Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (4 page)

Burning. Restless. Dangerous.

<
Child…
>

Trembling, Dante ended the kiss. He licked her lower lip until the bleeding stopped and the wound healed. Gina looked at him with half-lidded eyes. Sleepy. Happy. He caressed her jaw-line with shaking fingers. Sweat trickled along his temple.

Gina touched a finger to his lips. “We gotta go, sexy,” she whispered, sliding from his lap. “Tomorrow night?”

The pain was an ice pick through his brain and his control was slipping. He released her without a word. Jay leaned over and kissed him.

“Tomorrow,” Jay murmured. Grasping Gina's hand, he led her down the steps. Gina waved, an impish smile on her lips.

Tomorrow night.

Dante watched them walk away.

B
OURBON SPLASHED INTO
T
HOMAS
Ronin's shot glass, dark amber under the low lights. The bartender swiped the debit spike Ronin had left on the counter, then sauntered on to the next customer bellied up to the long, polished bar. Ronin picked up his glass and turned around.

“Looks like you fucked up,” E drawled. Shaking a cigarette from the partially crumpled pack of Marlboro, he stuck it between his lips and lit it with a silver Zippo.

Ronin plucked E's cigarette from between his fingers, and dropped it onto the floor. Twisted out the embers with the toe of his snakeskin boot. “Amuse me,” he said. “Tell me how.”

E glanced at Ronin, his eyes hidden behind shades, a stretched-out grin on his face. He shook another cigarette from the pack, jammed it between his lips, then lit it. He exhaled gray smoke into Ronin's face. “Think you know everything, dontcha, Tommy-boy?”

Ronin nodded, sipped his bourbon. “Most things.”

“Yeah?” E's grin widened. “Didcha know the chick talking to Dante is Special Agent Heather Wallace?”

Ronin's hand hesitated in the act of fanning away the cigarette smoke. Lifting his shades, he stared at the trenchcoated woman on the dais. Yes, it
was
her—the profiler working the Cross-Country Killer case.

“Even changing MO and signature and shit didn't fool her,” E said, his gin-scented words smug. “I knew it wouldn't. Heather's in the house.”

The admiring tone in E's voice drew Ronin's gaze. E stared at Wallace, his face lit with love. Or what passed for love in a twisted and stunted thing like E.

Ronin finished his bourbon. It burned through his veins, awakening another kind of hunger. He watched Dante and the woman. The boy was exquisite. His assessment went beyond Dante's stunning exterior. Ronin had read the files. He knew what the boy was and what he
could
be.

De Noir stood behind the cheesy throne like one of the statues guarding the mausoleums in St. Louis No. 3. And what was De Noir? Not vampire, no. Something else entirely. Something Ronin suspected to be far older and far darker.

Her lovely face composed despite the anger tightening her movements, Wallace whirled and trotted down the steps to the dance floor. She disappeared into the crowd.

Ronin turned to face the bar again. Nudged the bartender with a gentle flick from his mind. The bartender refilled Ronin's glass. Ronin's pulse quickened.
In all my centuries. I've never seen or felt anyone like Dante. Not once.
He tossed back the bourbon. It burned, untasted, down his throat to his gut.

E remembers his past. Dante doesn't. Why is that? Was Johanna harder on Dante because of his bloodline? Did she push him over edges a mortal could never endure?

Ronin watched as Dante dropped back onto his throne, fingers at his temple, caressing his pale skin.

Or maybe he hasn't endured, after all. Maybe he fell further than anyone else. And is falling still.

Ronin turned to face his companion. “Anyone catch your fancy yet?”

“Maybe the purple-haired kid or the blonde vamp with him.” E continued to look straight ahead, scanning the crowd. Red telltales shone from the edges of his shades. Infra, thermal, name it, E most likely had it installed.

Ronin shook his head. “Too much for you to handle.”

“I've got an idea,” E said, voice cheerful. He turned to look at Ronin. “What about Dante? He's fucking gorgeous
and
fucking dangerous. I bet he'd be a
shitload
of fun.” The grin vanished from E's face. “Whaddaya say? Can I play with Dante?”

Metal whispered against denim as E slipped free one of his shivs, smuggled in past the
llygad
who'd let them into the club. Ronin's hand snapped out and seized E's wrist, locking it at hip level. He squeezed. Sweat beaded E's forehead. Ronin twisted. E grimaced, baring his teeth. The smell of his pain, hot and bitter like bile, rushed into Ronin's nostrils. The shiv
tink-tunk
ed onto the mist-shrouded floor.

“You do and I'll feed you your own guts,” Ronin snapped. “Touch him before it's time and see if I don't.”

E stared at him, his eyes hidden behind his shades, but his hatred shimmered in the dim light like radiation from a leaking nuke. Ronin twisted E's wrist a little more, then released him.

“Have you forgotten what he is?”

“No, asshole, I haven't. Fucking bloodsuckers.” E rubbed his wrist.

He bent and scooped his shiv from the floor. Then, like a magician at a cheap Las Vegas dinner show, he made it disappear. Jaw clenched, he turned and stabbed a finger at the bartender, then down at his glass in case the bartender was an idiot.

“Are we clear?” Ronin said.

E spun around. “Like a two-way mirror,” he muttered.

A pretty dark-haired girl plopped down onto Dante's lap, while a blond youth in lace, velvet, and black eyeliner stood on the steps, watching as they kissed.

“Keep our goal in mind,” Ronin murmured. “Remember who truly deserves your…
artistic
…touch.”

Hand in hand, the dark-haired girl and the blond youth walked down the steps and into the crowd.

“Tag. They're it.” Tossing back the last of his gin and tonic, E slammed the glass onto the bar. A smile crawled onto his lips. He glanced at Ronin. “See ya later, Tom-Tom.” He shoved away from the bar and into the crowd.

“Have fun,” Ronin said, voice dry. When he couldn't see E any longer, he shifted his attention back to the dais.

E didn't seem to get that Dante was more than just a “bloodsucker.” He'd been
born
vampire—a rare True Blood. A fact even Dante seemed unaware of; an ignorance Ronin hoped to use to his advantage.

Ronin watched as De Noir brushed his fingers against Dante's temples. The boy closed his eyes, but only for a moment. Twisting free of De Noir's caress, he stood. Strode down the steps and disappeared into the sweating, adoring, grasping crowd. The house lights dimmed twice, then went out.

Ronin worked his earplugs back into his ears. The crowd buzzed and chattered. He shivered as the crowd's sense of anticipation splashed over him like a wave of warm seawater. He stared through the darkness and into the Cage. Stark-white bone, red feather, and leather fetishes hung from its steel bars.

“Dante! Beautiful angel!” a pining female voice cried out.

“Mon beau diable,”
a male shouted.

A low growl rumbled through the crowd as voices took up the chant of: “Inferno! Inferno! Inferno!”

The fetishes swung and twisted as heat-radiating bodies climbed into the Cage. An aura of bluish-silver light surrounded one slender figure.

True Blood.
Ronin drew in a deep breath of the club's reeking, heady air.
When our paths join, only one of us shall walk away into the night.

The lights switched back on. The crowd roared.

“Can't believe I wanted it,” Dante whispered into the microphone, dark eyes hidden behind shades. His hands cupped the mike like a lover's face. “Needed it. Tied to the bed. Unable to reach myself.”

The overhead lights sparked silver fire from the rings on Dante's fingers and thumbs and glinted from the rows of hoops piercing each ear. Dante rocked the microphone back and forth, leaning it over, straddling it, then stepping back and jerking it up again. Ronin noticed Dante's fingers trembling as he yanked the mike free of the stand, caught the gleam of sweat at his temples.

He's hurting,
Ronin thought, sipping at his bourbon.
And he's using it
.

Behind Dante, the rest of Inferno flailed and slammed at their instruments—braids, dreads, and 'hawks swinging through the air, their frenzied movement a blur of tattoos, piercings, leather, steel, and races—almond eyes; toffee-colored skin; strong noses; and hard, wiry muscles.

Kicking the mike stand to the floor of the Cage, Dante turned his back to the screaming crowd. “Your promises squirm like worms in my soul…sweet parasite…” Spinning around, he dropped to one knee and crossed his arms over his face. The mike dangled seemingly forgotten from one white-knuckled fist. “I want more…more…”

Several people had climbed the Cage to its steel-meshed top and had lain facedown, spread-eagled, offerings to their dark, beautiful god. They screamed his name, slicing at their wrists and forearms, even nicking their throats with quick flicks of razors and box knives. Blood dripped down, spattering the Cage's floor and Dante's pale face.

Hands reached through the bars, grasping, fingers flexed, poised to grab clothing, flesh, hair, anything within reach. The other three members of Inferno sidestepped and kicked, and kept pounding their instruments without missing a beat.

Dante, however, was precariously close to the bars and the greedy hands.

Had he positioned himself deliberately? Ronin wondered. Punishment? Or distraction?

“I want more…” Dante half sang, half growled, his voice low and strained, simmering with rage. He stood. And Ronin witnessed pain blossoming full flower as Dante suddenly stumbled. Eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, neck muscles corded, he screamed,
“More of your fucking lies!”

Hands seized him, yanked him against the Cage's steel bars. Dante hit hard, shoulder first, his back to the surging crowd. The microphone tumbled from his fingers, thudding onto the floor with a piercing feedback squeal. The crowd screamed, wild, hungry. Fingers latched around Dante, grabbing his arms, his hands, his thighs; clutched at his clothing, yanked at his hair. Imprisoned him within manacles of flesh.

Knocked loose, Dante's shades bounced onto the floor and under the boots of the keyboard player. Dark bits of plastic and glass scattered across the Cage. The other members of Inferno kept playing, frenzied and thrashing, the music hard and angry.

Ronin leaned forward, muscles coiled, shades lowered below the bridge of his nose. Why was Dante allowing them to hold him? Was he
that
lost to the pain? A blur of movement captured Ronin's attention. De Noir rushed from the dais to the Cage with a speed that Ronin doubted any mortal eye could perceive.

Drinking in Dante's rage and anguish, the crowd pulsed like a huge tribal heart, its fierce and primal rhythm beating against Ronin, drumming up his own hunger.

His need sliced into him like one of E's shivs. He stepped into the crowd. Hot, sweaty bodies moshed against him, blood thundering through their veins, hearts jackhammering. Not here. He'd feed in some dank back alley, feasting on the forgotten and unwanted. As a stranger in a claimed city, Ronin had no desire to draw attention to himself. Sliding through the crowd, he stepped outside into the cool, rain-misted night.

The
llygad
nodded at him, his shaded eyes no doubt observing every detail, his body language wary. Ronin nodded in return. Another marvel. Why had an
llygad
abandoned his impartiality and aligned himself to one House?
And
worked as a fucking bouncer?

“Dante,” Ronin whispered. True Blood.

Strolling along the wet cobblestone streets, Ronin headed for Canal Street. With every wasted soul he fed on this night, he'd be sure to thank Dante for rousing an intensity of hunger that had slumbered for years.

H
EATHER SIPPED AT HER
café au lait, the Styrofoam cup finally cool enough to hold. Dawn edged the gray horizon with orange and peach and gilded the undersides of the clouds. She yawned and rubbed at her face. The search warrant fluttered on the rented Subaru Legacy's dashboard vents. She switched off the heat. The car's engine clicked and tinked as it cooled.

She was parked across the street from Dante's plantation house, some miles from New Orleans. Old river rock and black iron walls surrounded the house. On paper the house belonged to Lucien De Noir, but Heather suspected that, as with the club, the house was actually Dante's. Thick greenery and fragrant flowers twisted along the walls. Huge oak trees shaded the property. The black iron gate hung open. In the circular drive a black van, a chopped Harley, and a little black MG were parked.

Heather glanced at her watch. Six thirty. About an hour ago, she'd seen the van pull into the drive, followed by Von on the Harley. The blonde and the pretty punk boy had climbed out of the van. De Noir had carried Dante in his arms like a child. Drunk? Migraine sick? They'd all gone inside the house. The door had closed. Nothing had stirred since.

A twinge of guilt pricked Heather. Migraines. She remembered Annie's pain-dilated eyes, her desperation. Shaking her head, she looked down at the coffee cup in her hand, then glanced out the window. Dante was
not
Annie and it couldn't be helped. He'd given her no other choice.

There was something strange about the relationship between De Noir and Dante. Could they be lovers? She replayed the events at Club Hell through her mind, looking for clues. Remembered De Noir lying about Dante's presence, remembered De Noir flying from behind that ridiculous throne when Armani Suit had charged up the steps. Remembered De Noir saying,
He suffers from migraines
, heard the sheltering tone in his deep voice.

No, Heather finally decided. Not lovers. De Noir had been protective and caring, but she hadn't felt any underlying sexual tension or erotic chemistry between the two. Instead, they'd seemed comfortable with each other. Old friends, then.

Heather sighed, then took a long sip of her rapidly cooling coffee. No, there was something else between De Noir and Dante. Unrequited love? Something like that, hidden and secret, but only on De Noir's part. He'd watched Dante every moment they were together. At least, he had last night.

Finishing her coffee, Heather tossed the cup onto the passenger-side floor. It had cost her a lot of time and considerable charm to convince a judge to agree to a search warrant. In truth, she believed Detective Collins had had more to do with it than any amount of personal charm. Despite all that, the warrant was for the courtyard only.

Heather looked at the silent plantation house. Dark curtains blinded every window. Must be sound asleep by now. Time to serve the warrant. Dante wanted to be difficult, fine. Gravel crunched beneath her Skechers as she got out of the car and crossed the road to the yawning gate.

Heather followed the broken, tree-root-uplifted path alongside the house to the front porch. The steps creaked under her weight as she climbed onto the wide porch. Grabbing the black iron gargoyle knocker bolted to the door's center, she thunked it repeatedly against the solid oak. The sound echoed throughout the silent house.

Wrapping her fingers around the cold iron knocker again, Heather pounded it against the door three more times. The sound rippled through the plantation house, then faded into silence.

Heather was reaching for the knocker again when the door's inside locks clicked and the door cracked open. De Noir looked down at Heather, his face cold. Still dressed in his clothes from last night. Not asleep yet, then, she mused. The rough-edged X pendant around his throat caught rosy light from the rising sun.

“What can I do for you?” De Noir said, his deep voice level and controlled.

Heather held up the search warrant. “Get Dante up.”

De Noir frowned. “Can't your warrant be served at a more convenient time? In the evening, perhaps?”

“No.”

Golden light sparked to life in De Noir's narrowed eyes. He slammed the door shut. Twisted the locks.

Smiling, Heather relaxed against the door frame. She glanced at her watch. She'd give him fifteen minutes to rouse Dante, then put the gargoyle knocker back to use. She'd wake up everyone in the goddamned house, if necessary.

Look, we don't have to do this the hard way.

It's the only way I know.

His choice. Heather tucked the search warrant into her purse. His words.

Fifteen minutes passed and Heather thumped the gargoyle against the door. In another fifteen minutes, she'd give another twenty whacks, she thought as she leaned back against the door frame once more. The sky brightened, turned the dew-laden grass into a sea of jeweled fire.

Just as Heather was about to grab the gargoyle again, the locks clicked and the door opened. Dante slipped out of the house and onto the porch, still fastening his belt. Definitely dragged out of bed.

Heather stared, suddenly breathless, her gaze lingering on his pale face—dark eyes, last night's eyeliner smudged underneath, high cheekbones, full lower lip…. She was disgusted with herself for being sucker punched by good looks.

“Lucien doesn't think very much of you,” Dante said, walking past her and down the front steps. He pulled up the gray hood of a sweatshirt worn under his leather jacket, shadowing his face.

Heather followed him onto the buckled flagstones. “Sorry to hear that. Good morning, by the way,” she said. “Got that search warrant.”

Dante raised a gloved hand; his index finger circled whoop-de-do. He kept walking.

“My car's across the street,” Heather said.

Dante strode through the wrought-iron gate.

Heather shook her head, bemused. Even at this hour, Dante looked as though he'd dressed for a Goth convention: stylish shades, leather gloves, leather pants, and black long-sleeved mesh shirt under a black T, both shirts only half-tucked, and black, silver-buckled biker boots. The back of his leather jacket read MAD EDGAR, the safety-pinned letters looking like they'd been cut out of magazines: a walking ransom note.

Lengthening her stride, she passed Dante, crossing the street to the Subaru. She unlocked both doors, then waited until Dante had slouched into the passenger seat before seating herself.

“Seat belt,” she said, strapping her own shut.

“Got a warrant for that too?”

“No,” Heather said, voice low. “Is this how it's going to be with you?”

“Most likely.”

Heather stared at him for a long moment. Opened her mouth. Shut it again.
Pick your battles. This one isn't worth it.

“Good to know,” she said finally.

Keying on the ignition, Heather slammed the gearshift into drive and peeled out onto the street, the Subaru's tires spitting gravel. Dante pulled the sun visor down.

Heather drove in silence until her anger and irritation were under control.
He's tired. I'm tired. Cranky is the word for the day
. She loosened her grip on the steering wheel. She eased the Subaru onto the interstate and aimed it for New Orleans.

She wrinkled her nose, puzzled by the buttery, suntan oil kind of odor filling the car. “Is that
sunscreen
I smell?”

“Mmm.”

Heather glanced at her passenger. “You playing up those vampire rumors?”

“Not playing,” Dante murmured.

“Right.”

Heather stared straight ahead, attention focused on the road. She had a feeling Dante wasn't kidding. His sleepy voice had sounded sincere.

She'd dealt with this type at the psychiatric hospital outside Boise where she'd done volunteer work in an effort to better understand the difference between
mentally ill
and
sociopath
. And in hopes of better understanding Annie. Goth, wannabe undead. Yearning to be special. He probably had dental implants and kept bagged blood in his refrigerator, all part of the delusion.

Heather glanced at Dante. He slept, his head back against the seat and turned to one side, the hoodie hiding his face, gloved hands relaxed and open on his thighs.

“Hey, Dante, wake up!” He didn't stir. Seemed dead to the world. Keeping her gaze on the road, she smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “C'mon, wake up.”

“Tais toi,”
Dante murmured, turning his face away and folding his arms against his chest, snuggled up tight for sleep.

And
he speaks French. Or was it Cajun? He
was
from Lafayette, Cajun territory, had a bit of an accent.

Rain began to spatter the windshield, nothing serious, just a dawn sprinkle. Heather switched on the wipers. What
was
it with this city? Vampires. Voodoo. Cities of the dead. She glanced at Dante. He was still curled up, his breathing low, hard to perceive.

“Do you actually believe you're a vampire?”

To her surprise, Dante stirred, sat up. He tugged the hood's edges farther over his face. “Nightkind,” he said, yawning. “Belief's got nothing to do with it. Are you mortal just because you believe you are?”

“
Mortal?
Of course not,” Heather said, looking at him, trying to see his hidden face. “I was
born
human. Just like everyone else.”

Slouched down in the seat again, arms folded across his chest, Dante turned his hooded head to look out the passenger window. “Mmm. Glad you cleared
that
up.”

Heather lapsed into silence. She was failing with him. Maybe he really believed the vampire stuff or maybe he wanted her to see through it. And maybe, just maybe, it was all a rocker prank, a mindfuck for the fun of it and nothing to get worked up over.

She was tired, and it was affecting her judgment. A quick look at Dante revealed that he slept again—or pretended to, at least.

Once in the city, Heather steered the car to Canal Street, then from Canal down Royal, finally turning onto St. Peter. Bits and pieces from last night were strewn across the rain-dampened cobblestones: bright paper, beads, empty plastic cups, a black bra. After the madness and frenzy of the night before, the Quarter looked desolate and abandoned.

Heather parked in front of the club. She leaned over and was about to shake Dante's shoulder when he suddenly sat up, his shaded gaze on one of the upper floors. Scrunching down, Heather looked through the passenger window to see what had drawn his attention. On the third floor, an open pair of French windows.

Heather remembered curtains dancing in the night breeze, the orange flicker of candlelight. “Something wrong?”

“Hope not.” Dante yanked at the door handle.

Heather blinked. Dante stood on the sidewalk, gaze on the windows. She hadn't seen him actually open the door or even get out. All she'd seen was his gloved fingers pulling the door latch and then she'd heard the thunk as the door closed after him.

What the hell? Heather rubbed at her eyes. Had she dozed off for a second? Was she
that
tired? She joined Dante on the sidewalk and followed his gaze up. The curtains hung limp.

“Who was up there last night?”

“I was,” Dante replied—but his voice was further away.

Looking down, Heather realized that Dante was already at the club entrance, working keys in the locks.

Wake up
,
Wallace, Jesus Christ
. She hurried to join him as he pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside.

The stale smell of smoke, old beer, and sex lingered in the dark hallway. Dante stood next to the security panel of the club's alarm system. Red light from the BURN sign down the hall flickered across the back of his hood. Frowning, he pushed the hood back and slid his shades to the top of his head. Green telltales glowed on the security panel. He no longer looked sleepy.

“What's wrong?” Heather asked, stepping up beside him.

“The alarm's not on,” he said. He glanced back over his shoulder at the buzzing neon sign. Red light jittered across his pale face. “I don't think Lucien woulda forgot.”

Heather straightened, adrenaline pumping into her bloodstream. Her heart beat faster. Reaching into the trench's inside pocket, she pulled free her .38.

“Stay here,” she said.

“Fuck that,” Dante said. Then he was gone.

“Dante, no!” she hissed into the red-lit darkness, but he was long gone. How had he moved so fast? Reflex boost? Enhancement?

Sliding the .38's safety off, Heather ran the length of the hall, her back close to the wall, and into the club. Across an eerie red-lit wasteland of tables, chairs, Cage, and throne, she saw Dante on the staircase, rounding the corner onto the third-floor landing.