Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

Blood trickled from his nose and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. Sniffed, and tasted blood. Pain jabbed like an ice pick behind his left eye. “Penance,” he whispered.

“Fuck. Sit down, and put your head back,” Von said. “You’re bleeding.”

Dante shook his head. “Tracassé toi pas . I’m okay.” As he walked to the table, he saw Eli, Antoine, and Jack clustered near the curtains, their faces solemn. Silver stood just behind them, his arms crossed over his chest, his purple, gel-spiked hair glistening under the lights, his expression pensive. Dante paused, wiped at his nose again. “I’m okay,” he repeated. Their expressions didn’t change.

“Like hell you are,” Von muttered, grabbing him by the arm, whipping him across the floor, and practically flinging him into the easy chair. “Head back, you stubborn sonuvabitch.”

“It’s nothing,” Dante protested, but he tipped his head back. Pain prickled at his temples and behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn thing got broken earlier this evening.”

“Heather’s sister?”

“Yeah. She’s got one mean head-butt.”

Von snorted. “Sounds like she needs to teach Heather that particular move.”

Dante pictured that and smiled. “Fuck you.”

Von chuckled. “Thank you. My work here is done.”

The ice pick lodged behind Dante’s eye burned red-hot. White squiggles of light bordered his vision. Sweat trickled down his temples. A sudden breeze smelling of cinnamon and hair gel fluttered across him, blowing several strands of his hair across his face. Silver. Von murmured a thanks.

“Here,” Von said, and wrapped Dante’s fingers around a cold compress.

“You need us?” Silver asked. “Or can we get back to what we were doing?”

“Show’s over, yeah,” Dante said, replacing his pinching fingers with the compress. “But thanks.” He sat up, and suddenly thought of Lucien, of how he could cool the fire raging in his skull with one touch.

“You heard anything from Lucien?” Dante asked.

Von shook his head. “Not a peep.” He looked at Dante for a long moment before asking quietly, “You ever gonna forgive him?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“He fucked up hard-core, but he cares about you. Hell, he’s your dad.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem, ain’t it?”

“You need to talk this out with him, little brother.”

“Drop it.”

“I’ll leave it for you to pick up,” Von drawled. “I think I’ll go scan the audience for dudes in trenchcoats and shades. Just in case.”

Dante lowered the compress. Blood stained its blue fabric. He watched as the nomad walked across the room, leather creaking and tiny chains jingling, then slipped behind the curtains.

Rising to his feet, Dante returned to the table and opened the half-full bottle of absinthe. He wrapped his fingers around the bottle’s neck and lifted it to his lips. The liqueur smelled of anise, hyssop, and wormwood, and promised answers. So far, though, it’d only shaken loose a few memory glimmers that’d quickly slipped out of his grasp. Fucking naturellement . Just like at Heather’s place.

He delivered you and ordered the death of your mother .

Dante wanted to remember that motherfucker’s name and face. Wanted to tattoo both into his mind. He took a long swallow of the absinthe. Tasting like black licorice, sweet and strong and bitter just underneath, it burned through him. Lit up his mind. Uncoiled his muscles.

Dante lowered the bottle back to the table, but kept his fingers locked around it. As the absinthe trickled into his veins, the pain in his head faded. But another pain strengthened, hard-knuckled and relentless.

Why you denying your heart?

He met his reflection’s dark-eyed and dilated gaze. “Can’t trust it.”

DOGSPIT LAUNCHED INTO THEIR set with a kick-ass drum solo while their front woman screamed, “Fuuuuuck you Seattle!” The crowd roared, a hungry beast, and the sound of it vibrated the floor beneath Von’s boots.

The crowd moshed beyond the curtains, booted feet jackhammering the floor as Dogspit created an aural firestorm. But Von wasn’t watching the band or the crowd. He stood at the curtain’s edge, a fold of worn velvet between his fingers, watching Dante.

Dante lifted the absinthe bottle to his lips again, tipped his head back, and drank. Boy was hurting. Hurting bad.

Ever since D.C., Dante had been tossing back a lot of the green-tinted psychoactive. Von suspected it wasn’t to ease migraine pain or even just to catch a buzz. He had a feeling Dante hoped to pry open the locks on his past with a wormwood-scented crowbar. And given what Lucien had told him, that wouldn’t be good.

Lucien’s voice rumbled through Von’s memory: I fear for him. He refuses to rest or to grieve. Refuses to release his rage.

So why’d you hide the truth from him? Truth he needed?

He needs time to heal before facing his past. Or before facing who and what he is. I need you to guide him, llygad. And guard him, especially from himself .

I chose Dante over the Road. Of course I’ll fucking guide him. Watch out for him. But Dante’s a big boy and I trust him to make his own decisions .

You shouldn’t—not until he heals. Not until he’s bound.

Bound? What the hell you talking about?

Guard him from the Fallen, llygad. Guard Dante from them, most of all .

Why?

Dante is a Maker .

Von stares at Lucien, unable to corral his thoughts into any semblance of order .

Von had figured Makers were nothing more than myth, a nightkind fairy tale of Fallen power. But here he was, watching as the myth downed a bottle of absinthe.

Dante lowered the bottle to his side, turning as if he meant to head backstage, maybe to work on the keyboards, but he stumbled instead, like he’d taken a punch to the temple. He nearly lost his grip on the absinthe bottle. He held himself still, eyes closed, pain shadowing his face.

Von heard the breath catch in Dante’s throat. Smelled his hunger, sharp and alkaline. “You haven’t fed, have you?” he said quietly, walking up behind Dante.

Dante shook his head. “After the show.”

“You fucking kidding me? You ain’t gonna make it through the show.”

“Yeah, I will.” Dante set the bottle on the table.

“No, you won’t. You may be the most mule-headed sonuvabitch I’ve ever met, but you’re too young and in too much pain.”

Opening his eyes, Dante whirled around to face him, his hands knotting into fists. “What the fuck do you expect me to do? There ain’t time!”

Von pulled off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the chair. Unbuckling his double-shoulder holsters, he shrugged them off and placed them, along with his guns, on top of his jacket. He touched fingers to one bare, muscle-corded wrist. “I expect you to take enough to get you through the show. Think you can do that?”

Dante trailed a hand through his hair, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice husky.

“Okay, then.” Von sat down on the floor in front of the ratty-looking easy chair, resting his back against it and stretching his legs out in front of him. He slid his shades to the top of his head, glanced at Dante, and patted his thigh.