The god slammed into Johanna Moore, knocking her back into the room. The syringe broke off in her throat. The nail file punctured her gut. Choking, she shoved the god to the floor. The god’s stomach heaved blood up into his mouth. The god grinned. Bitch-Mommy clutched at the broken syringe in her throat and pulled it out. Then she lifted her eyes up and up and up.
So she finally sees me, the god thought.
Bitch-Mommy’s face turned fifty shades of white.
Pleased, the god closed his eyes.
***
SOMETHING HOT AND WET spread across the front of Heather’s blouse. She glanced down. Blood, bright red. Arterial. Dante caught her as she fell, gathered her into his strong arms. She looked at him and tried to say, I’m sorry, but couldn’t find her voice.
Cradling her against his chest, Dante dropped to his knees. She touched a shaking hand to his beautiful, devastated face and smoothed her thumb beneath his left eye.
“Not for me, Dante,” Heather whispered, showing him the moisture on her thumb. “No tears for me. Not your fault.”
Dante pulled her closer. His heat radiated into her. “I won’t lose you.” He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit it. Dark blood welled up on his pale skin. He pressed the wound against her lips. “Drink,” he urged. “S’il te plait.”
Dante’s blood smeared across Heather’s lips as she turned her head away. It smelled of dark sun-warmed grapes and tasted like Dante’s kisses, heady and tempting. Her throat tightened.
“No,” she whispered. Her vision swam. “No. I want to stay what…I…am…” She shivered, suddenly cold. Sleepy.
Gold fire lit Dante’s eyes. Lowering his head, he kissed her.
***
DANTE’S SONG STIRRED WITHIN him, layering chord upon chord. Bending his head, he kissed Heather’s bloodstained lips and breathed his song into her. He filled her with his essence, kindling blue fire at her core. He imagined her whole, healed, and wove blue-lit thread through her wound. Heather’s fingers twisted around his hair. Her faltering heart beat strong and fast.
Something stung Dante’s neck.
“You failed,” a familiar voice said. “Again.”
Dante shivered as cold spread through him, crackling like ice through his veins. His song faltered.
“Not true,” Heather murmured against his lips.
He tasted the salt of her tears. Fire flared for a moment, and he breathed it into her before they sank together beneath the ice, plunging through starless night.
***
PAIN AND GRIEF SLAPPED against Lucien’s shields like twin tsunamis, receding to return in ever stronger waves, deadlier surges. He ran, following his bond to Dante. Loss reverberated within Lucien like a broken song. Power swirled into the air, buoyed by a creawdwr’s energy. Then, Dante lapsed into unconsciousness.
As Lucien rounded the corner, he saw Jordan fling himself at Johanna Moore, a syringe in one fist, a bit of metal in the other. He saw Moore shoot Jordan twice before the mortal tackled her. They both hit the floor hard. Her gun skittered across the tiles, coming to a stop against Dante’s back.
Dante lay in the corridor, his arms wrapped around Wallace. Fading blue flames sparked and danced around them. Lucien heard Dante’s slow, measured heartbeat, smelled the chemicals flowing in his blood. Wallace’s heart pulsed, as well, a rapid patter.
In one long stride, Lucien stood beside his drugged child and the woman he cared for—cared for enough to sacrifice his own safety to ensure hers—but hadn’t that always been his way?
It was one of the things Lucien loved and treasured most in Dante—his compassionate heart. All the things Moore had subjected his child to hadn’t stolen that compassion or broken his spirit. He was wounded, yes, and some of the wounds might never heal, yes. But he’d survive. And he’d love.
Lucien saw Genevieve in every act of love Dante performed, in every kindness he showed. In those moments, Lucien saw his laughing, dark-haired little Genevieve.
But, as for the woman who’d killed her…
Lucien swiveled and watched as Johanna Moore pushed herself free of Jordan’s body. Her hand reached up, grabbing the broken syringe in her throat. She yanked it out, blood trickling from the puncture, then froze, her gaze traveling up the length of Lucien’s body.
Johanna Moore paled. Her fingers froze around the sliver of steel in her belly.
Jordan’s blood-frothed lips curved into a smile. His eyes closed.
“Do you remember Genevieve Baptiste?” Lucien asked, kneeling beside Dante. “My son’s mother?” He picked up Moore’s gun and tossed it down the darkened hall.
Shock blanched Johanna’s face. Widened her eyes. “Your…son?” she whispered.
“Oüi, mon fils,” Lucien said. He glanced at Heather; she opened her eyes. “But, I believe my question was—do you remember Genevieve Baptiste?”
Lucien slipped an arm around Heather and eased her up, helping her to sit against the wall. Her gaze remained on Dante, reluctant to leave him. Lucien touched a talon beneath her chin. Heather regarded him with shock-dilated eyes.
“It’s all right,” he promised.
Heather drew in a deep breath, then winced. Lucien brushed her hair back from her face. Her wound no longer bled, but she needed medical attention. The drugs had kept Dante from finishing whatever it was he’d started.
“I’m waiting,” Lucien said.
“Yes, I remember her,” Moore stammered, voice rough. She yanked the file from her flesh. It hit the floor with a sharp tink.
Lucien drew a talon across his wrist. Blood welled up. He looked at Moore from beneath his brows. “Say her name.”
“Genevieve Baptiste,” Moore breathed. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have—”
“Be silent,” Lucien said, gathering Dante into his arms.
Moore closed her mouth.
Lucien pressed his bleeding wrist against Dante’s lips. The blood smell roused Dante’s nightkind instinct and he sucked at the wound, swallowing the healing blood. Lucien knew it wouldn’t cleanse all of the drug’s effects, but it would lessen them.
Looking back at Moore, Lucien said, “I’ve read the file. I’ve seen the CD. I know what you’ve done to Dante. To him and to his mother, my love.”
Moore looked away. She trailed a shaking hand through her blonde hair.
Why have you abandoned us?
Lucien tasted the ashes of bitter regret. He deserved Dante’s hate, perhaps.
My Genevieve, I am with our son. He is safe at last.
Lucien pulled his wrist away from Dante’s mouth, then bent and kissed him, breathing energy in between his lips. Urged his son up to consciousness.
Awaken, child. Time to take your revenge.
Time to free yourself from the past.
Dante’s eyes opened, revealing dilated gold-rimmed pupils.
***
“AVENGE YOUR MOTHER,” LUCIEN whispered. “And yourself.”
Pushing Lucien’s arms aside, Dante sat up. The corridor spun. Colored flecks starred his vision. His head ached, but a different kind of pain knifed his heart.
Heather.
He looked for her, saw her resting against the wall, a smile on her pale lips. Rising to his feet, he crossed the floor and, kneeling, touched a hand to her face.
He breathed a little easier knowing she’d live. He’d flooded energy and song into her, seeking what was broken. He wasn’t sure what he’d done, but it had worked. He hadn’t lost her.
Heather laid her hand over his, her skin cool. Wonder lit her face. “I hear a song. It’s dark and furious and heartbreaking. So beautiful. Is it coming from you?”
Dante nodded. Leaning in, he kissed her. Her fingers inter-laced with his. “Don’t listen,” he said against her lips. “Shut it out. D’accord?”
“Let it go. I can build a case against Moore,” Heather said. “Let it go, Dante.”
Dante leaned back. “No.” He squeezed her hand, then released it. He stood.
Heather closed her eyes. “Pigheaded,” she whispered.
Dante spun on his heel and strode across the corridor, past Lucien, Heather’s fear pressed like a rose against his heart. For him. She was scared for him.
Elroy the Perv’s body stretched across the doorway, his shirt bloodied, his eyes empty, his heart silent. Dissipating heat shimmered up from the body. Dante’s hands curled into fists. Gina. Elroy had taken the last little bit of her to the grave.
“Name the one you love,” Dante whispered, stepping over the Perv.
Tomorrow night?
Always, ma petite.
Dante walked into a room rank with buried memories and the smell of old blood and medicine. He looked at the woman standing at the opposite wall—tall, blonde, nightkind. Never taking her eyes from him, she reached for a dart gun on the counter beside her.
Images sparked: She looks down at him, smiling. He smells Chloe’s blood congealing on the floor, on the straitjacket wrapped around him. “You’ve done well, little one. You failed to protect her, but you protected yourself. No one can ever be used against you if you’re willing to kill them yourself.”
Sparked: She tightens his restraints, smooths a hand through his hair, then, smiling, steps back as a man in a white lab coat and a clear mask walks into the room, a baseball bat clenched in his hand. And goes to work.
Wasps droned. Pain whispered through Dante’s mind. White light squiggled at the edges of his vision. He watched her hand slide to the dart gun; he let her curl her fingers around it.
She’s the one, Dante-angel.
I know, princess.
“My True Blood,” she said. A smile brushed her lips. “Do you remember me?”
“Oüi,” Dante said, voice low. “I remember you.”
Dante moved and caught her wrist as she raised the dart gun, then slammed her against the wall. The dart gun tumbled from her fingers and tunked against the tile. Moore twisted, but Dante held her against the wall, his hands locked around her wrists, his body pressing against hers, his thigh between her legs.
Dante smelled the blood flowing through her veins, listened to the hard pounding of her heart, smelled her—cinnamon and cloves and cold, cold ice.
Smelled lust, smoldering and pheromone-rich.
Moore stopped struggling. She looked into Dante’s eyes. Her breath caught in her throat and another memory-fragment tore through his mind: Moore curled naked and warm beside him, reeking of blood and sex, her fangs in his throat, her fingers in his hair.
Rage coiled through muscles already taut. “What makes you different from him?” Dante nodded his head toward Jordan’s body behind him.
“I know what’s best for you.”
“Yeah, he thought so, too.”
“No one knows you like I do,” Moore said, voice husky. “I’ve explored your mind. Mapped your psyche. But it’s only a beginning. There are secrets, S—”
“Ain’t S.”
Music twisted through Dante: an aria, thorned and dark, prickling around his heart, rising, pounding, a crescendo of fury and chaos and loss. Chords strummed; chaos rhythm pulsed discordant and raw.
His song burned. Incandescent.
“Did my mother ask to be turned?” Dante asked. “Did she choose?”
“Yes. But, she changed her mind later, when it was too late. I couldn’t undo—”
“Liar,” Dante whispered.
“What’s that glow?” Moore breathed as he lifted his hands and cupped her face.
Chaos rhythm plucked at vibrating strands of DNA, breaking, compressing, erasing. Unmaking. Johanna Moore screamed, a long undulating sound that pierced Dante’s aching head. His song pulled her apart—divided her into elements, played an arpeggio with her core. Spilled her essence. Separated flesh and bone and blood.
Johanna Moore puddled on the floor, her scream ending with a wet gurgle.
Blue spikes of energy whipped around Dante, flamed from his hands. He shivered, caught in the song, the rhythms of chaos, the tempo of creation. Closed his eyes. He saw stars. Heard a rush of wings.
Dante opened his eyes. The song faded into silence. Pain scraped through his head. He tasted blood. He looked down at the moist strands that used to be Johanna Moore. Kicked them apart. Then he turned.
Lucien stared at him, eyes golden, wings arched behind him, his face both rapt and…scared? Dante wondered. Lucien, scared?
Dante walked to the doorway. He knelt beside Elroy’s cooling body. Could he pull Gina from a dead mind?
“Too late,” Lucien said. “You’ve chosen the living over the dead.”
Looking up, Dante saw Heather sitting across the hall, face stark, eyes dark and troubled. “Oüi. The living over the dead.”
Forgive me, Gina.
Standing, Dante stepped over the Perv’s body one last time. He gathered Heather into his arms and carried her down the corridor. His muscles tightened as he smelled fear on her, fear of him. He held her close, his heart pounding hard.
A man in a snow-dusted parka stepped into the corridor, his hands out and open; Look, nothing hidden here! “I can call an ambulance,” he said.
“You can trust him,” Heather murmured. “He helped me.”
“Okay,” Dante said. “Call one.” He breathed in Heather’s scent—rain and sage and blood, drew it deep into his lungs. Scared it was the last time.
* * *
34
All that Could’ve Been
« ^ »
“HEY.”
Heather looked up toward the doorway. Dante leaned there in leather and latex, one hand braced against the threshold. Fluorescent light winked from the ring in his collar and from the rings on his fingers. A half smile tilted his lips, lit his pale, gorgeous face. He raised his shades to the top of his head.
He still stole her breath away. She suspected that he always would.
Beyond him, in the corridor, nurses and CNAs stared, wondering who paid hospital visits wearing leather and bondage collars, wondering just what had wandered in from the frozen night.
“Hey,” Heather said.
She pressed her hands against the mattress, meaning to ease up, but then Dante was there, arms around her, helping her, his hands hot against her skin. Pain rippled through her and she caught her breath.
“What’s wrong?” Dante asked. “Do you need—”
“No. It’s okay.”
Dante looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching her face. Then he inhaled deeply. He pulled the chair close to the bed and sat. He waited. Heather was pretty sure he knew what she was going to say—or, at least, suspected.
Reaching a hand over the bed railing, she grasped Dante’s hand. A smile ghosted across his lips. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. She glanced out the window, at the room reflected in the black sky beyond, and the two people in that room, holding hands and keeping silent.
Heather thought of the mystified surgeons: the worst of the damage to her aorta and her left lung healed or closed off, or miraculously cauterized. She should’ve bled to death in minutes. She remembered the taste of Dante’s lips, the amaretto taste of his blood; remembered the cool fire he’d breathed into her.
None of which Heather could tell the surgeons. Or the investigators from the Bureau dispatched to take her statement, debrief her and uncover the truth. Or at least an official version of the truth. She knew better than to mention Bad Seed; she only discussed her hunt for a serial killer and how she’d finally found him.
One thing she knew for certain—her career with the Bureau was over. Her decision, one she hadn’t voiced yet. The powers that be would be happy to file her away at a desk in an obscure city; would, in fact, prefer it.
Heather kept Dante from all of them. He’d saved her life. Even without that, she’d never hand him over to federal wolves. Hadn’t Johanna Moore be
en wolf enough?
Johanna Moore. What Dante had done…Heather couldn’t wrap her mind around it. What had he done?
Dante cups Moore’s face. His hands tremble. Glow with blue light. Blue flame. His hair snakes up into the air. Energy crackles. Heather’s skin goose bumps. Her hair lifts. She smells ozone.
Blue light shafts into Moore’s body, explodes from her eyes, her screaming mouth. She…separates…into strands, wet and glistening, mingled blue and red. Dante unthreads her, separates every single part of her.
Johanna Moore spills to the tiled floor.
Energy continues to whip from Dante, blue tentacles snapping into the air and altering everything they touch. A counter twists into dark, heaving vines thick with blue thorns. The dart gun slithers into the shadows.
Dante’s beautiful face is ecstatic—like it had been when he’d torched the Prejean house.
In that moment, Heather had been terrified of Dante. Of what he could do. His potential. Yet…had Dante been a voice for his mother? For all of Johanna Moore’s victims?
“Talk to me,” Dante said.
Heather shifted her gaze from the window. Smiling, she squeezed his hand. He burned against her palm. Felt fevered. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Ça va bien. I’m good.” Dante held her gaze, his own open and unwavering. “Talk to me, Heather.”
She nodded. Talk might help. “What you did to Moore…what…how…?”
“Dunno,” Dante said. He trailed a hand through his hair. “I’ve never done…that…before. The song you said you heard? It’s tied to that. I feel it inside.” He touched their linked hands against his chest, above his heart. “It’s like fingering the strings on my guitar, like composing on my keyboards.”
“Is it a nightkind or a Fallen ability?”
Dante stared at her, surprised. “How did you know?”