Beneath the Skin (34 page)

Panic will summon the beast to the feast, my little love.

"That's right."

"The two of you didn't stop for drinks? Dinner?" Epstein plucked a pink translucent square from the opened Jolly Rancher roll on his desk. Popped it into his mouth. Caterina caught a tangy whiff of watermelon.

"Dinner? With Beck? After spending hours in the dirt and pine needles with him during surveillance while he bitched about it? You've
got
to be kidding."

"I admit it does seem unlikely."

"What's this about, anyway?" Caterina asked, taking a sip of the caramel latte she'd picked up at Starbucks on her way into Alexandria. "Beck go AWOL?"

"Perhaps. We've had no contact with him since we sent him to meet you at Portland International on March 23."

Caterina shrugged. "Sorry to hear it, but not my concern."

"Fair enough." Epstein raised his arms and laced his fingers together behind his head. His white high-and-tight hair almost glowed beneath the overheads.

Caterina smiled. "What's the word? Got anything for me?"

Epstein studied her for a long, silent moment, his blue eyes thoughtful. Finally, he said, "We've worked together for quite a while, Cortini."

"That we have," she agreed, voice soft. "From my first day in black ops."

Like a patch of sunlight on winter-frosted metal, a brief smile sparked warmth into Epstein's icy eyes. "Unlike almost every other operative under my command, you've always known, always understood, what we did and why. Those other yahoos followed orders, yes. Plugged bullets into brains. Garroted. Good soldiers, all. But you--you
understood
it."

"With each life we end," Caterina murmured, "we alter the future, end possibilities; we become agents of destiny."

Epstein nodded. "Severing some, fulfilling others. A hard and honorable duty. And that's why the SB exists. To do the hard and honorable things that everyone else is either too lazy, too corrupt, or too afraid to do."

Caterina straightened in her chair, her slacks whispering against the leather seat, wondering at Epstein's un-characteristic show of sentimentality. She wondered at his too-soft words and tight-jawed expression.

"What's this all about, Ep? Has something happened?"

Instead of answering Caterina's questions, Epstein asked, "Have you been brought up to speed yet?"

"No."

"After you retired Wells, his son--FBI SAC Alexander Lyons--accompanied by Heather Wallace"--Epstein arched an eyebrow and when Caterina nodded, acknowledging her former target, he resumed speaking--"put Wells's hard work into action and used Dante Prejean to murder SAC Alberto Rodriguez for reasons unknown."

"Are they still at large?"

"They are. Some of our field agents tracked Prejean and Wallace to a motel outside Damascus last night."

Caterina sipped at her latte, forced her muscles and posture to remain relaxed. "So Prejean and Wallace escaped?"

Epstein lowered his arms. Scrubbed a hand over his face. "More or less."

Man's bone-tired.
But for Epstein to show it--another uncharacteristic display. A sense of uneasiness snaked around Caterina's spine. "More or less?"

"We were
ordered
to stand down and stay out of Prejean's way." Anticipating her next question, Epstein added, "Our illustrious Director Britto's order."

"Why the hell would the director order such a thing?"

"Good question. I might have a few answers." Pushing back from his desk, Epstein rose to his feet, one hand automatically smoothing his charcoal-gray tie.

Crooking a finger at Caterina, he walked to the oak four-drawer file cabinet across from his desk. He unlocked the top drawer, then slid it open. He reached in and withdrew a slim folder and what looked like an iPod classic.

An audio jammer.

Intrigue pulsed electric through Caterina's veins, tingled beneath her skin. Uncurling from her chair, she stood and joined Epstein at the file cabinet. Glancing at her from beneath his white brows, he placed the jammer on top of the filing cabinet and switched it on. The burbling and chirping device went to work, desensitizing all audio-recording equipment.

"I've been digging," Epstein said, tapping the folder against his hand. "Trying to understand why the director would allow Prejean to walk."

"And what have you learned?"

"I learned that Britto's son--sixteen years old and the only child--was dying of terminal brain cancer three years ago."

"Christ ... Wait. Did you say
was
?"

A smile flickered across Epstein's lips. "I did. Seems like Britto's son is cancer-free and very much alive--especially between dusk and dawn."

"Britto made a deal with vampires for his son's life," Caterina said, leaning against the front of the file cabinet.

"Not just
any
vampires," Epstein said, his gaze holding hers. "Britto made a deal with Renata Alessa Cortini and she sent someone to cure his son."

"Sounds like her," Caterina said, kicking around that bit of information and tripping over it. "But I wonder why she never mentioned it to me."

"No need for you to know," Epstein said. "That'd be my guess. Especially since that deal meant your mother owned Britto. And I think she just called in a favor."

"To let Prejean walk? Why? Because he's a vampire? He's just one of many. She doesn't even know him, Ep." Caterina shook her head. "Sounds thin to me."

"I think the director fed Renata info from day one. Man's not only compromised his integrity for the sake of a son who's no longer even human, he's compromised everything the SB stands for: doing the hard and honorable thing."

"When no one else will," Caterina said. "I understand what you're saying, but maybe Britto's in more than one pocket. Who else would be interested in Prejean remaining free and out of our hands?"

Epstein chuckled. "Anyone still involved with Bad Seed. Maybe the missing Dr. Johanna Moore has a few things dangling over the director's head, as well." He looked at the folder in his hand. "The moment Britto agreed to order the release of a murdering, sociopathic fugitive, he altered his own destiny and that of the SB."

"Ep, where are you going with this?"

Epstein looked up, blue gaze level, and strapped-on-explosives resolute. "Bad Seed is over. A failure from day one, in my opinion. The only remaining subject is Dante Prejean. He's programmed in ways we'll never fully grasp because Wells kept a lot of secrets. Prejean's too dangerous to remain free, yet he keeps slipping away--with permission."

Caterina's pulse picked up speed and her calm began to fray. "Why are you telling me all this?"

A smile gentled the steel in Epstein's eyes. "I'm telling you all this because you understand, Caterina. And no one else would. That simple. Wells, Moore, Underwood, even Lyons, and now Britto, have all diverted Prejean's destiny from its true course time and again. We're going to set things on their proper paths again."

The uneasiness looping Caterina's spine squeezed python-tight.

Grasping her shoulders, Epstein said, "That's where you come into this. The SB needs to regain its honor. The director's your next assignment. Once you've finished with him, kill Prejean and put Bad Seed in the grave forever."

Feeling like a trap door had just swung open beneath her feet and plunged her into an icy and breath-stealing lake, Caterina stared at the folder her handler extended to her.

"Instructions on how to kill a True Blood," Epstein said.

26
SCARRED-UP KNUCKLES

SOMEWHERE IN UTAH ON I-84 EAST
March 26

No matter how lost I get, I will always find you
, cherie. But that didn't seem to work in reverse; not lost, she couldn't find Dante. Pressed against his fevered body, whispering in his ear, she'd heard only her own thoughts.

Heather rolled away from Dante's sleeping bag and sat up between him and Von. She pushed her sweat-soaked hair back from her face. Exhaustion spiraled through her, dark and draining. Her throat ached from hours of whispering.

Let me in, Baptiste.

She didn't know if Sleep kept him from hearing or reaching for her; didn't know if he heard her just fine, but was refusing to let her in.

I don't need to be saved. Don't
wanna
be saved.

A chill rippled along her spine and, shivering, Heather drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Even as down-to-the-bone tired as she felt, she doubted she could force herself to sleep. Tension had ratcheted her muscles tight enough to sing.

And her heart pounded so hard that her body quivered with each painful pulse.

You're losing him. He's slipping, falling, tumbling past your reach.

Von too.

"Everything all right back there?" Annie called.

"No, not even close."

"A rest area's just ahead. Need to pee?"

"Yeah, but why don't you take the nearest food exit instead? Lunch would be good too."

"I'm for that."

Heather picked up her flashlight and switched it back on. Swiveling around on her hip, she centered the light on Von's face. His nosebleed had stopped. Gently turning his head, she checked his ears for more blood, but didn't find any. She released her breath in a low sigh.

A good sign, but that didn't necessarily mean the nomad had Slept his way out of the woods. He still didn't look right to her, his expression too lax, too empty.

Bending over and bringing her lips to Von's ear, Heather said, "You don't get off this easy, Mr. I'm-Still-Jailbait. I thought nomads were tough. C'mon, let's see those scarredup knuckles of yours, lift 'em and fight."

Von's words slipped through her mind:
Keep close, doll. Keep close to your man until we can get him home.

Heather shifted around to Dante, checked him with the flashlight beam. Blood still trickled from his nose, but tears no longer slicked his lashes. Rage and grief blazed like holy fire on his face. His body was as hard and tight as a brass-knuckled fist.

And if that fist was turned inward? Aimed at himself?

Heather thought of the blood cupped in Von's ears. Thought of Von pushing Dante's hood back at Sea-Tac International and cupping his face.

Let them see, little brother.

The never-ending Road.

Maybe she hadn't been able to tumble inside Dante's head because she needed to be asleep like before. Or drugged. Or maybe it'd just been a fluke.

Wait.
Drugged.

Dante had been pumped full of morphine the last time. He'd told her that maybe it had lowered his shields and allowed her dreaming mind to slip inside his or maybe it had allowed his opium-soaked mind to reach into hers, and pull her into his nightmare.

"Annie," Heather called. "Toss me the morphine kit and a bottle of water."

HEATHER EMPTIED THE PLUNGER with a push of her thumb, then slipped the needle from Dante's throat. Tossing the syringe back into the black zippered bag, she watched as tension eased from Dante's muscles. As his hands unclenched.

Heather tucked herself against Dante again. His body felt as hot as sun-baked blacktop in August and sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat and trickled between her shoulder blades, beading on her face.

Fear coiled along Heather's spine. Fever that intense couldn't be good, nightkind or not. Twisting open her bottle of water, Heather splashed some of it on Dante's face, half-expecting steam to curl up from his skin and into the air. No sizzling or steaming, but the water evaporated within seconds.

She plucked open the collar of her T-shirt and poured water between her sweat-slicked breasts before wetting Dante down again with the last of it.

Heather dropped the empty bottle on the floor. She reached for Dante's hand and laced her fingers through his.

"Let me in, Baptiste," she whispered, closing her eyes.

Something hot and prickling--a thorned lasso--looped around Heather and cinched tight. Vertigo spun through her. Nausea squeezed her belly.

Dante yanked her inside and slammed the door.

27
WHEN EVENING FALLS

ROME, ITALY
March 26

CURLED ON A CUSHIONED wrought-iron chair on her terrace, Renata basked in the moonlight. She drank in the night, the first breath of spring chilling her face. She imagined she tasted brine and surf-washed sand from the Mediterranean some thirty kilometers away.

Beyond her vined black railing, the city bustled in the gaily lit evening: beeping horns and screeching brakes; the high-pitched drone of scooters; voices lilting in laughter or spiked ire-sharp, or in greetings warm as a hug; the spicy odors of broiling shrimp, grilled garlic chicken, and baking pastries, saturating the air.

Renata sipped at her cup of espresso, dreaming.

A True Blood. And maybe a whispered bedtime tale come to life--a Fallen
creawdwr.
Ah, but if so, Dante Baptiste belonged to vampires as much as he did to the Fallen--more, given that his mother had been vampire. Renata held to the ancient matriarchal belief that a mother's bloodline was the only lineage that mattered.

Giovanni padded onto the terrace, brushing both hands through his Sleep-wild burgundy hair. Dark whiskers shadowed his face.
"Buona sera, bella,"
he said, slouching into a red rose-patterned chair. He wore tight black slacks and a white A-shirt, his feet remained bare.

Renata smiled. "Just the person I wanted to see."

Giovanni looked at her for a moment, then wagged his index finger. "I know that smile. You want something." He slouched deeper into his chair. "I'm not ready for requests. I just got up."

"Ragazzo pigro,"
she teased. "You always say that."

A smile twitched up one corner of Giovanni's mouth. "True."

Florentina, plump and pretty in her white-lace apron, her hair pulled into a neat, dark chocolate-colored bun, walked out onto the terrace. She nodded a greeting to Giovanni--ignoring, as usual, his smoldering smile--then gave her attention to Renata.