Beneath the Skin (19 page)

"Someone shut her the hell up," Douche Bag yelled, his voice strained through his clenched teeth. "It ain't helping!"

The screaming cut off abruptly. A door clicked open, then slammed shut.

Dante pounded Douche Bag's gun hand against the concrete until the gun finally tumbled from his fingers and skittered out of reach.

Dante dipped his head for the jugular pulsing in the taut-muscled neck beneath him. Douche Bag's fingers locked around Dante's biceps, bracing him up and away from his vulnerable throat. Dante's muscles quivered as he struggled against Douche Bag's white-knuckled hold.

Voices--some from within, some from without-- crashed against Dante's mind like foaming storm-tossed waves against rugged cliffs.

She trusted you. Guess she got what she deserved.

"Little brother, look at me. Dammit, Dante,
look!"

Little fucking psycho.

"Baptiste."

Her voice cupped his mind, cool and soothing and familiar, just like the hands now cupping his face. Dante looked up into blue eyes, the last glimmer of twilight as the first stars lit. White silence enveloped him. The voices hushed. The wasps stilled.

Her scent--desert sage sweetened with lilac, clean and fresh like evening rain--cut through the stench of blood.

Creamy skin, lovely heart-shaped face framed with red hair tumbling past her shoulders, lips soft as wild rose petals, a woman of heart and steel.

Heather.

She was kneeling on the floor beside him, her hands holding his face, her expression worried, a little scared. "Listen to me, Baptiste," she said. "You're in a motel with me, Von, Annie, and Caterina. We spent the day here while you and Von Slept. We're safe for the moment. What's the last thing you remember?"

Dante blinked.

Chloe lies on the concrete floor, snow-angeled in a pool of blood.

No escape for you, sweetie.

Something pricks the skin on Dante's throat. Cold threads into his veins, chills his blood. Heather's face lowers over his. "Can you hear me, Baptiste?"

Blue rays spiked into the fleeing Fallen, one by one. And turned them to stone.

Pain throbbed at Dante's temples, skewered his left eye with a red-hot ice pick. He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like he'd been tossed headfirst into a blender set on puree. His memories whirled and meshed--then and now, then and now, then and--

"I remember being in your car," he said. Heather's thumbs gently stroked his cheekbones, trailing ice over the fire raging beneath his skin. "I remember you dosing me with morphine." He opened his eyes and looked into the evening-star steadiness of Heather's gaze.

Some of the worry eased from her expression, but only some. She nodded. "You were having another seizure. Are you with me--with us--now?"

"Hey, little brother." The voice, low and calm and full of smoky, familiar undertones, drew Dante's gaze down.

His fractured vision shifted, slid together, and Douche Bag's sweaty, straining face morphed into the nomad's rugged and handsome features. A mustache framed his mouth and a crescent moon tattoo glimmered beneath his green eyes.

Llygad.

A frost-edged scent, smoke and motor oil, adrenaline spiced.

"Von," Dante breathed.
"Mon ami."

A relieved smile quirked up the corners of Von's mouth. "Damn straight."

Heather's thumbs caressed Dante's cheekbones one more time, then vanished from his face as she stood up. "Be right back," she murmured.

"Don't mean to complain and shit, but think you could do me a solid and get your knees outta my ribs?" Von said, releasing his steel-fingered death grip on Dante's arms. "Annoying habit, breathing, y'know? But it's one I just ain't ready to give up yet."

"Fuck." Dante jumped up, then offered a hand to Von and pulled the nomad to his feet. "You okay?"

Von pressed a palm against his ribs, winced, then said, "I'm good, man." His gaze met Dante's. "How 'bout you?" He tapped a finger against his own temple. "Your nose is bleeding," he added softly.

"Merde,"
Dante muttered, wiping his nose with the back of one shaking hand, smearing blood on his wrist and face. The room did a slow pirouette and broken, jagged things shifted in his head. So did his balance. He stumbled.

Hands, warm and callused, grasped Dante's shoulders and steadied him.

<
Gotcha, little brother,
> Von sent.

The room decided to play possum and stopped moving. Dante exhaled in relief.

But the sending died unfinished as pain--white-hot and barbed--shafted through his mind, pain he saw reflected in Von's eyes. The nomad sucked in a sharp breath, wincing.

Dante smelled strawberries and baby shampoo and blood. The scent shivved his heart. His breath caught, rough in his throat.

Chloe.

The blood-soaked knees of his jeans clung to his skin, wet and cold. Dante turned around, but Chloe was gone and beige carpet had replaced the concrete floor.

He'd just been holding her. How had they slipped past and ...

Dante squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his fists. In a motel, not the white, padded room. Grown-up, no longer a kid. In leather, not jeans.
Focus, dammit.
Sweat trickled along his temples. He eased his eyes open.

Von stared at him, expression stricken. "Holy hell," he whispered. "Jesus fucking Christ. Dante ..." He grabbed Dante in a hard-muscled hug, held him tight, the fingers of one hand caught up in Dante's hair.

Dante wrapped his arms around Von. Face against the nomad's neck, he breathed in Von's frost-and-gun-oil scent; felt the scratch of his whiskers against his cheek. Felt/heard Von's heart thudding hard and fast almost in perfect time with his own, chest to chest and skin to skin, a comforting, musical rhythm.

"You ain't there anymore, little brother," Von murmured, voice rough, his lips against Dante's hair. "And you ain't never going back. What those fuckers put you through ..." His arms squeezed tighter. "What happened to her wasn't your fault."

"I killed her, so, yeah, it is."

"Was,
not
is.
It's long over and it ain't and never was your fault."

Dante pulled away from their embrace, slipped free of Von's strong arms. Cupping his friend's face, Dante kissed him, savored his juniper-sharp taste.
"Merci beaucoup, mon cher,"
he whispered against Von's lips.
"Mais ca vont jamais finir."

"It
will
end, little brother," Von whispered back. "It
has
ended."

"T'es sur?"
Releasing him, Dante took a step back. Pain throbbed at his temples.

"Sit down before you fall down," Von said.

Dante shook his head. "I'm okay,
mon ami."

Von arched an eyebrow. Gave him a gentle shove. Dante stumbled, the back of his legs hitting the mattress behind him. He half fell, half sat on the bed, landing on his ass and elbows.

"Yeah, you look okay," Von drawled.

"Blow me." Dante flipped him off with both middle fingers, then pushed himself back onto his feet.

A smile whispered across Von's lips. "Ah, there he is, my stubborn sonuvabitch."

Heather returned and handed Dante a wet washcloth. "You're a mess," she said.

"That ain't nothing new,
chere,"
Dante said, offering her a smile. His smile deepened when Von snorted.

Heather glanced at the nomad and her lips curved into a mock-innocent smile. "You okay?" she asked him. "It sounds like you're choking."

"Nah, I'm peachy, doll. Just peachy. Now, if y'all will excuse me, I'll get dressed. Try to contain your disappointment."

Heather lifted her hand, her thumb and forefinger not even an inch apart. "All contained."

"Ouch, woman."

Dante wiped his face with the washcloth, scrubbed at the blood on his face. Heather had wet it with cold water and his fevered skin drank in the moist chill. Baked the cloth nearly dry. He shivered.

"What do you remember from yesterday?" Heather asked.

Dante wadded up the bloodstained washcloth in his hand as his thoughts reeled backward. His muscles kinked into hard knots. Images sparked through his mind like broken flame from a dying lighter.

Spark:
Lyin' Lyons shoves the muzzle of a gun against Heather's temple.

Spark:
Gone-gone-gone Athena throws herself on her spear.

Spark:
The man whose name he can't remember entwines with his children, twirling around and into them, his flesh stretching as though elastic.

Spark:
Your father's dead, little one.

"Lucien," Dante whispered.

"Shit. I was hoping you wouldn't remember his loss right away," Heather said. She grasped his hand, folded her fingers through his. "I'm so sorry."

Pain needled Dante's mind. Grief twisted the diamondthorned chains around his heart another turn tighter. Emptiness stretched dark and endless in the place Lucien had once lit with his warm, steady presence.

"Ain't gonna believe Lucien's dead," Dante said, throat tight. "Not until I see his body for myself."

Von paused, jeans in hand. "Did you feel Lucien die?" he asked, voice soft. "Or did you just feel the loss of your bond?"

Je t'aime, mon fils. Toujours.

"He told me good-bye. Then ..." The words stuck in Dante's throat. He looked away, muscles taut and twitching.

"Did that Fallen chick tell you anything about Lucien? About what happened to him? Or how he died?" Von asked.

Frowning, Dante looked up. Fallen chick? Memory flickered.

Wing-musk. A woman's rain-beaded face--golden eyes, midnight hair, a slender sapphire blue torc around her throat.

You may call me Lilith.

Dante met Von's gaze. "She gave me some bullshit about Lucien sending her to protect me from the Fallen and about him being nothing but ash."

"Lucien wouldn't've sent her," Von said. "He warned me against the Fallen."

Dante's muscles tightened and a shadow fell over his heart as his thoughts flipped back to his last conversation with Lucien and the warning he'd given:
The Fallen will find you one night and bind you.

"Do you know where to look for Lucien?" Heather asked. Even though the words remained unspoken, Dante saw them in her searching gaze:
If Lucien's still alive.

"No, not yet," Dante said, voice low and rough. "But I'm gonna find him."

Dante watched as Von and Heather exchanged a quick, worried glance. "I know we need to get home first," he said. Angling back slightly, he lobbed the bloodstained washcloth into the bathroom. "And those hunting us? Gonna take care of them."

Promise?

Promise. Cross my heart.

The room flipped between beige carpet and blood-slick concrete.

Focus. You gotta stay here.

Dante straightened, moving slowly to make sure he remained in the motel room, remained a man, not a kid hanging from a hook. He squeezed Heather's hand, palm to palm. "Gonna make sure you and Annie and Eerie are safe,
catin."

"Not alone, Baptiste," Heather said. "It's our fight--all of us."

"Yeah,
cherie.
Not alone." Dante lowered his head and touched his forehead to hers. Looked into her eyes. Concern flickered in their blue depths. He felt the heat of her body through her pink T-shirt and red plaid pajama bottoms. Her lilac, sage, and evening rain scent perfumed his senses. Awakened more than one kind of hunger.

"Damn straight, not alone," Von said. "We're all in on this."

Dante lifted his head, a smile tilting his lips. "Hey, how'd you end up here, anyway? I thought you flew home."

Von shrugged. "Felt a few things. I was already on my way here when Annie contacted Silver for help. But don't worry, the guys and Silver all made it home safe and sound."

"I'm glad you're here," Dante said.

"Naturally," the nomad drawled. He buffed his nails against the waistband of his blue boxers.

Cupping his face between her hands, Heather kissed Dante, soft and lingering. "You're burning up," she murmured. "How are you feeling?"

"Still on my feet and
j'su ici.
But where's here?"

"In a motel outside Damascus," she said. "We didn't have time to get far. And we've got to get moving as soon as possible. We've got the Bureau and the SB on our tails and--"

The door cracked open, and Heather stopped talking. She tensed and broke their embrace, her hand reaching for her waistband, then balling into a fist. "Shit. Gun's on the nightstand," she muttered.

A mortal's rapid heartbeat, alternating rhythms--two.

"Just us," an unfamiliar female voice said.

But Dante was already
moving.
He grabbed the chick's wrist and yanked her inside. Her shoulder slammed into the door, knocking it against the wall. Plaster crunched. Dante caught a whiff of mint and wild roses--a familiar scent. He whirled her by the wrist up against the bureau. Things clattered and thudded to the carpet.

She regarded him with calm hazel eyes, this chick with shoulder-length dark brown hair and dressed all in black. No, not calm. Her pulse pounded through her veins, her breathing fast and shallow. Something else flickered behind her calm facade. Her cheeks flushed a deep rose.

Dante suddenly remembered the berry-sweet taste of her blood. Hunger coiled through him. Tightened his muscles.

Memory clicked into place with a minimum of fuss and pain.

Your name. You know mine.

"Caterina," Dante said, releasing his hold on her wrist. "I remember you." He stepped back, studying her, trying to figure out the emotion he'd glimpsed hiding behind her mask. Not disappointment, but something close to that.

"Dante Baptiste," she murmured, straightening. "I remember you too." She rubbed her wrist. Her gaze slid past him and her mouth tightened. She drew in a deep breath, squared back her shoulders.
"Llygad."