Beneath the Skin (45 page)

He chirruped and bumped his skull against her hand.

"I've got to talk to the cops," Heather said. "Join the guys when you're done here, okay?"

Blinking hard, Annie nodded.

Heather looked over at the curb. Dante sat behind Trey, holding him tight against his chest, his legs stretched around him. They rocked together, Dante's face pressed against Trey's dreads. Silver sat knotted up beside them, his face buried in his hands.

Heather's thoughts reeled back to earlier in the evening when she'd kissed Dante out of jealousy after he'd given Simone a good-bye smooch. A lump formed in her throat.

She glanced at the remains of the burning house--Simone's funeral pyre.

I'm so sorry, Simone. Please forgive me.

GILLESPIE SLIPPED HIS RENTED Nissan Sentra into drive and pulled out into the street, following the black van Prejean, Wallace, and the others had piled into after the fiery action had died down.

Looked like the gorgeous blonde vamp with the long, spiraled hair hadn't survived the blaze. Not surprising, given that he'd heard crashing glass and the
whoomph
of Molotov cocktails and other incendiary explosives. Just lucky that everyone hadn't died in the raging columns of fire that'd whipped through the house at all exit points.

Or
unlucky,
depending on your point of view.

It seemed like Dante Prejean had more than a few enemies out there. Good to know. For now, it was time to move camp.

Sipping on a Pacifico, Gillespie hung back, allowing the van to drive out of sight. Lovely things, GPS transmitters.

Once Prejean was settled again, Gillespie would resume his work, his patient mission. The one thing that would validate his wasted life.

Learning the proper way to kill a demon-spawned vampire and waiting for the right moment to do it.

STANDING BEHIND THE LONG polished bar in Club Hell, Silver poured straight shots of bourbon for himself, Von, and Annie. He placed an unopened bottle of absinthe on top of the bar for Dante. The throat-tightening odors of smoke and singed clothing and hair curled into the air.

Annie darted a look at Heather, then tossed back her shot. But her defiance had been wasted since Heather had already decided that her sister had been through too much tonight to deny her a few drinks.

She could've died tonight and badly.

"You sure you don't want one?" Silver asked, lifting his shot glass.

"In a bit, maybe," she said. "I'm going to check on Dante and Trey."

Nodding, Silver downed his shot, then poured another. Von said nothing, his gaze on the glass between his hands.

Heather filled a wide-mouthed tumbler with water, then placed it on the floor at the opposite end of the bar for Eerie. He lapped it up with quick darts of his tongue. Stroking her fingers along his soot-covered back, she murmured, "I'll get you some food later."

Heather went upstairs, following the soft and soothing sound of Dante's voice, singing in Cajun, down the hall and past the room Gina had been murdered in just a month ago.

Trey rested on a bed, curled on his side, staring into the darkness with gleaming and unblinking eyes. Dante was spooned against him and up on one elbow. As he sang, he brushed his fingertips against Trey's temples.

Heather leaned against the room's threshold, not wanting to intrude. She remembered a conversation she'd had with Simone a month ago during a drive to the house.

A friend of the family turned me, just after Papa's funeral.

Was it something you wanted?

No. But she didn't offer me a choice.

And your brother?

He was all the family left to me. I gave him a choice. If he'd-a said no, I probably woulda set myself on fire.

Heather closed her eyes, throat aching. She wondered how Trey would survive without his sister or if he'd even try.

Dante stopped singing. Heather opened her eyes. He leaned over Trey, his hand on the web-runner's jeans-clad hip, whispering into his ear.

"You gotta stay alive,
mon ami,
for Simone. I wanna kill the assholes responsible for her death, but that's your right. Mauvais and Justine ordered it. I'll help you find them and their house-torching buddies, and I'll stand beside you as you kill them."

"Can I stop living after that?" Trey asked, voice hollow.

Dante swallowed hard and a muscle flexed in his jaw. After a moment, he said, "Ain't up to me,
cher.
But ask me again when they're all dead, yeah?"

Trey closed his eyes.

With tender kisses to Trey's temple and cheek, Dante rolled off the bed and to his feet. He wiped at his glistening eyes with the back of a hand. Stopping in the doorway, he wrapped his arms around Heather. His fevered heat radiated into her, bone-deep. His scent of burning leaves and deep, dark earth swirled around her.

Reaching up, she cupped his face between her hands and kissed his lips. Mixed in with his amaretto-sweetness, she tasted the salt of his tears. He kissed her back, long and deep.

"What now, Baptiste?" she asked against his lips.

He touched his forehead to hers. "Gotta go make something right."

"Side-by-side and back-to-back, remember? You're not going out there alone."

"Oui, je rappelle,"
Dante said. "We're in this together
, cherie.
"

"Glad to hear it," Heather murmured, kissing his lips one more time. When the kiss ended, she asked again, "So what now, Baptiste?"

Dante lifted his head. Blue flames flickered in the dark depths of his eyes. Dangerous blue flames. "We go get Lucien back."

37
WYBERCATHL

NEW ORLEANS, ST. LOUIS NO. 3
March 27

DANTE PARKED THE VAN behind Von's Harley and shut off the engine.

"At least it's still here," Heather said, opening the door and climbing out onto the sidewalk in front of the cemetery.

"Good thing, yeah," Dante agreed. He walked around the van and joined her on the sidewalk. "Nobody wants a pissed-off nomad on their ass, let alone a pissed-off
night-kind
nomad. Results ain't pretty."

And right now, that pretty much described Von--pissedoff. Convincing him to remain at Club Hell hadn't been easy.

I'm coming with you, little brother. That's fucking final.

I need you here. I gotta know everyone's gonna be safe and I trust you to do that.

Maybe if I'd stayed at the house, Simone would still be alive--is that what you're saying?

What? Fuck, no! That's all on me. Simone's dead because
I
killed fucking Etienne. I coulda lost you all.

Simone's death ain't on you, Dante.

Yeah,
mon ami,
it is.
S'il te plait,
stay here and sit with Trey, yeah? He needs to be watched.

So I just get to worry about you and Heather?

I can reach you.

So could Simone. Didn't do her much good, did it?

Dante hadn't had an answer for that or the next words that had slipped, low and ragged, from Von's lips.

Her screams ... fuck, Dante ... ain't never going to forget.

Eyes burning, Dante grabs Von in a hard hug. The tension in his friend's knotted muscles vibrates into him, along with the thundering beat of his heart.

Dante hoped Von would eventually forget the intensity of Simone's anguished cries, folded into swatches of passing time. As for himself, he didn't deserve to forget.

"Baptiste?"

"J'su ici,"
he said, focusing on Heather's face. Pain prickled at his temples. Concern whispered through their bond, and beneath that, the promise of white silence. A hush he might need later on.

She searched his face, her expression solemn. "What happens if you can't free Loki or if he refuses to take you--us--to Gehenna?"

"Then we'll find another way to get there."

A sad smile shadowed Heather's lips. She kissed him. "For luck, then."

"For luck," Dante whispered back.

He helped Heather scale the black wrought-iron cemetery gates, then dropped down on the other side beside her. Even though several hours had passed since their dustup with Mauvais's nightkind, Dante still smelled adrenaline-spiced blood in the grass.

Hunger coiled through him, awake and very, very sharp. Dante focused on the moonlit path beneath his boots and shoved the hunger aside.

But he knew he'd have to feed, and soon.

At the Baronne tomb, he slowed to a stop, cold frosting him from the inside out. Loki was gone. Plastic Mardi Gras beads, crumpled scraps of paper, chalked good luck
x
's all indicated the spot where he
had
crouched.

"Fuck," Dante said, pushing a hand through his hair.

Chunks of white stone that had encased the fallen angel lay scattered on the path, but not enough of it to indicate that he'd broken free.

"Shit. Where is he?" Heather dropped into a crouch and examined the pieces of gleaming white stone.

Dante swiveled around, listening for a frantic song, a distant and desperate scrabbling, but heard nothing but the slow shifting of bones in their tombs and the whisper of cypress and oak leaves in the cherry blossom-scented air.

Someone had
stolen
Loki. Carted him out of a locked cemetery.

"He ain't here," Dante said.

Holding a piece of Loki's stone shell, Heather looked up at Dante. "Plan B?"

Dante shifted his gaze to the cloud-streaked night sky. His pulse raced. "I'm gonna send out an invitation," he said.

Heather rose to her feet. The breeze fluttered through her red hair, drew it across her face. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Probably ain't, but it's the only one I got at the moment."

Heather sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that. What do you want me to do?"

"Send your silence through our bond if I get lost to the music,
catin
."

Heather frowned. "My ... silence?"

"The thing you do that stops the noise in my head," Dante said. "And keep outta reach, yeah? No matter what happens, don't let me touch you when ..." He circled his hands in the air.

"When they're glowing," Heather finished. "Oh, no problem there, Baptiste."

Lucien's words--spoken in this very spot almost two weeks ago--whispered up from Dante's memory.

Your song, your
anhrefncathl,
drew me. Just like it drew Loki. Just like it will eventually draw the rest of the Elohim ...

Dante scooped up a piece of Loki shell, played it through his fingers. His song rose from his heart like a wild autumn storm, a dark and dangerous aria gusting through the New Orleans night.

Energy crackled along his fingers, engulfing the stone in blue flame. Reshaping it. Infusing life. It squirmed hot against Dante's palm. Strings of DNA vibrated like guitar strings beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes, ecstatic and shivering, caught in the song's molten rhythm.

You can create anything and everything. Your song carries the chaos rhythm of life. And you can unmake as well.

He hears a rush of wings.

Hears the metronome of another heartbeat. One he doesn't know.

"Silence the song, child," an unfamiliar voice urged. "Silence it before others find you."

Pain lanced through Dante's temples, and his breath caught in his throat. His song stopped, unfinished, a jumble of harsh notes tumbling away into the night.

Blood trickled from his nose.

Dante opened his eyes and looked at what he held cupped in his hands. A little white-furred, blue-eyed mouse blinked at him. Twin rows of small gossamer wings whirred along its back, music--like tiny bells--tinkled with each flutter.

"Go, you," Dante whispered. He tossed the moth-mouse into the air. It buzzed away, its tinkling song trailing after it.

"A beautiful creation, but what does it do?"

"Fly, for now," Dante said, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand and turning around.

The fallen angel facing him stood nearly as tall as Lucien, a belted cobalt blue kilt hanging to his knees. His short, white hair gleamed incandescent in the starlight. Folded white wings arched up behind his back. He regarded Dante with gold-flecked blue eyes, his handsome face radiant.

"Beautiful
creawdwr,
" he said, inclining his head. "You seem to be injured."

Dante wiped at his nose again. "I'm fine. You know my name?"

The angel nodded.

"Then use it. Who are you?"

"I am called the Morningstar."

Heather, Browning gripped in both hands, stepped up beside Dante. "The Morningstar? As in Lucifer?"

The fallen angel tilted his head, a knowing smile on his lips. "Ah, the lovely and beloved Heather Wallace. A pleasure to meet you."

"How the hell do you know her name?" Dante asked, his hands clenching into fists. "Wait. You were the one who broke into our motel room, yeah?"