In the Blood

  Heather looked at Von. He was grinning at her. “What?”

  “Little sheep–covered jammies and a gun,” he said. “Now how hot is that?”

  “Not half as hot as a nightkind nomad dripping water on my carpet,” she replied. “Rowr. There’s towels in the closet, doofus.”

  “The closet.” Von smacked his forehead. “Never woulda thought of that.”

  “Since Annie’s home, I’m going to bed. Wake me before you Sleep, okay?”

  Von nodded. “You got it, darlin’. Sleep tight.”

  Back in her room, Heather placed her .38 in the nightstand drawer, kicked off her slippers, and left the door open just enough for Eerie to come and go. She slipped beneath the quilt and up beside Dante. She spooned him, tucking herself against his fevered heat, and draped her arm over his waist. As she slid into sleep, his warm scent enveloped her and perfumed her dreams.

  27 HER GUN AT HIS FEET

  Portland, OR

  March 23/24

  CATERINA LOCKED THE MOTEL room door behind her, then tossed her overnight bag onto the bed. She was exhausted after the long, dirty night and was looking forward to a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. She reeked of soil and sweat and decay, the smell of the dead clinging to her like a fetid perfume.

  She eased her laptop onto the lacquered desk, then opened it. She needed to report her progress. She needed to buy time. Keying open the minibar, she pulled out an ice-cold bottle of SoBe Green Tea, twisted the cap off, and poured a long, cooling draft down her throat.

  Plunking down on the desk chair, she clicked on NEW MESSAGE and typed in: Wells assignment completed to satisfaction. Since Wallace is no longer ours, we’ll catch some sleep, then a flight home.

  Caterina hit SEND and folded the laptop. Closing her eyes, she rested the cold bottle of tea against her forehead. Burying Beck and Mrs. Wells had taken more energy than she’d expected, energy she hadn’t planned on expending.

  Caterina regretted Mrs. Wells’s murder. It had never occurred to her that Athena would off her terminally ill mother. Her father, yes, given her hostility toward him. But since Athena was determined to see him in Dante’s hands, Caterina had thought it safe to leave her with her parents while she disposed of Beck.

  A mistake.

  Remembering what Wells had so enthusiastically done to Dante Baptiste from birth, Caterina had believed the man empty of normal human emotions, soulless.

  But Wells’s spittle-flying fury after Gloria’s death had proven her wrong on that score, at least where his wife was concerned.

  I’ll have S rip you out of that body and pour your mother into it! I should’ve had you put down like your mother advised! You’re nothing but a flawed and bitter mistake. Alexander will be happy to kill you! He’s looking forward to it!

  Wells’s threats had stopped only when Caterina had slapped several layers of duct tape across his mouth.

  Small wonder Athena Wells’s sanity had unraveled.

  Watching Athena, listening to her, Caterina had realized that the woman who’d renamed herself Hades was a precog. An unusual gift for a mortal, but not unheard of. But was Athena’s future sight warped by madness, the clarity of her visions whirling with debris from the storm raging within her mind?

  Caterina had a feeling the answer to those questions would be both yes and no.

  Later Caterina had walked Athena to the guest cottage and put her to bed as Alex Lyons had requested. As per their arrangement—she would care for his sister and guard Wells, for Dante’s sake, and Lyons would make sure that Dante arrived safe and sound. And he’d make sure the team coming to collect Heather Wallace failed.

  Dante Baptiste had saved Wallace’s life, had carried her from the center cradled in his arms. As far as Caterina was concerned, that marked Wallace as Dante’s beloved. Reason enough to protect her.

  “Time for bed,” Caterina says. “I promised your brother.”

  Athena strips to her bra and panties, then crawls onto the bed like a child, and slides beneath the blankets. She stares at the ceiling, her lips moving as she whispers. Shadows smudge the skin beneath her eyes, hollow her cheeks.

  Cold ices Caterina from the inside out as she looks around the room. Pictures of Dante are pinned to each wall—night-vision shots from the security cam footage—his pale face rapt, his eyes closed, rays of light whipping around him, from him.

  Caterina bends and smoothes the blankets over Athena’s chest, tucks them in securely. She seems insubstantial, a ghost, the flickering memory of a woman, and Caterina brushes Athena’s hair back from her face. A pretty face, smooth-skinned and oval, pale brows, gently sloping nose over curving lips. But her eyes are incandescent, as though moonlit. And gazing upon things only she can see.

  Athena lifts her arm and Caterina injects her with the sleep meds as Lyons had instructed during their conversation. Athena’s lids droop. Pale lashes flutter.

  “Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol, fi la nana, e mi be fiol,” Caterina sings softly, her voice more husky than her mother’s, not as sweet.

  Athena’s whispers falter. End.

  Caterina finishes her lullaby, and then walks from the room, easing the door shut behind her. She leaves the cottage, Athena’s words spiraling through her mind like a never-ending staircase and chilling her blood—Dante will make us three, holy trinity.

  Relaxing into the chair, Caterina lowered the SoBe bottle to her mouth and finished the tea. She’d considered giving Athena a lethal bedtime dose, but honor wouldn’t allow it. She was trusting Lyons to fulfill his end of his agreement; she needed to tend to her end.

  But that obligation was now satisfied.

  Whatever the twins had planned for Dante would never come to pass. They’d never live long enough to do him harm. Caterina would make sure of that.

  Eventually, it would be discovered that Beck was dead and that Caterina had gone rogue. One of two things would happen: she’d be named traitor, her life forfeit, and she’d be hunted by the best; or fear of Renata Alessa Cortini and the hellstorm she would unleash upon the SB if anything happened to Caterina would convince her handlers to look the other way.

  No matter the outcome, Caterina knew she’d be wise to look over her shoulder and watch her back for years to come. Many, many years. Some of her soon-to-be former handlers had long memories, indeed.

  Caterina set the empty SoBe bottle on the desk and rose to her feet. Walking into the bathroom, she turned on the shower and undressed while waiting for the water to heat up, folding her clothes neatly as she removed them.

  She stepped into the shower, the hot water easing the kinks from her muscles and the weariness from her limbs. Steam curled into the air. As she tipped her head back and wet her hair, an image from the footage she’d watched flashed through her mind.

  The energy surrounding Dante shafts into Johanna’s body from dozens of different points. Explodes from her eyes. From her nostrils. Her screaming mouth. She separates into strands, wet and glistening. Dante’s energy unthreads Johanna. Pulls apart every single element of her flesh.

  Unmakes her.

  Johanna Moore spills to the tiled floor, her scream ending in a gurgle.

  Energy continues to emanate from Dante, snapping like whips into the air and altering everything touched. The counter transforms into a heaving twist of vines thick with thorns; Johanna’s gun slithers into the vines.

  Dante’s beautiful face is ecstatic. He closes his eyes and shivers as energy spikes from his body, flames from his hands.

  With a shudder, the energy and light recedes, vanishes. Dante lowers his hands. Opens his eyes. He looks down at the moist strands that used to be Johanna. Kicks them apart with his boots. And walks away.

  For a moment, excitement burned away Caterina’s exhaustion. She had so much to tell her mother; the Bloodline not only still held, but was evolving, and a whispered myth from the ancient past now walked the earth in a slender, tight-muscled, breathtaking form.

  A True Blood prince and Fall
en Maker.

  Did Dante represent a new path for all—Fallen, vampires, and mortals?

  After Caterina had slept, she’d return to the Wells house. After Dante Baptiste arrived in Damascus, Caterina would go to him and lay her Glock at his booted feet. She’d humbly ask to serve him as samurai and protector.

  And refuse to leave until he agreed.

  COLLEEN SHEP STEERED THE rented Lexus ES into a slot in the Doubletree’s parking lot and shut off the engine. She leaned back in the seat and sighed.

  “I hear that,” Norwich said, raking his fingers through his tousled hair. “The flight sucked, the rental desk sucked bigger, and the traffic from the airport sucked huge.”

  “Wanna bet they screwed up our reservation?”

  Norwich laughed. “You’re on. If they screwed it up, I’ll buy you a nightcap in the bar. If everything’s in order, you’ll buy.”

  “Deal.” Shep reached under the dash and pulled the trunk release lever. “How do you wanna handle things tomorrow?”

  Norwich opened his door, then paused. “Swing by Wallace’s house during the day, when her neighbors are at work.” He rubbed his face as he considered, and in the silence, Shep heard the whiskers rasping against his palm. “Tell her she was exposed to something top secret and potentially lethal, tell her she’s being escorted to the CDC in Atlanta.”

  Shep nodded. “We can even ask for a list of everyone she’s been in contact with to make it sound good.”

  “I like that,” Norwich said, stepping out of the car and unfolding his length. “Should keep her cooperative.” A cool breeze smelling of rain blew into the car and ruffled Shep’s hair before Norwich closed the door.

  Shep glanced in the rearview mirror and swiped at her razor-cut black hair, trying to spike it back into edgy life. The Lexus bounced as Norwich freed their suitcases from the trunk. She heard a couple of dull thuds. Grabbing her purse, she slid out from behind the wheel. With a tap to the smart key, she locked the car.

  “Y’know, we could spend part of the day checking out the waterfront first,” Shep said as she walked to the rear of the Lexus. “I’ve never been to—” She halted, staring at the tall man in hoodie and jeans bent over the trunk’s opened mouth. He sure as hell wasn’t Norwich. Her hand darted for the Colt in her purse.

  Not-Norwich straightened and turned, his pulled-up hoodie shadowing his face. He aimed a small black gun—trank gun, Shep realized in that split second—held in his gloved hand.

  Shep yanked the Colt up and out of the purse. Wrapped her finger around the trigger. But before she could squeeze off a round, something dropped over her, something prickling and charged, like a net woven of electricity. Shep tried to squeeze the Colt’s trigger. But nothing happened when she attempted to flex her finger. She couldn’t move.

  Jaw clenched, Shep willed her muscles to action. Willed her finger to squeeze the goddamned trigger. Sweat trickled down her temple. Nothing. Not-Norwich walked over and plucked the gun from her short-circuited hand.

  “I’m a federal agent,” Shep rasped. This close, she caught a glimpse of blond curls under the hoodie.

  “Yeah, I know,” Not-Norwich said. “And I’m honestly sorry about this. It wasn’t my idea.”

  Shep’s gaze cut to the trunk, and her heart stuttered against her ribs. Norwich was accordioned inside, eyes half-open, mouth lax. Her mouth dried. “Who—”

  “You can thank the tightrope walker.”

  Something stung Shep’s arm. She lifted into the air, floating toward the trunk’s Norwich-crammed interior, then dropped inside. Liquid pain boiled through her veins. She tried to scream, but her bubbling lungs refused to take in air. The trunk shut with a solid thunk.

  And then, Colleen Shep died in the trunk of a rented car, in the darkness, jammed against her partner’s lifeless body, just fifty minutes after arriving in Seattle.

  ALEX PICKED UP THE purse that had fallen from Shep’s shoulder and dug through it for the Lexus’s keys. Finding them, he plucked them free, then unlocked the car. He stuffed the suitcases into the backseat. Relocking the car, he trotted to the Dumpster. The ripe smell of rotting vegetables and dirty diapers drifted into the air as he lifted the lid. He tossed the purse and keys inside, then strode across the parking lot.

  He’d just used tranks developed for vampires on humans. He felt a little queasy. It was one thing to kill a vagrant or a hitchhiker for Athena’s experiments, another thing entirely to kill fellow agents.

  Correction: SB agents.

  But since protecting Heather Wallace been part of the assassin’s price to ensure Athena’s safety, he’d had little choice.

  Do you intend to give your father to Dante Baptiste?

  Amen, sister. That’s my plan, my humble offer to him.

  Good. I’ll keep your father alive, then.

  The assassin with the low, sexy voice had requested that Alex divert the arriving team from their mission, requested he warn Wallace. True, she hadn’t mentioned killing the team, but death was one helluva diversion.

  Beneath the halogen streetlights, Alex’s shadow jittered and jerked on the pavement as he trotted across South 188th to his parked truck. He climbed in and peeled off his gloves, tossed them on the floorboard. He tucked the trank gun under the seat for safekeeping.

  The Dodge Ram’s engine started with a deep rumble. Alex reflected on the fact that with his father lunatic-trussed to a bed, his instructions were now null and void. Yet his father’s voice rippled through his thoughts: Only I have a map to the labyrinth within S’s head—a labyrinth I created.

  Alex reached a hand into his hoodie pocket, touched the iPod’s smooth shape. Why not test that claim? Why not see if the message actually triggered Dante? If Alex understood his father, Dante would be triggered long enough to follow the instructions from the iPod. Doping him unconscious would nullify his programming again, kick it back into the cluttered cellar of his subconscious.

  Pulling his hand free from his pocket, Alex shifted the truck into first and steered it into wee-hours traffic.

  S needs to be used in precise strikes against our enemies, Alexander, then returned to sleep. If S remains triggered, there’ll be no stopping him.

  Inferno’s latest pounded from the speakers. And Dante’s voice, smoldering and pissed, whispered, “Break me / I’m daring you / see if you can…”

  “Amen to that, brother,” Alex said. “Amen to that.”

  28 THE CHAOS SEAT

  Gehenna, in the Royal Aerie

  March 23–24

  LILITH LIFTED HER VEIL and glanced behind her. The gleaming marble corridor was empty, the lights dimmed to a low orange. Dawn was still several hours away and most within the royal aerie slept, except for a few night-duty servants and guards.

  Lilith carefully extended her senses, seeking spiked psionic or mental energy, anything out of the ordinary, but detected nothing.

  Dropping her veil back into place, tinting her vision red once again, Lilith drew in another calming breath of myrrh-smoked air and slipped inside the creawdwr’s receiving chamber—a room that had been empty for over two thousand years.

  Moonlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the east wall, pale and sheer, a thin, ghostly reflection of the silver and vibrant light that used to flow in through those windows.

  Gehenna dies.

  Pushing back her veil, Lilith forced herself to cross the sky-blue marble floor at a normal pace, forced herself to keep her mind ordered and her heart calm. She couldn’t afford to be discovered in this chamber, not with what she carried. She stopped at the black marble dais leading up to the silk-draped perch.

  His name is Dante, a born vampire.

  The air smelled stale and dusty, as empty as the throne above her.

  Stepping onto the first riser, Lilith seized a corner of the protective silk sheet and yanked. The gold material rippled to the floor like water over rocks and fell against Lilith’s feet. Watery moonlight waved against the black, blue-veined mar
ble chair. A center support arrowed up at the back with hollows at either side for wings. The legs and armrests had been carved into scaled dragon limbs, taloned paws inset with sapphires and iridescent opals.

  The Chaos Seat. From here a creawdwr wove chaos into ordered life.

  Twin pangs of loneliness and regret bit into Lilith. She remembered the face Yahweh had possessed before he’d transformed it into a pillar of blazing light in his madness—handsome, golden-haired and golden-winged, intelligent dark eyes, a smile that had needed to be coaxed to his lips, but a smile well worth the effort.

  A smile that his calon-cyfaills, Samael—no, Lucien—and Astoreth, had good-naturedly competed with each other to elicit. Later, Yahweh’s smiles had flowed freely and at moments that had held no laughter, no joy, no cause for celebration.

  She remembered Lucien’s anguish: We can’t stop it. His sanity’s slipping.

  Remembered her answer: Perhaps he needs to be bound by more than two, my love. Perhaps his power is too strong, too chaotic, for a simple triad balance.

  Lilith pushed away the past. Regret had burned bright within her once, but had long since flickered out. Right or wrong, she’d done as she’d believed necessary for Gehenna and for Yahweh.

  Lucien claimed the same, but the memory of that awful night so many centuries ago still poisoned her dreams.

  “What have you done?”

  Lilith whispers her question, but each word bangs like a hammer against her temples. Her head throbs with pain. Outside, the ground ripples and quakes and it feels as though Gehenna will tear itself apart. She clutches at the doorjamb.

  Newly made beings wing into the sky only to unravel and scatter into the wind.

  Samael…Lucien…bleeds from his nose and ears. He clutches Yahweh close against his chest. No light blazes from the creawdwr’s face. Motionless on the marble floor beside her calon-cyfaills, honey-haired Astoreth stares empty-eyed at the ceiling. Blood rims her eyes like kohl and her lovely face is bloodied at ears and nose.