Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

You’d think this Halloween-and-fetish-gear-wearing group would know better than to judge a book by its cover, Heather mused as she walked past. At the door, she pulled on the handles. Locked. Curling her fingers around the huge, black, iron knocker, she thumped it against the door several times.

After a moment, she heard a click, then the door cracked open. A woman with purple-lined eyes and gel-spiked black hair looked her over. “Read the signs. Doors don’t open till nine.”

“I need to talk to Dante Pre—Baptiste of Inferno. It’s important.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Yeah, uh-huh. Life and death, right? Wait for the meet-and-greet after the show.” Shaking her head, she started to shut the door.

Sliding her foot against the door, Heather reached into her purse and fished out her badge. Flipped it open. “Please,” she added. “If I could just come in…”

The door queen’s face emptied of all expression. She poked her head out to see if anyone had noticed Heather’s badge, then motioned Heather inside. Shut and locked the door behind her.

Door Queen studied Heather’s badge for a long moment. “Wow. FBI.” She glanced at Heather, worry jittering in her eyes. “And you said Dante of Inferno, right? Is he in trouble? Are we gonna have to cancel the show?”

“No, no trouble,” Heather assured her, sliding her badge back into her purse. “But I do need to talk to him. Please tell him Heather Wallace is here.”

A smile of relief suddenly curved Door Queen’s purple-slicked lips. “Okay. Wait here,” she said. She hurried down an ill-lit hallway, her wide-legged black canvas jeans whisking with each step.

Heather glanced at a poster of Inferno tacked on the wall just inside the door. A flaming anarchy symbol against a black background and beneath the symbol: BURN. She combed her fingers through her hair, her stomach suddenly filling with butterflies. She wondered if he’d even come. And if he did, what he’d say.

What she’d say.

She caught a whiff of old leather and frost-edged air—crisp and clear. A scent she recognized.

“Okay, little girl. What can I do for you?” A low and easy drawl. Amused.

Heather swiveled around and met Von’s green-eyed gaze. A mustache framed the wicked grin parting his lips, revealing his slender fangs. His deep-brown hair was tied back. Six one and broad-shouldered, dressed in leather chaps over faded jeans, a black tee and scuffed-up scooter boots, his good looks played well against his earthy and tough exterior. He extended a callused hand.

“Good to see you, Von,” she said, grasping the nomad’s hand.

“Same here, doll.” Von squeezed her hand once, then released it. “But you sure about that? Your vibe says otherwise.” Faint light from the dim overheads glimmered along the silver-etched crescent moon tattoo beneath his right eye.

Heather shook her head, feeling a genuine smile tug at her lips. “Sorry, Von. I forgot how sharp nightkind emo-radar is.”

Von laughed. “ Emo -radar? Hell, woman, what kinda word is that?”

Heather’s smile faded as she glanced past the nomad, hoping to see Dante striding along the dark hallway. “Where is he?” she finally asked.

Von’s brows knitted together. “Ain’t he with you?”

“What?” Heather stared at the nomad.

“He left a couple of hours ago,” Von said. “Said he was gonna stop by your place. Said he wanted to talk with you.”

Relief cascaded through Heather. “I haven’t been home,” she said. And she felt a little embarrassed for thinking Dante would avoid her in a high-school-drama kind of way. “Do you think he’s still there?”

“I’ll find out, doll.”

Von’s eyes unfocused for a moment and Heather watched as he connected with Dante in a way she envied. She’d experienced Dante’s mind touch back at the center—a link blood-forged and temporary and intimate.

Von’s green eyes locked onto her again. “He’s still there and he ain’t alone.”

“Not alone?” Dread hooked into her. “Who’s with him?”

“Your sister,” Von replied.

Portland, OR

March 22

HIS DAUGHTER WAS PROTECTING a vampire.

James Wallace poured hot water into a mug and over the tea bag nestled inside. As the tea steeped, the faint odor of blueberries steamed into the air. He carried the mug into his office and set it on the small cup warmer plugged into the wall. He sank into his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He rubbed his hands back and forth over his head, his bristle-cut hair soft beneath his fingers.

Heather’s reaction to his comment about Prejean saving her life told him everything he needed to know. She’d lied during her debriefing and in her official statement. Was still lying. She was protecting Dante Prejean, protecting a goddamned bloodsucking vampire .

He didn’t know which was worse, that or her investigation into Shannon’s death.

On his drive home, several questions had circled endlessly through his mind: How could he protect his reputation and his stubborn daughter? What had been so important that Rutgers’s assistant had felt compelled to interrupt the conference, even briefly? What the hell had Dante Prejean done to Heather?

First thing he’d done when he’d walked in through the front door was get in touch with one of his contacts in D.C.

Keep this to yourself, Jim, but Caterina Cortini was here, paid Rutgers a visit, then left. Rutgers left shortly afterward too—looking pissed as hell .

That news had shaken James. Cortini answered only to the Shadow Branch—the arm of the federal government that’d been formed some time ago by a former vice president; a consortium rumored to be composed of CIA, DOD, FBI, and Homeland Security members, a branch that answered to no one and didn’t exist officially.

Cortini was rumored to be one of the Shadow Branch’s top wetwork experts, or problem solvers—for the more politically correct, one who permanently tied up loose ends.

Given the subject of his meeting with Rutgers and Rodriguez, James couldn’t help but think that the subject of Cortini’s meeting was the same: the possible exposure of Bad Seed and containment.

Containment would include Heather.

Scooping up his cell phone from the desk, James pulled up Heather’s number and hit SEND. When her voice mail clicked on, he figured she’d IDed his call and was refusing to answer.

James quietly closed the cell. He’d try again later. He picked up his mug and took a sip of tea. He considered calling Annie. She should be at Heather’s by now, provided she’d followed his instructions. With Annie, he never knew. She swung hot, then cold. Just like her mother.

Ask her to stop, Annie. Your mother never gave a damn about you kids .

Neither did you. You were always gone. Heather was always there for us.

I was trying to keep a roof over our heads. Food in your tummies .

What if she won’t quit?

Then we’ll never be a family again. Do whatever you need to—I’ll back you up .

The fucking doctor wants to change my meds. He wants me to stay longer .

I’ll take care of all that, sweetie. You don’t need meds. You’re my good girl .