A Rush of Wings (42 page)

Elroy nodded and unlocked the cuffs. S shook them off his raw and bloodied wrists. The cuffs thudded against the carpet. He pulled up the bottom of his T-shirt and wiped blood off his face.

“Can we still play?” the Perv asked. Hunger edged his voice. He slid a hand up S’s thigh.

Slapping Elroy’s hand aside, S looked at him, fire smoldering behind his eyes. He smoothed a trembling hand over his slashed and bloodied T-shirt, over the wounds aching underneath. A memory nudged at his mind, a basement, then vanished. Pain coiled, waiting.

I am what you made me / no matter where you hide / where you run / I will find you…

S’s hands dropped to the fly of his jeans. Zipped them up. Buckled his belt. “Touch me again and
nothing
will fucking save you.”

Elroy looked away, jaw tight, hand clenched. S bent, scooped up the handcuffs. Rattled them. The Perv glanced at him, hand still knotted. Without a word, S snatched his fisted hand and snapped the cuff around it.

“Hey, I thought we was cool,” Elroy protested as S locked the other cuff around metal framework.

“Sleep’s coming,” S said. “And I don’t trust you.”

Elroy slouched against the wall. “Yeah, well. Same here.” Pointing at the pillow, he lifted an eyebrow.

“You wanna get comfy?” S picked up the bloodied shiv. Lifted his gaze to Elroy’s. Plunged the shiv into the Perv’s thigh. “Fuck you.”

Elroy sucked air in through his teeth, pain etched into his face. A vein throbbed at his temple. “Your ass is mine,” he muttered.

“Yeah?” S said, climbing to the front of the van. “Don’t think so.” As he parted the curtain, he glanced back at Elroy. Easy meal. Hunger surged through him. He ached with it. But the thought of every drop of the Perv’s bitter blood pouring into his veins, pumping into his heart and lighting his mind, left him cold.
And if he really holds Gina’s last words
?

S slipped through the parted curtains, eased down into the front seat, then opened the door. He hopped out onto the concrete, the night cool against his face. Closing the door, he sucked in the night’s smells: wet grass, diesel fuel and hot rubber, wild roses. An interstate rest area.

He half walked, half staggered toward a semi truck, his boots soundless against the pavement. Hunger drained what little strength he still had; the drugs fucked up his system, blurred his thoughts. Dawn brushed gray against the horizon and drowsiness seeped into him, like blood into dirt. He had to feed, then get back to the van.

S stepped up onto the running board of the semi. Checked the door. Locked. He crashed a fist through the window; shattered glass rained onto the pavement and into the cab. Then grasping the window frame, he slid into the cab, his movement so quick, the startled driver was still blinking sleep from his eyes when S dropped on top of him.

Pinned him. Tore into his warm throat. And fed.

31
Words Spill Out Like Fire

«
^
»

J
OHANNA STRODE DOWN THE empty hall, buoyed and buzzing on her stay-awake pills. Her heels clicked against gleaming tile.
What happened at dawn
? The thought whirled through her mind and she stopped, heart pounding.

Snow falls, silencing the awakening world beyond her window. The sky lightens, illuminating thick flakes against the gray dawn, then…

Johanna resumed walking.

Then the light flickers, like a candle caught in a sudden breeze, gutters and goes out. Darkness sweeps across the horizon
. The day reverses.
Power reverberates through the air. Power so intense, so strong, that even inside her townhouse, as she stands stunned at the kitchen window, it surges through her, leaving her weak-kneed and clutching the counter. Words form in her mind, blaze within her consciousness. They are words she doesn’t recognize—like symbols, like ancient glyphs—and they spill like fire from her mouth. With a sudden inward rush of air, the power vanishes, clearing her mind and dropping her to the linoleum. Dawn returns. The sky lightens once again
.

Johanna punched her code into the keypad beside the door to her office, then tipped her face down for the retinal security scan. A thin bar of light skimmed her face. She blinked, vision dazzled. The door clicked open. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

What happened this morning? Why did she think it had something to do with Ronin and her missing experiments?
No, correct that
, she thought as she sat behind her desk.
With S
. And
thought
had nothing to do with it. It was a
feeling
, liquid and intuitive and impossible to analyze.

Johanna switched on the vid-phone, keyed in a number. Music. Something to do with music. She thought of S perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, guitar across his thighs, cradled next to his body, his long fingers slipping sure and fast across the strings, his pale face rapt. Just as it would be when he tore into his first throat. As it would be when he torched the Prejean house.

“Johanna, what a surprise,” said a deep, familiar voice.

Startled, she glanced at the monitor and into Bob Wells’s smiling face. Curving her lips into a smile, Johanna shook her head. “Not a pleasant surprise, I’m afraid,” she said. Wells’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry, but I have bad news.”

Wells rubbed a hand along his chin. He glanced away for a moment. When he returned his gaze to the monitor, his brown eyes were emptied of all feeling. He looked at her, expression neutral, waiting.

“Both E and S are offline and together. I suspect they’ve been interfered with, fed information.”

“By who?”

“Thomas Ronin.”

Wells lifted an eyebrow. “Your
père de sang
? You’ve been careless.”

Johanna stiffened. She leaned forward in her chair, the leather creaking beneath her. “I called to warn you,” she said. “I believe they’re coming here, given Ronin’s involvement. But I think S will want you, as well.”

“It’s
you
he’ll remember,” Wells said. “And all the attention you lavished upon him. You never told me, Johanna—but, how
did
his blood taste?”

“Don’t play this game with me, Bob,” Johanna said. She smoothed all expression from her face, but her hands clenched into fists, unseen, on her lap. “You loved him, too. I’d be worried about the day he remembers that love. And you.”

A smile touched Wells’s lips. He inclined his head. “Touché.”

Interesting reaction
, Johanna mused.
But wrong
. She severed the connection. Bob Wells’s image winked out. Had that been
amusement
lighting his eyes? She glanced out the window. Snow fell, thick and fast, the sky white.

Had
Wells
given the project information to Ronin? If so, why? To test her abilities? Or S’s?

Johanna shifted her gaze to the chair in front of her desk. For a moment, the smell of dark tobacco and vanilla filled her nostrils. For a moment, Dan Gifford sat in the chair, his gray-eyed gaze calm, attentive. He leaned forward, fingers steepled together and said:
I see. What do you want done
?

Turn back time
.

She had no regrets, save one—sending Gifford to New Orleans. She wished she’d kept him at her side and had sent lesser men to deal with Stearns and Wallace.

The phone buzzed. Johanna pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

“Wallace’s plane will land in a few minutes.”

“Pick her up. Bring her to the lab.”

“Understood.”

Johanna ended the call. Time to prepare. The thought of leaving D.C. crossed her mind. More than once. Catch a flight anywhere. Why stay? By the time Ronin and the others found her again, she’d’ve had time to plan. To set things into motion.

But the thought of her little True Blood in Ronin’s hands for any length of time knotted her stomach. She needed to reclaim him. And if he’d been awakened? His memories resurrected? Then she’d need to bury them again and lull him back to sleep.

Johanna rose to her feet and crossed the snow-lit room to a cherrywood file cabinet. She unlocked the top drawer, removed an unlabeled CD, then relocked the file cabinet. She returned to her desk and slipped the CD into a padded mailer. Sealed it. Addressed it to Dante Prejean.

If things went wrong, Johanna wanted to be certain Wells didn’t walk away untouched. And if things went right, well, maybe Wells still needed to worry. But not about S. Perhaps he should worry about an unexpected visit from Johanna.

***

HEATHER WALKED THROUGH THE crowded terminal, listening to voices over the audio system announcing flights cancelled due to the storm. She scanned the faces of the people around her, of those waiting at the baggage carousel, of those hanging out in front of the coffee kiosks and souvenir shops.

Heather’s stomach rumbled at the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and frying bacon. Realizing that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, she joined the line at Sunny’s Breakfast ’n’ More.

As the line moved forward, Heather’s gaze skipped around the terminal, looking for suits with that authoritative FBI stride. Looked for a hand cupping an ear. Looked for comsets. Looked for De Noir. Watched for others
looking
, too.

Her gaze stopped. A man in a suit and parka spoke to a woman in a tan trenchcoat. Heather tensed. The man scanned the crowd behind the woman as they spoke and, Heather was certain, the woman scanned the crowd behind him. Moore’s people? Airport security?

“Next.”

Heather ordered a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich to go and paid with cash. She’d told De Noir she’d meet him at the car rental counter. Maybe he was already there. Heather tucked her wrapped and steaming sandwich in her pocket and merged with the crowd. Her heart rate picked up speed. She unbelted and unfastened her trench.

Whoever Parka and Trenchcoat worked for, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to start something inside the terminal. No, they’d wait for Heather to leave. Inside the terminal, she was safe.

Heather angled through the crowd, edging her way to the car rental kiosk. Several people stood at the counter, but none of them were six eight or possessed waist-length black hair. Where was De Noir? Had something happened to him? He’d assured her he’d be at the terminal by the time she arrived.

Unless…

Nothing against Lucien, but your safety ain’t gonna be his prime concern
.

Had De Noir finally reached Dante through their link? Before Sleep?

Hope sparked within Heather. If so, no need to confront Moore. Instead, she could build a case against Moore with the file, have her arrested. Blow the whistle? If she did that, if she took her evidence to the media, her career in the FBI would be over.

But wasn’t it already over? Dead as Stearns? And what about Dante? Would he want his past—including his crimes—to be headline news and tabloid fodder?

Heather stepped up to the counter. A clerk smiled. “May I help you, ma’am?”

“Yes. I have a reservation. Wallace.”

Heather turned, put her back to the counter. Beyond the terminal’s windows, a blizzard raged, the falling snow a solid, slanting sheet. Cars and taxis huddled against the curb, barely visible dark smudges in a white swirling world.

Could De Noir have been caught in the storm?

She’d wait for a while, then call the house to see if Simone or Von had heard from him. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her still-warm sandwich and partially unwrapped it.

Suddenly feeling a presence behind her, Heather tensed. As she swiveled, a hand locked around her biceps. She looked up into Parka’s clean-shaven face and blue eyes.

“Agent Wallace,” he said.

“Take your hand off me,” she said, voice level. Her gaze shifted, searching for his trenchcoated partner.

“No need to make a scene.”

“I disagree.” Dropping her sandwich, Heather swiveled into Parka and plucked his fingers from her arm. She locked his hand in an aikido defensive move—fingers to wrist, thumb to back of hand—forcing it down and back, driving Parka to his knees. He winced, pain etching his face.

Glancing up, Heather caught a glimpse of Trenchcoat pushing through the crowd. No time to wait for De Noir or search a parking lot for her rental car. Time maybe to catch a cab.

As Heather released Parka’s trapped hand, she shoved him hard. He slid across the tiled floor. Whirling, she ran for the glassed-in front doors. Slipped her hand into her trench’s gun pocket, wrapped her fingers around the .38’s grip.
Not yet. Too many civilians
.

A shocked gasp rippled through the crowd.
Shit
!
Someone’s pulled a gun
, Heather thought, diving for the floor. Something stung her back, low, as she rolled.
Hit
?
Shrapnel from a near miss
? She sprang to her feet, heart pounding, gaze focused on the main entrance doors and the taxis beyond. She’d lose them in the snow.

Something tingled through her veins. Burned. The automatic doors slid apart. She ran out into the storm. The cold bit into her, sucked air from her lungs. Her thoughts spun. Light-headed, she arrowed her suddenly rubber-limbed body to the nearest taxi.
Drugged
, she realized.

Slipping in the snow, Heather slammed against the taxi. She grabbed for the door handle to keep from falling, but her hand wouldn’t work, just flopped at her side. She fell, the world spinning white-white-white. The brightness hurt her eyes. A man leaned over her, his face concerned.

“Miss, are you okay?”

From behind her, she heard a woman say, “Don’t worry. She’s fine. Just had a little too much to drink. Afraid to fly.”

Snowflakes stuck to Heather’s eyelashes, melting into her eyes. She tried to speak, but her tongue didn’t work. Tried to shake her head no to the taxi driver, but her head wouldn’t move.