Flip: Himself as a smart-ass adult in leather and buckle-strapped mesh fighting beside a tall man with a crescent moon tattoo beneath his right eye and a red-haired woman with twilight eyes, who smells of sage and rain-fresh lilacs, a woman of heart and steel, a woman who tells him, Stay with me, Baptiste. Stay here-and-now—
Flip: The newborn evening races past punk-ass kid Dante in a cool, rain-wet blur as he moves, his fingers practically welded around Chloe’s wrist, determined that she’ll never have to pay a visit to Papa and Mama Prejean’s shadow-eaten basement/pimp crib. Never have to learn the things he has in its depths . . .
Flip: Hands, warm and callused, grasp smart-ass adult Dante’s shoulders and steady him. A calm male voice, one achingly familiar, says, Gotcha, little brother—
Flip: Punk-ass kid Dante pulls a small ninja-type metal star from his throat, its points blood-slicked. It tumbles from his fingers. Chloe yells at him to run, tugs on his arm. He tries, but his feet refuse to move. His thoughts ice over as well. The night whirls around him, a streak of pale clouds and glimmering stars and skeletal branches . . .
Hadn’t he awakened in a room just like this one? Or was this the first time?
Pain wheeled through Dante’s mind, stole his breath. Shivved his heart.
Wrong. This is all wrong. Wake the fuck up.
Bad news: he was pretty damned sure he was wide awake. Dante tried to grab hold of the broken memories and the voices that had followed, but everything faded, disappearing back into the aching ball of cotton that was currently his brain. Gone. He felt the warm ooze of blood from his nose, felt it pool in his ears.
“Fuck.” He blinked. Rubbed at his temples. What had he been thinking about?
Feeding.
Hunger scraped. Clawed. Shook him like a baby in the remorseless hands of a jonesing tweaker. Blood pulsed hot and berry-sweet right next to him. He smelled it beneath Chloe’s skin. Heard it—a fast-paced shush-shush, rhythmic and primal and seductive. Sweat sprang up along his hairline.
You can’t save her.
Yeah? Fucking watch me.
Dante kicked and stomped his hunger back into the hollowed-out depths within, funneling every bit of strength he still held into the effort. And prayed like hell it would stay there until he could get Chloe out of—wherever the hell they were.
“Dante-angel?”
“Chloe.” He swallowed hard before continuing. A cold sweat slicked his skin. “Where are we?” Lifting the hem of his T-shirt, he wiped at his face. Smearing the blood, more than cleaning it, he suspected. “Did Papa take us someplace? Did that fucking asshole hurt you?”
Chloe sucked in a sharp breath. “My mommy says never to use bad words even if they might be the best words for the situation.” Her carrot-colored brows knitted together, perplexed, as she admitted, “But I don’t know what that means. Not exactly.”
Dante frowned. “Your mommy? Since when, princess? You never knew her . . .”
Chloe pressed a finger against her lips, then shook her head, her hair swinging against her back. Someone’s listening. Moving in front of him, she looped her arms around his neck. Dante looked past her to the camera tucked into a corner near the ceiling.
Motherfuckers wanna watch, huh?
Dante pulled Chloe closer, slipping his arms around her as he held his left hand up behind her back for prime camera view. Extended the middle finger and turned it slowly so it could be admired from every angle—a not-so-still life masterpiece of fuck-youitude.
“What are you doing?” Chloe whispered.
“Perking up someone’s boring day.”
Dante hugged her tight, his arms crinkling the black paper wings—those were new, yeah?—taped to the back of the Winnie-the-Pooh sweater he’d swiped for her from Walgreens. She radiated a banked-coal heat and smelled of strawberries and baby shampoo and waxy crayons. He shivered as his chilled body drank in her warmth.
Why am I so goddamned cold? I’ve always burned hot—hotter than other nightkind.
Wait. Nightkind? What the hell?
Dante felt Chloe’s fingers tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear, then her breath warmed the ear’s icy shell as she whispered into it. “I got a secret to tell you . . . again. My name isn’t Chloe, it’s Violet, remember? You were pretty sick when I told you yesterday after you came back from the operating room.”
Operating room?
Dante pulled back just enough so he could look at her, his heart drumming a drunken Motorhead solo against his ribs. “No. I don’t remember. Where’s Orem, p’tite?” he asked, scanning the concrete for her plushie orca, and ignoring the desperate edge to his voice. “Did you drop him?”
“I never had an Orem,” she said, voice a solemn, but patient whisper. “I’m not Chloe. I’m Violet. You saved me when I died and floated away from my mommy. You changed me with blue fire—made me look like this.”
Electricity prickles through him. Crackles along his fingers. His song sweeps up from his heart, a dark and intricate aria, dancing in time to the blue flames flickering around his hands . . .
The memory fragment vanished, winking out like a match beneath a pair of pursed lips. Dante blinked. What the hell had he been thinking? Remembering?
“My name is Violet.”
A deep unease uncoiled within Dante. He searched her eyes for any sign of a prank in their blue depths, but saw only truth. He also noticed what he didn’t see, hadn’t heard—Chloe’s bright smile, her giggles when he swore. And that scared the holy loving shit out of him. Tore a hole through the middle of him. A hole that threatened to swallow him whole.
You won’t save her, you know. You’ll fail.
“Bullshit,” Dante whispered, and wasn’t entirely sure if he was answering the voice in his head or the little girl in his arms. He swallowed back the blood rising in his throat, stealing his oxygen, then coughed. If she wasn’t Chloe, then where was—
She lies on the concrete floor, staring up at the hook, her blue eyes as wide and empty as a doll’s. The blood from her slashed throat stains her hair a deep red.
As her life, already cooling, soaks in through the knees of his jeans, Dante stares at his blood-sticky hands, his fingers, his sharp, sharp nails. He struggles to breathe.
A woman laughs, the sound low and throaty and pleased: That’s my boy.
“No.” One simple blood-soaked word, repeated over and over in a strained voice, a voice thick with guilt and grief and denial, and only the raw ache in Dante’s throat told him that the voice belonged to him.
The copper and tart-berry smell of her blood still hung heavy in the air, saturated his every breath. Glistened on his nails. Hunger glided like a gator to the surface. Ravenous. His heart slammed against his ribs. “No. No. No.”
“Are you okay, Dante-angel?”
He didn’t know how to answer that, didn’t know if he even could. But he knew what he had to do. He let go of Chl—Violet, gently pulling her arms free from around his neck, then shoving her away.
Her blood spills hot and fragrant and crimson over his fingers . . .
“Are you mad at me?” Violet asked in a small voice. “I know I can’t be your princess, but I made wings so I could be your angel.”
Dante started to reach for her, to hug her tight, but stopped himself at the last second. His hands knotted into fists at his sides, sharp nails biting into his palms. “No, p’tite, no. That ain’t it, not at all. This ain’t your fault. But you gotta keep the fuck away from me,” he said, his voice low and husky and more than a little desperate—even to his own ears. “You gotta keep yourself out of reach.”
“But why?” Violet stood under the hook and Dante wanted to yank her from beneath its curved shadow. But he couldn’t trust himself to let go again.
“Cuz you ain’t safe with me, p’tite. Now get away.” Dante scowled as he flapped his hands in a dismissive, move-your-ass-already motion. “Vite-vite.”
But despite the hurt darkening her blue gaze, hurt that Dante regret
ted, no matter how necessary, Violet refused to move, the stubborn tilt of her jaw declaring loud and clear: You’re being a butthead, so I’ll be a butthead right back. So there.
Fine. So he’d move instead.
Coughing, the sound harsh and liquid, Dante staggered up to his feet. He managed—just—to keep his balance as the room did one dizzying Tilt-A-Whirl spin and dip, before steadying beneath his boots. But before he could take step numèro un, his vision suddenly fractured like ice beneath too much weight and split into jagged halves. His breath caught rough in his throat.
He saw both Chloes at the same time: Chloe dead on the floor, snow-angeled in a thickening pool of her own blood. Chloe standing several feet away from him, still regarding him with complete trust, despite the confusion darkening her eyes.
The room took another Tilt-A-Whirl spin and Dante stumbled. He closed his eyes, jaw tight. His head felt full of broken glass, his heart full of ash. Images of Chloe dipped and fluttered through his mind like fast-winging night birds.
—Chloe happily brushes his long black hair, then pulls it into a ponytail while she teaches him—the boy who can’t go out into the daylight—how to read and write.
—He awakens at twilight to find Chloe curled up and napping against his side, Orem tucked between them. And for that moment, they are just a boy and the chosen little sister he protects, instead of a monster cuffed to his bed to keep him from murdering his child-pimping foster parents in their sleep, and a little girl who doesn’t know any better.
—He stands in front of Chloe, hissing, as the door swings open. Three men in black suits—bad fucking men like Papa Prejean, like all the groping assholes who walk down the basement steps—spread out in the white padded room.
When Dante opened his eyes again, he saw only Chloe standing in front of him with her paper wings colored black; the other Chloe had vanished from the concrete floor. A wary hope unfolded within him. Maybe it hadn’t happened yet. Maybe he could make sure it never did. Could make sure he kept his promises.
I won’t let anyone hurt you, princess.
Himself included.
Dragging in another wet breath of air, Dante snatched up the discarded handcuffs from the floor and ratcheted one steel bracelet shut around his right wrist, leaving the other cuff open and dangling. He wiped automatically at the blood trickling hot from his nose, smearing dark color across his pale skin.
He was aware of Vi—Chloe’s gaze, her watchful silence, as he prowled the padded room, searching for something solid to latch the other cuff around. He was running out of time. Black spots pixilated the air. His vision was graying at the edges.
But his hunger remained, all razor teeth, unhinged jaws, and endless gullet.
And Chloe’s fast and steady heart was a pulsing dinner bell, one that reverberated through all the spaces hunger had hollowed out within him. A hunger that even unconsciousness might not stop. Dante couldn’t—wouldn’t—pass out until he’d made goddamned sure she was beyond his reach.
Of course, the motherfuckers who had locked him in here with Chloe had intended otherwise. Bastards. Dante regarded the camera spying on them, a pale spider motionless in the corner. He tilted his head, wondering.
What would happen if the camera no longer worked? If they could no longer see?
Let’s fucking find out.
Dante peeled off his Mad Edgar tee, handcuffs clanking together as he pulled them through the armhole. Then he tossed the black cotton blindfold over the camera. The movement cost him, stabbing splinters of frost and fire deep into his lungs. He coughed, deep and harsh, blood bubbling up in his throat. Pain throbbed at his temples, behind his eyes.
“Won’t that make them mad?” Chloe asked.
Dante nodded, then touched a finger to his lips, then to one ear, tilted his head toward the now-blind eye and mouthed, Let ’em wonder. Chewing her lower lip, Chloe glanced at the T-shirt draped camera before returning her attention to him. She mouthed, Okay.
Vision wavering, Dante stumbled, but managed—barely—to keep his balance. Paper wings rustled. Sneakers scraped against concrete, and he knew that Chloe was hurrying over to help him. He threw out his arm, palm extended, and shot her a dark scowl.
Chloe stopped short with a frustrated sigh that sounded decades older than the both of them put together. Dante flapped another vite-vite hand at her. Not waiting on her, he turned around, steadying himself with a hand to the wall, and made his careful way to the thick gotta-keep-the-monsters-inside door—and the steel handle welded to its surface.
He hoped it would be strong enough.
Even though Chloe turned and went to the opposite side of the room, the hypnotic rush of the blood through her veins plucked at Dante, as did her scent—strawberries and soap—and the flush of her freckled skin.
Her blood spills hot and fragrant and crimson over his fingers . . .
Throat tight, eyes burning, Dante refused the image and kept moving.
Hunger kept insisting that he was going the wrong way, that he needed to turn his ass around and follow his nose to the appetizer now sitting glumly in the far corner with her arms wrapped around her purple corduroy–clad legs.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Ain’t listening. And we ain’t feasting until some curious asshole opens that door and saunters inside.
Laughter, dark and knowing, sounded from the depths below. Jaw tight, Dante blocked it out, stubbornly adhering to his ain’t listening declaration.
Just as Dante reached the door, the room took a gleeful, stomach-dropping plunge, before spinning around him again with wild Tilt-A-Whirl abandon. Stumbling, he slammed against the door shoulder-first, before falling to his knees on the concrete. A high-pitched humming filled his ears. Darkness oozed like oil across his sight.
“Pas encore,” he said, his voice a barely audible growl, “pas fucking encore.”
Fumbling the open cuff around the door’s steel handle, he snapped it shut with a shaking hand. The cuff tunked as he sat back on his heels. Then he sagged against the door, his captive right arm bent at the elbow and stretched up alongside him. Dante shivered, the door’s steel like ice against the bare skin of his shoulder and side.
“Dante-angel?” A worry-thick whisper.
Dante’s vision was tunneling down, swallowed by deepening shadows, as he focused on Chloe. He held a finger against his lips, reminding her. She mirrored his motion, a finger to her own lips, freckles and dismay stark upon her face. He tried to offer her a reassuring smile, but given her unaltered expression, he had a feeling he hadn’t pulled it off.
Behind her, he saw the cheerful red balloon she’d drawn on the padded wall. A small stick figure with black wings held the balloon’s string.
You saved me when I died and floated away from my mommy.
Creawdwr . . .
The word and its meaning itched at the back of his mind; hidden beneath miles of cotton, an itch he couldn’t reach. Dante dragged in another gurgling breath of air, then coughed, lungs spasming. Choking. A heavy weight crushed down on him as though the sky had fallen on his chest, bringing the moon with it. He couldn’t breathe.
But he could drown. Could suffocate on his own blood. Even sitting up. Sinking into cold and darkness and high-pitched humming, Dante fought to suck in one more breath.
And failed.
8
FULL OF SURPRISES
RICHARD PURCELL’S GAZE SKIPPED along the patient room monitors set into the wall above the observation booth’s control panel until it came to rest once more on the only monitor that interested him, the only monitor that also happened to be blank—blindfolded by a goddamned T-shirt.
Smug little bloodsucking bastard.
No visual, but the audio worked just fine, and at the moment Purcell was listening to wet choking sounds as someone quietly drowned in their own blood. Sweet music—damned sweet—given it was S doing all that quiet drowning.
A little less sweet were Violet’s frantic cries for help, her words punc
tuated by fists banging against the steel door, but hey, you couldn’t have everything. Such as a working camera feed when it mattered most. Such as watching a certain smug little bloodsucking bastard go down for the count. Even if it was only temporary.
“We need a doctor! Please, Mr. Purcell! Please, please, please! Open the door!”
The wet choking sounds slowed, then stopped.
For a second, nothing but silence crackled through the speakers. A slight pause, just long enough for someone to suck in a shocked breath, then Violet intensified both her fist assault against the door and the decibel level of her shouts.
“Mr. Purcell, please, pretty please, open the door! Tyler! Joe! Help!”
With a grimace of annoyance, Purcell lowered the volume, reducing Violet’s distraught cries to faint background noise. “Christ.”
“I knew this wouldn’t work. We need the Wallace woman,” Teodoro Díon said, a faint European accent giving his words a sophisticated flow that almost hid the accusation beneath them—you fucked up and wasted my time.
A quiet fury curdled in Purcell’s belly and he tasted bile, bitter and hot, at the back of his throat. In an effort to keep his anger in check, he stared at the green telltales winking and glowing on the control panel.
No one could’ve predicted that James Wallace would show up at the club—and on the same goddamned day, no less—with hired assault-rifle wielding thugs to snatch his daughter before Purcell could grab her. He’d been given no choice but to make the best of a bad situation, which had meant improvising.
And that’s exactly what he’d done.
Purcell had snatched an unconscious S—already pumped full of bullets and bleeding like a motherfucker—from the burning club, instead of doing as Díon had insisted and chasing after the van carrying Heather Wallace, a van burning rubber all the way to the interstate. No. Instead, he’d brought S here. Where he belonged.
Much to Teodoro Díon’s displeasure.
Fuck Teodoro Díon.
This unofficial and unsanctioned little mission had originally been Special Operations Director Celeste Underwood’s baby, a mission she’d entrusted to Purcell alone, a mission he’d accepted without hesitation, even though he knew it would mean the end of their careers—hell, the end of their lives—if discovered.
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