Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

A True Blood prince.

A couple of images of Dante from the photos she’d seen on the CD played through her memory: Dante as a dark-haired teenager, androgynous and gorgeous; sexy, tilted half-smile on his lips, flipping off the photographer. She liked the boy’s defiance, his dark and direct gaze.

The other image was recent: Dante as an adult, a stunning beauty with a been-there-done-that-just-might-do-it-again-so-fuck-you gaze, wearing a leather jacket and torn jeans, a battered guitar case in hand, his pale face confident.

The plane jolted and dropped suddenly and Caterina’s stomach dropped with it. As the plane’s passage smoothed, the captain’s urbane voice soothed the passengers with apologies for the rough flight. Caterina kept her eyes closed and her grip tight on the armrests.

Caterina’s thoughts slipped back to her most recent conversation with her mother, remembered the breathless catch in her voice:

“True Blood. You are certain?”

“Sì, Mama. But he’s been damaged. I don’t know how extensive —”

“It doesn’t matter, cara mia. He is only a child.” Cold fury iced Renata’s next words: “That mortals would hide a child born of the Blood, hide him and misuse him—”

“Mama, I’ve been ordered to kill the mortal woman he rescued and all others involved in the project, including the man who designed it .”

“Kill that one slowly, very slowly. And the True Blood? What of him?”

“We are to let him be for the moment, let him remain free.”

“Buono. Find him and earn his trust, then bring him to us.”

“Sì, Mama. But that’s why I want your advice. If I discover he’s damaged beyond repair, if he truly is a monster, how do I kill a True Blood? ”

“If the damage is too great, then bring him to us so we may end his life with love and respect.” The fury was gone from Renata’s voice, replaced with sorrow. “He belongs to us. Alive or dead. Not in the hands of mortals, not even yours, my little love, child of my heart.”

Another violent jolt shook the plane, but Caterina kept her eyes closed this time, although her fingers latched onto the armrests. More turbulence. Several rows back, a baby wailed.

She suddenly yearned for a cigarette and imagined sucking the smoke down into her lungs. Even though she hadn’t smoked in six years, sometimes the intense desire for a cigarette would sneak up on her and kick her in the ass, leave her tensed and jonesing like a nicotine junkie fresh on the patch. And she wanted one now. Bad.

Caterina pondered her mother’s parting words yet again, turning them over and around, contemplating their meaning from every direction: You walk the tightrope between worlds with more grace and balance that I’ve ever seen, my sweet Cat. But one day you will fall. Which world will you tumble into—mortal or vampire? You shall have to choose even as you slip from the rope .

And if she refused to choose? Just stepped off, head back, eyes closed, allowing fate or destiny to guide her fall? Could she keep her honor in the heart of turbulence?

She knew how to kill her own kind and knew how to kill vampires. And since Renata wouldn’t instruct her on how to kill a True Blood, she’d have to find out some other way. Just in case.

Let’s be clear. Let’s be honest. What would it take to kill a True Blood child?

But if Johanna Moore’s project had failed and Dante hadn’t been shaped into a monster like Elroy Jordan, he was young enough to be reshaped, guided, tutored.

Young enough to be redeemed.

She would find Dante Baptiste and then, listening to her heart, she’d do whatever honor and mercy required of her: Kill a True Blood monster. Or protect a True Blood prince.

SA BRIAN SHERIDAN SMILED at the waitress as she refilled his cup with coffee. He dumped a packet of Splenda into it, along with a splash of the shit that passed for cream. He stirred idly, watching a plane taxi over to the runway, lights winking in the darkness. The plane rolled down the tarmac, building speed, the engine roar muffled by Dulles International’s thick walls.

Cortini’s plane had departed right on schedule an hour ago.

Sheridan had heard many things about her, had studied a few photos, but had never seen her in the flesh. He sipped at the coffee, ignoring its burned and bitter taste.

When Cortini had walked into Rutgers’s office—five seven, slender, confident stride—Sheridan had been riveted by her graceful motion. Fluid, yet poised. Like a gymnast or martial artist. He’d bet anything her reflexes were fast and stiletto-sharp, that she could shift from shaking your hand to snapping your neck in an instant.

She’d worn a tailored black suit, a white blouse underneath, and silver had flashed at her wrists and ears. Dark, coffee-colored hair had brushed her shoulders and framed her attractive face. Thirty-four, but she looked younger. A unexpected impish smile had curved her glossed lips—just a hint of rose—and lit her hazel eyes.

It’d be easy to be caught off guard by this woman, this wetwork expert, easy to underestimate her with her mischievous smile. And fatal.

The plane he was watching vaulted into the sky, a moving constellation of blinking wing lights. Sheridan watched until the plane vanished from sight. He finally gave up on the coffee in disgust and ordered a Foster’s. No harm in one beer while waiting for his red-eye flight to Seattle. It was going to be a long night.

Rutgers had given him very specific instructions while walking together outside the building and away from listening ears, flesh or otherwise.

“If I have to lose a good agent like Wallace and a valuable resource like Wells, then Dante Prejean goes too,” Rutgers says, head bowed, her words clipped and tight. “I refuse to let him walk from this mess. He dies. The SB can shove their decisions up their collective asses.” She looks up and her eyes are shadowed, her voice bitter and cold. “Adapting to darkness isn’t difficult in our profession. Be sure to remind Cortini of that when you kill her.”

Seattle, WA

March 22

DANTE STARED AT THE paper, his heart drumming out a frenzied rhythm. The photo blurred and pain skewered his temples with each attempt to focus on it.

Avenge your mother and yourself .

But if what Heather said was right—and he had no reason to doubt it—then he’d failed . Genevieve Baptiste’s killer still breathed and ate and slept. Enjoyed life.

But not for much longer.

“Give me that name again,” Dante said, chest tight, muscles coiling. “I can’t read it. Say it again. Say it slow.”

Heather’s brows slanted down, worried. “You don’t look so good,” she said.

“The name.”

“Robert Wells.”

“Robert…” Dante repeated. He opened his mouth to say the last name, but it was gone, slipped from his grasp, paingreased. Deep inside, wasps droned. Pain needled his temples. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Say it again.”

“Robert Wells. Dante, I don’t think—”

An image strobed into Dante’s mind: A man with gray-flecked blond hair and a friendly smile leans over him. Blood spatter decorates his white lab coat. His hand strokes Dante’s hair as he sticks a needle into Dante’s throat .