Beneath the Skin

  “Good thing, yeah,” Dante agreed. He walked around the van and joined her on the sidewalk. “Nobody wants a pissed-off nomad on their ass, let alone a pissed-off night-kind nomad. Results ain’t pretty.”

  And right now, that pretty much described Von—pissedoff. Convincing him to remain at Club Hell hadn’t been easy.

  I’m coming with you, little brother. That’s fucking final.

  I need you here. I gotta know everyone’s gonna be safe and I trust you to do that.

  Maybe if I’d stayed at the house, Simone would still be alive—is that what you’re saying?

  What? Fuck, no! That’s all on me. Simone’s dead because I killed fucking Étienne. I coulda lost you all.

  Simone’s death ain’t on you, Dante.

  Yeah, mon ami, it is. S’il te plaît, stay here and sit with Trey, yeah? He needs to be watched.

  So I just get to worry about you and Heather?

  I can reach you.

  So could Simone. Didn’t do her much good, did it?

  Dante hadn’t had an answer for that or the next words that had slipped, low and ragged, from Von’s lips.

  Her screams … fuck, Dante … ain’t never going to forget.

  Eyes burning, Dante grabs Von in a hard hug. The tension in his friend’s knotted muscles vibrates into him, along with the thundering beat of his heart.

  Dante hoped Von would eventually forget the intensity of Simone’s anguished cries, folded into swatches of passing time. As for himself, he didn’t deserve to forget.

  “Baptiste?”

  “J’su ici,” he said, focusing on Heather’s face. Pain prickled at his temples. Concern whispered through their bond, and beneath that, the promise of white silence. A hush he might need later on.

  She searched his face, her expression solemn. “What happens if you can’t free Loki or if he refuses to take you—us—to Gehenna?”

  “Then we’ll find another way to get there.”

  A sad smile shadowed Heather’s lips. She kissed him. “For luck, then.”

  “For luck,” Dante whispered back.

  He helped Heather scale the black wrought-iron cemetery gates, then dropped down on the other side beside her. Even though several hours had passed since their dustup with Mauvais’s nightkind, Dante still smelled adrenaline-spiced blood in the grass.

  Hunger coiled through him, awake and very, very sharp. Dante focused on the moonlit path beneath his boots and shoved the hunger aside.

  But he knew he’d have to feed, and soon.

  At the Baronne tomb, he slowed to a stop, cold frosting him from the inside out. Loki was gone. Plastic Mardi Gras beads, crumpled scraps of paper, chalked good luck x’s all indicated the spot where he had crouched.

  “Fuck,” Dante said, pushing a hand through his hair.

  Chunks of white stone that had encased the fallen angel lay scattered on the path, but not enough of it to indicate that he’d broken free.

  “Shit. Where is he?” Heather dropped into a crouch and examined the pieces of gleaming white stone.

  Dante swiveled around, listening for a frantic song, a distant and desperate scrabbling, but heard nothing but the slow shifting of bones in their tombs and the whisper of cypress and oak leaves in the cherry blossom–scented air.

  Someone had stolen Loki. Carted him out of a locked cemetery.

  “He ain’t here,” Dante said.

  Holding a piece of Loki’s stone shell, Heather looked up at Dante. “Plan B?”

  Dante shifted his gaze to the cloud-streaked night sky. His pulse raced. “I’m gonna send out an invitation,” he said.

  Heather rose to her feet. The breeze fluttered through her red hair, drew it across her face. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Probably ain’t, but it’s the only one I got at the moment.”

  Heather sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that. What do you want me to do?”

  “Send your silence through our bond if I get lost to the music, catin.”

  Heather frowned. “My … silence?”

  “The thing you do that stops the noise in my head,” Dante said. “And keep outta reach, yeah? No matter what happens, don’t let me touch you when …” He circled his hands in the air.

  “When they’re glowing,” Heather finished. “Oh, no problem there, Baptiste.”

  Lucien’s words—spoken in this very spot almost two weeks ago—whispered up from Dante’s memory.

  Your song, your anhrefncathl, drew me. Just like it drew Loki. Just like it will eventually draw the rest of the Elohim …

  Dante scooped up a piece of Loki shell, played it through his fingers. His song rose from his heart like a wild autumn storm, a dark and dangerous aria gusting through the New Orleans night.

  Energy crackled along his fingers, engulfing the stone in blue flame. Reshaping it. Infusing life. It squirmed hot against Dante’s palm. Strings of DNA vibrated like guitar strings beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes, ecstatic and shivering, caught in the song’s molten rhythm.

  You can create anything and everything. Your song carries the chaos rhythm of life. And you can unmake as well.

  He hears a rush of wings.

  Hears the metronome of another heartbeat. One he doesn’t know.

  “Silence the song, child,” an unfamiliar voice urged. “Silence it before others find you.”

  Pain lanced through Dante’s temples, and his breath caught in his throat. His song stopped, unfinished, a jumble of harsh notes tumbling away into the night.

  Blood trickled from his nose.

  Dante opened his eyes and looked at what he held cupped in his hands. A little white-furred, blue-eyed mouse blinked at him. Twin rows of small gossamer wings whirred along its back, music—like tiny bells—tinkled with each flutter.

  “Go, you,” Dante whispered. He tossed the moth-mouse into the air. It buzzed away, its tinkling song trailing after it.

  “A beautiful creation, but what does it do?”

  “Fly, for now,” Dante said, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand and turning around.

  The fallen angel facing him stood nearly as tall as Lucien, a belted cobalt blue kilt hanging to his knees. His short, white hair gleamed incandescent in the starlight. Folded white wings arched up behind his back. He regarded Dante with gold-flecked blue eyes, his handsome face radiant.

  “Beautiful creawdwr,” he said, inclining his head. “You seem to be injured.”

  Dante wiped at his nose again. “I’m fine. You know my name?”

  The angel nodded.

  “Then use it. Who are you?”

  “I am called the Morningstar.”

  Heather, Browning gripped in both hands, stepped up beside Dante. “The Morningstar? As in Lucifer?”

  The fallen angel tilted his head, a knowing smile on his lips. “Ah, the lovely and beloved Heather Wallace. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “How the hell do you know her name?” Dante asked, his hands clenching into fists. “Wait. You were the one who broke into our motel room, yeah?”

  The Morningstar shrugged. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you for your father.”

  “Then Lucien’s still alive,” Dante said, relief unknotting his hands. “Is he in Gehenna?”

  The Morningstar sauntered closer, his kilt swinging against his thighs. His scent, thick tree sap, bitter orange, and wing musk, wafted through the air. Dante caught a flash of peripheral movement as Heather lifted her gun higher. An amused smile danced across the fallen angel’s lips. But he stopped.

  “Alive?” the Morningstar said. “Yes. But not well. Lilith betrayed him to Gabriel, and Gabriel used a blood-spell to bind him to Gehenna’s fate.”

  A chill touched the back of Dante’s neck. “Gehenna’s fate? What does that mean?”

  “After enduring thousands of years without an infusion of energy from a creawdwr, Gehenna is fading away. Without you—without your touch—Gehenna will vanish. And your father with it.”


  Fury pounded through Dante, drummed up his hunger. “Why the hell would Gabriel do that to him?”

  “Lucien never told you?”

  “Would I be asking if he had?”

  The Morningstar arched a frost-pale eyebrow. “I suppose not. Your father murdered the last creawdwr, a maker known as Yahweh, then fled Gehenna.”

  Heather sucked in a breath. Dante felt like a bucket of ice-cold water had been tossed into his face. “Menteur,” he spat. “You’re just another goddamned fucking liar.”

  All expression vanished from the Morningstar’s face. He held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not lying about that, Dante,” he said, his voice low and level. “I can take you to Lucien and you can ask him for the truth.”

  “Ain’t going anywhere with you,” Dante said. “Lucien warned me about the Fallen, and he sure as hell woulda told me if there were exceptions to the all-Fallen-want-to-bind-and-use-you rule. Since he didn’t, you’re a liar.”

  “He didn’t know any of us would be on his side,” the Morningstar replied. “There was no way for him to know. So much has changed in his absence.”

  “Yeah, ain’t buying it.” Dante stepped across the stone path to stand in front of the now-wary fallen angel. “I need you to show me how to get to Gehenna.”

  The Morningstar backed up a pace, hand to his chin as if contemplating Dante’s words, but Dante knew he was trying to get out of touching range. “I have to take you there,” he said. “The gate is in the sky—”

  “No, show me.” Dante tapped a finger against his temple. “Let me see Gehenna, the gate, the way the place feels.”

  The Morningstar stared at him, his expression perplexed. “All right, I’ll show you, but I don’t know how that will be any help. You need to lower your shields.”

  Dante laughed. “You fucking kidding? No, just project—I’ll pick shit up.”

  A look of indignation crossed the Morningstar’s luminous face. “I’d never try to bind you without your permission,” he said. “Elohim free will is the principle I’ve built my life around.”

  “Maybe, but I ain’t taking your word for it.”

  “I believe you are even more stubborn than your father,” the angel muttered.

  “Merci beaucoup.” Dante turned to Heather. “I know bullets can’t really harm him, but they do hurt, so if he tries anything that looks even slightly suspicious to you, empty the gun into him.”

  Heather nodded. “I will. You be careful, Baptiste.”

  “Truly, your concerns are unnecessary. I can give you all the information you’re seeking in my wybrcathl.”

  “Is that your song? Like the ones I heard on the hill a few nights ago?”

  “Yes. It sounds like your father has neglected much in your education.”

  “Tais-toi, you’re talking about something you know nothing about.”

  “Then I will give you something I do know,” the Morningstar said. He closed his eyes, long silver lashes curving up from the lids, and fanned out his wings, snapping the mingled scents of smoky incense and bitter orange into the air.

  Song pealed through the night, a complex rhythm, brimming with information as its melody and crystalline chorus chimed images, locations, and star maps into Dante’s mind: the golden gate whirling in black skies, Gehenna’s bleeding life force an aurora borealis where none belonged; Gehenna itself, aerie-pocked cliffs and mountains and wild, frothing seas; the blue-marbled Royal Aerie and the warbling aingeals ringing its black-starred throne.

  The Morningstar’s trilling song ended.

  Pulse racing, Dante struggled with the urge to unleash his song in response. He closed his eyes and studied the images lingering in his mind, the feel of fading Gehenna, its heat and pale skies. Thought of Lucien, visualized him.

  “D’accord,” he murmured, opening his eyes.

  “You still need me to take you to the gate,” the Morningstar said.

  Dante shook his head. “Maybe not.” Turning, he walked to the Baronne tomb and rested his palms against the smooth, night-chilled stone.

  He heard light steps treading across the stone path behind him, caught a whiff of lilac and fresh rain. He looked up from the weather-stained tomb and into Heather’s twilight gaze.

  “What’s the plan, Baptiste?” she asked.

  “Ain’t gonna know until I do it,” he said. “I want you right beside me, catin, yeah? My gut says you’re gonna be safest touching me this time round. Maybe loop your hand through my belt.”

  A line creased the skin between her eyes. “Should I be worried?”

  “Probably, yeah.”

  “What about him?” she asked, nodding at the Morning-star.

  “He should probably be worried too.”

  The Morningstar studied Dante for a long moment, the radiance beneath his skin dimming a few degrees. Uncertainty shadowed his face, an expression Dante had a feeling the fallen angel rarely used.

  “Perhaps I’ll wait in the sky,” he said.

  “C’est bon. ’Cuz you ain’t looping a hand through my belt.”

  The Morningstar’s white wings unfurled, their opal-escent undersides glimmering in the starlight. Wing-gust extinguished the few candles still lit as he winged up into the night.

  “Ready, chérie?”

  Heather slid her gun into the inside pocket of her black trench. “Side-by-side,” she said, slipping her hand beneath his belt and locking her fingers around it. “Back-to-back.”

  Dante closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Held the image of Gehenna, of its sense of place firm in his mind. He drew back his left fist. His song cut into the air, thorn-edged and violent, crackling with electric rhythm.

  Dante opened his eyes.

  AND PUNCHED HIS BLUE-GLOWING fist into the tomb.

  Whoomph.

  A blast of heated air whipped through Heather’s hair and sucked the breath from her lungs. Hammered at her ears. Blue light exploded out from the tomb in a massive razor-thin shock wave that vibrated through her core and shot throughout the cemetery, throughout the city, in an ever-expanding circle, rippling through the night at light speed.

  Heather squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her grip on Dante’s belt, her heart kicking against her ribs. Icy fear froze all of her thoughts, except for one: What just happened? She tucked her face against Dante’s tensed shoulder in case of more nuclear-style fireworks. The ground beneath her Skechers trembled and quaked.

  Genuine earthquake or … ?

  A cacophony of noise filtered back into Heather’s bruised ears as her hearing returned. Trees creaked and crashed, stone crumbled to the pavement, iron clanged against concrete. Car alarms beyond the cemetery walls screeched and beeped and whooped, and windows shattered, glass tinkling into the street. Dogs howled.

  The prickling odor of ozone filled the air.

  Distant, frightened voices buzzed into the night like disturbed wasps.

  “Holy Jesus, did you see that?”

  “An explosion in the cemetery—terrorists.”

  “Where’s the fire? The smoke? What kinda explosion’s that?”

  “Dear Lord, oh, it’s the end of days—a ring of fire!”

  Dante collapsed to his knees, pulling Heather down with him. She landed ass-first on the paving stones, her jaw clicking together. Her eyes snapped open. As she took in the destruction surrounding her, she felt the first ice-cold touch of true fear.

  Throughout the cemetery, tombs, crypts, and statues had been cut in half, their contents spilling onto the ruptured stone paths; the sliced-off tops of cypress and oaks had tumbled onto chunks of broken stone and masonry, their leaves aglow with blue flames. The cemetery walls had been smashed into blue-flickering ruin.

  And in front of Dante, smoke curled from the molten edge of a huge circle in what remained of the Baronne tomb. On the other side of it, pale night skies stretched. Pale night skies full of rustling wings.

  “By all that’s holy,” the Morningstar whispered.

 
Dante had opened his own gate.

  38

  THE END OF ALL THEIR DREAMS

  SHEOL, GEHENNA

  March 27

  FLUTING CHALKYDRI SONG MINGLED with joyous wybrcathl, music cascading through the night skies like water into a deep bowl. Jumbled thoughts and emotions whispered against Lucien’s thinning shields. But none of it made sense.

  Gehenna is saved! The creawdwr!

  He has found his way home!

  Holy, holy, holy!

  Lucien lifted his head; pain tore through his shoulders as the barbed hooks screwed deeper into his muscles. Above the mouth of the pit, winged figures flew, casting shadows across its glowing, embered floor.

  “What’s happening?” he asked. “Have they found Dante?”

  Hekate hung across from Lucien, her beautiful white wings banded, hooks piercing her shoulders. Dried blood streaked her gold and black gown.

  “No,” she said, her gaze also on the sky above. Wonder eased the pain from her face—wonder and hope. “He’s here.”

  Lucien’s heart thundered. “What?”

  “Your son is here. And so is my father.”

  Lucien closed his eyes. Dante in the Morningstar’s hands. He’d failed once again.

  ON YOUR KNEES, P’TIT, hands behind yo’ back. Gotta surprise visitor for you.

  Nah, Papa, I think I gotta surprise for you.

  Pain hammered red-hot at Dante’s temples. A cool, white stream of silence spilled through his mind and doused the hurt. He sucked in a breath.

  Focus, goddammit. Gotta stay here and now.

  “With me, Baptiste?” Heather asked, voice low and right beside him.

  “Oui, chérie. J’su ici.” Rising to his feet, he ducked in through the tomb’s smoldering hole, then turned and offered a hand to Heather.

  She held his gaze, twilight blue eyes looking in and looking deep. Annie’s words, mocking and oh-so-true, punched into Dante’s memory: It’s just a matter of time. You’re going to hurt her and hurt her bad.

  “It might be better if you stayed here,” Dante said. “You aint gotta do this. In fact, I wish you’d—”

  “Shut up, Baptiste,” Heather replied, grasping his hand. Bending, she stepped through the tomb’s hole and straightened beside him on the sky blue marble floor. “It’s a good thing I love you, because you officially just scared the shit out of me.”