Athena’s words whispered though Alex’s memory: Green waters of remembrance. He’ll need the green waters.
Excitement spun through him as he examined the sealed, green-tinted bottle. Although Alex didn’t know what role the absinthe would play in Dante’s upcoming immersion into his past, Athena’s visions were always right.
Alex tucked the absinthe back into the nest of perfumed un-dies, then zipped the bag shut. He scooted the bag onto the floorboards between Annie’s booted feet.
She’d been talkative when she’d hopped into the truck, bouncing from subject to subject like a Slinky flipping from stair to stair, usually switching midsentence. And for one awful moment, he’d expected her to start whispering in an effort to keep up with her racing thoughts.
Then the moment had passed, and Alex’s pulse had slowed. Not Athena, but Annie. A pang of regret had pricked him. Annie’s mind was nearly as ravaged as his sister’s.
Annie had kept thumping the end of one fist against her forehead and Alex had finally realized she was in pain, had realized she’d probably welcome the syringe.
It hadn’t taken him long to find an ill-lit alley to pull the truck into.
As the needle pierces her throat, he says: It’s nothing personal. All I want is Dante.
Annie laughs: Get in line, motherfucker.
Alex pushes the plunger.
He twisted flex-cuffs around Annie’s wrists and ankles. Brushing a purple strand of hair away from her lips, he stretched a wide piece of duct tape across her mouth. Alex clicked a picture of her using her own phone. Sliding the phone into his hoodie pocket, he got out of the Dodge Ram and unsnapped the black tonneau cover over the bed and folded it back.
With Annie slung across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, Alex returned to the truck bed and eased her down into it as best he could. Her head bounced against the runneled metal, fanning multicolored hair across her face, but she didn’t stir. She wouldn’t for hours.
Alex snapped the tonneau cover back in place. He leaned against the truck, lit up a Winston, and smoked in silence for a few moments. He hoped he was right about Dante’s feelings for Heather. Even so, it was still possible the True Blood might tell him to fuck off again.
Alex pulled his cell from his pocket and called Athena. After six rings, her voice mail switched on, a message he’d recorded for her years ago: You’ve reached the voice mail of Dr. Athena Wells. Please leave a message.
Anxiety coiling through his guts, Alex rang his father’s cell, then the land line. Six rings, voice mail. Maybe she was so absorbed studying the center footage on the laptop she didn’t hear the phone. Or was ignoring it.
He wished he and Athena shared the long-range telepathy that vampires used so effortlessly, but they’d learned through trial and error that they couldn’t touch each other’s minds or anyone else’s unless they were within a certain proximity.
Taking one last drag from his cigarette, the butt-end smoke harsh against his throat, he flicked it into a puddle. Alex thumbed the END button on his cell, then slid the phone into his pocket. He climbed back into the Dodge Ram and started up the engine. The powerful rumble reverberated against the alley’s stone walls.
Even if Athena was ignoring the phone, the Tightrope Walker should’ve picked up. She’d want to know about his progress since she seemed to be so invested in seeing his father in Dante Baptiste’s hands.
But maybe she couldn’t answer the phone.
Maybe Athena had decided to conduct another experiment.
TRANS AM IDLING IN a passenger unloading zone in front of the main terminal at Sea-Tac, Heather said her good-byes, giving Jack, Eli, and Antoine quick hugs before offering her hand to Silver. With a slight smile, Silver shook her hand.
“I hope you find Annie,” he said. His strange silver eyes glittered like sun-sparked water beneath the lights. “She’s cool, but she’s chewed herself up ragged inside, y’know? She needs an easy touch.”
Heather nodded, surprised by his insight. “She does. Thanks.”
Silver shrugged, then stepped back a few paces to join the guys as Dante, the hood of his black hoodie pulled up to shadow his face, said his good-byes with kisses and murmured words.
“He asked me to shepherd everyone home, make sure they get there safe,” Von said, stepping up beside Heather, his gaze on Dante. “But I goddamned hate leaving him. Between the migraines and the seizures…” He shook his head.
“Has he ever said anything about what Jordan did to him in that van?”
“Nope. Not a word.”
“That’s something else he shouldn’t have to carry alone,” she said softly.
“Yeah, good luck trying to convince him of that.” The nomad bent and dug through the well-weathered olive-green knapsack at his booted feet. He pulled something out, then straightened. “Here, doll.” He held the black, zippered bag in his hands. “You’re gonna need this.”
Heather took the vinyl bag, feeling cold. “Thanks. I hope I won’t have to use it.”
Von shook his head. “Sorry, darlin’, but you will.”
Heather pulled one of her business cards from her purse and handed it to Von. “My cell phone number’s on there,” she said. “Check in with me anytime. Once you’re back home, give me a call. I’ll keep you posted on our progress each night and where we’re staying.”
The nomad nodded. “Good enough.” He slipped the card into an inner pocket of his leather jacket.
Heather caught a whiff of frost-rimed autumn leaves and then Dante was beside her. He hooked his arm around her waist. “Safe flight, mon ami. I appreciate you seeing everyone home. Merci beaucoup for everything.”
“No, thank you. You helped me attain my lifelong goal of roadie-hood,” Von drawled dryly, then something tender warmed his green eyes. He pushed Dante’s hood back and cupped his pale face with his road-weathered hands. “Let them see, little brother.” Then he bent and kissed him.
Let them see.
Heather realized Von wasn’t talking about the voyeuristic appeal of watching two men kiss, he was telling Dante not to hide his beauty inside a hood, and he was also speaking about who and what Dante was—musician, friend, True Blood, and Fallen.
Unique. Brimming with magic and beauty and heart; dark, untamed, and deadly.
Let them see you.
I agree, but not yet, Heather thought. Not until his life is completely his own.
The kiss ended and the nomad released Dante with a pat to his cheek. “Take care, little brother,” he said. He cat-nudged Heather with his shoulder and she bumped him back. “And see if you can keep your gorgeous kick-ass woman outta trouble.”
Dante snorted. Pointed to himself. “Gasoline.” Pointed at Heather. “Match.” He winked at her as Von laughed. “As soon as we find Annie, we’ll head home.”
Von held Dante’s gaze for a few moments, and Heather knew they were speaking mind-to-mind. Something sad and yearning suddenly shadowed Dante’s unguarded face, and he looked away, jaw tight.
Von watched him for a moment, then sighed. “Like a goddamned mule.” Looking at Heather, he said, “Wishing ya easy roads, doll. See ya in a week or two.”
“Take care of Eerie,” she said.
Von snorted. “That cat’s got Eli wrapped around his paw, woman.”
Heather grinned. “That’s my kitty boy.”
Motioning for the guys to move their asses, Von strode toward the terminal entrance, pausing to exchange greetings with a couple of nomads on gear-laden bikes.
Dante untucked his shades from the front of his shirt and slid them on. He looked at Heather. “Let’s go find Annie.”
“FUCKING HELL,” DANTE MUTTERED. He hated restraints. Unbuckling his seat belt, he shifted in the seat, his leather pants squeaking against vinyl, and rested his back against the passenger door. He rested one booted foot on the seat. Better.
Heather glanced at him. “That’s the face I want to remember,” she said, returning her gaze to the road. “The o
ne before the accident.”
“So don’t crash,” Dante teased. “And anyway, the airbag will suffocate me first.”
“Smart ass.”
“Yup.”
The smooth, high-pitched thrum of the Trans Am’s engine filled the silence. But the silence wasn’t tense or awkward, Dante reflected, his gaze on Heather’s face. They were comfortable together even without words, content with their own thoughts.
And that was dangerous.
It would make it even harder to walk away from her when the time came, when he was sure she was safe from the Bureau and anyone else hunting her.
The words Von had arrowed into his mind at the airport darted through his memory: Don’t deny your heart, little brother.
Gotta. She’ll die if I don’t.
No, Dante, no…
A song suddenly disrupted the silence, a tinny version of Rob Zombie’s “Living Dead Girl.” “That’s Annie’s ringtone,” Heather breathed. “Phone’s in my purse.” She steered the Trans Am to the shoulder of the road. “Talk to her until I get stopped.”
Dante swiveled around in his seat, grabbed Heather’s purse from the backseat, and fished out the Zombie-rocking cell. He flipped it open. “Annie?”
The Trans Am slowed to a stop. Heather pulled up the emergency brake.
“No, but you’re not who I was expecting either.” Alex Lyons’s voice was level and warm. “You’re who I wanted to speak to, though.”
“Fi’de garce,” Dante spat. “Where’s Annie?”
Heather stared at Dante, fear flickering across her face. “Who is it?”
“Lyin’ Lyons,” Dante told her. “Where the fuck’s Annie?”
“She’s with me and she’s safe, for the moment.”
“Give me the phone,” Heather said, holding out her hand. All fear was gone from her face, but her hand trembled. Dante gave her the phone.
“What have you done with my sister, Lyons?”
Heather’s expression tightened as she listened to whatever the motherfucker was saying. Dante trailed a hand through his hair. Annie was in trouble. Bad trouble. Because of him.
He should’ve killed Lyons when he’d had the chance. Should’ve torn into his throat and fed.
Heather lowered the cell from her ear. The phone beeped and she looked at what appeared on the tiny monitor. Her breath caught in her throat. Wordlessly, she extended the phone to Dante so he could see too.
The screen held a photo of Annie, eyes closed, duct tape across her mouth. Anger burned through Dante’s veins.
“He wants to talk to you,” Heather said, her voice strained.
Dante took the phone from her fingers. He knew what she was thinking because he was thinking it too. “How do we know she’s alive?” he said into the cell.
“You’ll just have to take my word for it,” Lyons said. “She is, but if you want to keep her that way, you need to meet me.”
“Where?”
“Heather’s house. If you aren’t there in ten minutes, Annie will be dead.” Lyons ended the call.
Dante flipped the cell closed and dropped it back into Heather’s purse. “Your house in ten minutes,” he told her.
Heather nodded, jaw tight. She dropped the emergency brake, slammed the Trans Am into gear and burned rubber out onto the road. Dante listened to the rapid, furious rhythm of her heart. Adrenaline heated her scent, edging its lilacs-in-the-rain sweetness with the sharp tang of steel.
“Hang on, p’tite,” Dante said under his breath, wishing hard and from the heart. Memory whirled through him, edging his vision with white light.
Jay, straitjacketed and dying on the slaughterhouse’s cold floor, blood from his slashed throat pooling around him, staining his blond hair red…
He’d told Jay to hang on, too. Dante’s hands clenched into fists. He refused to add Annie’s name to the litany of the lost, the long list of all those he’d failed.
“He’ll want me,” Dante said. “And he can have me. As soon as he gives you Annie, you get the hell outta Seattle and head for New Orleans.”
“I’m not letting you sacrifice yourself,” Heather said, voice tight. “We need to think of something else.”
“He wants me to heal his sister. He ain’t gonna hurt me.”
“I’m not letting Lyons leave with you.”
Dante shrugged. “I’ll just kill him first chance I get.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yeah? Why won’t I?”
“Because you’re going to prepare two syringes with just enough morphine to knock a mortal into slumberland for a few hours. That’s why. Whoever gets to him first can give him the shot. Will you be able to get into his mind? Find where Annie is?”
“Yeah, I can do that.” White light danced at the edges of Dante’s vision and thorn-sharp pain prickled at his temples, scraped behind his left eye. He willed the pain below. He could only hope it’d stay there. And if it didn’t? He shivered, a chill breathing against the back of his neck.
I’ll have to use it before it uses me.
“Promise me that both syringes will have a nonfatal dose.”
Dante looked at Heather for a long moment, reading the tension in her body, the trust in her eyes. She knew he’d never lie. He reached into the backseat, grabbed the black bag, and unzipped it. He plucked out a syringe and uncapped it.
“Ain’t promising.”
In the depths, wasps droned.
He’d do whatever it took to keep Heather and Annie safe. No matter the cost.
34 LIMITLESS DEPTHS
Seattle, WA
March 24
SHERIDAN WATCHED ON THE mini-mon as the Trans Am pulled into Wallace’s driveway. The headlights went out. The passenger door opened and Dante Prejean stepped out of the car. Streetlight shimmered along his leather pants and latex shirt, gleamed blue in his hair.
Prejean strode down the driveway and Sheridan couldn’t help but admire his smooth and predatory grace. He also noticed that the vampire’s body language whispered of coiled muscles, of agitation. Of hunger.
Prejean glanced up the street in both directions, skimmed a hand through his hair, then turned and paced up the driveway.
Interesting. Waiting for someone, but not happy about it.
Let’s see who.
DANTE WALKED AROUND THE car to Heather, gravel crunching beneath his boots. It had started sprinkling again, more of a mist than actual rain, and droplets of water glistened on her black trenchcoat, jeweled her hair.
“If this goes south, and Lyons leaves with you,” she said, her voice husky, pained, “I will find you. I won’t give up. Do you hear me, Baptiste?”
Dante cupped Heather’s rain-cool face. “I hear you, chérie. And ditto.” He lowered his face to hers. “For luck.” He kissed her and she kissed him back hard, her lips parting beneath his, her hands on his hips.
Inside, the droning wasps washed away beneath a wave of white silence and the pain in Dante’s head eased.
The deep rumbling of a powerful engine drew Dante’s head up. He released Heather. “Truck coming.”
“Which direction?” She reached inside her trench for her gun. “Lyons drives a Dodge Ram.”
“East.”
Headlight glare stabbed blue-white light into Dante’s eyes. Pain pierced his head, ratcheted his headache into high gear. Squinting, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes.
The rumble stopped. The headlights winked out. Brilliant pinpoints flecked Dante’s vision. He plucked his shades from his shirt front and slid them on.
Heather studied the red truck parked against the curb, yellow parking lights glowing. “Is Annie with him?”
Dante saw only one occupant in the truck’s shadowed interior—Lyons. Filtering out the steady rhythm of Heather’s heart, he listened. The truck contained one heartbeat, a mortal’s fast, smooth patter. Dante’s hands curled into fists.
“No. She’s not with him.” Dante refused to voice the other possibility—she was with him, but
her heart no longer beat.
“Shit,” Heather whispered.
The passenger window slid down with a low hum. A thin coil of cigarette smoke curled out, disappearing in the drizzle. “Put the gun down, Heather,” Lyons called.
“Where’s Annie?” Dante asked as Heather bent and placed her gun on the gravel at the driveway’s edge.
“Somewhere.” Amusement buoyed Lyons’s voice, amusement Dante wanted to prick full of holes.
Heather straightened. “How do we know Annie’s all right?” she asked.
“You’ll just have to take my word for it. That’s the only option available.”
No, it ain’t.
Closing his eyes, Dante pushed the pain throbbing in his head below, and focused his thoughts. He reached for Lyons’s mind. And bounced against a steel-smooth shield. Dante’s eyes flew open. Squiggles of light edged his vision. “Fuck,” he whispered.
“You okay?” Heather’s hand grasped his arm.
“I was wondering when you’d try that,” Lyons said.
“He’s a telepath,” Dante said. Blood hot trickled from his nose. He wiped at it with the back of his hand. “I can’t get past his shields. Not without a fight.”
“Shit.” Heather released his arm. “How do we get Annie back?” she called. “What do you want?”
“I want Dante to listen to a little something on my iPod,” Lyons said.
“I thought you wanted him to heal your sister,” Heather said.
“I do,” Lyons agreed. “But I also want to see how well he follows instructions.”
“Fuck you,” Dante said. “Throw me the damned iPod already.”
“I’ll send it to you,” Lyons replied.
As Dante mulled over that comment—Send? As in e-mail? As in fucking FedEx?—he felt a surge of power, electric and strong, and a small shape floated out of the truck’s passenger window. An iPod sailed up the driveway on a rippling wave of energy.
Dante stared as the iPod stopped in front of him at chest level, hovering in the air on tiny pulsations of energy. He looked at Lyons. Shadows and light crosshatched the mortal’s face. Not only a telepath, but telekinetic. That gift was rare even among nightkind from what Dante knew. Natural or more of his dad’s tampering?