“Me too.”
“But we need to talk,” Heather said. “Seriously talk.”
Something close to relief flashed across Dante’s face. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you too, chérie. You still working for the FBI?”
“For the moment, yes.” She nodded at the dining room table. “Pull up a chair, I’ve got some stuff to show you.”
Dante shrugged off his hoodie and hung it over the back of a chair. He wore a black latex shirt with silver-buckled straps across the chest and black leather pants. His silver belt buckle and the rings on his fingers, thumbs, and on his collar were the only other bits of sharp color amid all the snug-fitting black. He swung the chair around and then straddled it.
Heather felt his watchful gaze on her as she walked the room and closed all the curtains. Going to the front door, she twisted shut both dead bolts. The locks slammed into place with solid thunks. She didn’t know if anyone was actually keeping surveillance on her. She hadn’t spotted any unfamiliar cars or work vans, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there.
Maybe Dante climbing in through a back window was a good thing, after all.
Heather returned to the table and sat down. She picked up a pile of papers and thumbed through them, looking for the data she’d printed out last night. As she did, she tried to organize her thoughts, shape her suspicions.
“I’m sorry about your mother, by the way,” Dante said. “I didn’t know.”
Heather met his dark gaze and smiled. “How could you? But thanks anyway.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Almost twelve. My birthday was a couple of weeks later.”
“Aw, chérie, that sucks,” he said, and she could tell he meant it.
Heather glanced over her shoulder toward the hall. Lowering her voice, she said, “My mom’s murder is a cold case, officially, anyway. At the time, her death was attributed to a serial killer known as—”
“The Claw-Hammer Killer, Christopher Higgins,” Dante supplied.
“That’s right.” Heather looked at him for a long moment, impressed. He hadn’t had much time to go over the file while she tended to Annie, so he must’ve scanned it quickly and well.
“The FBI won’t let you go, will they?” Dante said.
Heather shook her head. “I was hoping they’d let me walk if I kept quiet and pretended not to know anything about Bad Seed or what happened at the center after I was shot.”
“But…?” Dante folded his arms along the chair’s back.
“They called me into a meeting today and offered me my boss’s position as SAC.” Heather shook her head. “The offer not only went completely against protocol, I was warned about what would happen if I refused.”
“Tell me.” Dante’s voice was low, razor-edged.
She did, recounting the meeting with Rutgers and Rodriguez, and highlighting the bits that had made it such a special occasion—her father’s unwanted appearance, the intense interest in her medical recovery, the not-so-veiled threats. She also told Dante about the visit to her mother’s murder site accompanied by an honor guard in the tall and lean form of the Portland field office’s SAC.
“They gave me until Monday to make my decision.”
“And if you tell them no, you’ll suddenly go wacko and end up confined in a looney bin or in a morgue after taking a dive from a very tall building. Motherfuckers.”
“Yeah, basically.” Heather leaned back in her chair. “Such a way with words, you sweet-talker you.”
A tilted half-smile tugged at Dante’s lips, but he held her gaze, his own dark and simmering. “So what’s your new boss’s name again?”
Heather’s smile vanished. She straightened. “No, you’re not killing anyone. Don’t even kid about it.”
“Ain’t kidding.”
“That wouldn’t stop it! He has a boss who has a boss who has a boss and so it goes. Killing him wouldn’t solve this.”
Dante suddenly stood. He paced, jaw tight, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. A chill touched Heather’s spine. His anger is closer to the surface. What happens when he can’t control it anymore?
After a moment, Dante stopped and drew in a long, shuddering breath. His hands opened and smoothed against his thighs. Leather squeaked. He turned around to face her. His gaze was calmer, the fire banked, but his body language was just the opposite, tensed and tight, almost vibrating with checked emotion.
“You okay?” Heather asked. “Dante, do you need anything?”
He looked at her, his dark eyes drinking her in, his gaze so heated and intense that Heather felt her pulse pick up speed. “I mean…do you need a…drink?” Say it, she told herself. Say it out loud. “Blood,” she amended.
“Yeah, but it’ll wait,” he said, trailing both hands through his hair, his skin white against his blue-black tresses. “Okay, killing your boss ain’t the answer. So, whatcha wanna do? I’ll help you any way I can.”
“That’s the thing,” Heather said. “I’m worried about you too.”
“Yeah? Pourquoi? I’m okay.”
Eerie announced himself with a soft mew and rubbed up against Heather’s leg. Just as she bent to pet him, he hopped away for the kitchen, mewing as he went, moving as fast on three legs as he had on four.
“Hey, minou,” Dante said. “Now you raise the alarm?”
Heather stood and followed Eerie into the kitchen. His dish was empty. “Mommy’s bad,” she said, pouring more kibble into his bowl. “Sorry about that.” Eerie chirped in agreement—yes, Mommy’s bad—or in acceptance of her apology or both. She stroked his head for a moment while he crunched salmon-flavored nuggets.
“You want some coffee?” she called. “I can make some.”
“Sure.” From right beside her.
“Shit!” Heather whirled, heart pounding, fists lifting automatically.
Dante stepped back, hands held up defensively. She hadn’t heard him get up or walk into the kitchen. She’d forgotten how fast and silent he was, even more so than regular nightkind, and that was saying something, from what she’d seen.
“Whoa, hey! Sorry,” he said, laughing. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Christ! Maybe I should bell you like a cat!” She shoved past him to the counter, grabbed the glass carafe from the coffee-maker and filled it with water. Once the coffee was brewing, its strong scent curling into the air, she returned to the table.
Bending over its littered surface, she resumed flipping through the papers. “What has De Noir—I mean, your father, told you about Bad Seed?”
“Nothing,” Dante said quietly. “But, then, I ain’t been exactly friendly.”
Heather glanced at him, a pang of sympathy cutting deep. “He should’ve been honest with you.”
Dante trailed a hand through his hair and his pale face suddenly looked weary. He nodded at the papers she was busy searching. “Why you worried about me? Bad Seed died with Johanna Moore, right? It’s over.”
Heather shook her head. “No, it’s not over, not completely. There was another person involved in the project—the man who conceived it and who recruited Moore.” The paper she was looking for finally appeared. She pulled it free and set the stack aside on the table. She looked at Dante.
“Go on,” Dante said. His gaze was steady, his beautiful face wary. “What’s his name?” His fingers white-knuckled around the back of his chair.
“Dr. Robert Wells.” Heather stepped beside him and showed him the paper. He looked at it, his gaze fixed on the photo at the top. “He delivered you and ordered the death of your mother.”
The sharp crack of splintering wood ricocheted through the room as the chair back snapped beneath Dante’s fingers.
13 IN AN HONORLESS WORLD
In the Skies
March 22
CATERINA GLANCED OUT THE plane’s small window. Thousands of tiny lights burned and flickered in the darkness below, a reverse sky with the stars beneath and cold infinity above. Pulling u
p the edge of her sleeve, she looked at her watch. Twelve twelve a.m. EDT, which made it nine twelve p.m. in Portland, Oregon. She’d travel back in time as she flew across the country, away from the dawn and toward the night.
Relaxing into her seat, Caterina closed her eyes for a moment. She’d told Rutgers the truth about the missing security cam footage and it irked her no end that she hadn’t yet recovered it. But she had an idea of where it might be.
After Bronlee’s death, she’d traveled to Gaithersburg to express her condolences to his widow, Nora. This was an action she took whenever possible to remind herself that it’d been a life she’d ended, not simply an assignment accomplished.
While sitting with the grieving woman—I’ll never know why he up and left us. Kristi was the world to him—Caterina had learned that Bronlee and his widow practically worshipped Dr. Robert Wells.
The plane bumped up and down violently for a few seconds and Caterina’s eyes flew open. Her heart slammed into her throat. Turbulence. She hated flying, hated entrusting her life to a stranger. She picked up her plastic cup from the fold-down tray and drained the rest of her vodka. The Absolut Vanilla burned smooth and warm as it went down. She felt her muscles unkink.
Apparently, Wells had performed delicate and controversial genetic work on Jon Bronlee’s only child while she’d still been in Nora’s womb. Fragile X syndrome. Without Wells’s work, Kristi Bronlee would’ve faced life mentally disabled, possibly autistic as well, and that would’ve been only the start of the problems. Providing special care for Kristi, medical and schooling, would’ve kept the Bronlees in deep debt.
Dr. Robert Wells had changed that future by altering their daughter. Because of his work—free of charge, no less—Kristi Bronlee had been born healthy, free of handicaps, and with a future of limitless possibilities.
It’d be interesting to find out if Wells had received a package from Bronlee.
Caterina handed her plastic cup to the flight attendant and shook her head when he asked if she’d like another. As he moved down the aisle, Caterina listened to his cheerful voice as he tended to other passengers. She closed her eyes again.
Half-dozing, her thoughts curled back to her mother and her soft bedtime songs—ages-old lullabies sung in Italian, her voice warm as flannel. Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol / Fi la nana, e mi be fiol / Fa si la nana / Fa si la nana / Dormi ben, e bel fiol / Dormi ben, e mi bel fiol…
Caterina pictured Renata Alessa Cortini—slim and small and graceful, dark eyes and pale skin, her dark, rich brown hair a Roman cap of ringlets and curls that swept against her white shoulders.
Renata had told Caterina about True Bloods, admitting that even in all her centuries, she’d never met one, although she’d heard jaw-dropping tales from elders who had. True Blood encounters were becoming ever more rare, and that had deeply disturbed Renata.
She’d feared the Bloodline was breaking down, its purity diluted, tainted.
After viewing the CD in Bronlee’s laptop, Caterina had been able to temper her mother’s fears: The Bloodline still holds. I’ve seen it.
A True Blood had been born. His mother slaughtered. His father unnamed.
How could Johanna Moore—as a vampire, as a woman, as a living being—have done that to her own fille de sang and the child of that daughter’s womb?
Fire flared to life within Caterina with the memory, rushed through her veins, wild and hot. She drew in a deep breath and counted to one thousand. The fire smoldered, banked and under control.
She still needed to find Dr. Moore or at least learn what had happened to her at the center. She suspected the missing med-unit security camera footage that had cost Jon Bronlee and so many others their lives held the answer.
In Caterina’s work, the completion of the assigned task was everything. No questions. No hesitation. Honor demanded no less. She’d become what she was with her eyes wide open. Was she a sociopath? She didn’t think so. She only killed when it was required and not for personal gain, power, or sexual kicks. She was samurai in an honorless world.
Caterina had always believed that the work done at the center, including the projects initiated by Moore and Wells, had been for the collective good, mortal and vampire. She’d known their work had involved studies of the mind, but had never given thought to how those studies had been conducted, had never considered the cost.
Her job hadn’t required her to know.
But her heart had wondered, a wondering she’d muffled with duty.
Now she knew. Now a True Blood child named Dante Baptiste had put a breathtaking face on Moore’s studies.
Create sociopaths to study. And—unspoken and unwritten—control.
Dante had been placed in the worst foster homes available, shuffled around constantly; everything and everyone he had ever cared about or loved had been systematically stripped from him.
Dante had been mind-fucked in many ways, another experiment in psychopathology, his memory fragmented and buried.
A True Blood prince.
A couple of images of Dante from the photos she’d seen on the CD played through her memory: Dante as a dark-haired teenager, androgynous and gorgeous; sexy, tilted half-smile on his lips, flipping off the photographer. She liked the boy’s defiance, his dark and direct gaze.
The other image was recent: Dante as an adult, a stunning beauty with a been-there-done-that-just-might-do-it-again-so-fuck-you gaze, wearing a leather jacket and torn jeans, a battered guitar case in hand, his pale face confident.
The plane jolted and dropped suddenly and Caterina’s stomach dropped with it. As the plane’s passage smoothed, the captain’s urbane voice soothed the passengers with apologies for the rough flight. Caterina kept her eyes closed and her grip tight on the armrests.
Caterina’s thoughts slipped back to her most recent conversation with her mother, remembered the breathless catch in her voice:
“True Blood. You are certain?”
“Sì, Mama. But he’s been damaged. I don’t know how extensive—”
“It doesn’t matter, cara mia. He is only a child.” Cold fury iced Renata’s next words: “That mortals would hide a child born of the Blood, hide him and misuse him—”
“Mama, I’ve been ordered to kill the mortal woman he rescued and all others involved in the project, including the man who designed it.”
“Kill that one slowly, very slowly. And the True Blood? What of him?”
“We are to let him be for the moment, let him remain free.”
“Buono. Find him and earn his trust, then bring him to us.”
“Sì, Mama. But that’s why I want your advice. If I discover he’s damaged beyond repair, if he truly is a monster, how do I kill a True Blood?”
“If the damage is too great, then bring him to us so we may end his life with love and respect.” The fury was gone from Renata’s voice, replaced with sorrow. “He belongs to us. Alive or dead. Not in the hands of mortals, not even yours, my little love, child of my heart.”
Another violent jolt shook the plane, but Caterina kept her eyes closed this time, although her fingers latched onto the armrests. More turbulence. Several rows back, a baby wailed.
She suddenly yearned for a cigarette and imagined sucking the smoke down into her lungs. Even though she hadn’t smoked in six years, sometimes the intense desire for a cigarette would sneak up on her and kick her in the ass, leave her tensed and jonesing like a nicotine junkie fresh on the patch. And she wanted one now. Bad.
Caterina pondered her mother’s parting words yet again, turning them over and around, contemplating their meaning from every direction: You walk the tightrope between worlds with more grace and balance that I’ve ever seen, my sweet Cat. But one day you will fall. Which world will you tumble into—mortal or vampire? You shall have to choose even as you slip from the rope.
And if she refused to choose? Just stepped off, head back, eyes closed, allowing fate or destiny to guide her fall? Could she keep her honor in the heart of turbulence?
She knew how to kill her own kind and knew how to kill vampires. And since Renata wouldn’t instruct her on how to kill a True Blood, she’d have to find out some other way. Just in case.
Let’s be clear. Let’s be honest. What would it take to kill a True Blood child?
But if Johanna Moore’s project had failed and Dante hadn’t been shaped into a monster like Elroy Jordan, he was young enough to be reshaped, guided, tutored.
Young enough to be redeemed.
She would find Dante Baptiste and then, listening to her heart, she’d do whatever honor and mercy required of her: Kill a True Blood monster. Or protect a True Blood prince.
SA BRIAN SHERIDAN SMILED at the waitress as she refilled his cup with coffee. He dumped a packet of Splenda into it, along with a splash of the shit that passed for cream. He stirred idly, watching a plane taxi over to the runway, lights winking in the darkness. The plane rolled down the tarmac, building speed, the engine roar muffled by Dulles International’s thick walls.
Cortini’s plane had departed right on schedule an hour ago.
Sheridan had heard many things about her, had studied a few photos, but had never seen her in the flesh. He sipped at the coffee, ignoring its burned and bitter taste.
When Cortini had walked into Rutgers’s office—five seven, slender, confident stride—Sheridan had been riveted by her graceful motion. Fluid, yet poised. Like a gymnast or martial artist. He’d bet anything her reflexes were fast and stiletto-sharp, that she could shift from shaking your hand to snapping your neck in an instant.
She’d worn a tailored black suit, a white blouse underneath, and silver had flashed at her wrists and ears. Dark, coffee-colored hair had brushed her shoulders and framed her attractive face. Thirty-four, but she looked younger. A unexpected impish smile had curved her glossed lips—just a hint of rose—and lit her hazel eyes.
It’d be easy to be caught off guard by this woman, this wetwork expert, easy to underestimate her with her mischievous smile. And fatal.