Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

“Your boyfriend’s a goddamned vampire! With fangs and…and…” Annie’s breath hitched. She bit her lip and looked away.

Working up tears? “I’m sorry if he freaked you out,” Heather said, daubing antiseptic on the cut. The sharp, medicinal smell masked the odor of booze drifting from Annie. “I told you he was nightkind.”

“And you expected me to just believe that? Vampires? Jesus Christ!”

“Do you believe it now?” Heather bandaged the wound.

“Yeah,” Annie whispered. “He cut me and I think he was gonna drink me dry.”

Heather looked at her sister. “He didn’t cut you, Annie. And he was trying to help you, not hurt you.”

“How the hell do you know? You weren’t even fucking there! Why are you taking his side?”

Here we go, Heather thought. “I’m not taking anyone’s side.”

“Yes, you fucking are!”

The sudden roar of the vacuum from the living room startled Heather. What the hell was Dante doing? Given the acuteness of his hearing, maybe he was trying to keep from listening, and Annie wasn’t exactly being quiet.

“Stop it,” Heather said, managing to keep her voice even. “You’ve been drinking and drugging and you broke into my house. When did the treatment center release you?”

Annie clamped her mouth shut and looked away.

“They didn’t, did they? You bailed out and quit taking your meds.”

“Why should I take them? All they do is turn me into a fucking zombie. But that makes things easier for you, huh?”

Annie’s words stung and Heather stiffened. “I want you to be well, not a zombie. I want you to have your life back. I want to see you onstage again.”

“Yeah, right. Your boyfriend kissed me, by the way. Twice.”

Annie watched her, a smug smile on her lips and a knowing light in her eyes. Was she telling the truth, finally? And using it like a knife? Annie’s hands had been on Dante’s hips; his hands had been at his sides. But the blood smear on her lips—transferred there from Dante? His nose had been bleeding.

Did it matter whether Dante had actually kissed her?

The sudden tangle of feelings—jealousy, yearning, sorrow—twisting in her chest surprised Heather. Yes, it did. It mattered a lot.

“Score one for you,” Heather muttered and looked away. “But he’s not my boyfriend.” Sighing, she closed her eyes. But he was her friend. And more, maybe.

“ Not your boyfriend? Yeah, right. I saw his face when he said your name. I saw how he looked as he watched you come in through the door.” Annie’s voice was a cynical near-whisper. “Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. Just you.”

“Annie…no.”

Annie sat up on the sloshing bed and hugged her knees to her chest. “Those pictures and stuff of Mom, why do you have them?”

Heather studied her sister, her body hunched, closed in tight as a fist. She almost seemed to vibrate with energy, wired. Manic, then . “I’m trying to find her killer. I’m doing what Dad should’ve done.”

“When you find the guy who whacked Mom, let me know, so I can thank him.”

Handing Annie the washcloth, Heather stood. “Finish up, then get some sleep.”

“Dad did the right thing in forgetting the bitch.”

Heather stared at her sister, the blood pounding in her temples. Annie’s therapist’s advice uncoiled through her mind like a lifeline: Don’t buy into her drama, don’t let her push your buttons, just show her you care . “If you need anything,” she said, her voice strained even to her own ears, “I’ll be in the front room.”

Annie flopped back down on the bed, rolling over onto her side as the bed sloshed and waved. Curled up her knees. “Whatever. Fuck you.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Heather walked out of the bedroom and into the front room. His face washed clean of blood, Dante sat cross-legged on the floor in the dining room reading her mother’s file; the crime scene photos gathered neatly in front of him; the glass vacuumed up; the broken poster frame gone; and the poster, a copy of Leighton’s Flaming June, lying on the dining room table.

Heather felt some of the tension drain from her with this unexpected act of domesticity from Dante. Given the disorderly state of his bedroom at home in New Orleans, she never would’ve guessed him capable of it.

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear as he read, his dark brows slanting down in concentration. Her thoughts whirled back to the file footage of Chloe teaching him to read, and her throat tightened.

“I’m sorry about all that,” she said, sitting down on the floor beside him. “Annie’s bipolar—”

Dante lifted his gaze, touched a finger to his lips, then nodded toward the hallway.

His meaning was clear: She’s listening .

Heather nodded. She didn’t want to close the door out of fear of what her sister might do behind it. Nor did she want to move to a room beyond Annie’s hearing, for the same reason. Heather trailed a hand through her hair, suddenly exhausted.

“You caring for her alone?” Dante asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Mostly,” she murmured. “My brother lives in New York and my dad—well, forget him. Annie generally lives on her own, but when she’s like this…she needs me.”

“ Chérie, I’m sorry.”

Dante’s words, his voice, low and warm and sincere, brushed against her heart. But the cool breeze blowing in through the open window, smelling of rain and wet, green leaves, reminded her of how he’d gotten into her house.

Rising to her feet, Heather crossed to the window in quick strides and slid it shut. She fingered the broken latch, and then glanced at Dante from over her shoulder. He watched her, his beautiful face suddenly wary. He reads the tension in my movements, hears it in my voice. You bet he’s wary; that’s how he survived his childhood and the streets .

“Why’d you come in through the window?”

“Door was locked.”

“So was the window.”

He shrugged. “I figured the window’d attract less attention.”

“What the hell were you thinking, anyway?” she asked, swiveling around to face him. She grasped the windowsill behind her. “You could’ve called. Or knocked on the door. Or just waited for me to get home!”

“I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“And that makes it okay? Breaking in because you’re worried about me?” She held his gaze. Fire burned through her veins. “Who broke in first? Christ! I can’t believe I even have to ask that question!”

“Me.”

“You had no right! None. Neither did Annie.”

Dante nodded, and light glinted from the hoops in his ears. “I hear you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I—” Dante tapped his index finger against his chest. “Hear—” He touched both ears. “You.” He pointed at Heather.

She stared at him, chest tight, anger burning in her veins. “Don’t be an asshole. You could’ve waited for me to get home.”

“Yeah? Really?” Dante placed the folder beside him on the carpet. “I wasn’t so sure about that.”

“I said I needed some time. I never said good-bye. Or didn’t you hear me?”

Fire ignited in Dante’s eyes. “ Oui, I heard you.”