Etched in Bone (Maker's Song #4)

  Heather felt a pang of concern as she took in her sister’s colorless face, the purplish smudges beneath her eyes. Annie still hadn’t said a word to her about the positive pregnancy test—not that there’d been time.

  Maybe Heather would have to initiate the conversation herself, take Annie out for a po’boy sandwich and a walk along the river: a sister-to-sister conversation away from all the guys—mortal and nightkind.

  “What’s up?” Heather asked.

  Annie shouldered the door shut behind her. Her gaze flicked to Dante, then back to Heather. “A couple of people are downstairs asking for you and Gorgeous-but-Deadly. People with that fucking official stink on ’em, y’know?”

  Heather sat up straight, her pulse picking up speed. “Did they give names?”

  Annie shrugged. “Yeah, Mary something and Emmett Tibbie-something, I think. A black chick with that nightkind vibe and a tall Clint Eastwood–looking guy, but young For a Few Dollars More Eastwood, not old, withered Gran Torino Eastwood.”

  “Who’s on duty downstairs?”

  “Jack and Eli. And Dante’s hottie dad. Antoine had to go to work.”

  “Good. Tell them to keep a close eye on this pair,” Heather said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  With a nod, Annie pirouetted around in a rustle of taffeta and left the room.

  Heather leaned down and brushed her lips against Dante’s. Tasted blood and amaretto and brine. “Je t’aime,” she whispered, trailing her finger along his jaw.

  Heather winced as she rose to her feet. She hurt all over, her muscles and neck stiff and sore and aching, as though she’d been air-bagged in a high-speed fender bender. She figured she’d be feeling a helluva lot worse if not for Von’s blood and De Noir’s sheltering wings.

  She padded over to the French windows and carefully twitched the heavy curtain aside just enough for her to take a peek outside. Rose and purple painted the horizon in soft, silky color. Nearly sunset. She patted the curtain back into place.

  She dressed in a hurry, pulling on black hip-huggers and a tailored indigo shirt with silver buttons. She slipped a fresh clip into her Colt, then tucked the gun into her jeans at the small of her back. Glad that she’d already washed up and brushed her teeth, she finger-combed her hair, then strode for the door, Von’s words playing through her memory once more.

  I think he’s had all he can take, doll. Heart and mind. If I knew a way to hide him from the world until he could regain his balance, until he had the chance to face his past on his own terms and reconcile himself to it . . .

  She intended to block the world from Dante and give him that long overdue chance—before it was forever beyond his reach. Her throat tightened, ached. She could only hope that it wasn’t already too late.

  Heather pulled the door open and stepped out, nearly running into someone standing on the other side of the threshold. Heart in her throat, she was already reaching for her gun when she realized the someone was De Noir.

  “Jesus Christ! I need a bell for you too.”

  He regarded her with amused and very unsurprised black eyes—he’d no doubt heard her crossing the floor—his hand lifted, fingers half-curled as if about to knock. His tall, tight-muscled physique was draped in a nicely tailored purple silk shirt and black slacks.

  “My apologies,” he rumbled. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just came up to suggest that I stay with Dante while you’re out of the room.”

  Heather exhaled in relief. “I like that suggestion. Yes. Please stay. I don’t want him to wake up alone, not tonight, not after what happened.”

  The amusement faded from De Noir’s eyes. He slipped past her and into the lamp-lit room. “Nor do I,” he said, his gaze lighting on her face again. “Go. Do whatever you need to and don’t worry about Dante.”

  “Thank you.”

  De Noir quietly closed the bedroom door.

  Turning, Heather walked away, heading for the stairs.

  THE PAIR WITH THE official stink stood together at the bar between Eli and Jack. The drummer, forearms resting on the bar’s polished surface, chatted amiably with the tall, ginger-haired and handsome Clint Eastwood lookalike—Christ, Annie was right on the money about that—both men’s expressions relaxed and full of eye-crinkling smiles. Like long-lost cousins reunited for a Labor Day family barbecue.

  The woman leaning against the bar beside Clint Eastwood wore black slacks, a white blouse, and a black suede jacket. She was small and slender, but curvy. Heather would bet she was shorter than her own five-four. She also happened to be gorgeous, with shining black hair pulled back in a high ponytail and smooth espresso-dark skin.

  And another thing Annie had been right on the money about?

  She was nightkind.

  Captured light glowed in her eyes as she swiveled around with a preternatural grace as Heather stepped off the stairs. How is it that she’s up and around and not still Sleeping?

  A few mortal heartbeats later, her partner straightened and directed his gaze in Heather’s direction also.

  As she crossed the dance floor to the bar, Heather said, “I hear you’re looking for me. Who are you and what do you want?”

  The woman glided forward, her boot heels soundless against the wood floor. “I’m Merri Goodnight, and this is my partner, Emmett Thibodaux,” she said, nodding her head at Clint Eastwood. “We’re Shadow Branch field agents—or at least we used to be.”

  “Until the mofos decided to mess with our minds and we went on the run,” Thibodaux put in, his voice a soft Louisiana drawl. “Now we’re looking for a way to keep alive and to be of service to y’all in the process.”

  “We also have a gift for Dante Baptiste.” Goodnight held up a flash drive between her thumb and index fingers, and Heather’s heart started pounding. “His past.”

  44

  DROWNING

  NEW ORLEANS,

  CLUB HELL

  March 29

  YOU AIN’T LOSING ME, Tee-Tee. We ain’t done, you and me.

  Not yet.

  Dante drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes, pain shimmering in his mind like heat lightning. Before-Sleep images strobed through his memory: stark and unforgiving and utterly unchangeable.

  The boat ramp on Lake Pontchartrain. The light-pearled yacht. Trey wavering like water, like dimming light, between his hands.

  Pain scraped his heart hollow.

  “Trey,” Dante whispered. “Fuck.”

  “Trey had a choice last night.” Lucien’s deep voice. “You didn’t. You can’t blame yourself for his decision.”

  But Dante knew that wasn’t true. The conversation he’d had a few nights ago with Von in a rain-wet Colorado freeway rest stop steamrolled through his mind.

  Like it or not, you’re a creawdwr. There ain’t been one in thousands of years. Everyone’s gonna want a piece of you, from mortals to nightkind to Fallen. And you ain’t ready to face any of them.

  I wanna face them. Torch ’em. Burn ’em to the fucking ground. The FBI’s smearing Heather’s name and rep and setting her up to be a future suicide, and the SB wants to take her apart to see what makes her tick—because of me.

  You. Ain’t. Ready. To. Face. Any. Of. Them. You have power like no one else in this world. And if you don’t learn how to use it, how to control it, you’ll destroy the world and everyone on it—including Heather.

  And Heather’s soft plea from the night before underscored Von’s warning: Forget about Mauvais for tonight. You’re not ready to face him. Wait until you are.

  Dante knew beyond doubt that if he’d just listened to Von and Heather, if he’d just shoved aside his stubborn pride and fury, last night never would’ve happened and Trey would now be waking up from Sleep in his room down the hall.

  “Ain’t true. Ain’t Trey’s fault, and I ain’t letting you blame him,” Dante said. “I can’t even keep myself in the here-and-now. I knew I was a fucking danger to everyone. And I chose to lead everyone to that goddamned rendezvous and ri
ght into a trap.”

  “I’m not trying to lay blame,” Lucien said, his voice soothing—the gentle stroke of a hand against a fevered temple. “But you don’t need to either. What happened, has happened. It can’t be changed. Trey stole the boat, raced to the yacht, and we followed to his aid. And when you lost control of the creu tвn, he embraced you and allowed you to transform him.” He paused. “Do you know where he is?”

  Dante blinked. “What?”

  “You transformed him. You didn’t unmake him. So he must be somewhere.”

  You made me into something that ain’t never gonna be stopped by a trap or bullets or distance, something that Mauvais won’t be able to hide from . . .

  Hope curled like fresh blood through Dante. “Then he’s fucking hunting Mauvais. If I can find him, I can change him back—”

  “If he wants it. And not until you’ve learned how to control your power.”

  Dante shoved himself up into a sitting position on the bed, the sheet whispering across his thighs. The room spun. He lowered his head and blood from his nose spattered the sheet. He dug his fingers into the mattress as he waited for the world to finish its dizzying pirouette.

  He felt Lucien behind him, seated in the armchair, radiating a calm, powerful energy. A soothing presence. Dante drew in a breath, inhaled his father’s earthy scent.

  A pang of regret pierced him. I’ve missed him.

  Dante’s back muscles suddenly spasmed, his body remembering the explosion, the smell of burning flesh, and the water’s cold touch. Heather shielded by Lucien’s wings.

  “Catin,” he breathed and reached for the steady flame of her presence.

 

 

 

  Dante threw back the sheet and rose to his feet. He stumbled as the room whirled, spun, and dipped. A heated hand locked around his biceps. Kept him on his feet.

  “No, child,” Lucien said. “You’re not ready.”

  Dante shut his eyes as the room played carousel, pain throbbing at his temples.

  Relief flooded in through their bond. He felt Heather’s soft lips on his, a kiss brimming with blood-stirring promises, then she was gone, her shields tight.

  Leaving him breathless.

  Opening his eyes, Dante glanced down at the long-fingered hand clutching his arm. “Merci beaucoup, mon ami, but you can let go, I’ve got my balance now.”

  “I doubt that,” Lucien said, voice dry. Releasing Dante, he stepped away.

  When Dante turned around—carefully, to avoid more carousel action, something soft and black whapped him in the face, then fell to the floor. He looked down. A pair of boxer-briefs. He met Lucien’s gaze and lifted his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Says you.”

  Stepping past the unsolicited underwear, Dante grabbed a pair of black jeans from the bureau, pulled them on, and zipped them up as he walked to the French windows. He pushed the curtains open and looked down into the ivy-draped courtyard.

  I ain’t running and I ain’t hiding, no. But I gotta heal, gotta get control, and get my shit together before I do anything else.

  Before I destroy everyone I love.

  A flicker of blue neon caught his eye, and Dante imagined Trey standing in the courtyard’s shadows, his bundled-wire dreads undulating like flute-hypnotized snakes around his head, his face and body flashing with blue ones and zeroes.

  We ain’t done, you and me. Not yet.

  Dante rested his forehead against the window’s cool glass, his fingers twisting knots into the velvet folds of the curtains. I hope not, cher.

  For a moment, the cold, black tide of grief and guilt receded from his heart, giving him a chance to breathe, to think about how he was going to make things right, or if he even could. Then the tide rushed back in with tsunami ferocity, shoving him down and under into the wasp-droning depths once more. Drowning.

  Trust me, I’ll make sure you regret every breath you’ve ever drawn.

  Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson.

  You’re gonna hurt everyone around you.

  That’s my Bad Seed bro.

  Rage flashed white-hot, yanking him up to the surface again, and pounding his fists through glass and wood and plaster. Scorching away all thought, except for one—they were telling the truth, every fucking one of them.

  As he whirled around, jerking the curtains to the floor as he moved, he became aware of someone shouting his name, but he couldn’t stop. Fury fueled every muscle, torched his heart.

  I’ve been lying to myself my entire life.

  That’s my Bad Seed bro.

  Dante grabbed the now-empty armchair and tossed it across the room. It crashed into the armoire with a resounding thud and a sharp crack of fracturing wood. Heated hands seized his arms, talons biting into his flesh. Dante’s fists smacked into a hard, muscled chest. While a calmer part of him knew it was Lucien holding him, the firestorm raging inside wouldn’t let that calm part of himself back into the driver’s seat.

  Dante fought his way free of Lucien’s grip, slashing with his sharp, sharp nails and fangs. He tasted blood on his lips—his own and Lucien’s. As he spun away, someone tackled him, slamming him into the floor. A whiff of frost and gun oil. Another pair of hands pinned his shoulders down.

  Dante kicked and squirmed and twisted in a wild attempt to throw off Von and Lucien’s combined weight, his nails scraping the wood floor. He tossed his head as Lucien touched his fingers to his temples, refusing his father’s touch.

  As the three of them wrestled together on the floor, Dante became aware that someone was screaming a word over and over, a seething, furious, animal howl—Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!—in his own voice.

  And knew it wasn’t meant for Mauvais or Papa Prejean or even the Perv.

  It was meant for himself.

  45

  WISH

  NEW ORLEANS,

  CLUB HELL

  March 29

  THE FBI AGENT ABSENTLY brushed strands of wavy red hair away from her face as she ended her conversation with a quiet “Thanks.” Slipping her cell phone into her jeans pocket, Heather Wallace studied Merri with thoughtful blue eyes.

  “My contact confirmed your story,” she said. “You and your partner are listed as AWOL, and the SB authorities consider you both renegade and possibly hostile.”

  “Ain’t no possibly about it.” Emmett said.

  Merri didn’t need to look at him to know that a muscle flexed in his jaw. She heard the tension and quiet fury in his voice. Smelled it sharp as licorice in his scent.

  “Truth, brothah,” Merri agreed, blowing out a plume of clove-scented smoke. “Hard to maintain a good working relationship with your agents when you tend to mind-wipe them for things like . . . oh . . . doing their jobs. Often leads to disgruntled agents.”

  “Truth, sistah. But only if said agents remember why they’re disgruntled. Otherwise . . .” Emmett shrugged.

  Merri couldn’t argue. And it chilled her to the bone to know that if she hadn’t realized what had happened to Emmett, they would both probably be happily working on their next assignment, unaware that certain portions of their memories had been altered.

  And who’s to say that it hasn’t happened exactly that way before?

  The Cajun drummer with the mane of cherry-red braids—Black Bayou Jack, ma’am, but Jack alone will work—strolled behind the bar, fished around in the fridge, then held up a bottle of Lipton’s unsweetened iced tea. Cocked an inquiring eyebrow.

  “I’ll take one, partner,” Emmett said, “But mine’s gonna need to be sugared and lemon slice dunked. Unsweetened.” He shook his head. “That’s just blasphemous.”

  Merri held up a hand, refusing the offer. br />
  “I’ll take one, Jack, as is,” Heather said. “Blasphemy and all, though I didn’t realize iced tea was a religion.”

  “It is in the south, hun, you heathen, you,” Jack replied, popping caps off bottles and pouring the tea into ice-filled glasses.

  Heather shook her head, an amused smile curving her lips. Merri drew in her tantalizing scent, lilacs in the rain, sage after a storm.

  Jack set a sugar container, spoon, a small paring knife, and a lemon in front of Emmett before sliding the glasses along the counter. Emmett set to work making his unsweetened tea palatable.

  Heather curled her fingers around her glass. “So why are you doing this?” she asked, glancing at the flash drive lying on the counter beside Merri’s ugly-ass floppy-brimmed hat and leather gloves. “And why did you come here instead of heading underground?”

  “We’ve got a whole list of reasons,” Merri replied, studying the ash on the glowing end of her Djarum Black. She tapped it into the ashtray. “Betrayal. Conspiracies. Memory-tampering. The near certainty of a bullet to the skull if the SB finds us. Which one do you want first?”

  “Let’s start with the one at the top of the list.”

  “That would be Dante Baptiste.” Merri lifted her gaze to Heather’s, but the FBI agent’s face gave nothing away, her expression composed.

  “We want to offer him his past,” Emmett said, “in the hopes that doing so will help free him from the sorry-ass bastards manipulating him. If we can break his conditioning, his programming—”

  “And why do you care?” Heather cut in, her voice edged in icicles. “The SB and the Bureau apparently run black ops programs all the time. That can’t be news to you. Why did you choose to get involved in this one?”

  “Dante Baptiste being True Blood is a huge factor,” Merri admitted. “And, yeah, we knew the SB was running black ops, sure. But until I downloaded that file, I had no idea that those motherfuckers were twisting children into sociopaths. And what they did to Baptiste from the moment he was born . . .” She shook her head, remembering nightmarish images from the file that she would never be able to blot from her mind.