“Me neither.”
Dante touched his link to Lucien. It was closed. A burr of dread hooked into his stomach. The sudden alarm in Lucien’s dark eyes had rattled Dante; had shaken him free of the unknown song lacing through the night and pulsing in time with his blood.
What could frighten Lucien? That question left Dante cold.
Shifting the car into first gear, Dante nosed the MG out into traffic. Partiers crowded the street, unknotting reluctantly when the MG nudged against them.
“Can knives hurt you?” Heather asked. “Bullets?”
Dante glanced at Heather, surprised. “Sure, anything can hurt. A bullet to the head or the heart would put me down for a while…so I’ve been told.” He shifted his attention back to the street. “Never taken a bullet before.”
“You’re fast. Can you take him?”
“Yeah, if he’s mortal. If he ain’t, maybe,” he said, swinging the steering wheel to the right and tapping the horn. A partier staggered backward, a drunken smile plastered across his face, and extended his middle finger.
“All DNA has been human.”
“Should be no problem then.”
Dante maneuvered the MG through the people-clotted street, his reflexes steering the car around pedestrians and cops on horses, goosing the gas every time a gap opened.
“What did Ronin mean by True Blood?”
Dante glanced at her. “Is my friend asking or is a cop asking?” He shifted the MG into second as he pulled out onto Canal.
“I’m both, Dante. That hasn’t changed.”
Dante nodded. Picking up speed, he shifted into third. Neon light danced along the windshield. Headlights hit his eyes like runway spotlights. Pain prickled like thorns within his aching head. He winced. Spots of color floated in front of his eyes.
He unhooked his shades from his belt, then slid them on. Oncoming headlights muted, the pain faded. Dante drew in a deep breath, tried to ease the tension from his shoulders, but his muscles refused to relax.
Heather still waited for an answer. She said nothing, but he felt her anticipation.
Fourth gear. Still picking up speed. Lights blurred.
“A True Blood is a born vampire.”
“Born? That’s possible?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Why would he call you that?” Heather’s tone was soft, perplexed. “If you’re a vampire—and I’m willing to admit to the possibility—then someone made you, right? Who made you? And when?”
Pain shafted Dante’s temple. And, below, behind his thoughts, something shattered like glass. His hand locked onto the steering wheel. White light squiggled at the edges of his vision. He clenched his jaw, willing the pain away. Not now. Not fucking now!
Horns blared and tired screeched as Dante missiled the MG through a red light. Streetlights, shadow-darkened old oaks, and gleaming streetcar rails merged into one continuous image.
“Jesus Christ!”
Dante heard vinyl creak as Heather latched her hands onto the dashboard. “Slow down,” she said, her voice even. Coaxing. “Maybe you’ll survive an accident at this speed, but I won’t.”
Wasps droned. Venom burned through Dante’s veins. Warm fingers wrapped around his on the gearshift.
“Please, Dante. Slow down.”
Heather’s calm voice was like a waterfall dousing the fire consuming him, tumbling wasps back into the shattered depths within. He drew in a shuddering breath and eased his foot up off the gas pedal. Downshifted to third. Lights and colors shifted from streamers to distinct images: houses, trees, cars. Sweat trickled along his temple.
“Listen,” Heather said, her hand still grasping his. “A trap’s been set for you. You know this. I know this. You plan to walk right into it. Then what?”
Dante glanced at her. Shadow and light flickered across her face. Streetlight burnished her hair. He shrugged. “No plan. I’ll play it as it comes. But I’ll walk out with Jay.”
Heather sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Uh huh.”
Shifting his attention back to the road, Dante scanned for building addresses.
“I think he believes you’re nightkind,” Heather said. “So he’ll be planning for that. But he isn’t planning for me. Even Ronin thought I’d be in Pensacola.”
1500. They were close. Dante reduced speed. His gaze swept from one dimly lit warehouse to the next. Another block. A stone building on the right with a weather-faded sign reading CUSTOM MEATS. Boarded-up windows. Vacant. His gaze flicked back to the sign. CUSTOM MEATS. Unease twisted through him.
“Go past,” Heather murmured.
Dante drove several blocks farther, then hooked a left, swinging the MG to the next parallel street. Arrowing in against the curb, he downshifted to a stop and switched off the engine. Pocketing the keys, he yanked open the door. A hand grabbed his arm, fingers latched around his forearm.
One twitch and he’d walk away.
Would he be leaving behind his friend or the cop?
He eased back against the seat. Looked at Heather. He’d be leaving both.
“I’ll follow,” she said. Adrenaline sharpened her scent, warmed her blood. “I’m your backup.” Sudden intensity lit her blue eyes. She radiated a dark, desperate, almost violent emotion—one Dante couldn’t name. “Promise me you’ll play it safe.”
He held her gaze, breathing in her adrenalized odor, listened to the steady beat of her heart. He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. Her skin felt feverish.
“No.”
Heather nodded, jaw tight. She released him.
He slid out of the car.
Does she trust you too, Dante-angel?
’Fraid so, princess.
He ran.
***
RONIN EASED THE CAMARO along the curb, then switched off the engine and glanced at the GPS receiver. Dante was on the move, running, judging by his speed; aimed for CUSTOM MEATS like a wrecking ball.
Hope Étienne is ready.
Ronin opened the driver’s side door, uncurled from the seat, and walked across the street. Of course, Étienne really had no clue. He was so blinded by his rage and his grief, by his desire to make Dante feel a little of the same, that he hadn’t recognized True Blood. Hadn’t recognized death coiled into a slender five-nine form, hadn’t recognized danger in a beautiful, pale face.
Had Dante put the torch to Étienne’s household? If so, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d played arsonist. Or had someone else done the dirty work and left Dante to take the blame? Who knew? All that mattered was that Étienne believed Dante responsible and would do anything to punish him.
GPS receiver in hand, Ronin moved, gusting like a night breeze along the empty street. He watched for Agent Wallace. Her presence at the club had caught him completely off guard. Blue eyes watchful, she’d stood beside Dante on that dais like she belonged there.
Like an equal. A mortal.
He’d underestimated her. She’d understood the messages when Dante hadn’t; she hadn’t bought Johanna’s desperate cover-up—which begged the question, How much longer did Wallace have to live?
Ronin knew his fille de sang—Wallace’s return to New Orleans was a death sentence. E would miss her, but then, he didn’t have much longer to live, either.
It bothered Ronin that he hadn’t seen E recently. Was he out proving the papers wrong? Pouting? The fact that he hadn’t been able to track the jittery psycho on the GPS had left Ronin cold. Had Johanna already switched him off, so to speak? Or had E discovered a truth Ronin had hidden from him?
Ronin slipped into the shadows between buildings, shades on to keep his lambent eyes from giving him away. A movement above caught his peripheral vision. He froze. Looked up.
Dante climbed onto the roof of CUSTOM MEATS, moonlight gleaming on leather and metal. He prowled along the roof’s edge, lithe and quick, his shaded attention focused on the concrete beneath his feet.
Ronin drew his shields in tight. Stilled his questi
ng mind. Dante seemed like a slice of the night itself, black hair and moonlit face stalking the edge of dreams, an elemental of old.
He remembered the feel of Dante’s lips against his, the unexpected warmth of his hands against his face. Remembered the smell of him, smoke and musk and frost.
Remembered what Dante had murmured against his lips.
You’ll never taste my blood.
Ronin’s hands pressed against the wall behind him, his palms scraping across brick and rough mortar. We’ll see, child, we’ll see.
Dante stopped. Tilted his head, listening. He crossed to the roof’s center, paused, then took one more step. He vanished. The sound of shattering glass echoed throughout the sleeping street.
A smile touched Ronin’s lips. Hard boy to predict.
Dante’d just dropped through the skylight.
***
WITH THE TOUCH OF his fingers still lingering on her face, Heather watched Dante run across the street, blurring, moving too fast for sight. He vanished into the night. Or merged with it.
She stared at the empty sidewalk. The MG’s engine ticked and clinked as it cooled. Apprehension lodged in her belly, twisted tendrils of doubt around her spine. She opened the passenger door.
She thought about calling Collins, but realized she’d be asking him to risk his career. He’d probably do it, too.
Heather got out of the car and quietly closed the door. Nothing moved across the street. Shadows stretched away from buzzing streetlights. Most houses were dark, as were the little neighborhood businesses. Mom and Pop market. Used-book store. Antiques.
She trotted across the street, her rubber-soled Skechers nearly silent against the pavement. Her purse bumped against her hip, and she paused; but it was too late to run it back to the MG. Swinging the body of it behind her, she loped down the gravel alley between the antiques store and the used-book place.
Where was Dante? Inside, already?
Promise me you’ll play it safe.
No.
His voice, low and firm, had brushed against her heart just like his fingers had against her face. Anger surged through her, stoked a fire in her belly. Gorgeous, sexy, but pigheaded. Loyal to a fault.
Simone’s voice whispered into her thoughts: What you need to remember, m’selle, is that Dante never tells a lie.
So how could he promise when playing it safe might cost Jay his life? And if Jay was already dead? She pushed away the thought.
Heather stepped out of the alley and into the shadows clustered along the sidewalk. Across the street was the front of CUSTOM MEATS, windows boarded, red paint weathered to a faded-out rust color.
The sharp sound of breaking glass shattered the silence. Heather yanked her .38 from the trench’s inside pocket. Even as she raced across the street, she realized the gun’s weight was all wrong. It wasn’t loaded. As she glanced down at the .38, sudden motion in front of her yanked her gaze back up.
She dropped to the damp pavement, then rolled to her left. She swung the empty .38 up in both hands, aiming between her upraised knees at the darkness rushing toward her with heart-stopping speed. She squeezed the trigger. The .38 fired, fracturing the night, the bullet twipping into flesh. Heather released the breath she held. No magazine, but a round had still been in the chamber.
Thomas Ronin stood about a foot from her, a hand pressed to his side. Blood leaked between his fingers. He frowned, his gaze on the wound.
“Fuck.”
Heather rolled to her feet, swinging the .38 up again. She had another magazine in her pocket, but no time to grab it and slam it home.
“Don’t move.” She aimed the empty .38 at the journalist’s forehead, hoping he’d buy her bluff. “A bullet to the brain will put you down for a little bit.”
Ronin glanced at her. A smile curved his lips. “Naughty Dante. Telling trade secrets. Even more amazing, you believe him.” He shook his head. His hand dropped from his wound. Something slipped from his fingers and tinked against the concrete.
“Did he tell you that it hurts? A lot?”
Sweat slicked Heather’s palms. “If you don’t want it to hurt a lot again, stay right there.”
Wiping his bloodied fingers against his jeans, Ronin chuckled. “You’ve got brass.”
“You here for the story?” Heather asked, keeping careful aim on the journalist’s forehead and hoping he couldn’t hear her thundering pulse. “Or did you set us up?”
Ronin tilted his head. “There it is again…us. I set Dante up. I can’t help it if you’re along for the ride.” He moved.
Something slammed against Heather’s temple. Blue light flickered through her vision. She staggered. The .38 was ripped from her grasp, tearing the fingernail on her trigger finger down to the quick. Pain arced up to her elbow. A gleaming pin-wheel spun through the air. The .38 clattered onto the roof of CUSTOM MEATS. Rough hands spun her around, an arm slid around her throat. Squeezed.
“Time for Dante to wake up,” Ronin said, his voice smooth, affable. “And time to bid you good night.”
Heather’s vision darkened. She drove an elbow back, hoping to connect with Ronin’s wounded side, and slammed her foot down on his at the same time.
He squeezed harder.
She gasped for air. Her fingernails tore into his arm.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
***
IN A JAGGED SHOWER of glass, Dante landed in a half crouch on the concrete below. An old stench of spilled blood and terror permeated the building, clung to it like a starving leech. He straightened, bits of glass dropping from his shoulders and hair and scattering across the stained and dusty floor. Thick curved hooks and dangling chains gleamed in the darkness. No power. No lights. Only a little bit of moonlight leaked in from the broken skylight. But that was all the light he needed, and more.
An image flickered: blood spraying across white walls, blank faces, a window. A voice, asking, What’s he saying?
The image vanished, but Dante’s unease deepened. Pushing his shades to the top of his head, he listened. Two hearts. One slow, a little erratic; the other deep and steady. One mortal. One nightkind. Adrenaline burned through Dante’s muscles. Drawing in a deep breath of tainted air, he ran.
Chains clinked in Dante’s wake, and memory clawed at him with cold fingers. Pain prickled behind his eyes. He ignored it. Just as he reached the cavernous building’s far end, a door scraped open, metal shrieking against concrete. Nightkind scent. Clean and spicy, blood-fed and warm. Familiar.
Flickering light spilled from the opened freezer door—candle-light—and a form hurtled out with nightkind speed. Black braids, café au lait skin, eyes black as burned coffee and just as bitter.
Étienne.
Dante headed straight for him, going low and fast. Étienne swerved at the last moment before impact, but Dante spun with him, slamming a forearm across his face.
Blood spurted from Étienne’s broken nose. He hit the floor hard with Dante on top of him. Air exploded from his lungs. Grabbing a handful of blue-beaded braids, Dante slammed Étienne’s head against the concrete over and over. Something cracked—floor, skull, Dante wasn’t sure. A deep ache radiated through his right side. Glancing down, he realized Étienne was hammering a fist against his ribs.
Dante smashed his fist against Étienne’s swollen nose. The vampire’s eyes rolled up white and he went limp. Dante paused, blood-smeared fist still lifted, braids still clutched in his other hand. He listened. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.
Too easy. Too fucking easy.
Heather was wrong. Either someone—Étienne?—was copycatting her killer or her killer wasn’t working alone. Mortal DNA, she’d said.
Glass crunched beneath boots. Dante let go of Étienne’s braids and lowered his fist. Another heartbeat. Another familiar scent. Nightkind. His muscles coiled. He slid off Étienne’s motionless body and straightened. His hair fluttered as the newcomer rushed past him. Dante breathed in the smells of dark tobacco, ink, and desert
sand. His hands knotted into fists.
How about a nightkind journalist with a pervy mortal assistant who liked to sneak peeks?
Dante swiveled around to face the open freezer door. Ronin leaned against the wall beside it, one leg braced behind him, a cold smile stretching his lips. His eyes gleamed. Shades dangled from his hand.
“Lying motherfucker,” Dante spat.
Ronin spread his hands. “You should know. You’ve been living a lie.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Wake up, S. Time to wake up. All of this is for you.” He stepped into the freezer, stepped toward the source of the irregular mortal pulse.
Jay.
Dante launched himself, diving across the threshold and into quivering orange light. Rolling to his feet, he looked up. And froze.
A figure hung by the ankles from a metal hook, wrapped and hoisted in dull chains, strapped into the white cocoon of a straitjacket. Blond hair swept against the floor. Pale face. Nearly white lips. Closed eyes.
Images flashed and whirled through Dante’s mind. A glimpse of red hair. The reek of clotting blood. The cold gleam of chains. Pain blasted through his mind, dropping him to his knees like a sucker punch to the temple. His vision whited out.
Dante-angel?
What’s the little psycho saying?
“You can still save him, True Blood. All you have to do is wake up.”
Wasps droned, crawled angrily beneath Dante’s skin. Staggering to his feet, dizzy with pain, he threw himself at Ronin.
The journalist sidestepped Dante’s rush, shoving as he passed. Off-balanced by Ronin’s push and his own momentum, Dante slammed shoulder first into the wall. As he twisted around, a hand latched onto his throat and bulldozed him into the wall. Dante’s head snapped back against the concrete. Color fractured his vision.
The fingers around his throat squeezed. Struggling to breathe, Dante locked one hand around Ronin’s steel-corded wrist. Energy pushed at Dante’s shields. Sweat trickled down his temples, stinging his eyes. His shields rippled, faltered. Gasping for air, he hammered his other fist into Ronin’s gut again and again.