Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (18 page)

The hair prickled on the back of Heather's neck. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw De Noir now standing just behind Dante, his gaze locked on Ronin.

Dark Cloud 9's wall of industrial sound revved down to drums and bass, the beat tribal and hypnotic, punctuated by the front man's growled refrain, repeated over and over:
One step closer to the end / one step closer / one step closer to the end…

Ronin tugged a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He extended it to Dante. “I found this in my newspaper this evening.”

Dante tugged the paper free of Ronin's fingers, then flipped it open and scanned it. Heather leaned in and read over his shoulder.

D
RUMS POUNDED, BASS THROBBED
, pulsing beat.
One step closer to the end / one step closer / one / step / closer / to the end…

Dante tucked the slip of paper into his back pocket.
“Merci,”
he said, voice low. “But this doesn't change anything.”

Ronin shook his head, stepped closer. “What are you afraid of…True Blood?”

Heather's hair fluttered in a rush of air at the same moment she caught a peripheral glimpse of Dante
moving
. He'd reacted to Ronin's invasion of his personal space by moving in even closer; a handspan separated the two. The journalist's dark skin contrasted so sharply with Dante's pale complexion—midnight and winter white—that the image of the yin-yang symbol burned within her mind.

“Not you, Peeping Tom.” Dante's hands curled into fists. “What the fuck do you mean by ‘True Blood'?”

“Nothing,” De Noir said. He stepped past Heather and beside Dante. “Absolutely nothing.” His gaze locked on Ronin. “He's playing games.”

Heather glanced at Von. An eyebrow arched above his shades at De Noir's remark.
Looks like the nomad isn't so sure about that. Interesting.

Dante suddenly shuddered and closed his eyes.
“T'es sûr de sa?”
he whispered.

Concern flickered across De Noir's face, his brows knitted. “Time for you to leave,
M'sieu
Ronin.”

“Not yet.” Ronin's hands swung up, reaching for Dante's shoulders.

Eyes still closed, Dante parried the journalist's grab, his own hands flashing up and out with heart-stopping speed. His fingers curled around Ronin's wrists. His eyes opened. Ronin stared at him, lips parted, unmoving.

Not surprised by Dante's speed, Heather realized, but caught off guard by his actions. How long had Ronin and his creepy assistant been watching Dante?

Shoving Ronin's wrists away, Dante reached up, cupped the journalist's bearded face, and brushed his lips against his mouth.

Shock blanked Ronin's face as Dante stepped back, hands at his sides. Ronin's head turned to the side, gaze down. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His hands fisted, then relaxed.

Dante stopped beside Heather, glanced at her. A half smile tilted his lips, but red streaked his dark irises.

“Be careful,” she said. “You're playing with fire here.”

“I like fire.” His gaze shifted back to Ronin.

“Why didn't you turn the note over to the cops, Ronin?” Heather asked. “What do
you
want?”

Lifting his gaze, Ronin swung his head around to face Heather. He smiled, but something dark and sardonic wriggled in his eyes just long enough for her to see. “All I want is the story,” he said.

“Liar,” Dante said.

Amusement danced in Ronin's eyes. “I hang out. I chronicle everything that's going down.”

“Why wouldn't we give your note to the cops?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Ronin glanced at Dante.
“We?”
He shook his head. “Even if you call in the cops, Agent Wallace, I still get the story.”

The bass dropped down to a steady throb, the drums pulsed, the front man's growl intensified, accelerated into a scream:

One step closer to the end / One fucking step closer…

“I'll tell you what I meant by ‘True Blood,'” Ronin said.

Dante shrugged. “Who says I want to know?”

Ronin grinned. “I do.”

Heather stared at the journalist's fangs. Cold snaked into her, icing her blood.
Am I the
only
fucking person in the world who doesn't have fangs or imagines she's a vampire?

She glanced at Dante. Breathtaking. Creative. Inhuman speed.
Was
he?

De Noir reached for Ronin's elbow, apparently preparing to escort the journalist off the dais, when he stopped, hand still in midair, gaze turned inward.

The music stopped. The house lights dimmed, then went out.

“Do you hear that?” Dante said, his voice full of wonder. “I feel a rhythm…like fire, like
your
song, Lucien, like—”

Heather stepped toward the sound of Dante's voice. In the darkness, anything could happen. A killer could close in. One quick slice across the throat…Small comfort that the killer would prefer Dante alive…for a while. Reaching out a hand, she fumbled for his arm. Her fingers slid across latex and squeezed around Dante's forearm.

“Listen to me very carefully,” De Noir said, his voice tight and urgent.

Dante hissed in pain.

“What?” Heather said, body tensing. “What's wrong?”

The lights switched back on.

Ronin stood motionless at the edge of the dais, his brows drawn down, his gaze intense as he watched Dante and De Noir. De Noir's hand was locked around Dante's shoulder and, it seemed to Heather, his fingernails pierced Dante's shirt. Dante met De Noir's gaze, his expression dazed.

Heather released her grip on Dante's arm. “What's wrong?” she repeated.

“Listen to me,” De Noir said. “Shield yourself. Shut it out.” He tipped Dante's chin up with a
taloned
finger. “I must leave. Promise me you won't follow.”

Dante held De Noir's now glowing golden gaze and even though he didn't say a word, Heather had the feeling much was passing between the two.

“Let me help,” Dante whispered, frustration shadowing his face.

“Promise me.”

Jerking free of the finger beneath his chin, Dante looked away, jaw clenched. Then he reached up and slid two fingers in under the neck of his shirt beside the thumb talon piercing him. He pulled his fingers out, blood-slicked, and pressed them against De Noir's lips.

“I promise.”

“Blood sworn,” Ronin breathed. His dark eyes gleamed.

With Dante's blood still on his lips, De Noir strode down the steps and into the watching crowd.

Dante watched him go, arms wrapped around himself, pale face troubled.

“What was that about?” Heather asked.

“I don't know,” Dante said, voice husky. “He wouldn't tell me.” His gaze shifted above the crowd, and Heather followed it.

De Noir was already climbing the stairs to the third-floor landing. He peeled off his crimson shirt. Powerful muscles flexed. The shirt fluttered down the stairs like a rose petal dropped from a lover's bouquet.

A silhouetted figure scurried up the stairs after De Noir had rounded the corner and vanished from view. A red-haired Goth princess in black crinoline and fishnet scooped up the abandoned shirt. She pressed it against her cheek as she trotted back down the stairs.

“Is De Noir a vampire…
nightkind
…too?” Heather turned to look at Dante.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Dante shook his head. “No. He's Fallen.”

Talons. Golden eyes. Blue fire. “As in angels?”

This doesn't concern the Fallen.

Dante shrugged. “That's one of the stories.”

“So
that's
it,” Ronin murmured.

“Time for you to go, Peeping Tom,” Dante said. “We're done here.”

“Okay.” Ronin held up his hands. “I didn't come here to make enemies.”

A smile quirked up one corner of Dante's mouth. “Liar.”

A flicker of movement out of the comer of Heather's eye, the sudden scent of smoke and frost on a gust of air, and then Von stood beside Ronin. The two men—
vampires
?—were the same height, and looked eye to eye.

“I walked you in,” Von drawled. “I'll walk you out.”

“Again,
llygad
, I'm honored.”

The nomad walked past Ronin and down the steps. Ronin met Dante's dark gaze. “True Blood,” he said. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Turning, he followed Von down the steps. Heather watched until she saw him stride into the entrance hall, the nomad in his wake.

“True Blood?”

Dante shook his head. “He's full of shit.”

“But what does it mean?”

“It doesn't matter,” Dante said. “The note mentions my car. I'm gonna look.”

Heather stepped in close, inhaling his warm, earthy scent. “Not alone. Too dangerous.”

“I ain't asking permission,” Dante said. “I'm not gonna sit on my ass and let someone else I care about die.”

“Of course not. But I'm coming with you.”

Surprise flashed in Dante's eyes. “As a friend or as a cop?”

“Both,” Heather said, voice low. “I'm both.”

“Yeah?” A smile curved Dante's lips.

“Yeah. You're gonna need a friend and some luck—”

Dante cupped Heather's face, his hands warm against her skin. “For luck,” he murmured against her lips, then he kissed her.

Her eyes closed. His lips, soft and firm against hers, stoked the fire simmering in her veins, stirred the embers glowing in her belly.

Too soon the kiss ended and Dante's hands slid from Heather's face. She opened her eyes. She didn't see amusement in his expression, or a smirk on his lips. He just looked at her, completely open.

Her spinning thoughts slowed. Heat flushed her cheeks when she realized she'd been so stunned by the kiss that she hadn't touched him, had stood there with her hands hanging at her sides. Like she'd never kissed before.

Sure beats a handshake, though.

“Let's go,” Dante said. He held out his hand.

Heather grabbed it and followed him down the steps. Faces and scents blurred past her—dreads, mohawks, golden Claudia curls, acrid tobacco, clove, patchouli. She flew, weightless, Dante's warm hand in hers.

Suddenly outside, Heather's weight returned and Dante released her hand. She followed him through the narrow alley between the pizza parlor and Club Hell to the back street behind the club.

Dante stopped beside the MG parked at the curb. Heather paused on the passenger side. “You don't have a driver's license,” she said.

“True.” He opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. “That a problem?”

Heather pulled the passenger door open, then bent down and peered inside. “You don't lock your car?”

Dante didn't answer. He stared at something tied to the steering wheel, face stricken. He untied it with trembling fingers. It unfurled from the steering wheel. A sheer black stocking.

Just like the one left knotted around Gina's throat.

B
LOOD
SLICKED
E'
s FINGERS
. He gritted his teeth and dug his shiv in a little deeper. The tip scraped across something, stuck. He paused, waiting for the pain. Nuthin'. Reaching back with his other hand, he slid his fingers across the wound at the base of his skull. Gingerly touched the thing his shiv had nicked. Soft edges. No sensation.

Laughter poured from E's throat, the sound low and strained and pissed.

So
that's
how he found me in New York. How long had the fucker been tracking me? Interesting that he never mentioned the bugs.

E tugged. His fingers slipped and he lost his grip on the implant. Blood trickled inside the back of his collar, warm against his icy skin. Shifting the bloodied shiv to his other hand, E wiped his sweaty palm off on his jeans. Switched hands again. Tightened his grip and went back to work.

E gripped the implant's edge. Pried with his shiv. Wormed with his fingers. Here he was, at one of the cheap motels he despised, straddling a wobbly kitchenette chair, digging a satellite chip out of his fucking flesh with one of his own fucking shivs.

Thanks, Tom-Tom.

Blinking sweat out of his eyes, E levered the tip of his shiv under the implant. Flipped it. A sudden sharp pain, poking fire all the way down his spine, then the bug popped free.

Cold and shaking despite the fire raging at the base of his skull, E lowered his hands to the table. The bloody shiv
tunk
ed onto its cheap, laminated surface. His other hand cupped the tiny, blood-smeared transmitter. He poked it with his index finger. Nuthin'.

E's fist closed around the implant. He swiveled in the chair and looked at the file contents strewn across the stained bedspread, at the image on the cheap laptop monitor: Dante, thirteen or fourteen years old, tearing open his foster father's throat with his fingertips, blood spraying his pale, gorgeous face. Mrs. Prejean was already dead, crumpled on the dining room floor, her head little more than bits of white bone, hanks of hair, and oozing brains.

Fuckin' beautiful! Go, little bro, go!

Foster parents, E snorted. Yeah, right. If you consider
pimps
parental figures.

Of course, Bad Seed Mommy and Daddy knew all about the Prejeans, knew how they used the kids the state handed over to them. Knew how they'd piss themselves with delight when Dante was placed in their home.

The Prejeans had made a
lot
of moolah off Dante. Course, even with their ward properly restrained, a few of their clients had taken serious injuries. Something about a dick bitten off, or nearly, anyway.

E grinned. He stood, then walked into the john. Standing over the toilet, he opened his hand and dropped the implant into the bowl. Thin swirls of blood tinted the water red. He flushed.

Let Tom-Tom track him now.

Let Johanna Moore sweat.

Mommy, I'm coming home and I ain't coming alone.

Walking back into the other room, E knelt beside the bed. He popped the CD out of the laptop. Folded the monitor down. He shuffled the documents, reports, and photos back into the manila folders.

One photo caught his eye and he pulled it free from the pile. A small boy, two or three years old, a tuft of sandy hair sticking up at the back of his head, grinned at the camera. Behind him, a man and woman slumped on a vine-patterned sofa, blood smearing the cushions. A dark hole gaped in the man's—
Daddy's
—temple, and in the woman's—
Momma's
—forehead. A gun was on the floor just beneath the man's dangling hand.

E couldn't remember if he'd seen his father ice his mom, then himself in the standard murder-suicide thing. If he had, it must not've bothered him much. He couldn't remember the incident and he'd never been troubled by nightmares.

Well, not about his parents, anyway.

E tucked the photo back in with the papers and shoved them all into the folder. So, his parents had died when he was almost three, and Bad Seed had directed his life from that moment on. Dante's mother had been taken by Bad Seed while pregnant, then slaughtered once she'd given birth.

E shook his head. Born a bloodsucker. Who woulda thought?

Back at the kitchen table, E mixed himself another gin and tonic. He took a long, cool swallow and washed the day's flat taste out of his mouth.

Created sociopath. So Bad Seed named him.

Born sociopath. So Bad Seed named Dante.

But they were wrong. He tossed back the rest of his drink, the gin's clean taste clearing his head. Very wrong. He set the glass down and walked into the bathroom. The fluorescent light buzzed. The mirror reflected his shaded gaze, his blood-streaked neck. He grinned. Switched off the light. Switched it back on. Grinned again.

Wetting a hand towel at the tap, E wiped at the blood on his neck. Dante wasn't the only true blood. Bad Seed hadn't created E from little grinning Elroy. E had already existed and had been busy nudging little grinning Elroy outta the picture.

E rinsed the towel in the sink. Bloody water swirled down the drain. He patted the towel against the implant site and sucked in a breath through his teeth. Damn if it didn't sting like a
mother
fucker.

E's little sister hadn't died of SIDS. He'd suffocated her. Had pushed her blankie against her face until she'd quit squirming and gone still. He remembered that as one of his earliest memories. Odd he didn't remember his folks, but, hey, that's the way it goes. Maybe if he'd been the one to snuff 'em, he'd've remembered.

Draping the bloodstained towel over the edge of the sink, E turned off the faucet. He'd have to buy some Band-Aids. He wondered if Dante'd need bandaging after he dug the implant out of him. Vampires were supposed to heal fast and shit, so maybe not.

Bad Seed had fucked up. They didn't have just one born sociopath, they had two, true bloods—vampire
and
human—and they'd just lost all control of their little project.

E gathered up the file box and the black bag he'd borrowed from Tom-Tom's closet, opening the motel room door with one cramped hand and a kick from his Nikes. He strode across the semideserted parking lot, gravel gritting beneath his sneakers. Balancing the box and bag on his uplifted thigh, E managed to unlock the Jeep and wrestle the door open. He shoved the box onto the backseat, then tossed the bag in beside it.

The black bag was full of all kinds of goodies to subdue a bloodsucker. Drugs—only drugs derived from natural shit or designed for bloodsucker systems worked on 'em; handcuffs—oh, not your ordinary, for-humans kinda cuffs, oh no; and a strait-jacket, a
special
straitjacket.

At first, E had thought he'd pay Ronin a surprise visit during daylight hours and try some of the goodies out on his black bloodsucker ass. But then he'd gotten another idea.

A
better
idea.

He was gonna play possum. Go back to the rental. Put all the goodies away. Pretend he still didn't know shit. Until the right moment…the moment Tom-Tom managed to bring Dante home or the moment Dante decided to crawl in through Ronin's window to take care of business.

In either case, E would be ready.

E slid into the driver's seat and keyed on the ignition. The Jeep started up right away, the pungent smell of gasoline and exhaust puffing white into the chilly air. He glanced at the newspaper lying beside him on the seat, and reread the headline.

CROSS-COUNTRY KILLER DEAD IN FLORIDA.

Really?

A scraping, steam-roller-over-rocks sound filled the Jeep's interior. E forced his jaw open. The sound stopped. Pissed enough to grind his teeth. Either some idiot had dared to copy his work and had been fucking nailed in the act…

Or someone wanted to lure the Bureau away…lure
Heather
away from him. That someone would have to be Bad Seed momma, Johanna.

If he continued to cull, it'd be obvious he wasn't dead, unless Bad Seed planned to make sure he never killed again.

Sweat popped up along E's hairline. Did they think they were smarter than he was? Did they think they knew more about death than a true-blue sociopath, one born, not created?

E fetched his satchel of tricks from the Jeep's floorboards and took inventory: a length of rope, coiled wire, pliers, latex gloves, duct tape, a small cutting torch. The only thing missing was his book of Navarro's poetry. He'd pick that up when he dropped Ronin's goodies off.

Tonight he'd assert his independence. Tonight he'd look for that special someone. Someone who'd appreciate both his skills and his poetry…

With a little coaxing.

S
LEEP RELEASED
J
OHANNA AND
her dreams dissipated like night mist caught in sunlight. Fat bumblebees buzzed, the sound vibrating in through her fingertips. She opened her eyes. No bumblebees. No sunlight. Just carpet under her cheek and a buzzing phone.

She pushed herself up to her knees. How long had she been Sleeping? Hours? Days? The pills threw her natural rhythms out of sync. With each use, it took longer and longer to regain the flow.

Scooping her cell phone up from the floor, she flipped it open. “Yes?”

“I checked all incoming flights for the last twenty-four hours,” Gifford said. “Craig Stearns arrived at Dulles at five-thirty this morning.”

“When did he leave?”

“Seven p.m. For New Orleans.”

Johanna raked her fingers through her hair. She'd underestimated Stearns or, more accurately, his attachment to Wallace. “Call your people in New Orleans,” she said. “Give them Stearns and Wallace. Extreme prejudice.”

“Understood.”

Johanna folded the cell phone shut. In truth, she'd made more than one mistake with Stearns. She should've killed him the day he discovered Bad Seed. But she'd thought his own black past and her knowledge of it would keep him silent.

She'd been right about that—his silence.

She'd simply forgotten Stearns was a man of action, not words.