A Rush of Wings (31 page)

Heather walked from the silent kitchen and into the hallway. Her overnight bag and laptop rested against the wall. Further down, a faint blue light spilled onto the autumn-etched carpet from a door near the stairway. She heard the faint murmur of Simone’s voice as she spoke to her brother in rapid, musical Cajun.

Heather remembered Dante standing in the locker’s doorway at CUSTOM MEATS, hands braced against the threshold, his dark eyes streaked with deep red; remembered the strain in his voice:
Run as far from me as you can
.

As she walked down the hall toward the spill of blue light, Heather also remembered Étienne’s head dangling from Dante’s blood-smeared hand; remembered the hot touch of Dante’s lips against her throat, twisting fear and fire through her guts; remembered the wonder in his voice as he spoke her name.

Even if everything Stearns said was true, Dante struggled against whatever had been programmed into his fractured mind. He loved others, something a sociopath was incapable of. Dante’s willingness to sacrifice himself for Jay was all the proof she needed.

But Ronin’s voice snaked through her thoughts.

Her name was Chloe. And you killed her
.

Dante struggled now, but had he always?

She shoved the doubt away, knowing she’d examine it closer at another time. For now, she was Dante’s partner, his backup, and she wouldn’t leave him to face Ronin alone.

Pushing open the door to the computer room, Heather looked at Simone kneeling beside her plugged-in and connected brother. Trey reclined in a lounger, his goggled gaze on the ceiling, his capped fingers moving data through the blue-lit air as he searched for the information she’d requested: A search for Elroy Jordan’s movements over the last three years.

***

Dante-angel
?

Chloe tugs on the handcuffs, the chain
tunk-tunk-tunk
ing against the bedpost. Wake up
!
Papa took the curtain away. Dante-angel, wakeupwakeupwakeup—

Dante opened one eye. Light shafted in, piercing his already aching head. He shut his eye again.
In the MG
. Easing his head back against the headrest, he massaged his temples. The car’s interior stank of blood, gasoline, and tequila.

“Fuck.”

Something hard pressed into the small of Dante’s back. Wincing in the fluorescent light, he leaned forward and reached back to the waistband of his leather pants. His fingers wrapped around a smooth, cylindrical shape and tugged it free.

Dante stared at the gun—
nine mil
, a voice whispered—in his bloodstained hand. His breath caught in his throat as images strobed through his bruised mind. The sudden rush of violence—vivid, stark, intoxicating—slammed his heart into overdrive.

“The tavern…” he whispered.

Another dizzying montage of images: A broken pool cue spinning through the air; a knife plunging through his hand; a black-haired woman crouched behind the bar, terror on her face; an iridescent rose tattoo.

The taste of LaRousse’s bitter blood.

The gun tumbled from his fingers to the floorboards. Dante squeezed his eyes shut. Touched his fingers to his temple. Shaking, muscles taut, he pushed past the pain, but the images whited out. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the flood of broken memories; couldn’t control them, couldn’t even hold onto them.

Dante opened his eyes. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He breathed in the smell of wet concrete and mildew and soap. But beneath that, he caught the stench of old slaughterhouse blood.

Pain ice-picked his mind. CUSTOM MEATS. Ronin and Étienne. Jay, bound and hanging from a meat hook. Ronin’s fangs piercing his throat. Heather kneeling beside Étienne, her gun pressed against his chest.

I knew you’d come
.

You can still save him, True Blood
.

Liar. Liar
.

“Liar!” Dante screamed. He screamed until he was scraped raw inside, until his mind was empty and no more sound would come. He slumped back against the seat, drained, but still burning.

“Hey, little brother.”

Dante glanced at the now opened driver’s side door. Von knelt on the concrete, one knee in a rainbowed puddle of oil and water. He cupped a road-rough hand against Dante’s face, pushed his hair back with long fingers.

“It’s good to get that shit out,” Von said, voice low. “Festers if you leave it inside.”

“Yeah?” Dante whispered, looking into the nomad’s green eyes. “How come I ain’t never heard you screaming?”

Von snorted. “Nothing inside, man. I travel light.”

“Bullshit.”

Von’s hand dropped from Dante’s face to his chest. He pressed his fingers against the latex shirt. “You got a good heart, little brother. That’s why I stay. No regrets.”

“How can you know that when I don’t?”

Von touched a finger beneath the crescent moon tattoo under his eye. Tapped it. Arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah,
llygad
. Got it.”

Von lifted his hand from Dante’s chest, but Dante caught it and folded his fingers between Von’s. Dante leaned forward and kissed him. The nomad tasted of smoke and road dust. He listened to the steady thump of Von’s heart and his mind flashed back to Lucien, to the taste of his blood, to the sound of the song thrumming through him—Dante tried to block all thought of Lucien, but it was too late.

You look so much like her
.

Rage rekindled, bonded with the fire burning deep inside.

You knew all this time
?
And you never said anything
?

Sliding his hand from Von’s, Dante eased out of the MG. He took in his surroundings, realizing for the first time he stood in a car wash. Glancing down at his blood-caked clothing, the location suddenly made sense.

“Gotta clean up.”

“Good idea,” Von said. “That hot little FBI darlin’ is at the house. She sees you like this, she’s gonna think you shower in blood.”

Dante went still. “Heather’s at the house? Is she…okay?”

“Fuck, yeah. She’s wiped out, like you, but fine. Sleep’ll do you both good.”

Dante nodded, then shrugged out of his leather jacket. He tossed it, metal jingling, into the MG. Spotting his shades on the passenger seat, he grabbed them, then slid them on. The fluorescent glare dimmed. His headache toned down a shade. He unstrapped his latex shirt, then walked to the car wash controls.

Patting his pockets—an image of dollar bills wadded up on the tavern’s counter popped into his mind—Dante glanced at Von. “Got any money?”

“Yeah,” the nomad said, digging in his jacket pocket. He looked at Dante as he pulled a spike free, lifted his eyebrow. “So what was your plan? Wait for someone to overlook your sorry-ass state and load your palms up with quarters?”

“Fuck you. Twice.” Dante pulled the wand from its metal sleeve.

Grinning, Von slid the swipe through the price slot. “Choose your poison.”

Dante clicked the dial over to light rinse and pressed the on button. Water sprayed from the wand. Turning the wand around until the high-pressure stream hit his torso, Dante edged it up and down, washing blood from his clothes and skin. The cold water stung.

“Listen to me,” Von said, stepping out of spray range. “You’re exhausted. You’re fevered. You need Sleep.”

“Ronin’s waiting for me.”

“Let him wait. Dawn’s a few hours away. He’s gotta Sleep, too.”

Sudden weariness coiled through Dante and he leaned a shoulder against the smooth concrete wall. Bloody water swirled into the grated drain in the stall’s center. His temples throbbed with dull pain. He scrubbed at a stubborn stain on his leather pants, the water sluicing past his fingers. Setting the wand on the floor, he peeled off his latex shirt. Tossed it onto the MG’s hood.

A small voice whispered his name—

Dante-angel
.

Shutting his eyes, he leaned a bare shoulder against the wall. His right hand pressed against the concrete, the touch tentative, seeking…what?

Behind his closed eyes, a corona of light surrounded a key, puzzle-fractured and spider-webbed with black lines.

Is this the right one
?
Will it work on the handcuffs
?

“Hey, Dante.” The sharp sound of snapping fingers. “Hey, little brother.”

Dante opened his eyes and looked up into Von’s concerned gaze.

“You okay?”

Nodding, heart pounding, Dante picked up the still spraying wand and started washing himself again.

“What happened between you and Lucien, man?”

Dante looked at Von for a long moment, then resumed washing. “Are you asking as
mon ami
or
llygad
?” He suddenly thought of Heather—her gorgeous face half-shadowed in the club as she said,
I’m both, Dante. Friend and cop
.

“Friend.”

“He lied to me.” The spray slowed to a trickle, stopped. Dante straightened, shaking his wet hair back from his face. He slid the wand back into the sleeve.

Von whistled, then reached into the MG and grabbed Dante’s jacket. Tossed it to him. “If Lucien lied to you, there musta been—”

“He knew my mother. All this time. He never said one word. Never said shit.” Dante tugged the jacket on over his wet skin, leather creaking, metal clinking.

Memory flared one more time, Lucien’s face, dark wonder in his golden eyes, his finger reaching up to stroke Dante’s hair.

Genevieve…

The world spun suddenly—cathedral, car wash, slaughterhouse, gleaming pews, wet concrete walls, swaying hooks—and Dante grabbed the open car door to keep from falling. Pain spiked behind his eyes. His vision grayed out for a moment, then cleared.

He realized that Von had latched a hand around his biceps, steadying him. Dante glanced at the nomad. Von returned his regard, face troubled.

“
Merci
,” Dante said.

Von released his hold, his posture tense, reluctant. “Go home, little brother. Sleep. Ronin’ll still be waiting for you come evening. Go home. Please.”

But Dante heard the thought behind Von’s words, saw it in his eyes:
You’re scaring me
.

“I plan on it,
mon ami
,” Dante said, climbing into the MG. “I need to talk to Heather.”
Need to make sure she’s all right
. He keyed the engine on. It rumbled to life, the sound echoing against the concrete walls.

A smile quirked up one corner of Von’s mouth. “So he
can
see reason.” With a gentle push of his fingertips, he swung the driver’s side door shut, then strode away.

Dante shook his head, amused, and shifted the MG into first. His amusement faded as darker thoughts circled through his mind.
Why the hell don’t I remember my past
?
And why has that
never
bothered me
?

And darker still:
What if it’s never bothered me because it ain’t supposed to
?

Darkest:
What if it’s never bothered me because I don’t
want
to remember
?

Again he heard Ronin’s knowing voice:
What are you afraid of, True Blood
?

Fingers clamped around the steering wheel, Dante drove the MG out of the stall.
Not you, Peeping Tom. Or what you know
. But he wondered just how Peeping Tom had come by his knowledge.

Troubled, Dante hit the gas, shifting into second, then third. He was missing something, forgetting something important, but the memory—like so many others—refused to come.

25
Devil in the Details

«
^
»

H
EATHER SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the hardwood floor, examining the printout Trey had provided. Her exhaustion vanished in a buzz of excitement. Elroy Jordan
was
from New York, but before that he’d lived in Seattle—born and raised—during the time of the first two murders. He’d even lived close to the first victim, Karen Stilman. Credit receipts pegged him in Portland, Oregon, and Boise, Idaho during the times of the murders in those cities. In fact, Elroy Jordan could be placed at each kill site.

Paper rustled as Heather flipped to the page on Ronin. Nothing placed the journalist in Seattle until
after
the second murder. Ditto for the murders in Portland, Boise, Salt Lake City, and Helena. She frowned, scanning the data for parallels, for inconsistencies. She was positive Jordan and Ronin were working as a team. But, so far, the evidence dusted that theory.

After the Helena, Montana murder, Ronin’s receipts and rental history placed him in New York—
before
the estimated date of Byron Hedge’s death. Not after.

If what Stearns had said was true, that Moore had created sociopaths to study, then was Ronin working with her? How else would he know how to trigger Dante? Why would he want to? What would he gain? Or was Ronin working
against
Moore? If so, why? Again, what would he have to gain?

Heather glanced at the sheet again, flipped back to the page on Jordan. The two couldn’t be connected during the murders in Omaha, Chicago, or Detroit—Ronin didn’t show in those cities until after the murders. But he
was
in New York prior to Hedge’s murder. Shortly afterward, Ronin and Jordan had arrived in New Orleans together.

The next murder? Daniel Spurrell’s.

For some reason, Ronin had intercepted Jordan, interrupting Moore’s study of her wandering sociopath, and led him to New Orleans. To Dante.

So…maybe Elroy Jordan alone was the Cross-Country Killer. What was Ronin’s role? Either he or Étienne had killed Jay. Jordan hadn’t even been present.

Heather rubbed her face with one hand, her buzz fading. Nothing was making sense. She needed sleep, but she needed to find Dante first.

Leather creaked as Simone’s brother shifted in his recliner. His fingers darted through the air, rearranging data and flipping it back into the net. The smell of hot circuits and ginger mingled uneasily in the room’s close air.