Lake Pontchartrain. La Belle Femme. Trey soaked in blood. Mauvais. Severed heads. Dante . . .
Dante.
Heather tried to sit up, but Von pinned her down to the concrete, his hands to her shoulders. “Wait a moment, let the blood do its work, doll. Dante’s okay. Lucien’s with him right now.”
“It was a seizure, wasn’t it?” Heather asked.
“Yup, and Dante ended up taking you along for the ride too.” Von released his hold on her and smoothed her hair back from her face, his road-calloused hands light, gentle.
“My fault,” she murmured. “I didn’t tighten my shields in time. I’d lowered them to send to him and . . .”
“Ain’t nobody’s fault,” Von chided. “It just happened. But we got a big problem. Trey’s on his way to the yacht and he’s got a good five minutes head start.”
Memory clicked—the sound of an engine powering away. “Shit. And Silver?”
“Silver’s still on the boat. He’s been sending to us. He’s tried to reason with Trey, but . . .” Von shook his head. “Boy’s lost to grief and blood-lust and Silver ain’t a match for Trey’s strength—not with Dante’s blood powering through his veins.”
“So what do we do?” Heather asked. “What’s the plan?”
Dante’s voice, husky and urgent, said, “Merci, but let me up.”
Heather heard the creak of latex, the soft bellows-rush of fanning wings, then Dante’s autumn scent—burning leaves and November frost—curled around her as he sank to his knees beside her and gathered her into his arms, into his fevered heat, and held her tight.
“Fuck, catin, goddammit. Ça va? Je regrette—”
Heather silenced him with a finger laid against his blood-smeared lips. She looked into his eyes, troubled by the still-dilated pupils, the pain tightening the line of his jaw.
“Keep your apology, Baptiste. It wasn’t your fault, okay? Let it go.”
His silence and steady gaze triggered a pigheaded alert in Heather’s head: He’s not going to let it go.
“We need to catch up with Trey,” he said finally, “before he gets himself and Silver hurt—or worse.” He rose to his feet with fluid grace, pulling her up with him. Releasing her hand, he tugged off his hoodie, dropped it onto the concrete, then began unstrapping his PVC and mesh shirt.
Heather froze as unfamiliar energy uncoiled through her bloodstream, speed-shifting her pulse into high gear. Steam-cleaned the lingering fog from her mind, fed strength into her muscles. Pumped through her heart. Heat flushed her skin.
Dante glanced at her, nostrils flaring, as he peeled off his shirt. “Von’s blood is kicking in, yeah, catin?”
“Christ, yeah,” Heather breathed. Her pain—aches, throbs, and needle pricks—vanished as though smoothed away by heated fingers. The night brightened, taking on a silver, full-moon hue.
She felt Von’s presence beside her—warm and confident, brimming with strength, and realized they had a temporary link, like the ones she used to share with Dante before their bond. She glanced at the nomad.
Von winked.
Then he bent and scooped up the nightkind’s head, his fingers curling into the short hair, looking for a good grip. “Looks like his lucky night.” He drew back his arm like a baseball pitcher winding up a throw. He hurled the head into the night.
It hit the water with a distant ker-plop. “Again,” Heather said. “What’s the plan?”
Dante flexed his shoulder muscles and his wings unfurled behind him with a soft whoosh. Heather stared with a new blood-heightened appreciation at the beautiful loops and spirals etched on their blue and purple undersides.
De Noir stepped forward, tendrils of his ebony hair dancing in the breeze. His wings flared out, snapping like a canvas sail.
“We’re flying, catin,” Dante said.
40
WITHOUT MERCY
NEW ORLEANS,
THE Winter Rose
March 28
GUY MAUVAIS CHISELED FREE the last bit of white stone from the nude, crouching figure and tossed it onto the wood-paneled floor of the riverboat’s workroom—a floor dusted nearly white with powdered and pebbled stone. A winter scent—fallow earth and cold stone and thin, crackling ice—chilled the air.
Mauvais laid the chisel down on the sturdy wood table and rubbed his dusty hands against the leather tradesman’s apron he wore over his fine French linen shirt and morning gray slacks. He regarded the fruit of his labor, a sense of triumph flitting through his blood.
He’d been right.
Leathery wings, black beneath their sprinkling of dust; taloned fingers and toes; waist-length red hair; mouth open in a silent and endless scream; abstract Celtic designs—concentric circles, triskelions, delicate loops—were inked along the right-hand side of the body, throat, torso, hand; a thick gold torc twisted around the throat; bracers encircled both corded wrists and the right biceps.
One of the Fallen. One clearly in need of rescue.
Mauvais stepped back from the table and frowned. Such an unfortunate and undignified position, and naked, no less. He tsked. Not at all becoming. Who or what had caught this fallen angel off guard and trapped him inside stone?
Returning to the table, Mauvais wrestled the crouching angel onto its back and attempted to straighten the limbs, to no avail—despite the strength burning through his veins from the True Blood’s unwilling, but much appreciated, donation. It was like tugging on a statue’s leg or a mannequin’s, unbending and unyielding. Even though he’d managed to free the angel from his stone prison, whatever spell had locked him inside still held him prisoner.
Mauvais sighed and gave up the cause for lost. He picked up his tumbler of brandy and sipped as he eyed the fallen angel, the liquor as smooth as heated honey. He tapped a finger thoughtfully against his chin.
An urgent sending arrowed against Mauvais’s shields. Recognizing the energy as belonging to one of his own—Stephen, Mauvais admitted it.
An image accompanied Stephen’s sending: a pale face, rage-streaked eyes, dark dreads whipping through the night air, bared and lethal fangs. Mauvais didn’t recognize the vampire attacking Stephen. But as for the figure blurring into view behind the stranger? Ah, that face he knew well, the singular True Blood beauty, Dante Baptiste.
So the child has come seeking payback. Seems he has another lesson to learn.
Stephen’s sending ended in a burst of pain that Mauvais automatically flexed away. Yanking off his apron, Mauvais moved up the stairs, his fingernails striking sparks from the iron railing. He called to his fille de sang.
Mauvais blurred onto the upper deck. Mortal servants and apprentis bowed their heads respectfully as he strode past them to the railing. Moonlight trailed a pale finger along the night-blackened water of the Mississippi.
Mauvais locked his hands around the moisture-beaded wood railing and frowned.
A slow heartbeat later, the thick scent of roses perfumed the air, blotting out the river’s cold scent. Silk rustled, whispered against skin. Then a delicate and pale hand rested on the railing next to Mauvais’s.
Mauvais refused to look at his only blood daughter, refused to allow the sight of her—thick waves of coffee dark hair, white skin, dark eyes, and cherry red lips, his own lovely and heartbreaking Snow White—to cool his simmering anger.
Justine had never countermanded or changed one of his orders before and, he was quite sure, had never before considered doing such a thing. He intended to make sure she never did again.
“Explain yourself,” he said, his voice cold enough to frost the deck.
“Of course, mon père,” Ju
stine said, her tone dulcet and obedient. “I only did what needed to be done. You used Stephen and Patrick to firebomb Baptiste’s home, and I used them to finish the job.”
“Meaning?”
“I knew Dante Baptiste would come for those responsible for the fire and for the death of his silly Simone. Especially if he knew when and where to look. So I used Stephen and Patrick as bait.”
Mauvais’s fingers white-knuckled around the railing. Wood cracked. “Who helped you set them up? Who made sure Baptiste received word of your false rendezvous?” he asked, his voice crackling with icy anger.
“The artist on Magazine Street—Vincent. But he believed he was setting you up, mon père, not that marmot Dante.”
Mauvais nodded, then blew out an irritated breath. Time to clean house once more. An annoying but necessary task repeated every half century or so. Even though Justine had manipulated and used the Magazine Street lord, Vincent would die for his foolish betrayal; his household would be scattered.
Without mercy, he would meet any and all challenges to his authority. As always.
Mauvais watched the dark line of the river bank glide past, shore lights smearing orange, yellow, and white color across the Mississippi’s surface. “Tell me more,” he commanded quietly.
“Everyone aboard La Belle Femme will die tonight. Je regrette, mon cher Guy, but your yacht has been made into a trap.”
“Ah, what have you done?” Mauvais closed his eyes. “Ungrateful child. I gave you your justice. A life for a life.”
“Justice?” Justine laughed. “How could you possibly imagine that one death would atone for Étienne’s murder? For the loss of his entire household at the hands of that True Blood bastard? I am giving Étienne the justice you did not, mon père.”
The bitter accusation, the quiet fury in his fille de sang’s words, opened Mauvais’s eyes and finally turned his head. Justine met his gaze, her chin lifted, waves of lustrous coffee-brown hair framing her beautiful snow-white face. A fierce grief burned in her dark eyes—a poisoned apple that she had devoured to the stem and core.
Just as he’d known it would, the sight of her pierced Mauvais to the heart, sharper and more ruthless than any knife. He remembered turning her, how she’d clung to him, as he’d drained the blood from her body. Remembered her quiet and grateful murmurs.
He would never find another like her.
But she refused to look beyond her broken heart and her empty bed. She would never understand that vampire society, stagnant and collapsing in upon itself, might very well need Dante Baptiste and the chaos seething in his veins in order to survive.
Of course, the trick would be properly guiding that chaos and violence, a trick Mauvais believed he could handle well.
“You gave me no other choice,” Justine said.
Mauvais lifted a hand from the railing and stroked the backs of his fingers against her soft cheek. “Foolish girl, ungrateful child,” he murmured. “You have given me no other choice as well, ma belle.”
Mauvais stabbed his fingers into Justine’s chest, his nails puncturing her silk bodice and pale breast, cracking bone, and seizing her heart. He yanked the pulsing organ free and held it up for her to see.
As Justine’s blood sprayed across his face and fine French linen shirt, Mauvais regretted removing his leather apron. She blinked in shock, mouth opening and closing, her hands fluttering up to her ruined chest belatedly.
With a flick of a sharp-nailed finger, Mauvais sliced away the black velvet choker with its white rose cameo from around her throat, reclaiming his gift. The cameo bounced across the riverboat’s deck. He brushed Justine’s dark and rose-scented tresses aside so he could whisper into the delicate shell of her ear.
“I disown you.”
Justine crumpled to the deck in a spill of blood and silken midnight-blue skirts and creamy skin.
Leaning over the rail, Mauvais dropped Justine’s heart into the river. It disappeared beneath the dark water without a sound. He straightened, then turned and bellowed, “Edmond!”
Edmond hurried from belowdecks, smoothing his black uniform, then paused, wide-eyed, as he took in the situation. Edging carefully away from the spreading pool of blood on the deck, he awaited Mauvais’s instructions.
“Clean up this mess, then toss mademoiselle overboard. She is no longer a member of the household.”
Edmond blinked. “Oui, at once, my lord.”
Mourning his ruined shirt and slacks, Mauvais strode toward the pilothouse. He had a message to send Dante Baptiste, provided it wasn’t already too late; a message that would end with the young True Blood owing Mauvais a very big favor.
But when the operator signaled the yacht, static and silence was the only reply.
41
HOW TO DESTROY ANGELS
NEW ORLEANS,
La Belle Femme
March 28
GUNSHOTS POP-POP-POPPED FROM THE light-pearled yacht below like corks fired from champagne bottles. The power boat bobbed against the anchored vessel, empty. Tiny figures raced across the deck. Some fell. More pops echoed across the lake. Dante’s pulse drummed through his veins, at his temples.
He arrowed himself down toward the yacht, dropping from eight stories above the white-capped water to five, his deltoid muscles burning as his wings slashed through the humid air, the salt tang of brine prickling his nostrils.
More pop-pop-pops.
Trey’s head snapped back, dreads whipping around him almost in slow motion, then he dropped to one knee on the deck. And swayed. Cold fingers latched around Dante’s heart. A streak of black and purple–edged motion, then Silver stood over the mortal shooter’s splayed body, licking blood from his fingers. He looked up, silver eyes brimming with light.
Trey staggered to his feet. He dashed across the main deck, then darted up a flight of stairs to the upper deck, disappearing inside the cabin. Another series of pop-pop-pops welcomed him. Silver raced after him, face grim.
Dante glanced to his right. Lucien flew close to his wing tip, his hair a streamlined banner of liquid night blowing behind him, Von tucked against one side, Heather the other. Lucien had convinced Dante that he shouldn’t carry anyone on his first flight, not until he had tested the strength of his wings and his landing skills.
I doubt Heather would enjoy a long drop into the lake, Dante, or a crash landing on the yacht. I doubt you’d enjoy it either.
A point Dante hadn’t argued, couldn’t argue; his wings were untested. And after having already knocked Heather on her ass with his fucking seizure . . . A muscle flexed in Dante’s jaw.
As though feeling his gaze, Lucien looked at him from over his shoulder, his golden eyes glinting in the darkness like stars. Dante felt a gentle touch against his shields, Lucien seeking permission.
Dante thinned his shields.
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