“My fucking mission in life,” Dante agreed. He paused, the kohl stick pressed against the outside corner of his eye as sudden movement drew his gaze.
Eli hurried past the curtains and into the room. “Dante! I was beginning to worry,” he said, his words rapid, spring-loaded. “Which set list do you want for tonight?” He hunkered down beside Dante’s chair. His patchouli and ganja scents curled up into Dante’s nostrils.
“The first one. Why you so anxious, mon ami?”
Eli shook his head, his dreads swaying with the movement. Tension played across his face. “I’ve been having some programming problems with the keyboards.”
“Okay, I’ll take a look in a bit,” Dante said, “and see what’s up.”
“D’accord.”
Dante dropped the kohl stick onto the table. Worry still darkened Eli’s hazel eyes. “What ain’t you saying? What’s got you worked up?”
“Nightkind in the crowd,” Eli said.
“That ain’t nothing new.”
“Looking for easy out-of-town meals.”
“Yeah? Where’re Jack and Antoine?”
“Watching Dogspit set up. Silver’s with ’em, keeping an eye on things.”
“I’ll say a few words to the nightkind in the audience at the start of the show.” Dante touched a finger to the hollow of Eli’s throat, his black-painted fingernail underlining the tiny iridescent bat tattoo etched into the skin—visible only to nightkind. “Make sure you don’t cover that up. Remind the guys; the mark needs to be seen.”
“Will do.”
“Anything else?”
Eli shook his head again, smiling. “That takes care of it.”
Dante twisted around, bent his head. Eli lifted at the same moment, and Dante cupped a hand against his face, and kissed his offered lips. Murmured, “Bonne chance, ce soir.”
“Et toi.” Eli straightened, and then walked from the room.
“So why ain’t Heather here?” Von asked. “The way she was looking for you, you woulda thought you’d burst into flames and she was the only one with a bucket of water.”
Dante stood, then turned around. He trailed a hand through his hair. “Her sister’s kinda messed up at the moment, not well, y’know? She needs to be with her.”
Von nodded his head at the slice in Dante’s latex shirt. “No shit.”
“The Bureau ain’t letting her go either,” Dante said, his voice low. “They plan bad fucking shit for her if she refuses to sign over her soul. She’s got till Monday.”
“She never said a word about that,” Von said, looking a little indignant. “She only talked about the trouble you might still be in. Told me a bit about Bad Seed.”
“Yeah, well, I’m only concerned about Heather,” Dante said. “I’m gonna help her win her freedom, one way or another.”
“Naturally, you’re counting me in on the action.”
“Yeah?” Dante said softly. “Okay, then, mon ami. Merci.” Some restless part of Dante drummed a fast-paced tempo within, a rhythm he paced out across the floor. “After I make sure she’s safe, I’ll walk away.”
“Dante, man, walk away? What are you saying?”
The tone in Von’s voice, troubled and tight, drew Dante’s gaze and stopped his feet. Von parked his shades on top of his head, and an emotion Dante couldn’t name flickered in the nomad’s green eyes.
“What I have to do.”
“Have you talked things out with Heather?”
Dante shook his head. “Why? What’s to talk out?” His resumed pacing, his boots silent on the floorboards as he walked back and forth, measuring with his stride the rhythm pulsing in his veins. Underneath the rhythm, voices whispered, droned like angry wasps crawling beneath his skin.
She trusted you. I’d say she got what she deserved.
Tainted. Everything you touch, boy, dies.
I knew you’d come for me.
Little fucking psycho.
Whirling, Dante kicked the metal chair he’d been sitting in, knocking it across the room—a blurred, gray streak. It hit the wall with a loud clang, then clattered to the floor. The noise pierced his head, scraped down his spine like flint, sparking pain in his mind.
Hands suddenly latched onto his biceps, spun him around, and held him tight. Von’s frost and leather and gun-oil scent enveloped him. Dante heard the steady beat of the nomad’s heart, and looked up into Von’s face. Light gleamed in his eyes, sparkled along the edges of his crescent moon tattoo.
“You honestly don’t know, do you?” Von said.
“Know what?”
A smile lifted one corner of Von’s mustached mouth, but it wasn’t amused or laughing, just kind of sad, which perplexed Dante. What the fuck? He tensed beneath the nomad’s hands. “C’mon, let go.”
“You’re in love, little brother.”
Dante stared at him. “Yeah? I know what love feels like, but this, this man…fuck me. Steals my breath. Knots me up. Torches me.”
Von shook his head. “No, this is what denying love feels like, man. Why you denying your heart?”
Dante flexed free of the nomad’s tight-fingered hold and stepped away. Images flickered behind his eyes, like pictures seen in a burning-white lightning flash.
Flash: Gina’s tear-streaked face turned toward the door, her eyes empty.
Flash: Jay, straitjacketed, blood pouring from his throat and puddling around him, staining his blond hair red.
Flash: Heather, falling, a wet circle of blood spreading on her sweater, her twilight-blue gaze locked on his face.
Flash: A child’s hand, fingers curled in toward the palm…
Dante-angel?
Here, princess.
Chloe.
Pain spiked through Dante’s head. He tried to capture the images that’d just lightning-stroked through his mind, but he couldn’t hold onto the last one, couldn’t even recall the name that’d flared like a candle in his mind and was just as quickly snuffed.
Blood trickled from his nose and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. Sniffed, and tasted blood. Pain jabbed like an ice pick behind his left eye. “Penance,” he whispered.
“Fuck. Sit down, and put your head back,” Von said. “You’re bleeding.”
Dante shook his head. “Tracassé toi pas. I’m okay.” As he walked to the table, he saw Eli, Antoine, and Jack clustered near the curtains, their faces solemn. Silver stood just behind them, his arms crossed over his chest, his purple, gel-spiked hair glistening under the lights, his expression pensive. Dante paused, wiped at his nose again. “I’m okay,” he repeated. Their expressions didn’t change.
“Like hell you are,” Von muttered, grabbing him by the arm, whipping him across the floor, and practically flinging him into the easy chair. “Head back, you stubborn sonuvabitch.”
“It’s nothing,” Dante protested, but he tipped his head back. Pain prickled at his temples and behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn thing got broken earlier this evening.”
“Heather’s sister?”
“Yeah. She’s got one mean head-butt.”
Von snorted. “Sounds like she needs to teach Heather that particular move.”
Dante pictured that and smiled. “Fuck you.”
Von chuckled. “Thank you. My work here is done.”
The ice pick lodged behind Dante’s eye burned red-hot. White squiggles of light bordered his vision. Sweat trickled down his temples. A sudden breeze smelling of cinnamon and hair gel fluttered across him, blowing several strands of his hair across his face. Silver. Von murmured a thanks.
“Here,” Von said, and wrapped Dante’s fingers around a cold compress.
“You need us?” Silver asked. “Or can we get back to what we were doing?”
“Show’s over, yeah,” Dante said, replacing his pinching fingers with the compress. “But thanks.” He sat up, and suddenly thought of Lucien, of how he could cool the fire raging in his skull with one touch.
“You heard anything
from Lucien?” Dante asked.
Von shook his head. “Not a peep.” He looked at Dante for a long moment before asking quietly, “You ever gonna forgive him?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“He fucked up hard-core, but he cares about you. Hell, he’s your dad.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem, ain’t it?”
“You need to talk this out with him, little brother.”
“Drop it.”
“I’ll leave it for you to pick up,” Von drawled. “I think I’ll go scan the audience for dudes in trenchcoats and shades. Just in case.”
Dante lowered the compress. Blood stained its blue fabric. He watched as the nomad walked across the room, leather creaking and tiny chains jingling, then slipped behind the curtains.
Rising to his feet, Dante returned to the table and opened the half-full bottle of absinthe. He wrapped his fingers around the bottle’s neck and lifted it to his lips. The liqueur smelled of anise, hyssop, and wormwood, and promised answers. So far, though, it’d only shaken loose a few memory glimmers that’d quickly slipped out of his grasp. Fucking naturellement. Just like at Heather’s place.
He delivered you and ordered the death of your mother.
Dante wanted to remember that motherfucker’s name and face. Wanted to tattoo both into his mind. He took a long swallow of the absinthe. Tasting like black licorice, sweet and strong and bitter just underneath, it burned through him. Lit up his mind. Uncoiled his muscles.
Dante lowered the bottle back to the table, but kept his fingers locked around it. As the absinthe trickled into his veins, the pain in his head faded. But another pain strengthened, hard-knuckled and relentless.
Why you denying your heart?
He met his reflection’s dark-eyed and dilated gaze. “Can’t trust it.”
DOGSPIT LAUNCHED INTO THEIR set with a kick-ass drum solo while their front woman screamed, “Fuuuuuck you Seattle!” The crowd roared, a hungry beast, and the sound of it vibrated the floor beneath Von’s boots.
The crowd moshed beyond the curtains, booted feet jackhammering the floor as Dogspit created an aural firestorm. But Von wasn’t watching the band or the crowd. He stood at the curtain’s edge, a fold of worn velvet between his fingers, watching Dante.
Dante lifted the absinthe bottle to his lips again, tipped his head back, and drank. Boy was hurting. Hurting bad.
Ever since D.C., Dante had been tossing back a lot of the green-tinted psychoactive. Von suspected it wasn’t to ease migraine pain or even just to catch a buzz. He had a feeling Dante hoped to pry open the locks on his past with a wormwood-scented crowbar. And given what Lucien had told him, that wouldn’t be good.
Lucien’s voice rumbled through Von’s memory: I fear for him. He refuses to rest or to grieve. Refuses to release his rage.
So why’d you hide the truth from him? Truth he needed?
He needs time to heal before facing his past. Or before facing who and what he is. I need you to guide him, llygad. And guard him, especially from himself.
I chose Dante over the Road. Of course I’ll fucking guide him. Watch out for him. But Dante’s a big boy and I trust him to make his own decisions.
You shouldn’t—not until he heals. Not until he’s bound.
Bound? What the hell you talking about?
Guard him from the Fallen, llygad. Guard Dante from them, most of all.
Why?
Dante is a Maker.
Von stares at Lucien, unable to corral his thoughts into any semblance of order.
Von had figured Makers were nothing more than myth, a nightkind fairy tale of Fallen power. But here he was, watching as the myth downed a bottle of absinthe.
Dante lowered the bottle to his side, turning as if he meant to head backstage, maybe to work on the keyboards, but he stumbled instead, like he’d taken a punch to the temple. He nearly lost his grip on the absinthe bottle. He held himself still, eyes closed, pain shadowing his face.
Von heard the breath catch in Dante’s throat. Smelled his hunger, sharp and alkaline. “You haven’t fed, have you?” he said quietly, walking up behind Dante.
Dante shook his head. “After the show.”
“You fucking kidding me? You ain’t gonna make it through the show.”
“Yeah, I will.” Dante set the bottle on the table.
“No, you won’t. You may be the most mule-headed sonuvabitch I’ve ever met, but you’re too young and in too much pain.”
Opening his eyes, Dante whirled around to face him, his hands knotting into fists. “What the fuck do you expect me to do? There ain’t time!”
Von pulled off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the chair. Unbuckling his double-shoulder holsters, he shrugged them off and placed them, along with his guns, on top of his jacket. He touched fingers to one bare, muscle-corded wrist. “I expect you to take enough to get you through the show. Think you can do that?”
Dante trailed a hand through his hair, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice husky.
“Okay, then.” Von sat down on the floor in front of the ratty-looking easy chair, resting his back against it and stretching his legs out in front of him. He slid his shades to the top of his head, glanced at Dante, and patted his thigh.
Dante straddled him and sat. Leather and latex creaked as Dante leaned in and kissed him, his mouth opening as Von’s lips parted. His tongue flicked against Von’s, tasting of licorice and alcohol. Von breathed in Dante’s heady scent, pulse racing.
“Merci beaucoup, mon ami,” Dante murmured, when the kiss ended. He held Von’s gaze, gold flames flickering in the depths of his dark, unshielded eyes.
“My honor,” Von whispered. He lifted a hand and stroked Dante’s hair. Slid a silky black tendril between his fingers.
Dante wrapped his fingers around Von’s wrist and raised it to his lips. He closed his eyes. Von felt the warmth of Dante’s lips, then a quick sting as his fangs pierced the skin. In restrained sips, Dante drank him in.
A sigh escaped Von’s lips. His fingers tightened in Dante’s hair, looped, and pulled. Dante shivered and moaned softly. Pleasure flowed between them like warm honey, pulsing from lips to flesh, from mind to mind, heartbeat to heartbeat. But Dante ended it just a few minutes later by lifting his head and pushing Von’s arm away. As Dante rose to his knees, Von released his hair.
“That wasn’t enough, little brother. Sit back down.”
Bending, Dante kissed him deeply, sharing the grape-sweet taste of his blood, sharing fevered heat. “It’s gonna hafta be enough,” he whispered against Von’s lips. “I can’t stay. Something’s…waking up…inside.”
“Dante…”
Slipping free of Von’s hands, Dante jumped to his feet, turned, and walked away. Energy crackled along his fingers. Blue fire haloed his hands. He clenched his glowing hands into fists.
Maker. And uncontrolled.
Sweat beaded Von’s forehead, but inside he was cold. The question Dante had asked him at Louis Armstrong International while waiting for their flight to Seattle reverberated through his mind: If I’m the only Maker in existence like Lucien says, then who can teach me what I need to know?
Lucien held the answer to that question.
And Lucien had gone silent a week ago, a silence that left Von uneasy. A silence that left Von watching the skies at night, listening for the sound of wings.
Guard him from the Fallen, llygad. They will use him without mercy.
Lucien wouldn’t have cut off communication, not willingly, not when he was counting on Von to keep him posted on Dante’s well-being.
Watching Dante walk away, blue flames licking around his knotted fists, desperation on his pale face, Von realized he needed to find an answer for Dante’s question.
Before it was too late.
17 GEHENNA
The pit of Sheol
March 22
CLAWS RAKED ACROSS LUCIEN’S torso, scoring his flesh open from collarbone to hip. Pain seared his consciousness l
ike a red-hot branding iron as he swung suspended in the air, the movement twisting the hooks barbed into his shoulders even deeper into his muscles. The rapid flutter of multiple pairs of wings fanned hot, sulfurous, stinking air across his face, and the nameless chalkydri’s chittering filled his ears.
Lucien refused to open his eyes as the chalkydri demanded. He’d looked long enough upon his tormentor. He knew it hovered beside him in the dark pit, held aloft by its twelve pairs of hummingbird-quick wings, its long, serpentine body coiling in the air, black scales glittering with tiny decorative sapphires.
Gold wings, the chalkydri was always quick to point out, its lizardlike head lifted with pride, the feathered crescent atop its skull bristling, taloned paws patting its jeweled hide. High-blood gold, it insisted.
“Yahweh always regretted making chalkydri,” Lucien lied, voice hoarse. “Your creation was proof of his madness, and he—”
“Murderer!” the chalkydri hissed. “Creawdwr-slayer!”
Claws slashed across Lucien’s chest again. Another searing brand upon his consciousness. Every time his wounds healed the chalkydri inflicted fresh ones. As it had been doing ever since he and Lilith had been captured.
“He always intended to unmake you,” Lucien finished, through gritted teeth.
Angry chittering filled the air. Furious chittering. The rush of wings intensified. So, he mused, more chalkydri have arrived to defend their honor.
And, in so doing, provide amusement for Gabriel and his court.
Three Elohim guards drag Lucien through the air by his chains, sweeping past the gold-flecked, black marble columns guarding the palace-aerie’s wide mouth, flying into the massive cave. Pain bites at the edges of his banded wings, chafes his chain-wrapped ankles and wrists, but his mind is calm and his shields tight. He wonders if Lilith is chained and clipped as well, and hopes she isn’t.
She tried to warn me.
Lucien’s escorts release him in midair and he plummets to the gleaming marble floor, his banded wings futilely trying to lift him up. He hits hard, landing on his side, chains ringing against the stone. Black specks whirl across his graying vision.
Wybrcathl—fluting, trilling, warbling—from hundreds of throats echoes throughout the palace’s throne room as Elohim high-bloods voice their songs and dissenting opinions, a beautifully orchestrated choir. Lucien suppresses the instinctive urge to warble a response to the kilted and gowned aingeals ringing the sky-blue floor.