Etched in Bone Page 17

  “It seems I’ve missed much in these last couple of weeks,” De Noir said softly, drawing her attention back from its dark trip down memory lane.

  “I don’t know if ‘missed’ is the right word,” Heather said, feeling a smile brush her lips. “But yes, a lot’s happened.”

  “I never imagined he’d have wings,” De Noir mused. Pink and blue light strobed in alternating bands across his face. “Even though he’s a creawdwr and True Blood, he’s still only half-Fallen.”

  He rose to his feet, muscles rippling, kilt swinging against his knees, then went to the French windows and pulled down the shades behind the lace curtains, blocking out the neon light and the approaching dawn. And deepening the room’s gloom.

  “It happened after he jumped on Gabriel and fed on him,” Heather said.

  De Noir turned around and stared at her. “He attacked Gabriel?”

  “Pretty much the moment he laid eyes on him.”

  De Noir laughed, the sound low and delighted. “Well, well. I doubt Gabriel’s ass will be warming up the Black-Starred throne for much longer.”

  “Why’s that?” Heather asked.

  With a small chirp, Eerie hopped off the bed and rubbed up against Heather’s legs. He arched his back for pats. Bending, Heather obliged him, stroking her fingers along his warm, soft fur. Scratching his head.

  “The Elohim will view the attack as a humiliating and humbling rejection of Gabriel by the creawdwr.” A dark smile played across De Noir’s lips. “Hardly an endorsement of his ability to lead.”

  “Gotta admit, that doesn’t break my heart,” Heather said, straightening. “Gabriel came across like a true dick.”

  De Noir laughed again. “For good reason. He is a true dick.”

  Done with pats, Eerie padded back to the bed and leapt onto the mattress in one smooth, graceful bound, then curled up against Trey’s T-shirted back again.

  “Do you need anything before I go?” Heather asked, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.

  De Noir sat back down in the chair. “No, thank you, Agent Wal—Heather.”

  A burr of pain and heat prickled against Heather’s thoughts as she turned to leave. Her heart gave one hard kick against her ribs. She sucked in a breath.

  De Noir’s lambent eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?”

  The pain vanished as though the burr had been plucked away. But as with pricked flesh, a trace of the hurt remained. “I’m fine,” Heather answered truthfully. Dante, on the other hand . . .

  Whirling around, Heather hurried down the hall. Dante had returned to the club, but even though he’d fed, his migraine still raged. She looked for the dark and quiet place she knew from experience that he would need. And found it in the second to the last room on the right.

  18

  TUMBLING DOWN

  NEW ORLEANS

  CLUB HELL

  March 28

  DIM LIGHT FROM THE hall revealed Dante standing in front of the far wall in the bedroom, his hands braced against the wall, head bowed, his muscles ridged and knotted as he struggled for control. Fought to stay here and now.

  Voices whispered into Heather’s mind through his thinning shields. Pain floated through her mind like a blazing zeppelin.

  Little fucking psycho.

  Get yo’ ass down in the basement, p’tit.

  You won’t save her, you know. You’ll fail.

  The darkened bedroom did a slow merry-go-round spin around Heather, then a different room suddenly clicked into view like the next image in a slide show: a white padded room with a concrete floor an inch deep in water.

  Shredded bedding and torn mattress.

  Fist-cracked dents in the concrete bed slab.

  Toilet wrenched from the floor.

  A man’s scrubs-clad body sprawled facedown on the concrete, blood oozing into the water from his torn throat.

  The thick odors of wet concrete, toilet chemicals, and coppery blood filled the air.

  What the hell?

  Dizzied, pulse pounding hard through her veins, Heather grabbed the doorjamb with both hands for balance. With a sickening twist of her stomach, she realized that her shields had slipped, that her concentration had faltered. Keeping her shields in place wasn’t second nature yet.

  Worse? Dante’s shields were also tumbling down.

  Von’s words scrolled though her mind. Focus is key. Picture steel walls or whatever feels secure and safe to you . . .

  Swallowing back her nausea, Heather closed her eyes and concentrated on hammering another thick layer of steel into place around her mind. Sweat trickled between her breasts. Her heart drummed a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

  No escape for you, sweetie.

  Get down. I won’t let them have you.

  That’s my good boy. No one can ever be used against you if you’re willing to kill them yourself first.

  Just you and me, princess. Forever and—

  The whispers and molten pain disappeared as though a steel vault had dropped down over her mind. Heather cautiously opened her eyes. And breathed out a sigh of relief when she saw the dark bedroom with its curtained French windows again.

  Releasing the doorjamb, Heather padded past the bed and across the room to Dante, stopping beside him. His silken hair hid his face from view, but she saw dark spatters on the wood floor beneath him, like tiny ink blots, and realized his nose was bleeding again. His bow string-taut body quivered with tension.

  “You’re next,” he whispered, a violent promise coiled in his voice.

  A cold finger traced the length of her spine, and her hand froze in the act of reaching for his bunched biceps. She sucked in a deep breath, hoping to calm her trip-hammering heart. And lowered her hand to her side.

  Given what she’d seen through Dante’s eyes just a moment before, Heather knew he wasn’t talking to her. She also knew he could very easily mistake her for whoever he believed stood in front of him.

  Okay. Touching is out. Mind-to-mind is out because I don’t think I have the strength to fight my way free right now. That leaves one option—well, two. But I don’t want to have to run downstairs to get the morphine.

  Shutting her eyes once more, Heather imagined a deep pool of water, its surface gleaming with reflected moonlight. She drew in a deep breath and visualized the cool, platinum water funneling through their bond and rushing into Dante’s blazing mind. Imagined a tide of white silence drowning the voices and scrubbing/sweeping away the broken visions from the past. And reducing the white-orange heat of his pain to dying embers.

  “Come back, Baptiste,” she said, opening her eyes and brushing the backs of her fingers against his burning cheek. “You’re in New Orleans, at Club Hell. You’ve just returned from feeding. It’s almost dawn and time for Sleep.”

  Dante shuddered, drew in a sharp breath.

  “I’m here, waiting for you,” Heather promised.

  Dante lifted his head and stared at the wall between his hands. Blinked.

  “Dante, here. I’m here.”

  “Catin,” he whispered, voice rough.

  He looked at her then, from across his muscle-corded shoulder. Red slashed the thin rings of dark brown encircling his pupils, the furious color fading as she watched. Blood trickled dark from his nose. Slicked his lips.

  “Me too.” He turned to face her, his hands sliding away from the wall. “J’su ici.”

  Feeling rubber-kneed with relief, Heather stepped in and hugged him hard. His strong arms wrapped around her and he rested his cheek against her hair. She didn’t know if she was holding him up or if he was holding her up.

  A little of both, I bet. We’re both done in.

  Dante burned against her, his hard, lean body hot as sunbaked desert sand. Sweat popped up on her forehead, dampened the hair beside her face. She breathed in his November frost and burning leaves fragrance, filled her lungs with his scent. Pulling free of their embrace, she grabbed his hand and led him to the queen-sized bed.

  “
Lie down,” she said, releasing his hand to give his bare chest a gentle shove.

  Dante shook his head. “Nope. Not yet. I just spoke to someone who knows where the motherfuckers who torched the house are holed up. He also knows they’re supposed to meet Mauvais at midnight on Lake Pontchartrain. Guess the fucker has a yacht too.”

  “Is this someone you trust?” Heather asked.

  “Trust? No. He and his household did the pinky-swear kiss-kiss BFF thing with fucking Mauvais, even though he doesn’t like the fi’ de garce. But . . . Vincent is—” Dante paused, then raked a hand through his hair, a muscle jumping in his jaw. After a moment, he continued, voice husky. “Was a friend of Simone’s, and I know he actually cares . . . cared . . . about her. But since nightkind politics often trumps friendship, he might just be playing me, setting a goddamned trap. I need to discuss it with Trey, see how he feels.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but Trey’s already Sleeping, thanks to De Noir, and you’re in no shape to do anything except lie down on the bed. But if you’d rather fall down, that’s up to you.” Without waiting for his reply, Heather turned around and went to the attached bathroom and wet a wash cloth with cold water.

  When she returned, she didn’t know whether to feel pleased or worried to see Dante sitting on the edge of the bed, his forearms against his knees, a bottle of absinthe dangling from his black-nailed hand. She settled on both—pleased and worried—with extra helpings of worried.

  “Empty,” he mourned. He set the bottle on the hardwood floor between his boots.

  “Then lie down,” Heather urged softly. “I don’t know how you’re still on your feet. Fighting nightkind and Fallen, breaking into other worlds. Aren’t you even sleepy?”

  Dante straightened, and pushed his hair back from his face. A smile flickered across his lips. “Tired, sure, catin, but not sleepy. Not until Sleep comes. Nightkind don’t take naps.”

  “That’s sad. I love a good nap.”

  “Maybe I’ll get to watch you having one some night, see what I’m missing.”

  Heather plopped down beside him on the blood-red comforter. Smooth velvet greeted her hand as it brushed against the comforter. The faint scent of sandalwood wafted up from the velvet.

  Mmm. Feels warm and comfy and completely snoozalicious.

  “I can think of other things I’d rather have you watching me do,” she murmured, wiping at his blood-smeared face with the washcloth.

  “Kick ass? Take names? Mix a mean margarita?”

  “How about I kick your gorgeous ass?”

  “Promises, promises,” Dante laughed, his voice husky and low and warm, but Heather heard strain underneath. Plucking the washcloth from her fingers, he finished scrubbing his face clean of blood.

  For the moment, anyway, Heather mused. His nose was still bleeding. And more blood loss couldn’t be good.

  “Did you . . . feed enough?” she asked, wondering what she would do to keep him inside and safe if he said no. The thought of him taking blood from her out of hunger left her cold. But if he needed it . . . Her hands clenched into fists on her lap.

  Dante lobbed the wadded-up cloth into the bathroom, hitting the sink with annoying ease, then he looked at her. His dark eyes held hers, his gaze open and direct. “I got enough,” he said quietly. “But even if I hadn’t, I’d never take blood from you outta hunger, Heather. No matter what.”

  Heather felt her cheeks heat up even as relief flooded through her. Had her freaking shields dropped again? A quick check revealed her steel walls still surrounded her mind. “Did you . . . hear me?” she asked, touching a finger to her temple.

  “Nah. I felt your apprehension through the bond. So I made a guess about what was bothering you.” His fingers whispered against her cheek, trailing heat. Amusement stretched his voice out into a warm drawl. “You’re blushing, chérie.”

  “I’m used to my thoughts being private,” Heather muttered.

  A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “They’re still private. I didn’t hear anything. I just—” His words came to an abrupt halt. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rubbed his left temple with his fingers. More blood trickled from one nostril.

  Fear curled through her.

  “That’s it,” Heather said. “Lie down, Baptiste.” Crawling to the head of the bed, she untucked both pillows from beneath the comforter. Lying down and resting her head on one firm pillow, she patted the other. “Please,” she added in a low voice.

  Without a word, Dante joined her, rolling onto his side to face her. Heather scooted close to him and studied his pale, beautiful face. Exhaustion and grief shadowed his eyes, pain drew his features tight. He looked at her from beneath his long, dark lashes.

  “I’ve been thinking about our next move, after we tend to Mauvais and his motherfucking Molotov cocktail tossing buddies,” he said.

  “Well, there’s your problem right there,” Heather said. She trailed a finger along his jaw. “No more thinking. No more planning. Rest.”

  “Not yet, catin,” he said, his hand skimming over her leather-clad hip to the curve of her waist. “As long as my past is messing up my present, I’m beaucoup dangerous to you and anyone near me. I’ve gotta find a way to always stay here and now.”

  “You’ve done more than enough tonight. You need to rest. And you need to mourn. We can think about all this when we wake up. When our heads are clear.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need, you,” Dante murmured. He slid hot fingers underneath her tank top and across her belly, a teasing path traveling north. She shivered, her nipples stiffening in anticipation. “Already know what I need.”

  Heather’s finger trailed from Dante’s jaw, down along his throat to his collar, and curved through its steel ring. “You do, do you?”

  She tugged him in close and kissed him thoroughly. His soft and fevered lips tasted of alcohol and anise and amaretto—a heady brew.

  Dante deepened the kiss, parting her eager lips with his tongue. His hand cupped her breast through her bra. Slipped underneath. Her breathing quickened. Heat pooled low in her belly, flared between her legs.

  “Was that what you needed? How about this?” Heather asked breathlessly when the kiss ended. Her finger abandoned his collar so her hand could glide down to his chiseled chest. “Or do you have other things in mind?”

  “Thought I wasn’t supposed to be thinking.”

  Dante’s kisses moved from her lips to her throat, tracing a wet, molten path down to the top of her breasts. His fingers discovered her aching nipple, pinched.

  “That’s right,” Heather gasped. “No thinking.”

  “A shame, cuz I’ve got all kinds of naughty things in mind for you.”

  Liquid fire rippled through Heather’s belly. “In that case, by all means, keep thinking, Baptiste,” she whispered. Licking the tips of her fingers, she brushed them over the stiff peaks of his nipples, swirled a wet design on his flesh.

  It was his turn to gasp.

  Heather smiled against the top of his head, his silken hair. “Two can play the naughty game,” she said, trailing her hand over his taut, flat abs—then down. She caressed and rubbed, her hands hungry for the feel of him. He was hard, his erection straining against his leather pants, and she happily felt him up through the supple leather.

  Dante groaned against her breast. “Ain’t I supposed to be resting?”

  “You complaining?”

  “Fuck, no.”

  “Then shut up, Baptiste.”

  Dante obliged her by pulling down the neckline of her tank top, thumbing aside the lace of her bra, and closing his hot, wet mouth over her nipple. Moaning softly, she arched her back, offering more of herself to his mouth.

  Unbuckling his belt, Heather fumbled his zipper down and freed him from his leather confines. His breath caught rough in his throat when she stroked her hand along his hard, hot, satiny length.

  “So tell me, what else do you need?” Heather asked, her voice a husky whisper. “A little bit of this?”
She stroked him again.

  Dante’s low growl, the sound vibrating against her nipple, was all the answer she needed. His hand blurred down to the front of her leather pants, then—with another low growl—he tore them open. The top snap tinged against the floor. She gasped as his fingers slipped beneath her now-wet panties.

  She moved her hips against his circling, dipping, and knowing touch and closed her eyes. Pleasure fluttered through her belly. Dante curled his tongue around her nipple, then his lips moved from her breast and reclaimed hers in a fierce and hungry kiss.

  His desire, his need for her raged like a gasoline-fueled bonfire through their bond, torching Heather, body and mind in an explosion of white napalm heat. Her breath rasped in her throat. Pleasure coiled and pulsed within her as his fingers worked their magic . . .

  A sudden narcotic tide washed over Heather, submerging her in a black and dreamy drowsiness, like a morphine drip. Then just as quickly, it ebbed from her mind, vanishing like a sneaker wave.

  Dante’s lips slid away from hers. His fingers stilled. His body relaxed.

  Heather opened her eyes. Gray light leaked into the room from around the edges of the curtains. Dante’s eyes were closed, his pale face calm and peaceful. Lost to Sleep.

  “Shit, shit, shit!”

  And in her hand? Still hard and hot and ready. So very ready.

  Heather groaned in frustration. It wouldn’t be right to jump Dante’s bones when he was out cold and unable to enjoy it. Wouldn’t be right to use him like a hard and fevered sex toy while he Slept.

  Tempting. But not even close to right.

  She wanted him to be with her. Inside of her. Kissing her. She wanted to look into his eyes as pleasure lit them from within and sparked blue fire in their depths.

  Sighing, Heather released him, then rearranged their clothing and respective body parts as best she could—torn clothing and heightened arousal considered.

  Curling up against Dante’s smoldering-coal warmth, she planted a kiss on his lips. “You’re gonna pay later, Baptiste,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Over and over and over.”