And she believed she had succeeded. Believed herself ready and more than capable of doing what her mère de sang had requested of her.
The Conseil du Sang want you to be their emissary to Dante Baptiste. They want you to assess his condition, to determine whether he can be salvaged. As rare and powerful as True Bloods are, no one wants to just throw this boy away. But if he’s too damaged, then he’s much too dangerous to remain free . . .
Now, watching him in the Cage, Merri knew herself for a fool.
“I’M GONNA SHARE A few things I’ve learned recently and end the rumors tonight.” Dante’s kohl-rimmed, deep brown eyes skim the crowd for a moment before he continues. “I’m the Nightbringer’s son and I was born nightkind.”
Stunned silence from the crowd. Lucien De Noir stands beside the Cage door, his chin lifted, his face nearly luminous with pride.
“Just so there’s no confusion,” Dante continues into the silence, his Cajun-accented voice shifting into a warning drawl, “no, I won’t turn you. No, you ain’t getting a taste. No, I ain’t interested in claiming power, your fucking household, or your girlfriend.”
“Bullshit! You’re lying through your fangs!” someone shouts. “You’re just trying to win support against Guy!”
“Yeah, that’d be my thought too, in your place,” Dante says, unstrapping his latex shirt and peeling it off.
Lusty catcalls scrape into the air at the sight of Dante’s bared torso—all lean, defined muscle and ivory skin. A ridged white scar forms an odd blend of pyramids and loops on one pec. “Don’t stop there!” someone teasingly pleads. “Keep going!”
Dante turns around, giving the crowd his back. He flexes his shoulder and deltoid muscles, then smooth black wings edged in deepest crimson slide out from beneath his skin in a rush and unfurl, snapping the scent of burning leaves and musk into the air.
Silence swallows the crowd whole, mortal and nightkind alike.
Dante swivels back around with an unconscious and sexy grace and displays the undersides of his wings—streaked in fire patterns of brilliant blue and purple—before folding them shut behind him. He grasps the microphone again, the rings on his fingers and thumb clinking against the metal, yanking it close to the wicked, knowing smile tilting his lips.
“Does that answer the bullshit question? Anyone? Anyone?”
THE IMAGE THAT MERRI was receiving of Dante in the Cage, black dragon wings folded at his back and arching above his head, suddenly wrinkled like the surface of a wind-kissed pond, then smoothed away into nothingness as Juliet withdrew the feed from Merri’s mind.
Merri’s heart drummed a stuttering cadence against her ribs. Fallen. Not only True Blood, but Fallen. Her racing thoughts hurried back to Damascus and the white stone angels rimming the mysterious cave—where a home had once stood, where a rogue FBI agent and his family had died.
Blue sparks flicker like fireflies over the white stone, skip along the butter-smooth wings. From within the white stone a heart flutters, the sound slowing. Not statues, no. Merri senses power in each stone figure, power that tingles against her gloved fingertips. She remembers tales of Fallen magic, whispers of angelic battles.
Merri couldn’t help but wonder how Dante Baptiste—given what she now knew about him—had managed to avoid sharing their fate, especially since he’d been there too, he and Heather Wallace both.
She also couldn’t help but wonder why Von, that long cool drink of a nomad, had neglected to mention the fact that Dante was Lucien De Noir’s son. Nightbringer. A vision of raven-black wings, their edges sharp as a scythe, flaring above bone-white tombs, flashed behind her closed eyes, leaving her both chilled and uneasy.
An aroma of sweet oranges and almonds washed over Merri’s senses—Galiana’s scent—and then she felt her mère de sang’s soothing, mental touch.
Merri quoted.
But Galiana ignored her question, asking one of her own instead.
Amusement buoyed Galiana’s sending, an amusement that vanished as quickly as soap bubbles. —finally answering Merri’s question—
Merri sent.
Galiana interrupted.
Merri admitted. For reasons she didn’t fully understand, she decided to leave it at that and save the details—Dante’s disappearance and the frantic search to find him—for another time.
—a wry note twisted through Galiana’s sending—
Galiana’s amusement poured like sunshine through Merri’s mind, warm and full of golden light.
As her mère de sang’s presence withdrew from her mind, Merri became aware of the strained silence surrounding her. She opened her eyes and looked up into eyes as cold and hard as emeralds in a glacier. It hit her then and she uttered a soft groan of disbelief. The announcement, the scene at the club, Dante in the Cage, herself so caught up, so damned rapt. . . .
“You dropped your shields, darlin’,” Von said in a low, tight voice. “I think we need to talk.”
18
CONSEQUENCES
HE’D FUCKED UP. NO two ways about it.
Von took another long pull from the bottle of Jack. The bourbon burned smooth all the way down, but did nothing to ease the fury and self-disgust knotting up his guts.
When he’d scanned Merri’s mind back at the house, he’d looked for SB conspiracy plots dancing like sugar plums inside her pretty head and when he hadn’t found any, he’d thought there hadn’t been a need to look deeper.
He’d thought wrong.
The second scan he’d just done verified everything he’d overheard between Merri and her mère de sang: the Conseil du Sang planned to out-maneuver, outwit, and outflank both the Fallen and the Cercle de Druide and lay claim to Dante first.
Motherfuckers. Like Dante was a winning lottery ticket.
And what exactly had Merri’s mère de sang meant when she’d told Merri that the Bloodline needed Dante? A dark suspicion snaked through Von’s mind, one he didn’t care to contemplate at the moment.
Ain’t got time for this shit. Need to be heading for the airport.
Merri still sat on the opposite side of the counter, a tumbler of brandy in one dark hand. Thibodaux sat beside her, hooded eyes watchful.
“Look,” Merri said, “I haven’t told anyone that Dante’s missing or incommunicado. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Von shook his head. “Nope. No brownie points for biding your time.”
“I wasn’t biding. . . . Jesus, I told you, I was sent on a fact-finding mission—”
“Spying. I’d call it spying,” Von interrupted, resting the rapidly emptying bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the bar. “And, yeah. I know. To find out how much Dante’s been messed up by Bad Seed so that the fucking Conseil can decide Dante’s fut
ure for him. Sound about right?”
“No, llygad, it doesn’t sound about right. Just because that’s why I was sent, doesn’t mean that’s why I’m here.”
Placing his hands on the counter, Von leaned in, bringing his face closer to Merri’s. “All right. I’m game, darlin’. Entertain me. Why you here, then?”
With a soft, frustrated sigh, Merri shook a cigarette from her pack of Djarum Black, then fired it up with a slim, silver lighter. The aroma of clove-spice tobacco crackled into the reeking air. “It sounds like you’ve already got your mind made up. So forget it.”
“Oh no. You don’t get off the hook that easy. Spill, woman. Why you here?”
Merri lifted her chin. “To get to know Dante Baptiste. To find out what he wants. And to give back to him what was stolen—his past.”
“Amen to that,” Thibodaux said. “But he shouldn’t watch that flash drive alone, y’hear?” He lifted his gaze to Von’s, expression grim. Shadows lurked beneath the surface of his blue eyes. “And not in one sitting. Hell, maybe he shouldn’t even watch it at all.”
“Maybe,” Von agreed. “But that’s for Dante to decide.” He slid the bottle of Jack across the counter to Thibodaux. The former SB agent flashed him a grateful smile. Lifting the bottle to his lips, he took a long, healthy swallow.
Von straightened and studied Merri for a long, silent moment. She returned his regard with calm, brown eyes. He’d found secrets in her mind, yeah, but no deliberate deception. Still, when it came down to the wire, would she follow her heart and what she knew to be right or obey her mère de sang?
“Why didn’t you just tell me all this to start with?” Von asked.
Shrugging, Merri blew a plume of clove-scented smoke into the air. “I meant to, but I was a little preoccupied. When were you planning on telling me that De Noir was Dante’s father?”
“I meant to, but I was a little preoccupied.”
A wry smile twitched at the corners of Merri’s mouth. “Touchè. But I gotta say—for a llygad, you’re one smart-ass mofo.” She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray, then added, “No offense.”
“None taken,” Von drawled. “I don’t get many compliments like that. Hard to believe, I know. Now, if y’all will excuse me, I need to get to the airport.”
“You want backup?” Merri asked, hopping down from her stool. “We—”
Von cut her off with a shake of his head. “Sorry, darlin’, can’t trust you.” He flicked a glance at Thibodaux. “Either one of you. I think your intentions might be good, but your loyalty ain’t to Dante. Until that changes . . .” He shrugged.
Frustration rippled across Merri’s face, then vanished. “All right,” she said. “I can understand that. Is there anything we can do here to help in the meantime? A way to start earning that trust?”
Von opened his mouth to say no, then reconsidered as he took in the club’s sorry state. “If you truly want to help, talk to Silver and Jack about how best to get this mess cleaned up and repairs started. They’ll know who to call to get the ball rolling.”
“Fair enough,” Merri said.
Outside, Von locked up the club as best he could, given the damaged doors, then saw Merri and Thibodaux off in the van with Silver behind the wheel. As he headed down the block for his Harley, keys in hand, he heard the slow, pendulum swing of nightkind hearts behind him. He stopped, suddenly remembering his appointment with Holly.
“I’m sorry, darlin’,” Von said, turning around, “but something impor—” His words cut off when he saw who had joined Holly.
Two male nightkind in the formal black kilts, sweaters, and boots of the filidh guard, horizontal sword tattoos beneath their right eyes, flanked her. Von didn’t see any visible weapons, but then, they didn’t need any. Being llafnau, they were weapons.
“Looks like you’re skipping out on me again,” Holly said.
“I’m really sorry about that, Miková,” Von said, taking a slow step back toward his Harley. “But our meeting needs to wait one night. One night is all I’m asking and then I’ll head straight for Memphis—as ordered. You have my word.”
“The same word you gave me less than a week ago?” Holly asked, her threadbare Russian accent dropping into a deadly purr. “The same word you gave me not two hours ago? That word, Vonushka? You made me look like a fool.”
“I’m sorry about that too,” Von said, meaning it. “That was never my intention. But all kinds of shit has hit the fan, shit that involves Dante. You saw his announcement. You know what that means.” Von took another backward step. The bike was just behind him. “You’ve got to trust me, Holly. Just one night.”
“No. Not this time. You’ve worn my trust thin.”
Von whirled—
—and the street whirled with him. Spinning in a streak of night and orange gaslight, paving bricks and green shutters, stars and pavement. Darkness bled across Von’s vision. As the sidewalk rushed up to meet him, one thought pirouetted through his mind before darkness shut the show down.
Aw, crap. Motherfucking pills.
19
LIKE ASHES IN HER MOUTH
DALLAS, TEXAS
THE STRICKLAND DEPROGRAMMING INSTITUTE
HEATHER HAD JUST TUCKED her fork into the sleeve of her cornflower-blue sweater, the steel cool against her skin, when James Wallace walked back into the dining room—empty now except for her—and slumped into the chair opposite hers, the sharp scent of his Brut aftershave wafting across the table. The line of his clean-shaven jaw was nearly white with anger.
“You were right,” he said, light from the overheads reflected in his glasses. “The RN just confirmed it. You are being transferred in the morning.” He shoved aside the plate containing his half-eaten meal, scattering a few kernels of buttered corn across the tablecloth. “Goddammit. No one contacted me about this.”
“I warned you,” Heather said, lowering her hand to her lap and folding her fingers over the heel of her sleeve, securing the fork. “Back at the club. The Bureau isn’t going to let me just walk away. Not with all the secrets I know.”
“That shouldn’t matter. You’re one of the Bureau’s finest—”
“Was,” Heather corrected. “Was one of their finest. Now I’m a major liability.”
“Because of that damned bloodsucker.”
“No, dammit, because I learned the truth, and Dante happens to be a part of that truth, a truth the Bureau never wanted to come to light. They’ll do anything to make sure it stays buried. Anything. Including burying me.”
And Dante, but that was a thought she kept to herself.
“I’m beginning to think you’re right,” James said. “After all, they used me to get to you. Must’ve put a tail on me or a GPS tracker because I took extreme care in covering my tracks.” He raked a furious hand through his gray-flecked blond hair. “I took an official leave of absence to tend to family matters. This is none of their business.”
“The secrets I carry are.”
“Christ.” James pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Heather pushed her plate away, the food untouched, her appetite dead, despite the savory fragrance of pork chops baked in rosemary and spicy brown mustard. The strain of being in the presence of the man who’d shot Dante in cold blood and left him to burn, the man who’d drugged and kidnapped her, kept her stomach twisted into hard knots.
Just a little while longer. . . .
Scraping her chair back, Heather rose to her feet. “Dad”—the word tasted like ashes in her mouth—“If I stay here, they’ll take me. And if they take me, you’ll never see me again.”
“I’m not going to let that happen,” James slipped his glasses back on, then looked at her. A familiar stubborn light glinted in his hazel eyes. “I checked you in and I paid for your treatment. I can check you out, as well.”
Mingled exhilaration and relief flooded Heather’s veins, goosed her pulse. Her gamble, based on her father’s need for control, was paying off in
spades. Clamping her fingers tighter over the heel of her sleeve, she said, “Where will we go?”
“Where they can’t find us.” James stood, then grabbed his tan trench coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. “I brought you here to be healed, restored. And if the powers that be in the Bureau are too ignorant to grasp that, well, then, that’s their loss. But they’re not getting their hands on you.” He swept a glance over Heather, tallying her sweater and jeans, the black Skechers on her feet. “Anything else you need in your room?”
“Nope. This is everything.” Everything she’d been wearing, that was, when the self-absorbed, lying bastard had broken into the club, then shot her full of tranks out of so-called fatherly concern. Hardly time to pack a suitcase.
“Good. Let’s get you checked out.”
ONCE THEY WERE OUTSIDE the building and heading for James’s rented Lexus in the parking lot, Heather’s relief was so intense, her knees nearly buckled.
It had gone so damned smoothly.
Sue Bieri, the RN in charge of the night shift, had protested of course.
She’d voiced concerns about Heather’s treatment and how interruption might affect her progress, had worried about how the FBI would react to her absence, but in the end, she’d had no choice but to print out discharge papers for James to sign.
“Don’t worry about the FBI,” James had said, offering Sue a grim smile. “I’ll call them myself. Thank them for the thought.”
Just like that, Heather was free—well, almost. And that almost-freedom smelled like green woods and cooling pavement, car exhaust and sage. She sucked in a deep breath, savored the uncanned air.
James unlocked the Lexus’s doors. “In the back seat, pumpkin, passenger side,” he murmured, yanking the door open. “Strap yourself in.”
Heather arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. The request didn’t surprise her. She got into the car, sliding into the backseat as requested, knowing that James had put her there to make it more difficult for her to interfere with him while driving.