A Rush of Wings (20 page)

The Goth princess lowered her eyes; her lower lip quivered. Dante tipped her face up and kissed her. She laced her arms around his waist.

Most people shake hands. Dante kisses. Could get
real
interesting at a company picnic
. Heather folded her arms over her chest.

When the kiss ended, the fishnet queen reluctantly released Dante, her hands sliding over his hips as she did. Smiling, she smoothed her thumbs over his lips, wiping away the lipstick. She glared at Heather as she scooted down a step, her disdainful gaze sweeping her from head to toe.

Heather smiled and stepped past her.

Dante sat cross-legged on the dais in front of the throne, motioning for Heather to do the same. She did, slipping her purse strap over her head and around her opposite shoulder so she didn’t have to worry about it disappearing.

Music pounded and throbbed. It pulsed up Heather’s spine and into the back of her skull. Someone in the Cage howled in pain. Feedback squealed through the amps. Heather winced. Her gaze flicked to the fetish-hung Cage. The band kicked and pried at the hands clutching the downed front man. Fingers waved in the air, blood-streaked, holding aloft torn pieces of material and long strands of red hair.

Finally the band freed their front man, who scooped up the mike, rolled to his feet, and resumed singing, blood trickling down his face.

“Dark Cloud 9 from Portland,” Dante said, leaning forward to speak into her ear.

“He isn’t dead,” she said.

“Lucien told me. You were right. Whatcha gonna do now?”

“Guard you.”

An amused smile quirked up the corners of Dante’s mouth.

“Oh, you don’t think you need it? Mister Indestructible Vampire?”

“I never said I was indestructible.”

“You must believe it, though,” Heather said, locking gazes with him. “You didn’t stay home. What the hell are you doing here?”

Dante’s smile faded. “I have a promise to keep.”

“A promise? How about promising to play it safe?”

“Fuck, Heather,” Dante muttered. “I never promised you anything. But I
did
promise Jay I’d protect him and I mean to do it.”

“Jay’s dead, Dante, it’s too late,” Heather said, touching his knee.

“No, he’s not. The body they fished outta the river wasn’t his. I checked.” Fire gleamed in Dante’s dark eyes. “I got a message tonight. Someone knows where Jay’s stashed. Said they’d leave word for me here. I’m waiting.”

Heather stared at him, speechless. What had Dante said last night? Bait the hook? But there was a difference between that and tossing the bait into the shark’s jaws. And wasn’t it interesting that the message wasn’t sent until
after
she’d left New Orleans?

“The only one who could
possibly
know where—”

Dante held up a hand and glanced across the bobbing crowd toward the entrance. Heather fell silent. Following Dante’s gaze, she looked across the room.

“Peeping Tom’s here,” Dante said. He uncoiled and stood, the sudden movement graceful and fluid. “And he wants a moment of my time.”

Heather eased to her feet, apprehension curling in her belly. The moshing crowd parted like an amoeba as two figures strode from the entryway onto the dance floor. Von led the way in loose, long-legged strides, fight-scarred hands at his sides. His leather jacket bulged slightly, and she realized he wore a double shoulder holster underneath.

Her gaze skipped behind Von to the man following in his wake. Thomas Ronin. She’d seen pictures of him online and on book jackets, but this was the first time she’d seen him in the flesh. She’d expected a striking man—tall, athletic stride, skin just a shade lighter than night under the house lights, short-cropped hair, trimmed beard—but she hadn’t expected his
presence
. Even from across the room, he commanded attention, drew the eye.

The journalist’s gaze flickered over Heather. Surprise flashed across his face. Surprise and recognition.
He knows who I am
, she thought.
And he didn’t expect me to be here
. She nodded. A tight smile skimmed Ronin’s lips, then vanished.

Von climbed the steps to the dais. He paused in front of Dante. The crescent moon tattoo under the nomad’s eye seemed to vibrate beneath the dim lights.

“
C’est bon
,” Dante said. “
Gètte le
.”

With a quick nod, Von stepped past Dante, then stood at his right hand, but at a slight angle as though he needed to watch everyone.

Ronin stepped onto the dais. Turning, he half bowed to Von. “An honor to be escorted by you,
llygad
.”

Von didn’t react to the journalist’s words. He stood motionless, legs apart, hands at his sides.

Apparently, Ronin hadn’t expected a reply, because he turned to face Dante without waiting for one. His gaze slid past Dante to De Noir standing behind the throne, then back.

“I’m surprised to see you still here, Agent Wallace,” Ronin said, voice smooth.

“And why is that?”

Ronin shrugged. “I read in the paper that the CCK had been nailed in Pensacola. The Bureau and local authorities say the case is closed.”

“So why aren’t
you
in Pensacola following up like a good journalist?” Heather thumped her hand against her temple. “Oh. I forgot. You’re
not
a good journalist.”

Ronin smiled, arched an eyebrow, and said, “Ouch.”

“You got your moment, Peeping Tom,” Dante said.

“Tell me if this means anything or if it’s just bullshit.” Ronin reached a hand into the inside pocket of his denim jacket.

The hair prickled on the back of Heather’s neck. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw De Noir now standing just behind Dante, his gaze locked on Ronin.

Dark Cloud 9’s wall of industrial sound revved down to drums and bass, the beat tribal and hypnotic, punctuated by the front man’s growled refrain, repeated over and over:
One step closer to the end / one step closer / one step closer to the end…

Ronin tugged a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He extended it to Dante. “I found this in my newspaper this evening.”

Dante tugged the paper free of Ronin’s fingers, then flipped it open and scanned it. Heather leaned in and read over his shoulder.

jay mcgregor sends his regards, ask dante why. ask dante how much blood will it take to wake him up. how many? write the truth. tell dante to look in his car.

DRUMS POUNDED, BASS THROBBED, pulsing beat.
One step closer to the end / one step closer / one / step / closer / to the end…

Dante tucked the slip of paper into his back pocket. “
Merci
,” he said, voice low. “But this doesn’t change anything.”

Ronin shook his head, stepped closer. “What are you afraid of…True Blood?”

Heather’s hair fluttered in a rush of air at the same moment she caught a peripheral glimpse of Dante
moving
. He’d reacted to Ronin’s invasion of his personal space by moving in even closer; a handspan separated the two. The journalist’s dark skin contrasted so sharply with Dante’s pale complexion—midnight and winter white—that the image of the yin-yang symbol burned within her mind.

“Not you, Peeping Tom.” Dante’s hands curled into fists. “What the fuck do you mean by ‘True Blood’?”

“Nothing,” De Noir said. He stepped past Heather and beside Dante. “Absolutely nothing.” His gaze locked on Ronin. “He’s playing games.”

Heather glanced at Von. An eyebrow arched above his shades at De Noir’s remark.
Looks like the nomad isn’t so sure about that. Interesting
.

Dante suddenly shuddered and closed his eyes. “
T’es sûr de sa
?” he whispered.

Concern flickered across De Noir’s face, his brows knitted. “Time for you to leave,
M’sieu
Ronin.”

“Not yet.” Ronin’s hands swung up, reaching for Dante’s shoulders.

Eyes still closed, Dante parried the journalist’s grab, his own hands flashing up and out with heart-stopping speed. His fingers curled around Ronin’s wrists. His eyes opened. Ronin stared at him, lips parted, unmoving.

Not surprised by Dante’s speed, Heather realized, but caught off guard by his actions. How long had Ronin and his creepy assistant been watching Dante?

Shoving Ronin’s wrists away, Dante reached up, cupped the journalist’s bearded face, and brushed his lips against his mouth.

Shock blanked Ronin’s face as Dante stepped back, hands at his sides. Ronin’s head turned to the side, gaze down. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His hands fisted, then relaxed.

Dante stopped beside Heather, glanced at her. A half smile tilted his lips, but red streaked his dark irises.

“Be careful,” she said. “You’re playing with fire here.”

“I like fire.” His gaze shifted back to Ronin.

“Why didn’t you turn the note over to the cops, Ronin?” Heather asked. “What do
you
want?”

Lifting his gaze, Ronin swung his head around to face Heather. He smiled, but something dark and sardonic wriggled in his eyes just long enough for her to see. “All I want is the story,” he said.

“Liar,” Dante said.

Amusement danced in Ronin’s eyes. “I hang out. I chronicle everything that’s going down.”

“Why wouldn’t we give your note to the cops?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Ronin glanced at Dante. “
We
?” He shook his head. “Even if you call in the cops, Agent Wallace, I still get the story.”

The bass dropped down to a steady throb, the drums pulsed, the front man’s growl intensified, accelerated into a scream:

One step closer to the end / One fucking step closer…

“I’ll tell you what I meant by ‘True Blood,’ ” Ronin said.

Dante shrugged. “Who says I want to know?”

Ronin grinned. “I do.”

Heather stared at the journalist’s fangs. Cold snaked into her, icing her blood.
Am I the
only
fucking person in the world who doesn’t have fangs or imagines she’s a vampire
?

She glanced at Dante. Breathtaking. Creative. Inhuman speed.
Was
he?

De Noir reached for Ronin’s elbow, apparently preparing to escort the journalist off the dais, when he stopped, hand still in midair, gaze turned inward.

The music stopped. The house lights dimmed, then went out.

“Do you hear that?” Dante said, his voice full of wonder. “I feel a rhythm…like fire, like
your
song, Lucien, like—”

Heather stepped toward the sound of Dante’s voice. In the darkness, anything could happen. A killer could close in. One quick slice across the throat…Small comfort that the killer would prefer Dante alive…for a while. Reaching out a hand, she fumbled for his arm. Her fingers slid across latex and squeezed around Dante’s forearm.

“Listen to me very carefully,” De Noir said, his voice tight and urgent.

Dante hissed in pain.

“What?” Heather said, body tensing. “What’s wrong?”

The lights switched back on.

Ronin stood motionless at the edge of the dais, his brows drawn down, his gaze intense as he watched Dante and De Noir. De Noir’s hand was locked around Dante’s shoulder and, it seemed to Heather, his fingernails pierced Dante’s shirt. Dante met De Noir’s gaze, his expression dazed.

Heather released her grip on Dante’s arm. “What’s wrong?” she repeated.

“Listen to me,” De Noir said. “Shield yourself. Shut it out.” He tipped Dante’s chin up with a
taloned
finger. “I must leave. Promise me you won’t follow.”

Dante held De Noir’s now glowing golden gaze and even though he didn’t say a word, Heather had the feeling much was passing between the two.

“Let me help,” Dante whispered, frustration shadowing his face.

“Promise me.”

Jerking free of the finger beneath his chin, Dante looked away, jaw clenched. Then he reached up and slid two fingers in under the neck of his shirt beside the thumb talon piercing him. He pulled his fingers out, blood-slicked, and pressed them against De Noir’s lips.

“I promise.”

“Blood sworn,” Ronin breathed. His dark eyes gleamed.

With Dante’s blood still on his lips, De Noir strode down the steps and into the watching crowd.

Dante watched him go, arms wrapped around himself, pale face troubled.

“What was that about?” Heather asked.

“I don’t know,” Dante said, voice husky. “He wouldn’t tell me.” His gaze shifted above the crowd, and Heather followed it.

De Noir was already climbing the stairs to the third-floor landing. He peeled off his crimson shirt. Powerful muscles flexed. The shirt fluttered down the stairs like a rose petal dropped from a lover’s bouquet.

A silhouetted figure scurried up the stairs after De Noir had rounded the corner and vanished from view. A red-haired Goth princess in black crinoline and fishnet scooped up the abandoned shirt. She pressed it against her cheek as she trotted back down the stairs.

“Is De Noir a vampire…
nightkind
…too?” Heather turned to look at Dante.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Dante shook his head. “No. He’s Fallen.”

Talons. Golden eyes. Blue fire. “As in angels?”

This doesn’t concern the Fallen
.

Dante shrugged. “That’s one of the stories.”

“So
that’s
it,” Ronin murmured.

“Time for you to go, Peeping Tom,” Dante said. “We’re done here.”

“Okay.” Ronin held up his hands. “I didn’t come here to make enemies.”

A smile quirked up one corner of Dante’s mouth. “Liar.”

A flicker of movement out of the corner of Heather’s eye, the sudden scent of smoke and frost on a gust of air, and then Von stood beside Ronin. The two men—
vampires
?—were the same height, and looked eye to eye.

“I walked you in,” Von drawled. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Again,
llygad
, I’m honored.”

The nomad walked past Ronin and down the steps. Ronin met Dante’s dark gaze. “True Blood,” he said. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Turning, he followed Von down the steps. Heather watched until she saw him stride into the entrance hall, the nomad in his wake.