Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

I’ve mapped your mind .

What’s he screamin’?

He’s making a very loud, very clear demand .

“Kill me,” Dante whispered. Pain spiked his temples and he grabbed the sink’s edge. The room spun. He shut his eyes. He tried to hold onto the shadow memory, tried to repeat the words he’d just said, but when he opened his mouth, he no longer knew what to say.

It was gone. Whatever it’d been.

“Fuck.” Dante opened his eyes, released his grip from the sink, and straightened. Pain throbbed behind his left eye. Tearing a paper towel from the roll on the counter, he wiped his face. Turned off the water.

In the sudden silence, he heard a sharp gasp from the living room. He hurried out of the kitchen and saw Annie standing at the dining room table, her attention locked on the photos fanned across its dark wood.

“Is that my mom?” Annie said, voice barely more than a rough-edged whisper.

“Dunno. But I think, maybe, yeah.”

“She got herself whacked because she was a drunk and a whore,” she said, her tone bored, but strain edged her voice. Manic energy whipped around her like electricity from a downed power line. “If-she-weren’t-already-dead-I’d-fucking-kill-her-myself-she-picked-booze-I-hate-her-I-hate-her-I-hate-everyone—”

Annie’s hurt and rage punched against Dante like a child’s angry fists, pounding and kicking and screaming. Then, with a speed almost nightkind fast, she whirled and ran across the room to the crowbar. Dipped and grabbed. Spun again.

Her eyes gleamed like she was hyped up. Her musky scent saturated the air. Dante had seen this kind of hurt before. Had felt it. Had carried it clenched in his fists and within his heart.

Annie swung the crowbar up into the air, fingers white-knuckled around the steel. A wordless howl escaped her throat and scraped razor-edged along Dante’s spine. She shot forward like a launched missile, the crowbar whistling as it arced through the air.

Seattle, WA

March 22

HEATHER STEERED THE TRANS Am into a Fred Meyer parking lot, eased the car into a slot, slipped the gearshift into neutral, and yanked up the emergency brake. The engine’s rumble eased into a steady purr.

She flipped her cell open. She drew in a deep breath, and then tapped in Dante’s home number. She’d memorized the numbers for his home and the club, and had wished more than once he carried a cell phone. She hadn’t programmed the numbers into her cell, worried that someone might steal the phone and its data. Someone in a suit and shades, with a Bureau haircut.

The phone trilled and trilled. The metallic crash of shopping carts reverberated through her skull. Unease prickled through her with each unanswered trill. Finally, she heard a click.

“Oui?” Female voice, Cajun. Simone.

Heather pictured the earthy and beautiful blonde vampire, spiraled locks tumbling past her waist. Pictured her dark eyes and quick smile.

“Simone, it’s Heather,” she said. “Heather Wallace. I need to speak to Dante. I know he’s on tour, but does he—or anyone traveling with him—have a cell phone?”

“No, M’selle Wallace.”

No longer Heather, but M’selle Wallace, Heather noted.

“Not even for emergencies?”

“He doesn’t always want to be found.”

“I need to speak to him. It’s important.”

“ Je m’en fichu . Can’t help you.” Simone’s words were cold and flat, all warmth gone from her voice.

Heather’s muscles knotted. She looked through the windshield and into the light-washed night. “His migraines, have they been worse? Better?”

“Much worse. And he won’t let Lucien near him. As if you care.”

“Of course I care,” Heather said, keeping her voice steady. “I’m worried about him too. I hope to find some way to help him.”

“Like I told you before: You can’t help him. Only we can.” Simone’s voice was cold enough to frost the windows.

“I may be mortal, but I can still help him, whether you think so or not.”

“We’ll see,” Simone said, then ended the call.

Heather flipped the cell closed, then tossed it into the passenger seat. She rubbed her temples with her fingers. Her head ached. She couldn’t rely on Simone passing along her message. She’d have to be more direct. Inferno was playing Seattle tonight and tomorrow night at Vespers. She’d even bought tickets online for both shows.

Just in case the sight of Dante didn’t hurt.

Heather released the emergency brake and toed the gas pedal. The car’s throaty rumble vibrated up through the seat. She slipped the Trans Am into gear and drove from the parking lot, heading for Capitol Hill and Vespers.

She switched on the radio. “Tonight! At Vespers! Inferno!” Rough-edged industrial music poured from the speakers, followed by Dante’s almost whispered vocals, his voice simmering and full of rage.

Funny that she was thinking about him and then the next thing she heard on the radio was his band. Funny. A shame she didn’t believe in coincidence.

Just three long weeks ago, she’d learned that the world was much darker and more varied than she’d ever imagined. She still didn’t completely understand what it all meant or even where she and Dante belonged in this new world, what their roles were. But between the Bureau and Bad Seed, she was scared that she’d never have the chance to find out.

HEATHER TURNED FROM BROADWAY into a cramped parking lot. She parked underneath a sign reading PARKING FOR VESPERS CUSTOMERS ONLY! ALL OTHER VEHICLES WILL BE TORCHED TO KEEP THE HOMELESS WARM. THANK YOU FOR YOUR GENEROSITY.

Heather slid out of the Trans Am and locked it. Slinging her purse onto her shoulder, she walked toward the club’s entrance. A sign taped on the empty box office window read DOORS OPEN AT 9. SHOW BEGINS AT 10.

A small crowd of people stood in several clusters near Vespers’s cathedral-styled front doors, defiantly smoking and chatting. Along the arched border surrounding the doors lurked handpainted gargoyles and leering demons. Twists of ivy painted in scarlet and black curled up the doors to the arch.

A cool touch to the dark, brooding façade. A venue Annie had yearned to play. Heather glanced up as she headed for the entrance. The marquee read INFERNO and, in smaller letters, DOGSPIT. She hadn’t heard anything by Dogspit and wondered if they were a local band.

The crowd, with a fairly even mix of male and female from what Heather could see, was a Goth/punk smorgasbord featuring everything from cyber-Goth to old-school punk: metal-strapped latex, stylized straitjackets, fishnets and red-and-white striped thigh-high stockings, Cleopatra-kohled eyes, black leather and squeaky vinyl, and chain-draped black jeans; some wore stylized Mohawks or had shaved skulls. Piercings glimmered beneath the streetlights. Tattoos snaked like ivy along hard flesh. Tribal. Stylized. And the air reeked of cloves, patchouli, and sandalwood.

She wondered if any nightkind waited in line with the mortal crowd, but she didn’t see any of the haughty grace and cool beauty that she associated with nightkind. Dante was different in even that—his beauty, heated and riveting, his grace natural and unassuming.

Several in the crowd gave Heather the once-over, then looked away when they decided, with her black bomber jacket and boot-cut jeans and unfreaked hair, she probably wasn’t associated with the band.