A Rush of Wings

  “We tried to get a statement from him,” LaRousse said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the desk. “All we got was an hour’s worth of ‘Fuck off.’ ”

  “As charming as you are?” Heather snorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “LaRousse? Charming?”

  Heather glanced toward the speaker. Collins stood in the squad room doorway, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in each hand. Just coming on duty, then. She nodded. “Trent.”

  “Agent Wallace was just leaving,” LaRousse said, dropping his feet to the floor and sitting up. He switched off his computer, looked at Collins. “Unless you want your pet fed to keep you company.”

  “Like I said, charming.” Collins sauntered over to stand beside Heather. A deep vertical line creased the skin on his forehead—what Heather’s mother used to call the thinking deep line. “What’s up?”

  “I have reason to believe Dante Prejean is the CCK’s next target,” Heather said.

  “Yeah?” LaRousse said. “Well, he can have Prejean, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Why Prejean?” Collins questioned. He handed Heather one of the cups.

  Heather accepted the coffee, smiling. The sharp, fresh-brewed aroma cleared her head. “Well, the last two victims have had contact with Prejean, one intimately. The first was from Lafayette—same as Prejean.”

  Collins nodded. “Just heard about this morning’s call.”

  Heather paused to take a sip of the coffee. “The CCK—if it’s the CCK—has added Prejean’s anarchy logo to his signature. One vic was killed next to Club Hell, the other in Club Hell. I think the killer’s circling in, closer and closer. Sooner or later, he’ll decide to take Prejean.”

  LaRousse said, “You sure it ain’t Prejean himself?”

  “I was watching his house during the time frame of the last victim’s death,” Heather said. Gina. Her name was Gina. She was breathing just a few hours ago.

  “Positive he was there?” LaRousse said, a slight smirk on his lips.

  “Yeah,” Heather said, voice even. “I saw him arrive and go inside. And he came out when I served the warrant.”

  “You must enjoy watching him, Wallace,” LaRousse said, leaning back in his chair again. “A good-looking rock star like that.”

  “Kinda sounds like you’re the one hung up on him, and he’s not a rock star,” Heather replied. “He’s an underground cult figure. And yeah, he’s good-looking, so what?”

  “Good-looking street trash, y’mean,” LaRousse muttered. “Wouldn’t know an honest day’s work if it kicked him in the ass.”

  Collins groaned. “Spare us, Reverend.”

  Heather couldn’t believe her ears. The bastard was envious of Dante. Whether LaRousse wanted the so-called fame, the so-called money, or the groupies; whether he wanted Dante’s looks, his life, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was that he had refused to offer protection to a killer’s potential victim, had allowed Dante to walk.

  Pulse pounding in her temples, Heather grabbed the arms of LaRousse’s chair and swung it around so he faced her. “Hear this,” she said. “I’ll hold you accountable if anything happens to him.”

  LaRousse met her gaze, dark seething emotions shadowing his face. After a moment, he looked away, lips thinned into a white line.

  Heather released the chair, then turned her back on the detective. Collins met her gaze, eyebrow arched, vertical crease smoothed away. A warning glimmered in his eyes. Careful. Very thin ice.

  “I know,” Heather murmured. “I need you to contact the Prejeans and the Spurrells in Lafayette, see if the families had any connections.”

  “Will do. Where you headed?”

  “To find Prejean.”

  * * *

  9

  Unwalked Paths

  « ^ »

  THE BLONDE WITH THE long spiraled hair answered the door. “Oüi?” she said, scanning the dark yard behind Heather before focusing on her face. A slight smile brushed across her lips.

  “I need to speak to Dante,” Heather said.

  The blonde shook her head and Heather caught a whiff of flowers—roses, maybe magnolias. “Dante’s not at home,” she said, starting to close the door.

  Heather stopped the door with her hand. “I intend to wait,” she said, holding her badge up at eye level.

  The blonde regarded the badge with thoughtful brown eyes, then she stepped back, opening the door wide. “S’il te plaît,” she said, gesturing Heather inside with a graceful wave of her hand.

  “Thank you.”

  The blonde led Heather to the front room. “Make yourself at home,” she said, stopping beside a sofa.

  Heather sat, perching on the edge, muscles knotted. She needed sleep, a meal. She glanced at her hands. They trembled ever so slightly. She curled her hands into fists. The last twenty-four hours—not to mention all the damned coffee—were catching up with her.

  “Are you all right, M’selle Wallace?”

  Heather looked up. The blonde studied her, expression neutral, but her brown eyes sharp. “I’m sorry,” Heather said, managing a smile. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Simone,” she answered, returning Heather’s smile. “You look tired. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’d be great.” Heather unknotted her hands and pressed her fingers flat against her slacks.

  Nodding, Simone walked across the room. She paused at the archway and looked back at Heather, her long blonde hair swinging against her denim-skirted hips. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  Heather smiled in acknowledgment of her statement and what was implied: Don’t go anywhere.

  Once Simone had left the room, Heather slumped back into the sofa and closed her eyes. The last thing she needed was more caffeine, but she was afraid she’d fall asleep without it. Kind of difficult to protect someone while snoozing on their sofa.

  She shook her head. She was losing focus. And she hadn’t checked in with Stearns…oh…since seven o’clock last night and it was now—Opening her eyes, she peered at her watch. Eight fourteen p.m. Sunday. She sighed.

  Well, she was the one who decided to forego sleep so she could serve her warrant to Dante at the most inconvenient moment possible.

  But she gut-knew that the man who’d murdered Gina was the same one she’d been pursuing for the last three years.

  His first known kill had been in Seattle. Serial killers always started where they were the most comfortable, and then expanded outward from that point as they grew more confident.

  So, did Dante have any ties to Seattle?

  “Not really,” a low voice said. “Just some music contacts.”

  “What?” Heather looked up sharply. She straightened, her gaze lighting on the speaker—the wine-drinking minor from the club. Had she been thinking out loud?

  He leaned against the wall just inside the archway, purple hair gelled into a disheveled rock star/bedhead look. His startling silver eyes seemed lit from within, his face pensive as he chewed on his lower lip. He looked no older than sixteen.

  “I’m sorry,” Heather said. “What did you say?”

  He wore black jeans studded with metal, zippered and looped with chains. A wide, low-slung belt circled his narrow hips and his slashed and faded black SINENGINE T was so tight it looked like it’d been airbrushed on over his lean torso.

  Simone stepped into the room. She glanced at the boy for a moment, then shifted her gaze to Heather. “This is Silver,” she said, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “Silver, this is Agent Wallace.”

  Heather noted Simone’s emphasis on the word agent. Silver had just been warned or perhaps reminded. Why?

  “The coffee will be ready in a few minutes,” Simone said, releasing Silver’s shoulder. “Would you like to freshen up?” Without a backward glance, the boy slipped from the room.

  Heather met Simone’s gaze and smiled. “I’d like that, thank you.”

  Simone led her into
a narrow hall lined with framed artwork and old-fashioned candleholders. A dark brown carpet etched with leaves in gold and scarlet stretched the length of the hall. Heather caught a glimpse of stairs spiraling up at the hall’s opposite end. Faint blue light edged beneath a partially opened door beside the stairs.

  Simone gestured toward the bathroom and began to walk away. Heather said, “Did you know Gina?”

  Simone halted. “Oüi, she was Dante’s friend.”

  “Do you know of anyone who’d want to harm her?” Heather said. “Maybe something you heard?”

  Simone shook her head. “No.”

  “What about Étienne?” Heather asked. “He was pretty pissed off at Dante last night at the club. Do you think he might be capable of—”

  “Having Gina murdered?” Simone finished. “Capable, oüi.” Her gaze drifted past Heather and up. “What do you think, llygad?”

  Heather stiffened as she realized someone stood behind her. Worse, she had a feeling he’d been standing there for a while. Turning, she put her back to the wall and glanced to the right.

  The nomad bouncer stood at the foot of the stairs, dressed in faded jeans and a button-down black shirt, his deep brown hair brushing his shoulders. His green eyes, no longer hidden behind shades, seemed to look beyond Heather. He stroked the sides of his mustache thoughtfully.

  “Nah,” he said finally. “Not Étienne’s style. He’d hurt Dante, sure. But not through a mortal—not unless he could make Dante watch.”

  Heather glanced from Von to Simone. Their gazes held for a heartbeat longer, then Simone glanced down, a smile on her lips.

  Grinning wolfishly, fangs showing, Von strode down the hall in long-legged, confident strides. He winked at Heather as he passed. His scent was frosty and clear, the first chilly breath of autumn. He brushed the backs of his fingers against Simone’s pale cheek as he passed. Then he was gone.

  “There it was again,” Heather said. “That word. Mortals. Dante believes he’s a vampire. Von has fangs. What about you?”

  Simone regarded her for a long moment, all amusement gone from her dark eyes. “What you need to remember, m’selle, is that Dante never tells or forgives a lie.” Swiveling around, Simone walked away, hips swinging. “I’ll fetch your coffee.”

  “Everyone lies,” Heather said under her breath. That was the universal truth of detective work, one she’d had drilled into her since before her days at the Academy. Everyone lies. Guilty people lie. Innocent people lie. Cops lie. Bad guys definitely lie. The reasons differ—to hide, to protect another, to cover up—but everyone lies.

  Heather stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. She regarded her weary reflection in the mirror. Tendrils of hair clung to her face and neck. Shadows smudged her eyes. She turned on the faucet, splashed cold water onto her face.

  So…Dante had a reputation for not lying.

  Heather patted her face dry with a plush blue towel, then looked into the mirror again. All that meant was that Dante believed he was a vampire. If his friends, hell, even his enemies encouraged his delusional thinking, then to him, he spoke the truth.

  Reaching behind her head, Heather unpinned and unwound her French braid. Her hair, frizzy with humidity, tumbled past her shoulders.

  What if he was a vampire? What if everyone in this house were exactly what they pretended to be—sun-shunning vampires? What was the word Dante had used? Nightkind.

  Heather fumbled her brush and makeup bag out of her purse and onto the counter.

  But she’d picked Dante up shortly after dawn.

  It was overcast. He wore sunscreen and shades and gloves. He hid his face within a hood.

  His mind-dazzling speed. Jackson pulled the trigger. No way that bullet could’ve missed Dante. But it had.

  The need on his face. The blood, still dripping, the air reeking with it.

  Then why had he allowed himself to be arrested? Weren’t vampires strong enough to snap handcuffs?

  Heather tugged the brush through her hair. She didn’t like the path her thoughts were taking, but it was a path she needed to walk. She’d learned over the years to examine every angle, no matter how absurd.

  What about the scene at the club? Étienne and his dark promises?

  Leaning against the counter, Heather touched up her lipstick. She conceded it could’ve all been a game. Some live-action roleplayers took their games very seriously, especially the vampire and werewolf groups. She’d seen it in Seattle more than once.

  But what if it hadn’t been a game?

  What had Étienne said to De Noir?

  This doesn’t concern the Fallen.

  Suddenly cold, Heather tucked her lipstick back into her makeup bag, then dropped it back into her purse. She stared into the mirror; her reflection stared back, eyes dilated and nearly black in the low light, rimmed with cornflower blue.

  She dropped her gaze to her hands. They trembled once again. Fallen. As in angels? Nightbringer. Everything about De Noir seemed unearthly: his powerful presence, the gleam of gold in his black eyes, his speed as he rushed toward Étienne.

  Heather shrugged out of her trench, then draped it over her arm so that she had easy access to her .38. She smoothed her sweater. Opening the door, she stepped out into the empty hall. The front door opened as she walked into the front room. De Noir stepped through, closing the door behind him.

  Apprehension iced her spine. “Where’s Dante?” she asked.

  ***

  SAC CRAIG STEARNS SIPPED at his coffee, his zillionth of the day, as he looked out his office window into the rainy Seattle night. He’d been trying to reach Wallace since morning, without luck. She hadn’t responded to his e-mail messages or to his calls.

  Wallace had never gone this long without checking in. Her last message had stated that she was checking leads and would contact him today.

  Returning to his desk, he sank into his chair. He flipped through some of the field reports stacked on his desk. He’d already read each several times.

  If anything had…happened…to Wallace, he would’ve heard by now. Unless it was the kind of happened no one knew about yet.

  Stearns swallowed the last of his coffee. He’d call that detective Wallace was consulting with in New Orleans—Collins. As he reached for the phone, it rang and he jerked his hand back, heart pounding. Chagrined, he switched on the speaker and tabbed on the vid-mon. Maybe he should cut down on the caffeine.

  But the face that took shape on the monitor reassured him that his instincts were as sharp as ever: Blonde hair stylishly razor-cut, almond-shaped blue eyes, and a deceptively warm smile. He knew from experience that if a heart beat within her curvaceous chest, it’d been carved from glacial ice.

  “I knew I’d find you at the office, Craig,” ADIC Johanna Moore said.

  “What’s shaking, Moore?”

  “Good news, I hope,” she said, her smile widening. “We’ve got a dead perp in Pensacola that we’ve reason to believe is the Cross-Country Killer.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You name it, we got it. We’re waiting on DNA results, but, really, that’s just a formality.” Moore shook her head. “It’s finally over, Craig. Call your agent home.”

  Stearns smiled despite the sudden cold icing his bones. Something was way hinky here. “How’d it happen?”

  “One of my agents caught the perp in action. Made a good kill.” Moore’s smile faded. “Unfortunately, the perp’s victim didn’t make it.”

  “A shame,” Stearns said. “I think I’ll send my agent on to Pensacola to get those DNA results. Since this isn’t exactly your department.” Especially for the ADIC of Special Ops and Research, an ADIC rumored to have ties to the “non-existant” shadow branch.

  “Not necessary,” Moore replied, another warm smile on her lips. “I’ve got an agent there now.”

  “Well, hell, then I’ll tell my agent to hang out and enjoy Mardi Gras.”

  “Recall Wallace,” Moore said, smile gone.
br />   “So that’s it.” Stearns’s mind raced, flipping through possible courses of action. “What are you hiding in New Orleans?”

  “You’re fencing with the wrong person. Get your agent out.”

  “One of your projects must be down there. That it?”

  A rueful smile brushed over Moore’s lips. “You know better than to ask that, Craig, you of all people.”

  It hit Stearns, then, like a fist to the gut. One of Moore’s projects and the CCK were one and the same. Why had Moore even allowed them to work the case? Maybe it hadn’t mattered before because they were never close, but now they were. Wallace was on the bad guy’s ass. Closing in.

  “Wallace had better be all right,” he said, voice tight.

  “Bring her in,” Moore said softly, “and she will be.” She switched off, the vid-mon going slate-gray with static.

  Stearns jumped to his feet, kicked his chair. It rolled across the polished hardwood floor and thunked into the wall. He paced from the rain-misted window to the door and back again. Think! Wallace would never buy it if he just called her in. She’d want to go to Pensacola, check the evidence for herself. Moore probably expected that.

  Let Wallace know that the case was officially closed. The CCK was dead. End of story.

  Bracing his hands on either side of the window, Stearns stared out into the black night. His stomach churned. Neon flashed on the streets below; car headlights streaked along the wet pavement. Moore’s request was simple.

  All he had to do was bring an agent in. And let a killer walk. Again.

  * * *

  10

  Unforeseen

  « ^ »

  RONIN PULLED HIS CAMARO over to the curb and switched off the engine. He glanced at the handheld GPS receiver. Dante’s movement had stopped, then resumed, but at a much slower pace. So…the boy was now on foot.

  Getting out of his car, Ronin stepped onto the sidewalk and tabbed his debit spike into the parking meter, then set it for two hours. He checked the GPS receiver, then started walking down neon-lit Canal Street, toward the Mississippi. Even here tourists and vendors crowded the sidewalks, and the four lanes of traffic gleamed with headlights. Horns honked as drivers warned strolling pedestrians as they hung rights or lefts across crosswalks.