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  Tossing the washcloth back to Jack, Lucien curved his lips into what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but when Jack’s dubious expression remained stubbornly in place, he decided to shift the drummer’s attention elsewhere. “You were asking if I thought Heather and Dante might’ve been inside the van, correct?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Heather might’ve been, yes,” Lucien said, “but Dante . . . ?” He shook his head. “I saw a few things at the club that lead me to believe that whoever took him wrapped him up to protect him from the sun, then carried him out through the courtyard.”

  “Shit. You thinking two different vehicles heading off in two different directions?”

  “That I am.”

  “Shit,” Jack repeated. He skimmed a hand along the buzz-cut dark blond hair beneath his mane of braids, his hazel eyes fixed on his scuffed brown Durangos. “I shoulda been there,” he said, voice bleak.

  “And done what? Die?” Lucien’s flat voice brought Jack’s gaze up and lit a fire behind it. “If you had been at the club, you’d be dead now, a bullet buried deep in your brain—your mortal, unhealing brain.”

  “Me, I don’t think you’re giving me enough credit here,” Jack replied, his Cajun accent thickening. “It mighta gone down a whole ’nother way, for true.”

  Lucien arched one dubious eyebrow. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re a drummer, one who learned to shoot growing up in the bayou, and not some trained-to-kill Navy SEAL who can turn even pocket lint into a lethal weapon. You’re not a bodyguard, not a soldier, not even a rent-a-cop. Just a drummer with a gun.” At Jack’s less than enthusiastic grunt of agreement, he added, “And if you’d been inside the club, a dead drummer with a gun.”

  “No need to be an asshole, you,” Jack growled. “But point taken. So what’s next? Do we wait until sunset to see if Dante contacts you or Von”—he tapped a finger against his temple to indicate how he expected the contact to be made—“and see if he knows where he is? Or who took him?”

  “I’d prefer not to wait that long,” Lucien rumbled. He shifted his attention back to Annie. “With the help of Heather’s sister, we might not have to. Perhaps she heard something—a destination, a name—that could put us on the right path.”

  “But Annie ain’t awake yet.”

  “She doesn’t need to be. Like most mortals, her mind is unshielded and open. All I need do is to go inside.” As Jack’s brows drew down in a worried V, Lucien added soothingly, “She won’t feel a thing.” Which was true, but even if it hadn’t been, he still wouldn’t have hesitated, not with Dante’s life on the line.

  No risk, no sacrifice would ever be too great.

  Not just because Dante was his son—even though that was more than reason enough—but because Dante was also a creawdwr. The only one in existence and the first to walk the world since Yahweh’s death more than two thousand years ago, not to mention his being the first mixed-blood Maker ever. Capable of creating—Making—places, beings, life itself. And equally capable of Unmaking it all, as well.

  Untrained, unbound, except for his bond to Heather, Dante strode the same edge of madness that each creawdwr before him had walked—a precipice crumbling beneath his boots—fighting the damage done to him by Bad Seed, fighting for his sanity, for the right to claim his life as his own, to piece together his shattered past.

  If Dante fell into darkness and chaos, all worlds—mortal, vampire, and Fallen—would fall with him. And if Dante died . . .

  Lucien shoved the thought aside, refusing it.

  Centering himself with another deep breath, he rested his fingertips against Annie’s temple, then closed his eyes. He slipped inside her mind. Absently, he shielded himself from the raw emotions swirling through her subconscious, a whirlpool of self-loathing, grief, guilt, and fury. He eased past her nonsensical narcotic dreams and delved into her memories. Looked through her eyes.

  Images flashed and twirled, a mirror-bright disco ball of out-of-sequence fragments and splinters, a glittering puzzle-play of light, shadow, and betrayal.

  Fragment: Desperate relief pours through Annie. Dante is somehow awake. He leans drunkenly against the threshold to his and Heather’s room, naked except for the bondage collar strapped around his throat, his pale hands clutching either side of the doorjamb for balance. It seems as though he’s already slipping back into Sleep, but beneath his milk-white skin, his muscles are taut, corded, rippling . . .

  Splinter: “It’s not Dante I want. I’ve come for you, pumpkin.”

  Fragment: Two members of the black-uniformed posse carry Heather out from behind the bar on a stretcher. Flex-cuffs bind her wrists and tendrils of red hair trail across her face. Out cold. Tranked . . .

  Splinter: “Shoot the others. Burn it down.”

  Splinter: “He won’t be getting up again, not with those bullets inside of him.”

  Fragment: He presses the muzzle of his gun against Dante’s blood-slicked chest, above his heart, and squeezes off two more rounds. Then he places the gun against Dante’s temple.

  Once Lucien had prized each dark and bitter pearl of knowledge about that morning’s events from Annie’s mind—including a secret that made him glance at her robe-covered belly—he withdrew. A cold and furious anger thrummed through his veins. An acrid taste burned at the back of his throat. Words he’d once said to Dante came back to mock him.

  The truth is never what you hope it will be.

  Raking a hand through his hair, Lucien looked up and alarm flickered across Jack’s face at whatever he saw in his eyes.

  “What?” Jack asked, straightening out of his slouch, his voice knotted with dread.

  “It was Heather and Annie’s father—FBI agent James Wallace—and he didn’t take Dante. He shot him”—Lucien’s voice roughened as he visualized the trench-coated man standing over his son’s motionless and bloodied form, gun in hand, an image acid etched into his mind—“then left him to burn with the others.”

  2

  INTERRUPTED SLEEP

  JACK STARED AT LUCIEN, his expression speed-shifting from stunned disbelief to bewilderment. “If not the FBI, then who the hell took him?”

  Lucien had to force out each bitter word. “I don’t know.”

  But one thing he was damned certain of—given what he’d witnessed in Annie’s memories—the substance in those bullets had been designed to kill a True Blood. Dante in particular.

  James Wallace had apparently done his research very, very well.

  Having been a part of Dante’s life only for the last five years, there was still so much Lucien didn’t know about his own son. He could count on one hand—with a finger or two to spare—the born vampires he’d met during the nearly two dozen centuries since his escape to the mortal world from Gehenna.

  Rare, brimming with power and magic and a riveting, nightbred beauty, they were solitary beings—an elemental, but dying, bloodline—who had eventually become little more than wistful myth for the global community of turned-nightkind.

  But, myth or not, that hadn’t stopped James Wallace from discovering the truth and learning exactly how to harm Dante.

  He won’t be getting up again, not with those bullets inside of him.

  Lucien intended to make James Wallace profoundly regret those words before he killed him. Rising to his feet, he headed for the doorway, the floor creaking beneath his shoes.

  “Well, shit. So now what?” Jack asked, sucking himself up against the threshold in order to allow room for Lucien to step through. “Wait until twilight? See if Tee-Tee makes contact?”

  “Dante’s injured and I don’t know how badly. He might not be capable of making contact.”

  But Heather . . . that was another story. If the temporary blood link between her and Von still held, the nomad should be able to find out where she’d been taken. If it still held. But given that most blood links lasted anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours, and the one between Heather and Von wasn’t quite forty hours old yet, the od
ds were slightly in their favor that it did.

  Lucien strode down the hall. “I need to awaken Von.”

  “But . . . how?” Jack protested. “It’s still daylight.”

  Lucien paused in the guest bedroom’s darkened doorway, then glanced back at Jack. “I have a method for pulling nightkind up from Sleep. However, the results can vary, so it might be best if you waited with Thibodaux. This could get violent.”

  Jack looked unimpressed. “My mama says the same thing at every Cheramie family reunion.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So’s my mama.” Jack blew out a breath, then nodded. “Okay. You do what you gotta do. I’ll keep Thibodaux company, me. I’ll just tell him to ignore anything he hears coming from the guest room—hissing, screaming, wing-flapping, girlish pleas for mercy.” A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Y’know. The usual.”

  “The only girlish pleas for mercy will be your own if you don’t get moving,” Lucien growled, pointing one taloned finger toward the kitchen. He appreciated Jack’s attempt to ease the tension with a bit of dark humor, and it helped—for a moment.

  “Another thing my mama says. Often.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Lucien replied, voice dry.

  Chuckling, Jack turned and headed down the hall. Just as he reached the dust-mote-flecked spill of sunlight emanating from the kitchen, he called, “We’re gonna find them, for true. Tee-Tee and Heather both.” His words and confident tone were as bracing as a tumbler of top-shelf scotch—for them both, Lucien suspected.

  “Yes, we are,” Lucien agreed.

  There was nothing he wouldn’t do to ensure that outcome. Nothing.

  I would lay the world to waste for my son.

  Foreboding trailed an icy finger down Lucien’s spine, whispered arctic words in his ear: What if you don’t find him? And your son lays waste to the world in the meantime instead? Or tries to? What then?

  I will find him, Lucien thought numbly. No other outcome is possible.

  Stepping into the room, he regarded Silver and Von, Sleeping side by side on the bed, a cheerful quilt covering them to the waist. Both pale faces were smooth and peaceful; another disquieting illusion, one revealed by the pillows with their dark stains, by the blood-matted hair pushed away from Sleep-cool foreheads.

  Von McGuinn Slept on the side of the bed closest to the door, the ends of his nut-brown hair trailing over his bare shoulders. Even in the curtained gloom, Lucien could see the nomad clan tattoos blue-inked in graceful Celtic designs—dragons, antlered hunters, and ravens to name a few—swirling along Von’s shoulders, down his arms, and across his pectoral muscles and abdomen and, beneath the quilt, even lower; each had been earned when he’d still been mortal.

  But the crescent moon tattoo beneath Von’s right eye, glimmering like star-silvered water, was unlike all the others. No mortal could wear it. It was the badge of his office—llygad. Keeper of history. Counselor. Warrior bard, one of many within the impartial, truth-seeking ranks of the llygaid. The guardians of nightkind history.

  Lucien had no doubt that Von would know what James Wallace had loaded into the bullets, and how to counteract it.

  Rolling his shoulders back to ease tension from taut muscles, he crossed to the bed, then knelt beside it, the floor creaking beneath his black-trousered knees. Underneath the odors of clotted blood and nostril-tingling antiseptic, he caught a faint, reassuring trace of Von’s scent of frost and gun oil.

  “I can’t wait for twilight, llygad,” Lucien apologized. A bead of ruby blood welled up on the inside of his wrist as he pierced the skin with a talon. “We need to speak now.”

  Lucien licked the blood from his wrist, then lowered his head over Von’s pale face. Kissing the nomad’s mustache-framed lips, he parted them with his blood-smeared tongue. Breathed energy and the pomegranate-and-copper taste of his own blood into Von, drew him up from Sleep.

  And filled his waking mind with Annie’s dark and bitter pearls.

  When the nomad sucked in a sharp breath, Lucien ended the kiss and lifted his head to look into vivid green eyes wide with shock.

  “Holy hell.” Von’s voice was a hoarse whisper. He struggled to rise, but, weakened by blood loss and the disorienting effects of interrupted Sleep, he fell back against the mattress, sweat beading his forehead. “We gotta find them.”

  “We will,” Lucien promised. “Once we locate Heather through your link with her, her bond with Dante will lead us straight to him.”

  “Shit. My link. Their bond. Yeah.”

  “But right now I need you to regain your strength and clear your head.” Lucien extended his arm to Von, offered his already healed wrist. “Feed, then we’ll get to work.”

  Without another word, Von grabbed the proffered arm, tore hungrily into the taut flesh with his fangs, and drank deep.

  3

  ONE STUBBORN MOTHERFUCKER

  MARCH 30–31

  SNATCHING JEANS FROM THE small pile of clothing Jack had left for him on top of the bureau, Von yanked them on over his gray pin-striped boxers, zipping them up with a furious jerk of his wrist. His pulse pounded in his temples as he counted the many ways in which they’d been fucked over in just a few short hours.

  Heather drugged and nabbed by her own goddamned father.

  Dante shot and left to burn, before some mysterious asshole slipped into the building, bundled him up, then carted him out into the blazing noontime sun. And disappeared.

  Silver and himself shot. Annie, tranked. The club torched.

  Oh, and don’t forget the other little revelation Lucien had plucked from Annie’s mind: Heather’s little sister was pregnant. As for how far along she was, the identity of the baby-daddy, and whether or not she even planned to keep the squatter in her womb, that information was still tucked safe inside Annie’s head, hers to keep.

  Von wondered if Heather even knew about her sister’s pregnancy. A worry for another time, like after he’d found Heather, hauled her lovely ass out of the fire, then followed her psionic GPS of a bond straight to Dante.

  Von had made his first attempt to contact Heather right after he’d fueled up on Lucien’s blood—the Fallen/angelic stuff was like nitrous oxide to nightkind. A blast of furious energy had exploded through Von’s every cell, lighting his mind up like a Las Vegas casino marquee, and thrumming like electricity through his veins. Despite that intoxicating rush, his attempt had been only partially successful. And, thus, a complete disappointment.

  “Keep trying,” Lucien commands in a voice of edged steel.

  “No shit,” Von growls. “I know you’re worried sick, man, me too. But you’re driving me nuts staring holes through me. Why don’t you go raid Jack’s liquor cabinet and give me some space?”

  Lucien stares a few more holes through him with narrowed eyes before swiveling and stalking silently from the room.

  Attempts two through ten had ended with the same frustrating results. And Von had decided to give it a rest, give the drugs in Heather’s system a little bit of time to wear off. But he had also learned a few very important things.

  One: his link with Heather was definitely still intact.

  Two: Heather was drugged and unconscious, her mind wrapped up in a cotton ball of static and currently beyond his reach.

  Three: he’d better keep his fingers crossed and wish with everything he had that whatever she’d been doped with would wear off before their blood link unraveled.

  Grabbing the neatly folded olive-green T-shirt from the bureau, Von tugged it on, then went over to the bed to check on Silver before leaving to join the others. Dried blood darkened the right side of his midnight purple hair—thanks to goddamned James Wallace. Bastard would pay. And not just for Silver.

  I’ve come for you, pumpkin.

  He won’t be getting up again, not with those bullets inside of him.

  Hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, Von left the bedroom. When he stalked into the darkened kitchen with its blanket d
raped windows, AWOL Shadow Branch agent Emmett Thibodaux—long, lean, and looking like a young, ginger-haired Clint Eastwood—took one look at Von’s chest, then quirked up an amused eyebrow.

  “Sorry I missed that,” Thibodaux drawled, folding his arms along the back of the chair he straddled. His assessing blue-iris gaze grew thoughtful. “Real damned sorry.”

  Frowning, Von looked down at the borrowed T-shirt, then groaned. It read GATOR FEST WET BOXERS CONTEST CHAMPION, each letter shaped out of tiny green and brown gators. He aimed a glare at an innocent-looking Jack. “Cajun smart-ass,” he muttered. “Or maybe Cajun clairvoyant, given the title and all.”

  The drummer grinned. “More like Cajun delusional, given the title and all.”

  “I second that,” Lucien put in. He leaned against the counter in front of the sink, expression neutral, pretending to be relaxed, despite the tension cording nearly every muscle on his six-eight frame.

  “Sad how the truth can be too much for some people,” Von offered with a long-suffering shake of his head.

  Thibodaux made a sound that was halfway between a snort and a cough, then got up and went to the refrigerator for a beer. Von watched him closely as he returned to his chair, a frosty bottle of Dixie in hand. He caught a whiff of the man’s scent—fresh ice and anise, sharp and cool—which mingled uneasily with the faint odor of smoke and acrid chemicals clinging to his clothes.

  Fire extinguisher, I’m betting. Lucien said Thibodaux helped him put out the blaze at the club.

  So throw confetti and pin a medal on the fucker. Didn’t mean he could be trusted.

  “We know James Wallace took Heather,” Von said quietly, sauntering over to the table to stand opposite Thibodaux. He folded his arms over his gator-afflicted chest. “But who the hell grabbed Dante? I find it damned curious that all this shit went down right after you and your partner showed up bearing gifts for Dante.”

  Yeah, a Pandora’s flash drive of a gift, one that should probably be left unopened—Dante’s past from the moment he’d been born into Bad Seed.