Etched in Bone (Maker''s Song #4)

  Von kept quiet. Her charges were true. But he regretted nothing. Gently shaking off her touch, he flipped the Browning’s safety back on, then reholstered the gun. Just as he pushed away from the wall, he heard the low, throbbing thunder of a Harley rumbling up one of the Quarter’s streets. And his heart kicked into high gear. Good old Murphy’s Law was putting in a goddamned appearance.

  Von sent.

  Dante’s response burned, a white-hot coal centered behind Von’s left eye.

  Von rubbed his forehead as the searing echo of Dante’s migraine faded.

  Her weight on one hip, Holly folded her arms under her breasts and studied Von. “Who are you sending to, McGuinn?”

 

 

  Silence.

  “Goddamned pigheaded sonuvabitch . . .” Von muttered under his breath.

  “Excuse me?” Holly said, arching one straw-colored eyebrow.

  The thup-thup-thup of a Harley’s deep-throated engine filled the street, echoed from the buildings. Headlight glare dazzled Von’s eyes. Shifting his gaze back to Holly, he said, “Tell the filidh I’ll be there. And have a safe trip back, darlin’.” Turning away, he pushed the club’s door open, hoping she’d take the hint and split.

  “You trying to get rid of me, McGuinn?” Her voice was knowing, amused. “Without even a farewell kiss? Very subtle. Oh, and it looks like you have company, by the way.”

  Sighing, Von let the door swing shut again, twisted back around and watched as Dante guided the Harley up against the curb. He lowered the kickstand with a nudge of his foot, the straps criss-crossing his boot glinting with silver light from the street lamp, then eased the bike over onto the stand. He switched off the headlight. Killed the throbbing engine.

  Silence rushed in like surf over sand.

  The van glided to a stop behind the Harley, Heather at the wheel, her face shadowed behind the windshield. Von frowned. Were those dents in the van’s side panel and front bumper?

  Lucien opened the passenger side door and unfolded from the van. Straightening, he looked across the van’s black hood, his attention fixed on Von and his lingering guest. He arched a dark, questioning eyebrow.

  Lucien sent.

 

 

 

  Frustration and resignation edged Lucien’s thought.

 

  Dante stood, swung his leg with easy grace over the bike, then bounced up onto the sidewalk. Shirtless—and what the hell happened to his shirt this time?—his white skin seemed almost to glow in the darkness. Von narrowed his eyes. Dark color streaked Dante’s shoulders and down along his sides, color that seemed to radiate out from his back. Smears of dried blood. What the hell had happened?

  Then Von’s gaze locked onto the mark scarring Dante’s chest right above his heart. It looked like pictures he’d seen of angelic script. Von’s pulse pounded in his temples.

  Dante acknowledged Von with a nod of his chin, a wry smile tilting his lips as he brushed a finger along the scar. His gaze flicked over Holly as he waited for Heather and Lucien.

 

  Von replied. Dante had tightened his shields, but pain radiated hot against Von’s mind like fire behind a furnace’s closed door.

 

 

  The furnace scorching Von’s thoughts vanished as Dante withdrew his psionic touch. He nodded, but Von read his dubious expression loud and clear: If it’s no big deal, then why the hell did you warn me away?

  Von had no doubt Dante wouldn’t like the truth. Hell, even he didn’t like the truth. But it was truth that could wait until after Sleep.

  Heather slipped out of the van, one of Dante’s black hoodies in her hand. Draping it over her trench-coated shoulder, she stepped up onto the sidewalk beside Dante, Lucien a few paces behind her, then the three of them headed over to join Von at the club entrance.

  Von blinked. Was Lucien wearing a kilt? A belted black kilt and . . . sandals? And where was his goddamned shirt?

  All three looked wiped out from where Von stood. Shadows bruised Heather’s eyes, and she moved with a heavy-limbed weariness; Lucien was pale, his vitality dimmed, half-healed wounds just below each shoulder; and Dante . . .

  The boy was hurting. Von saw it in the set of Dante’s jaw, the dried smear of blood beneath his nose, in the black depths of his dilated eyes. Even through the double layer of protection offered by his shields and Dante’s own, pain had scorched the edges of Dante’s sendings.

  Von heard Holly’s breath catch in her throat as her gaze traveled over Dante, heard her pulse pick up speed, until she drew in a deep breath and deliberately calmed herself. Her pulse slowed. Her breathing evened out. Her curious gaze skimmed Lucien, then Heather.

  “Lucien,” Von greeted. He clasped the fallen angel’s forearm in a warm welcome, the muscles hard as steel beneath his fingers. “It’s damned good to see you, man.”

  Lucien nodded, squeezing his fingers around Von’s arm in turn. A smile lit his obsidian eyes. “Indeed it is, llygad.”

  “What happened to your shirt?” Von asked when Dante halted beside him. “You run into more grab-happy Inferno fans?”

  “Nope, not Inferno fans.” Dante pulled something out of his back pocket and tossed it to Von.

  Frowning, Von unfolded the blood-stiff shirt he’d caught and stared at its torn and shredded back. The thick smell of Dante’s blood threaded into the air. He looked back up at Dante.

  Holly extended her hand. “You must be Dante Baptiste, da? I’m Holly Mikovб.”

  “Llygad,” Dante acknowledged, giving her hand a quick squeeze. “This is Heather and Lucien. You here on official business?”

  “And it’s all taken care of,” Von supplied, still hoping against hope to get her nicely rounded ass moving down the sidewalk before she asked Dante the question. “She’s just now on her way back to Memphis. Drive safe, darlin’. I’ll see you later.”

  Heather assessed Holly with a cool gaze, her hands tucked into the pockets of her trench. A smile twitched across Von’s lips. Woman probably already had a round chambered.

  “Would you answer a question for me?” Holly asked Dante.

  And . . . too late. Von sighed.

  Dante shrugged. “Peut-кtre. Depends on the question.”

  Von held his breath, knowing that Holly was memorizing every detail of Dante’s pale face, his tight-muscled body, his Cajun-spiced words. And passing it along as she connected to the web of linked consciousnesses forming the llygaid mind-net and downloaded every captured image, word, and movement to be prioritized and channeled to the proper filidh for verification.

  “Rumor says that you’re a True Blood,” Holly said. “Are you?”

  “You asking as llygad?”

  “I am, da.” Holly studied Dante, her expression neutral and composed.

  “Gotta refuse your question, then,” Dante said with a slight shake of his head. “I only send official responses through Von, and I ain’t got time for this one right now.”

  Holly blinked in surprise.

  So did Von. Twice. Well hell. Didn’t see that coming.

  His respect for Dante deepened another notch. Looked like the boy’s ain’t running, ain’t hiding policy involved taking contro
l of the information flow, instead of just blurting the truth whenever asked. Von released his pent-up breath in a low sigh of relief.

  “Have a safe trip back to Memphis, llygad,” Dante said, stepping between Holly and Von to the door and pushing it open. “If you don’t mind, I got shit to do.”

  “Of course.”

  Dante slipped into the darkened hall, Lucien following him inside. Heather, however, remained standing beside Von, her attention on Holly.

  “Interesting,” Holly murmured under her breath, her gaze on the closed door. Shifting her attention to Von, she said, “See you soon, da?”

  “Yeah, Mikovб. Soon. Be sure to have that explanation ready, darlin’. A gun might not hurt either.”

  With a soft laugh, Holly swiveled around and walked away into the flickering light of the street lamps, hips swinging. Von watched until the night swallowed up her cloud of pale hair.

  15

  THE FIRST DOZEN TIMES

  NEW ORLEANS

  CLUB HELL

  March 28

  “HOLY HELL,” VON MUTTERED.

  “So . . . how long were you two an item?” Heather asked, voice thoughtful. “And how badly did it end?”

  Von looked at her. “You pulling a special agent move on me, woman?”

  She met his gaze, a knowing smile on her lips. “Yup.”

  “It ended in a hail of bullets, doll, but we were never ‘an item,’ “ Von said. He opened the door and held it for Heather. A thank-you smile flashed across her lips. “Friends with benefits, maybe.”

  “Tomato, to-mah-toe. I think you’re full of shit, nomad,” Heather declared as she passed him, walking into the club. “In my experience, when a man and a woman whip out guns and start shooting at each other, it usually means they’re an item—or about to become an ex-item.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t shooting,” Von said indignantly.

  From inside the club, Von heard Dante laugh. “Sounds like I ain’t the only one who’s had his number called tonight.”

  “Must be losing my touch,” Von grumbled, following Heather inside. He paused to twist the door’s dead bolts into place, then moved over to the security system’s keypad and made a couple of adjustments since they were staying in the building. Motion detector—OFF. Door and window alarms: ON.

  He strode down the darkened, tobacco-reeking hallway and passed underneath the buzzing BURN sign. He walked into the club proper and into the razor-edged grief and tension slicing through the air.

  He slowed to a stop. His gaze slid along the bar’s polished, bottle-cluttered counter, drinking in details.

  Heather standing at the bar, sorrow on her face, one hand trailing through her wavy red tresses, her attention focused on something across the room.

  Silver perched on a bar stool, an unopened bottle of absinthe in his hands, a gift intended for Dante, his silver eyes glistening with unshed tears and aimed in the same direction as Heather’s.

  Von’s gaze skipped past tables crowned with upended chairs, past the empty and shadowed Cage, past the cheesetacular bat-winged throne atop its dais, finally coming to rest on Dante and Lucien standing at the foot of the staircase, heads bowed close together, black hair mingling.

  Dante’s left hand gripped his father’s taut-muscled shoulder. Lucien stood stiff and silent beneath his son’s touch. Soft, whispered words drifted through the quiet air.

  Ice crackled around Von’s heart. Turning away, he joined Heather at the bar, snatched up the bottle of Jack. “I take it Lucien didn’t know about . . .” He couldn’t say her name; his throat was too tight.

  “No,” Heather murmured. “He didn’t. Dante wanted to wait until we were back.”

  Von nodded, then poured a long, burning swallow of whiskey down his throat. Felt the tightness ease. “Back from where?” he asked.

  “Gehenna.” Heather looked at him, her twilight blue eyes troubled. “Dante punched his way in, Von. Made a gate, a doorway, through a tomb.”

  Von stared at her, pulse roaring in his ears, the bottle of Jack frozen in the air halfway to his mouth. “The explosion,” he whispered. Worlds colliding. “Holy hell.”

  “He destroyed the cemetery,” Heather said. “And damn near used himself up. It took everything he had to stay here and now.”

  “And you, doll? How much of you did it take to keep him here and now?”

  “Almost everything she had,” Dante said, easing up against the bar at Heather’s other side.

  “Almost,” Heather agreed.

  She handed Dante the hoodie she’d brought from the van, then shrugged off her trench coat and draped it across the bar. The faint smell of smoky incense—myrrh, maybe frankincense—wafted from the coat and mingled with her lilac and sage scent.

  With a quick smile, Dante accepted the hoodie, tossing it onto the bar.

  Von glanced over his shoulder. Lucien walked slowly up the stairs, his face shadowed, his hand sliding along the banister. “How’d he take the news?”

  “Hard.” Dante’s voice was ragged with emotion. “After Sleep, we’re gonna hunt that motherfucker Mauvais and his chienne of a daughter down.”

  “I’ve got the word out to your tayeaux to contact us if they spot Mauvais’s riverboat hunkered down anywhere during the day.”

  “Bon.”

  Silver leaned forward against the bar and slid the bottle of absinthe down the counter to Dante.

  Pale fingers blurred. “Merci beaucoup.” Dante lifted the intercepted and now-opened bottle to his lips and took a long swallow of the green liquor.

  Von didn’t know how Dante managed to drink the stuff. Shit was bitter as hell and tended to make the tongue curl—and not in a good way. At least, that’d been his experience. He’d take a smooth bourbon any day.

  Closing his eyes, Dante breathed out a low sigh of relief and pressed the green-glassed bottle against his forehead.

  “I’m going upstairs to check on Annie,” Heather said, squeezing Dante’s forearm.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I’m gonna feed. I’ll be up later.”

  “Annie’s out cold, by the way,” Silver volunteered. “She passed out after the second bottle of vodka. But I put her to bed and covered her up. And I made sure a trash can was near her in case she felt like puking.”

  “Christ.” Heather rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. “Good to know, Silver. Thanks.” With a rueful glance at Dante, she headed across the room and up the stairs.

  “I called Jack and Eli and Antoine when you were gone,” Von said, grabbing his shot glass and pouring himself another round. “Let them know about everything that’s happened—about Simone, the fire, Mauvais, the FBI’s smear campaign against Heather. They volunteered to come over at dawn and keep an eye on things here while we Sleep.”

  Dante lowered the absinthe bottle to his lips. “No. I fucking hate involving them in all this—”

  “Too late. I took ’em up on their offer. And I plan to contact any clans who might be in the area about providing daytime security until we get this shit resolved.” Von tossed back his shot. “I get why you ain’t running or hiding, man, I do, but that means everyone hunting you and Heather—from the SB to the FBI to the Fallen to fucking Mauvais—is gonna know right where to find you. And no matter how bad you wanna take them on—”

  “I ain’t ready,” Dante finished. “I heard you the first dozen times, llygad.”

  Dread twisted a cold knife in Von’s guts. He might not be llygad much longer. He had a feeling the filidh planned to strip him of his rank and boot him out into the cold. He splashed more whiskey into his glass.

  “Holly’s question made me realize something,” Dante said, pausing to take another long swallow of absinthe before setting the bottle on the counter. “I need to put an end to the True Blood rumors.”

  Von nodded, then tossed back his shot. “Given Holly’s question, yeah, it’s time—especially if you wanna direct the info flow. But you gotta be sure. You do t
his and once your statement’s been verified, nightkind from all around the world will be coming to camp on your doorstep, hoping for a taste of your blood. And the power it’ll give them.”

  “Then they’re gonna be real fucking disappointed. But, yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Some of the fuckers won’t be planning on asking for a taste.”

  “Really? You think so? Gosh. Can’t imagine such a thing.”

  “Smart-ass,” Von growled. “Fine. When do you want to do your coming-out gig?”

  Dante considered. “After Sleep. Get it done and outta the way.”

  “Sure, little brother, but it’ll still need to be verified.”

  “How’s that done?”

  Von shrugged. “Records will be searched for any data on when, where, and by who you were turned. Once that results in a big ol’ blank, one of the filidh—our master-bards,” he explained when Dante lifted a questioning eyebrow, “will drop in to personally check out your claim.”

  “Sounds like a long-ass process. And I think I know a way around that.”

  “And that would be?”

  Dante rubbed his face wearily with his hands, then replied, “Later, mon ami.”

  “Okay, then. You gonna tell me what all happened tonight? Gehenna, the cemetery, the Fallen? How you found Lucien?” Von nodded his head at Dante’s chest. “That mark?”

  “Yeah, I will. But not now. We’ll swap stories after Sleep.”

  Von eyed Dante carefully. “Given the dried blood on your back, you must be running low. Me and Silver are gonna head over to Mistress Feral’s place. I gave her a jingle earlier in case no one had time to scare up a meal. She and a pretty friend are warmed-up, willing, and waiting. You wanna come with? Or I could send a donor back.” He glanced over at the empty staircase, thinking of Heather. “A male donor.”

  “No. I wanna hunt.”

  Dante’s low, taut voice sketched dark pictures in Von’s mind of shadowed alleys, moonlight-glinting fangs, and ravaged throats, of life pulsing away in thick gouts between a pair of blood-smeared lips. A primal hunger stirred within Von.