Annie released Dante’s hand. “And how do you know my sister?” Her gaze skimmed his length from head to toe. “Steel-ringed bondage collar, latex and leather—trust me, you’re not the kind of guy she usually brings home.”
“We met in New Orleans.”
“Holy fuck! Are you the guy Heather was telling me about?” Annie poked a finger into his chest. “The guy who fucking saved her life? The guy who is…fuck, what the hell did she say you were?”
“Something nice, I hope. But I’m okay with something naughty.”
“She said you weren’t human,” Annie laughed, her voice low and booze-and-smokes scratchy. “Crazy, I know! I forget what she called you….”
“Nightkind.”
“That’s it! Nightkind. Vampire. Are you?”
“Yup,” Dante replied, trailing a hand through his hair. “When did you talk to Heather? Have you seen her? She okay?”
Annie shrugged. “I guess she’s okay.” She felt along the wall for a light switch. “So, just ‘yup’? No denials? No ‘get real, there’s no such’—”
Dante heard a click as her fingers found the switch. Light flooded the room, spiking pain in through his eyes. He reached for the sunglasses parked on his head, then realized he’d lost them during Annie’s head-butt hello. Squinting, he lifted a hand to shade his eyes.
“Fucking hell,” Annie whispered. “You’re even better looking in the light. That’s rare, you know, a lot of times guys you pick up in clubs will be soooo pretty in the dark, especially Goth boys, but once you see them the next morning in raw daylight—yikes.”
“Been there,” Dante murmured. “I feel your pain.”
“How in hell did Heather land a hottie like you? Even with blood on your face, you’re yummy.”
Elroy’s words whispered through Dante’s mind, words spoken in the back of a blood-spattered van, words that latched tight as handcuffs around the pain in his head: Your nose is bleeding. That’s kinda sexy.
Dante rubbed his right wrist as the Perv’s whisper faded, a ghost sheeted in cold steel, sharp shivs, and bitter lust. But the pain didn’t fade. “That’s a stupid question,” he said, refocusing on Annie. “Your sister’s gorgeous, inside and out.”
Annie stuck her index finger in her mouth and pretended to gag.
Dante laughed. “I think I like you, p’tite.”
Spotting his sunglasses on the carpet next to the coffee table, he walked over, scooped them up, and dropped them on over his eyes. His headache eased a little. “Do you have any idea where Heather might be?” he asked, swiveling back around.
“Nope.” Annie closed the distance between them until she stood just a handspan away, her weight shifted to one hip. “But I bet I know a few tricks she doesn’t,” she said, voice low. “She’d be so pissed if I jumped your bones.”
“I ain’t here to piss her off. And if that’s why you’re here, I gotta feeling we’re gonna be butting heads again.”
“Really? Promise? It was soooo fun the first time.” Her gaze slid over him and the chemical tang underneath her lavender-and-cloves scent thickened, curling into Dante’s nostrils like smoke.
Dizziness suddenly whirled through Dante, spinning the room around him. Something in her scent…drugs? White light flickered at the edges of his vision. Sensations rippled through him, pulled and tugged like a tide of ghostly hands; then the rip current yanked him down. Sucked him under.
A needle pierces the skin at his throat. Cold burns through his veins like dry ice.
Images sheared up into Dante’s mind, fractured and confusing: A room with blood-spattered, snow-white walls. A hype with a bead of clear liquid on the needle. A man’s voice. What’s the little psycho yelling?
Pain sucker punched him. He stumbled. A hand locked around his bicep. Black flecks flickered through his vision. Faded slowly. Dante looked into Annie’s blue gaze—saw curiosity. Hunger burned through his veins. He needed to feed. He’d waited too long. And his control was slipping.
“You okay?”
“Oui.” He pulled free of her hold. Stepped back from her heat, from the tantalizing patter of her pulse.
“Can I see your fangs? You got fangs, right? I wanna see.”
Dante walked into the kitchen, stopping at the sink. He twisted the knob to cold. Bending, Dante cupped cold water in his hands and splashed it on his face. Scrubbed away the blood. But not the whispers.
I’ve mapped your mind.
What’s he screamin’?
He’s making a very loud, very clear demand.
“Kill me,” Dante whispered. Pain spiked his temples and he grabbed the sink’s edge. The room spun. He shut his eyes. He tried to hold onto the shadow memory, tried to repeat the words he’d just said, but when he opened his mouth, he no longer knew what to say.
It was gone. Whatever it’d been.
“Fuck.” Dante opened his eyes, released his grip from the sink, and straightened. Pain throbbed behind his left eye. Tearing a paper towel from the roll on the counter, he wiped his face. Turned off the water.
In the sudden silence, he heard a sharp gasp from the living room. He hurried out of the kitchen and saw Annie standing at the dining room table, her attention locked on the photos fanned across its dark wood.
“Is that my mom?” Annie said, voice barely more than a rough-edged whisper.
“Dunno. But I think, maybe, yeah.”
“She got herself whacked because she was a drunk and a whore,” she said, her tone bored, but strain edged her voice. Manic energy whipped around her like electricity from a downed power line. “If-she-weren’t-already-dead-I’d-fucking-kill-her-myself-she-picked-booze-I-hate-her-I-hate-her-I-hate-everyone—”
Annie’s hurt and rage punched against Dante like a child’s angry fists, pounding and kicking and screaming. Then, with a speed almost nightkind fast, she whirled and ran across the room to the crowbar. Dipped and grabbed. Spun again.
Her eyes gleamed like she was hyped up. Her musky scent saturated the air. Dante had seen this kind of hurt before. Had felt it. Had carried it clenched in his fists and within his heart.
Annie swung the crowbar up into the air, fingers white-knuckled around the steel. A wordless howl escaped her throat and scraped razor-edged along Dante’s spine. She shot forward like a launched missile, the crowbar whistling as it arced through the air.
7 NO CONNECTION
Seattle, WA
March 22
HEATHER STEERED THE TRANS Am into a Fred Meyer parking lot, eased the car into a slot, slipped the gearshift into neutral, and yanked up the emergency brake. The engine’s rumble eased into a steady purr.
She flipped her cell open. She drew in a deep breath, and then tapped in Dante’s home number. She’d memorized the numbers for his home and the club, and had wished more than once he carried a cell phone. She hadn’t programmed the numbers into her cell, worried that someone might steal the phone and its data. Someone in a suit and shades, with a Bureau haircut.
The phone trilled and trilled. The metallic crash of shopping carts reverberated through her skull. Unease prickled through her with each unanswered trill. Finally, she heard a click.
“Oui?” Female voice, Cajun. Simone.
Heather pictured the earthy and beautiful blonde vampire, spiraled locks tumbling past her waist. Pictured her dark eyes and quick smile.
“Simone, it’s Heather,” she said. “Heather Wallace. I need to speak to Dante. I know he’s on tour, but does he—or anyone traveling with him—have a cell phone?”
“No, M’selle Wallace.”
No longer Heather, but M’selle Wallace, Heather noted.
“Not even for emergencies?”
“He doesn’t always want to be found.”
“I need to speak to him. It’s important.”
“Je m’en fichu. Can’t help you.” Simone’s words were cold and flat, all warmth gone from her voice.
Heather’s muscles knotted. She looked through the windshield and into
the light-washed night. “His migraines, have they been worse? Better?”
“Much worse. And he won’t let Lucien near him. As if you care.”
“Of course I care,” Heather said, keeping her voice steady. “I’m worried about him too. I hope to find some way to help him.”
“Like I told you before: You can’t help him. Only we can.” Simone’s voice was cold enough to frost the windows.
“I may be mortal, but I can still help him, whether you think so or not.”
“We’ll see,” Simone said, then ended the call.
Heather flipped the cell closed, then tossed it into the passenger seat. She rubbed her temples with her fingers. Her head ached. She couldn’t rely on Simone passing along her message. She’d have to be more direct. Inferno was playing Seattle tonight and tomorrow night at Vespers. She’d even bought tickets online for both shows.
Just in case the sight of Dante didn’t hurt.
Heather released the emergency brake and toed the gas pedal. The car’s throaty rumble vibrated up through the seat. She slipped the Trans Am into gear and drove from the parking lot, heading for Capitol Hill and Vespers.
She switched on the radio. “Tonight! At Vespers! Inferno!” Rough-edged industrial music poured from the speakers, followed by Dante’s almost whispered vocals, his voice simmering and full of rage.
Funny that she was thinking about him and then the next thing she heard on the radio was his band. Funny. A shame she didn’t believe in coincidence.
Just three long weeks ago, she’d learned that the world was much darker and more varied than she’d ever imagined. She still didn’t completely understand what it all meant or even where she and Dante belonged in this new world, what their roles were. But between the Bureau and Bad Seed, she was scared that she’d never have the chance to find out.
HEATHER TURNED FROM BROADWAY into a cramped parking lot. She parked underneath a sign reading PARKING FOR VESPERS CUSTOMERS ONLY! ALL OTHER VEHICLES WILL BE TORCHED TO KEEP THE HOMELESS WARM. THANK YOU FOR YOUR GENEROSITY.
Heather slid out of the Trans Am and locked it. Slinging her purse onto her shoulder, she walked toward the club’s entrance. A sign taped on the empty box office window read DOORS OPEN AT 9. SHOW BEGINS AT 10.
A small crowd of people stood in several clusters near Vespers’s cathedral-styled front doors, defiantly smoking and chatting. Along the arched border surrounding the doors lurked handpainted gargoyles and leering demons. Twists of ivy painted in scarlet and black curled up the doors to the arch.
A cool touch to the dark, brooding façade. A venue Annie had yearned to play. Heather glanced up as she headed for the entrance. The marquee read INFERNO and, in smaller letters, DOGSPIT. She hadn’t heard anything by Dogspit and wondered if they were a local band.
The crowd, with a fairly even mix of male and female from what Heather could see, was a Goth/punk smorgasbord featuring everything from cyber-Goth to old-school punk: metal-strapped latex, stylized straitjackets, fishnets and red-and-white striped thigh-high stockings, Cleopatra-kohled eyes, black leather and squeaky vinyl, and chain-draped black jeans; some wore stylized Mohawks or had shaved skulls. Piercings glimmered beneath the streetlights. Tattoos snaked like ivy along hard flesh. Tribal. Stylized. And the air reeked of cloves, patchouli, and sandalwood.
She wondered if any nightkind waited in line with the mortal crowd, but she didn’t see any of the haughty grace and cool beauty that she associated with nightkind. Dante was different in even that—his beauty, heated and riveting, his grace natural and unassuming.
Several in the crowd gave Heather the once-over, then looked away when they decided, with her black bomber jacket and boot-cut jeans and unfreaked hair, she probably wasn’t associated with the band.
You’d think this Halloween-and-fetish-gear-wearing group would know better than to judge a book by its cover, Heather mused as she walked past. At the door, she pulled on the handles. Locked. Curling her fingers around the huge, black, iron knocker, she thumped it against the door several times.
After a moment, she heard a click, then the door cracked open. A woman with purple-lined eyes and gel-spiked black hair looked her over. “Read the signs. Doors don’t open till nine.”
“I need to talk to Dante Pre—Baptiste of Inferno. It’s important.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Yeah, uh-huh. Life and death, right? Wait for the meet-and-greet after the show.” Shaking her head, she started to shut the door.
Sliding her foot against the door, Heather reached into her purse and fished out her badge. Flipped it open. “Please,” she added. “If I could just come in…”
The door queen’s face emptied of all expression. She poked her head out to see if anyone had noticed Heather’s badge, then motioned Heather inside. Shut and locked the door behind her.
Door Queen studied Heather’s badge for a long moment. “Wow. FBI.” She glanced at Heather, worry jittering in her eyes. “And you said Dante of Inferno, right? Is he in trouble? Are we gonna have to cancel the show?”
“No, no trouble,” Heather assured her, sliding her badge back into her purse. “But I do need to talk to him. Please tell him Heather Wallace is here.”
A smile of relief suddenly curved Door Queen’s purple-slicked lips. “Okay. Wait here,” she said. She hurried down an ill-lit hallway, her wide-legged black canvas jeans whisking with each step.
Heather glanced at a poster of Inferno tacked on the wall just inside the door. A flaming anarchy symbol against a black background and beneath the symbol: BURN. She combed her fingers through her hair, her stomach suddenly filling with butterflies. She wondered if he’d even come. And if he did, what he’d say.
What she’d say.
She caught a whiff of old leather and frost-edged air—crisp and clear. A scent she recognized.
“Okay, little girl. What can I do for you?” A low and easy drawl. Amused.
Heather swiveled around and met Von’s green-eyed gaze. A mustache framed the wicked grin parting his lips, revealing his slender fangs. His deep-brown hair was tied back. Six one and broad-shouldered, dressed in leather chaps over faded jeans, a black tee and scuffed-up scooter boots, his good looks played well against his earthy and tough exterior. He extended a callused hand.
“Good to see you, Von,” she said, grasping the nomad’s hand.
“Same here, doll.” Von squeezed her hand once, then released it. “But you sure about that? Your vibe says otherwise.” Faint light from the dim overheads glimmered along the silver-etched crescent moon tattoo beneath his right eye.
Heather shook her head, feeling a genuine smile tug at her lips. “Sorry, Von. I forgot how sharp nightkind emo-radar is.”
Von laughed. “Emo-radar? Hell, woman, what kinda word is that?”
Heather’s smile faded as she glanced past the nomad, hoping to see Dante striding along the dark hallway. “Where is he?” she finally asked.
Von’s brows knitted together. “Ain’t he with you?”
“What?” Heather stared at the nomad.
“He left a couple of hours ago,” Von said. “Said he was gonna stop by your place. Said he wanted to talk with you.”
Relief cascaded through Heather. “I haven’t been home,” she said. And she felt a little embarrassed for thinking Dante would avoid her in a high-school-drama kind of way. “Do you think he’s still there?”
“I’ll find out, doll.”
Von’s eyes unfocused for a moment and Heather watched as he connected with Dante in a way she envied. She’d experienced Dante’s mind touch back at the center—a link blood-forged and temporary and intimate.
Von’s green eyes locked onto her again. “He’s still there and he ain’t alone.”
“Not alone?” Dread hooked into her. “Who’s with him?”
“Your sister,” Von replied.
8 IN THE SHADOWS
Portland, OR
March 22
HIS DAUGHTER WAS PROTECTING a vampire.
James Wallace poured hot water into a mug and over the tea bag nestled inside. As the tea steeped, the faint odor of blueberries steamed into the air. He carried the mug into his office and set it on the small cup warmer plugged into the wall. He sank into his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He rubbed his hands back and forth over his head, his bristle-cut hair soft beneath his fingers.
Heather’s reaction to his comment about Prejean saving her life told him everything he needed to know. She’d lied during her debriefing and in her official statement. Was still lying. She was protecting Dante Prejean, protecting a goddamned bloodsucking vampire.
He didn’t know which was worse, that or her investigation into Shannon’s death.
On his drive home, several questions had circled endlessly through his mind: How could he protect his reputation and his stubborn daughter? What had been so important that Rutgers’s assistant had felt compelled to interrupt the conference, even briefly? What the hell had Dante Prejean done to Heather?
First thing he’d done when he’d walked in through the front door was get in touch with one of his contacts in D.C.
Keep this to yourself, Jim, but Caterina Cortini was here, paid Rutgers a visit, then left. Rutgers left shortly afterward too—looking pissed as hell.
That news had shaken James. Cortini answered only to the Shadow Branch—the arm of the federal government that’d been formed some time ago by a former vice president; a consortium rumored to be composed of CIA, DOD, FBI, and Homeland Security members, a branch that answered to no one and didn’t exist officially.
Cortini was rumored to be one of the Shadow Branch’s top wetwork experts, or problem solvers—for the more politically correct, one who permanently tied up loose ends.
Given the subject of his meeting with Rutgers and Rodriguez, James couldn’t help but think that the subject of Cortini’s meeting was the same: the possible exposure of Bad Seed and containment.
Containment would include Heather.
Scooping up his cell phone from the desk, James pulled up Heather’s number and hit SEND. When her voice mail clicked on, he figured she’d IDed his call and was refusing to answer.