Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

The crowd yelled and screamed, unaware of what Heather had just realized: Dante’s challenge had been accepted.

A female in a PVC tank and velvet mini, her hair pulled back into a glossy black and red ponytail, swung on Dante, her fists blurring beneath the blue spots.

Dante was already gone when Ponytail’s fists cometed one-two through the air. She nearly overbalanced when her punches didn’t connect and spun around, confusion on her pale face. Dante tapped her on the shoulder and she spun again, fists flying. Dante ducked, straightening up right in front of her. He grabbed her by the shoulders, kissed her, then tossed her back into the crowd.

Stuck between a sweat-soaked burly guy in an INFERNO T-shirt and his equally burly and sweaty buddy, Heather watched, heart in her throat, hating the fact that, unless she was willing to pound on these two guys, watching was all she could do. She scanned the stage for Von.

Ponytail’s companions—a male in jeans and an ancient Ramones tee, his hair a waxed and bristling Mohawk, and a devil-locked male in leather and latex—appeared behind Dante in twin streaks of motion. Mohawk’s long-nailed fingers arced like knives for Dante’s sides, while Devil Lock, fists clenched and lifted, swung around to face Dante.

But Dante was already going low and whirling, one hand holding his guitar steady. Heather caught only a glimpse of black hair and gleaming leather as he lunged, his movement so fast it was over by the time it registered in her mind.

Dante’s left fist slammed into Mohawk, followed almost instantly by his right forearm into the guy’s face. Blood spurted from his nose. Seizing the dazed vampire by the shoulders, Dante yanked him in close and kissed him too. Devil Lock pounded a fist into Dante’s ribs as Dante tossed Mohawk into the crowd, the other fist blurring toward Dante’s temple.

Dante ducked and spun, slashing his fingers across Devil Lock’s midsection. Blood sprayed into the air, glistening for a moment beneath the blue lights, a dark, jeweled mist. Devil Lock pressed his arm against his gut, his expression both pained and surprised. Dante reeled him in by the long strand of gel-slick hair hanging over his face, but before Dante could kiss him, Devil Lock jerked free and dove back into the crowd.

The crowd roared. Jumped. Pumped fists into the air.

Heather drew in a deep, relieved breath. She spotted the gleam of lambent eyes in the dark wings—Von, she hoped. She was worried about what would happen if ten or twenty more nightkind rushed the stage.

Dante licked blood from his lips, scooped up the mike, stalked to the edge of the stage, and screamed, “Fuck you!” Then he stepped back and resumed singing while the other members of Inferno thrashed their instruments—flying dreads, light-starred piercings, sweat-gleaming skin—pouring energy and heart into the music.

“I’m coming for you!” Dante screamed, neck muscles taut, bending over, the mike stand between his legs. He lifted his head, tossed back his hair, and his gaze locked onto Heather.

For one moment, music, wild and wordless, pulsed between them like it had in her kitchen, and Heather’s breath caught in her throat. Dante’s song. Beautiful. Lonely. Forsaken. She pressed her hand to her heart, to the healed wound that now vibrated beneath her fingers.

Dante straightened. Sweat trickled down his face. Black tendrils of hair clung to his forehead. “Nothing can stop me. I have nothing left to lose. I’m coming for you !” He screamed the last word, a long, drawn-out sound of animal rage.

Heather pushed and elbowed her way through the moshing, sweat-pungent crowd, fighting her way to the stage. Hearing the loss behind the rage in his voice, she struggled to keep her gaze on Dante’s white face. She shouldered her way to the row behind the rail riders, knowing she wouldn’t get any closer without drawing blood.

Dante knelt on the stage, holding his guitar against his side, his dark gaze on her face. Fingers and hands waved in the air, stretched toward Dante. Voices screamed.

“I dream of you, in the dark,” he sang, voice strained. “Taste you. Smell you. Feel you burning inside me. I stand beneath your window and watch you sleep.”

Dante touched several of the hands waving in the air, his own trembling. He rose effortlessly to his feet, swung his guitar around, and then stumbled. Heather tried to shove closer, but the tight press of bodies held her back.

Dante fell to his knees. The mike tumbled from his fingers and feedback squeal reverberated through the club. The other members of Inferno stopped playing with a hesitant strum of chords.

A tremor shook Dante’s body. He keeled over to the floor, his limbs locked, back arching. Heather fought and pummeled her way to the edge of the crowd. She caught a glimpse of blurred movement—Von running in from the wings. He dropped to his knees beside Dante’s convulsing body, unstrapped his guitar, and tossed it aside.

Ducking under the rail, Heather dashed up the short flight of stairs leading to the stage and ran across the wood floor. The spots had been dimmed, and voices buzzed and whispered and shouted out on the floor. The other members of Inferno semicircled around Dante and Von, blocking them from view in an effort at privacy. Eli looked up, then stepped forward as if to block her.

“Now’s not good—”

As Heather tensed to duck and dodge, she heard Von’s voice. “Let her through.” She brushed past Eli as he stepped aside. She stopped beside Von, then knelt. The nomad held Dante’s convulsing body, his face grim. Blood trickled from Dante’s nose and across his foam-flecked lips, spattered the wood floor.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

Without taking his gaze from Dante’s pale face, Von said, “In the greenroom’s a black zippered bag. Get it.”

Jumping to her feet, Heather slipped between Jack and Antoine and pushed past the heavy curtains. She scanned the room, spotting the bag tucked into the side of the easy chair. Grabbing it, she raced back across the stage.

Her relief vanished when she saw that Dante was still convulsing. His booted feet pounded holes in the stage floor. His body arched and twisted and jerked with a speed and violence that left Heather’s mouth dry.

She dropped to her knees beside Von. “Now what?” she asked.

“Get one of the hypes outta the bag and fill it to the brim with morphine,” Von grunted, struggling to hold onto Dante. “In the vials,” he clarified.

Heather stared at him, heart pounding. “To the brim?”

“It won’t do nothing but ease him into sleep,” Von said, voice tight. “But do it now . This seizure’s gonna fuck him up if it goes any longer. Gonna fuck me up too.”

Heather unzipped the bag. Syringes and vials of morphine were neatly tucked into slots. She pulled a syringe free, flicked the cap off the needle tip and stabbed the needle into one of the vials, sucked in as much painkiller as it would hold. She squirted a little out to eliminate air bubbles.

“In the neck,” Von said. “I can’t let go of him.”

With a deep breath to steady her hand, Heather jabbed the needle into the vein in Dante’s taut throat and pressed the plunger. Syringe emptied, she withdrew the needle and dropped the syringe on the floor. A few seconds later, Dante’s thrashing limbs and twisting body went still and he slumped within Von’s embrace.

Heather sighed, and closed her eyes in relief. Her pulse pounded in her temples.