glinting from the stud patches on his black stretch denim pants. The three remaining band members all slanted uncertain glances at Dante.
Looks like Ruby and Tommy mentioned I was nightkind.
Dante greeted Tommy, then Ruby, with a kiss to the lips. Smiling, Ruby wiped her lipstick from Dante’s mouth with a swipe of her thumb. Her midnight blue taffeta dress rustled as she stepped back, relinquishing the microphone.
A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “Merci beaucoup, chère.”
Von took his position in front of the Cage, the crowd melting away from him like ice on a hot sidewalk. Dante waited for the enthusiastic screams and raw-throated shrieks to die down. Once they had, he stepped in front of the mic.
INHALING ANOTHER LUNGFUL OF vanilla-spiced smoke, Vincent watched as Dante climbed into the Cage amid lust-spiked shrieks and screeches and howls from the jam-packed audience. He wondered if the captivating, but sodding exasperating vampire planned to perform a song or two with Saints of Ruin.
Not for the first time, Vincent itched to paint Dante, wondering if he could capture his heat, the sensual promise whispered in every fluid movement of his body, the danger inherent in his dark glance and white skin and coiled muscles. He even had a title for the painting in mind: INCUBUS.
Simone laughs. “No, I won’t ask him for you, chère. He’ll never agree. Never pose. Paint him from memory or a picture. I’d love to see what you could do.”
Vincent’s throat tightened. He blew smoke out from his nostrils. He hoped Dante followed up on the info he’d shared with him, exacting a bit of payback from the bloody wankers who’d torched the house for Mauvais and ended up killing Simone.
Dante curled one hand around the microphone, leaning in just a little, his luscious cupid’s bow lips nearly grazing the mic cover. “This is an official announcement for all you nightkind out there.”
Vincent straightened against the bar, vinyl pants creaking. Was Dante foolish enough to call Mauvais out? He shot Silver a glance, arching an inquisitive eyebrow, but Silver only shrugged, his face carefully neutral.
Brilliant. Little bastard knows what’s up, but isn’t sharing. Vincent returned his attention to the Cage and the feral beauty captured within its steel bars.
“My name is Dante Baptiste.”
Vincent puffed away on his pink-paper wrapped cigarette. Interesting. A new last name or perhaps the right one.
A mischievous light sparked in Dante’s eyes, slanted his lips. “I’m twenty-three, no—almost twenty-four years old—I like long solitary walks along the river, guitar solos, and feasting on kid-slapping motherfuckers. And I’m looking for someone who shares the same interests.”
Laughter rolled up from the crowd. Dozens of hands shot up in the air and waved me-me-me!
Vincent frowned. Twenty-three? Did he mean he’d been turned at twenty-three or he’d been turned twenty-three years ago?
“So . . . all kidding aside, I’m gonna share a few things I’ve learned recently and end the rumors tonight,” Dante said, his voice low and even, all amusement gone. “I’m the Nightbringer’s son and I was born nightkind.”
Vincent froze, stunned into immobility, wondering if he’d heard right. And he wasn’t alone given the silence—lacking only crickets—greeting Dante’s announcement.
But Vincent’s thundering pulse told him that yes, he had heard correctly and his brain was even now processing Dante’s claim—a claim bolstered by the pride gleaming in Lucien De Noir’s eyes, the lift of his chin.
Bloody hell. True Blood and fathered by one of the Fallen. If true . . .
“Just so there’s no confusion,” Dante continued into the silence, “no, I won’t turn you. No, you ain’t getting a taste. No, I ain’t interested in claiming power, your fucking household, or your girlfriend.”
“Bullshit! You’re lying through your fangs!” someone shouted. “You’re just trying to win support against Guy!”
“Yeah, that’s be my thought too, in your place,” Dante said, unstrapping his shirt and peeling it off.
The sight of Dante’s bared torso—all lean, defined muscle and ivory skin—burned away Vincent’s shock. Lusty catcalls scraped through the air. “Don’t stop there! Keep going!”
More laughter.
Dante turned around, giving the crowd his back. He flexed his shoulder and deltoid muscles, then black wings slid out from beneath his white skin in a rush and unfurled, snapping the scent of burning leaves and musk into the air.
Vincent’s cigarette dropped from his fingers.
Silence swallowed the crowd whole, mortal and nightkind alike.
Everything had just changed.
38
A SAVAGE TEMPO
NEW ORLEANS,
CLUB HELL
March 28
“THAT WENT WELL,” VON said. “Mild hysteria, a handful of screams, and only one person fainted, but I think booze had more to do with the fainting than your wings. As for the filidh verifying your announcement, I ain’t heard back yet.”
“How long does that usually take?”
“A night or two. But your wings stunt will probably accelerate the process, then the word will go out to llygaid around the world, who’ll pass it on to their households.
Following Von past the mortal bouncer filling in for him, out of the club, and onto the crowded sidewalk, Dante shrugged on the black hoodie that Heather had salvaged from the van, the one with the red letters safety-pinned to the sleeves reading: NOT DEAD DO NOT TAKE TO MORGUE.
He slipped on a new pair of shades.
Clubbers and Saints of Ruin fans wer
e still lining up outside—much to the joy of the other businesses on the block, no doubt. Excited whispers rippled the length of the line.
“Look, look, look! It’s Dante!”
“Hey, gorgeous! You looking for blood? You can have a taste of mine.”
“You gonna be in the Cage tonight?”
“Hey, man. Love the new album!”
Dante lifted his left hand and flashed the index finger-and-pinkie-horned devil sign and kept moving, weaving through the tourists and sidewalk traffic with practiced ease.
“I’ll scout the rendezvous site, see if anything looks hinky, then wait for y’all to arrive,” Von said.
Dante nodded. “Lucien’s gonna take a look from the air.” He glanced up at the neon-faded night sky. “He’s probably already on his way.”
“He is,” Von affirmed. “Told me he’d meet me there.”
“C’est bon.”
Hunger scraped at Dante with sharp little rat claws, hollowed him out. He’d given Trey as much blood as he could, probably more than he should’ve. He needed to refuel before they headed for Lake Pontchartrain.
All around him he heard the steady rhythm of hearts, the song of blood through veins, the intoxicating aroma of warm and blood-flushed flesh.
As Dante pulled up the hoodie’s hood and tugged its edges past his face, he caught the faintest whiff of magnolias, a ghost scent. Simone’s scent. It pierced him to the heart. The last kiss he’d given Simone, the last time he’d ever seen her, he’d been wearing this hoodie.
Fire scorches her lungs. Blackens her skin. Devours her with relentless teeth.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
Von stopped on the sidewalk beside his parked Harley and glanced at Dante, a deep vertical line creasing the skin between his eyes. “What’s up?”
Joining him, Dante wordlessly held his sleeve up to the nomad’s nose. Von sniffed, nostrils flaring. He met Dante’s gaze, grief darkening his green eyes.
“Is that all that’s left of her?” he asked, voice rough.
Dante lowered his arm. “Think so.” He stripped off the hoodie, folded it, and handed it to Von. “You keep it, mon ami.”
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