In the Blood

  “What have you DONE?” Lilith screams the last word. Pain drops her to her knees on the cold, hard floor. She grabs at Yahweh’s shoulder.

  Lucien smacks her hands away and levels her a look that chills her to the bone and freezes her hands in midair. “You’ll never use him again.” He returns his gaze to Yahweh, his expression tender. “He’s free.” Lucien drapes his hair over the creawdwr’s face, a silken black shroud.

  “Murderer!” Lilith wails.

  LILITH DREW IN A deep breath of incense and jasmine and shoved the past away once more. Lucien’s unexpected presence had dusted off her memories and lifted them into the light. She centered and calmed herself, then climbed the steps to the Chaos Seat. She needed to verify her former cydymaith’s claims.

  His name is Dante, a born vampire. He’s twenty-three years old.

  Reaching into the black velvet purse tied to her belt, Lilith pulled out the prize she’d slipped unnoticed from a pocket of Lucien’s trousers while he hung in the pit. Blood dotted the wrinkled scrap of paper like a seal. Creawdwr magic whispered against her fingers. Her hands trembled ever so slightly.

  If this was genuine and not some trick Lucien had designed to make a fool of her, then the gems on the Chaos Seat would glow. Only a creawdwr’s magic could awaken the Seat.

  Bending, Lilith touched the blood-smeared paper to the black marble.

  The Chaos Seat burst into flame.

  Lilith stumbled backward and her sandaled foot slipped off the step. She fell from the dais, but caught herself with a quick sweep of her wings and lowered her feet to the hard floor.

  Fire engulfed the black marble throne, cool flames radiating out around it like a twilight aura—blue, green, and purple. The sapphires and opals blazed with intense color, and Lilith lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the Seat’s cold-sparkling brilliance.

  Luminescent color like evening’s first blush glimmered throughout the room.

  Lilith’s heart winged frantically against her ribs. She’d never seen such a display from the Seat before, not even when a creawdwr had occupied it. And with only a drop of a child-creawdwr’s magic-infused blood. Her mouth dried.

  His name is Dante, a born vampire. He’s my son.

  Fola Fior and Elohim.

  Never in the history of the Elohim had there been a mixed-blood creawdwr.

  Possibilities pranced through Lilith’s mind. Her pulse soared.

  Lilith swooped to the top of the dais and snatched up the blood-dotted piece of paper. The fire and shimmering color vanished. The room darkened, and she blinked bright spots from her vision.

  Swinging around, she dipped her wings, grabbed the silk sheet, and redraped the Seat. Unshielded minds pressed unknowing against hers and she knew it was just a matter of time before one of the servants stumbled across her.

  Or worse, Gabriel.

  Landing on the marble floor, she folded her wings behind her, and hurried from the room. She reached for her veil, but it was gone. Panic waterfalled down her spine. Spinning around, Lilith raced back into the receiving chamber.

  Her veil rested on the dais’s bottom step, a streak of blood against all the black stone. She picked it up and slipped it over her head, draping the ends over her shoulders.

  “What a pleasant surprise, little dove,” a low and honey-sweet voice said.

  Even though her heart jumped into her throat, Lilith managed not to jump along with it. She finished arranging her veil, then turned around to face a red-tinted Gabriel. “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” she said, pleased her voice was level. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, in kilt and sandals, his hair plaited into a single, thick braid, his wings tucked away into his back pouches. A knotted torc encircled his throat. He flashed her a sympathetic smile. “Me either.”

  “No rest for the wicked,” Lilith said, returning his smile.

  “True. Very true.”

  She walked to the door, then paused when he showed no inclination to move.

  He touched a finger to her veil. “What brought you to this room in search of sleep? Why not a walk in the garden or a night flight?”

  Lilith met Gabriel’s gaze. “My conversations with Samael have resurrected memories I thought long dead,” she said, allowing just a hint of sorrow to soften her voice. “And…old feelings.”

  Gabriel’s hand dropped to his side, amusement lighting his eyes. “Conversation? Is that what you call it?” He chuckled. “Hanging in the pit and name-bound, all thanks to you, I can’t imagine he’d have much to chat about.”

  “Perhaps I enjoy watching him suffer. Perhaps I like hearing him rant and curse.”

  “Now that I believe,” Gabriel murmured. “I think you came to this room to stoke your rage, to remember what he stole from us, little dove.”

  Lilith smoothed the pleats in her gown. “When did you get to know me so well?”

  Gabriel straightened and stepped out into the corridor. “You’ve never fooled me,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers. “Not once.”

  “Truly? So you meant to fly your army into my ambush on the Golden Shore?”

  Gabriel waved a hand. “That was a long time ago. I’ve learned since then.”

  Lilith smiled. “I would hope so.” She walked into the corridor.

  A servant, one of the half-mortal and wingless nephilim, bowed her blonde head and slipped silently into the creawdwr’s chamber, a broom and feathered dust-sweep in her hands.

  “There was another reason I was surprised to see you here,” Gabriel said. “The Morningstar has invited Samael to his aerie for a predawn breakfast and a bit of conversation.”

  Lilith stared at Gabriel, a cold knot in her belly. “I lost track of time,” she said. “Thank you for reminding me. Good night.” She whirled and started down the corridor, but Gabriel’s voice stopped her.

  “Do you think he’s hiding a creawdwr?”

  “The Morningstar?”

  “Don’t play games, little dove.”

  “I don’t know,” Lilith said, her voice thoughtful. “I don’t think so, however.”

  “Ah, well, when Samael’s strength has waned enough to eliminate his shields, I’ll just root through his mind and find out for myself.”

  “Sounds delightful,” Lilith said dryly. “Good night, Gabriel.”

  “Shall I tell Hekate her mother dropped by?” His voice was honey-sweet again.

  Thorns pricked Lilith’s heart. “Now who’s playing games? No matter how I answer, you’ll tell her anyway.”

  “True, little dove. Pleasant breakfast.”

  Lilith resumed walking, head high. She was halfway down the corridor before it dawned on her that she’d never tucked the bloodstained paper back into her purse. Her blood turned to ice. She couldn’t turn around and go back—she felt Gabriel’s presence behind her, knew he scrutinized her movements, her body language. She could only hope the servant would sweep the paper up and throw it away.

  She had another concern to add to the lost bit of paper. Why hadn’t Star informed her of his forthcoming breakfast interrogation of Lucien?

  Had he been hoping to surprise her and catch her off guard, perhaps? After all, she should’ve still been in their bed. Now, he was most likely wondering where she had gone in the small hours of the night.

  Perhaps she’d simply tell him she’d been to see their daughter, but that thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. What if Hekate told him otherwise?

  Lilith hurried from the aerie’s mouth and launched herself into the night sky.

  29 SACRAMENT

  Seattle, WA

  March 23/24

  SHE TASTED AMARETTO AND parted her lips for more.

  Fingers brushed against her cheek, trailed along the line of her throat and then down, whispering across the curve of her breast. Sudden heat fluttered through her belly, ignited between her legs. And the scent of burning leaves and early frost filled her nostrils like incense, summoning her from sleep.

/>   Heather awakened and looked into Dante’s gleaming eyes. Up on one elbow, he watched her, his fingers still caressing her breast through her pajamas, then he lowered his pale face and kissed her again.

  Rolling onto her side, she kissed him back, drinking in the sweet taste of his lips. The intensity of her hunger, her need, surprised her. It burned at her core, white-hot. She skimmed her hand along his back, the feel of his silk-smooth skin and the hard muscles beneath sending hot tingles down her spine.

  As the kiss deepened, Dante’s hand slid from her breast, down along the curve of her waist, to her hip, and yanked her closer still. His heat baked into her, merged with the fire blazing within her. He shoved her pajama top up, baring her stomach and her breasts. He cupped her breast, and his mouth abandoned her lips to trail hot kisses down her throat to her nipple.

  A small moan escaped her as he licked the stiffened peak, then sucked it into the wet heat of his mouth. The flutters in her belly intensified. She heard the sound of her own rapid breathing as she worked a hand between them and unbuckled his belt, unfastened his pants, regretting that she hadn’t peeled them off when she’d put him to bed.

  Dante brushed her fingers aside and finished unzipping his pants. With a low, impatient growl, he kissed her breast, then lifted his head. A blur of movement, a quick heated breeze, and then she heard the clink of his belt buckle as his pants hit the floor. Another blur of movement—white hands, sure and fast, and her pajamas and panties joined his leather pants.

  Heather pressed herself against him again. They were still on their sides, face-to-face and skin to skin. She hooked a finger through the ring in his collar. Tugged and claimed him. Mine, she thought.

  Dante’s mouth closed over hers and she felt a sudden sting as he bit her lower lip, the pain vanishing almost instantly. He sucked blood from the wound, his kiss hungry and rough. His hand tucked between her legs, his fingers stroking and dipping and finding all the right spots.

  She moaned softly against his lips, moving to the urgent rhythm of heated flesh and hungry lips and exploring hands, caught up in the music of small gasps and rapid breathing and pounding hearts.

  Sliding her hand between them, Heather grasped him, stroking his hard, heated length, his skin velvet-soft beneath her fingers. Dante sucked in a breath, shivered, and the heat fluttering through her belly whirled into a thought-ashing firestorm.

  Inching up against the pillows, she eased herself onto him. Dante moaned low in his throat and drove into her, pumping against her, with her. He kissed her, deep and wild, ravenous.

  Heather gave in to her hunger, a dark and primal surrender. She grabbed at Dante’s shoulder, his back, his hard-muscled ass, digging her fingers in with all her strength as she pounded against him.

  His motion matched hers, driving hard and fast, his fevered heat torching a bonfire blaze within her, sweat slicking their skin.

  Heather gasped as his mouth slid down to her throat and his fangs pierced the skin. The quick sting vanished beneath his lips, and he sipped, drawing her into him, like she’d drawn him into her.

  Without a word, he grasped her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers, their palms pushing together—a balance, a promise.

  Pleasure pulsed through Heather and blue sparks lit the darkness behind her eyes. Dante drove deeper and faster, harder, and she came suddenly, the orgasm’s intensity stealing her voice. Dante’s breath quickened and his lips returned to hers. She tasted her own blood on his lips, his tongue, copper and amaretto. Electric tingles prickled along her spine, fluttered through her belly.

  I’m inside of him.

  Pleasure pyramided within her again, building and building. Music—vibrant, dark, and yearning—resonated between them, palm to palm, heart to heart. Blue fire lit Heather’s mind and she cried out as pleasure poured hot through her veins like melted wax, rippling through her center and out, in wave after molten wave.

  A low moan escaped Dante’s lips. Heather opened her eyes and watched through her lashes as pleasure illuminated his beautiful face. Blue flames haloed their joined bodies, shimmered in the darkness.

  His lips parted and his breathing became rough and ragged. He pounded into her faster, deeper. Cupping her hand against his face, she kissed him as his muscles tensed and he came. She came again with him, moaning against his lips as the orgasm intertwined with the song pulsating through them.

  One midnight-dark note held—burning and bittersweet, yet edged with hope—gradually fading as Dante’s movement slowed. Heather wrapped herself around him, her thigh over his hip, her fingers in his hair. Dante held her tight, his breathing slowing, his heartbeat steady and strong against her cheek. His body fit against hers as though he’d been made for her alone, the second half of a locket clicking into place.

  She never wanted this moment to end.

  Just her and Dante, curled together. Bodies glistening with sweat, fingers entwined. Breathing as one.

  No government conspiracies or buried memories; no deep, dark secrets; no loss.

  Nothing beyond this moment, a moment that couldn’t last.

  Heather realized neither one of them had said a word. But that was okay. Everything she had to say to Dante at the moment, she’d said with her body and her lips. She hoped it was the same for him.

  Dante stroked her shoulder, his touch soothing. He planted tender little kisses on her forehead and eyes and lips as she drifted back to sleep, satiated and relaxed, thinking, We’ll go slower next time. Play more. And I swear to God I’m going to learn how to get his goddamned pants off.

  DANTE WATCHED HEATHER SLEEP, her head resting on his shoulder, her body warm and snug against him, one leg over his. He brushed her hair back from her face, trailed his fingers through its soft, tousled length. She smelled of lilac and musk, smelled warm and sticky and of him. She breathed easily, her lips slightly parted, her lashes shadowing the skin beneath her eyes.

  Inside, it was quiet, the whispers hushed, as though Heather’s embrace was a sacrament of silence, white and tranquil. He kissed her lips. Memorized her night-shadowed face, the feel of her against him, soft skin and taut muscles. Memorized the rhythm of her heart.

  The noise has stopped, chérie.

  Gray, predawn light spilled around the edges of the curtain, and he felt Sleep uncurling within him, mingling with the last of the morphine in his system.

  He tried to remember what had happened at Vespers, but smacked into a wall. A hard, blank wall. D’accord. One step at a time. Onstage at Vespers. Singing. Performing. Scrapping with Seattle nightkind. Heather pushing through the crowd. Then nothing. Dante sighed.

  The next thing he knew, he was waking up beside Heather, not knowing where he was or how much time had passed. It wasn’t anything new, the not knowing or the loss of time. Yet he felt uneasy, and he wasn’t sure why.

  Something Heather had told him earlier? Rodriguez filed a malpractice lawsuit against…

  Pain, like a red-hot skewer, lanced through his skull. Dante sucked in a breath and shut his eyes. Orange light cobwebbed the darkness behind his eyes. The pain faded. Sleep snaked through his veins, slowing his heart rate and damping down his heat. He forced his eyes open. Try again. A malpractice lawsuit against Dr. Robert…

  Another red-hot skewer twisted through his mind. This one didn’t fade. Yeah, well, fuck it. Dante grabbed for the thought again. Pain corkscrewed in behind his left eye, intense and sharp and unrelenting. His vision grayed.

  Dante eased out from under Heather and sat up, rested his aching head against his upraised knees. He tasted blood and wiped at his nose. He waited for the pain to either subside or kick him ass-first into Sleep.

  Something soft bumped his calf and mewed a quiet question. Dante’s fingers found and stroked Eerie’s head, the warm fur soft as silk. He drew in a shuddering breath as the pain gradually released him. Eerie arched up into his hand, twisted around and arched again.

  Sniffing back blood, Dante raised his head and looked at Eerie. He smo
othed his hand down the length of the cat’s spine. A song curlicued into his mind, a symphony composed of sweeping genetic strings and twisting DNA rhythm. Electricity crackled along Dante’s fingers and its reflected blue light danced in Eerie’s eyes. Purring, the cat leaned against Dante’s leg.

  Dante closed his eyes and plucked at the strings, rearranged the rhythm, adding measures, new beats. Composed. Strummed new chords. Imagined Eerie whole. Imagined Eerie walking and running.

  Just as Dante lifted his hands, pain slashed a dissonant cross-rhythm across the melody he wove and the song split apart and unraveled, as did the white silence within, fraying beneath the sudden angry droning of wasps.

  Let’s see how long you can stay under.

  I think he’s dead. I think you killed him.

  Tais toi, you fool. Put him in the trunk.

  Pain jack-knifed Dante’s thoughts, stole his breath. He opened his eyes. White light strobed at the edges of his vision. Then Sleep rushed over him in a black tide and shoved him beneath its lightless surface, but one image followed him into the dark—the image of Eerie jumping off the bed and slipping through the cracked-open door, blue sparks trailing from his fur.

  30 SALT IN THE WOUNDS

  Gehenna, the Morningstar’s Aerie

  March 23–24

  LILITH PULLED THE VEIL from her head, wadding it into a ball in her hand, as she marched into her aerie’s spacious living chamber. The Morningstar stood at the window in a purple kilt and white platinum torc and bracers, his gaze on the dying night beyond the glass. He tilted his head in her direction, but didn’t look at her.

  “Ah, there you are, my love,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder.”

  “When were you going to tell me about your plans for this morning?”

  “At the last moment.” He turned around to face her. “But you weren’t here.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Truly?” Star murmured. “You certainly looked asleep when I saw you last.” A smile brushed his lips. “Faking, my love?”