Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

“Fuck,” the nomad breathed. “Holy fucking hell.”

Heather opened her eyes and looked at Von. Sweat beaded his forehead. His fight-scarred knuckles unclenched as he relaxed his hands. “How often does this happen?” she asked.

Von shook his head. “Too often.”

The blood trickling from Dante’s nose slowed. His eyes fluttered half-open, the pupils ringed by a slim circle of darkest brown. His gaze focused on Von’s face. “What’s up, mon ami ?” he slurred, his voice opium-thick and dreamy.

“Not you, man,” Von said, pushing Dante’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. “You decided to take five on the floor.”

“J’su pas fou de ça,” Dante murmured, eyes closing. “You okay?”

Von chuckled. “Fuck, yeah, I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Dante’s eyes opened again. “I didn’t hurt no one, did I?”

“No.”

“Heather.” Dante shoved at Von’s arm, trying to get up.

“Here,” Heather said. “Dante, I’m right here.” Leaning forward on her knees, she cupped his pale face between her hands. He burned, fevered. His gaze shifted to her face and a smile brushed his blood-smeared lips. “Thought I’d lost you,” he said.

“You’re gonna have to try a little harder if that’s your plan,” she said.

“It’s quiet, chérie .”

“I’ll be right here,” she whispered.

Dante’s eyes shuttered closed and his breathing dropped into a low, barely perceptible nightkind rhythm as false Sleep claimed him.

Heather slid her hands away from his hot, smooth-cheeked face and knotted them on her thighs. He looked peaceful held in Von’s arms, drugged and dreaming, his dark, thick lashes curving up from his pale face. Peaceful. Yes.

An illusion.

She’d heard the dread in his voice, the near panic as he’d asked, I didn’t hurt no one, did I? She knew why he’d asked that question, even if he didn’t, and her chest ached as she remembered the look on his face, the raw anguish in his voice when he’d seen Chloe, his little Winnie-the-Pooh princess, snow-angeled in a pool of her own blood.

“Eli, man, Dante’s done.” Von cradled Dante against his chest and rose to his feet in a fluid, easy movement. “Tell ’em the show’s over.”

Shouts of “Inferno! Inferno!” built as the crowd shifted restlessly. A few laughed, delighted, as if the front man’s seizure had been part of the show and, Heather realized, some of them probably hoped it was. Or thought Dante was faking, though how a person could fake the muscle-and-tendon-torquing convulsions Dante’d just endured was beyond her.

Heather gathered up the syringe and vial and placed them back inside the bag. Zipping it shut, she tucked it under her arm and stood.

Von’s gaze skipped from Eli to Jack to Antoine. “Y’all stick with Silver and avoid other nightkind. Dante pissed the fuckers off and they just might cause a ruckus now that he’s down.”

Eli nodded, gathering his dreads together in both hands, his expression worried. “Silver isn’t here,” he said quietly.

“He chased after Heather’s sister,” Jack volunteered.

Heather stiffened, suddenly cold. “He followed Annie? I need to find—”

“Hold on,” Von murmured, his gaze turning inward for a moment.

Heather realized he was seeking contact with the missing vampire. She swiveled, searched the crowd for any sign of Annie’s blue-purple-black tresses or Silver’s gleaming eyes, but too many people filled the small venue. She sighed. Annie was a big girl, like Von had pointed out, but…she turned back around and met Von’s steady gaze.

“Did you reach Silver?” she asked, tapping a finger against her temple.

“Let me get Dante settled,” he said, nodding his head toward the curtain.

Heather followed the nomad backstage as Eli announced that the show was over due to circumstances beyond their control. Shouts winged into the air like angry wasps. Even though the show had been going for over an hour when Dante collapsed, Eli said refunds would be available.

Von eased Dante onto a worn, stained sofa. Strands of black hair slid across Dante’s face, partially veiling it. One arm hung off the sofa, his hand brushing the floor. The nomad tucked Dante’s arm against his side, then gently patted his cheek. “Sleep tight, little brother,” he murmured.

Then he turned and looked at Heather. “Silver’s with your sister,” he said. “They’re okay. But she ain’t in no mood to come back.”

“Dammit.” The sinking feeling in Heather’s gut told her that her sister was out drinking with Silver, drinking, doping, fucking—whatever helped her fill the void swallowing her up inside.

I want us to be a family again .

Heather could hit the streets and search the bars, but she knew from bitter experience that it wouldn’t do any good. Annie would refuse to leave and would create a huge, screaming scene that’d end with someone jailed or hospitalized. All she could do was go home and wait.

“Look, doll, she’s okay,” Von said. “Silver knows how to deal with troubled mortals, and he won’t hurt her.”

“What does he know about troubled mortals?”

“He used to be one.”

“She’s bipolar,” Heather said. “Not just troubled.”

“I’ll let him know.”

Heather nodded, feeling like she had no other choice. The thought of the night ahead, waiting sleeplessly for Annie to come home drunk and hostile, or bruised and bleeding from a drunken brawl, or waiting for the phone to ring, left her tensed. She glanced at Dante. Maybe she should stay with him. Talk to him.

And if Annie needed her in the meantime? Got arrested again? Sighing, Heather knelt beside the sofa and kissed Dante’s lips, tasted amaretto underneath the tang of his blood. His face still felt fevered, but at least the nose bleed had stopped.

“Where are you guys staying?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Von. “In a hotel or on the bus?”

“Hotel. The Red Door.”

A sudden thought occurred to Heather. Maybe she wouldn’t have to just sit and wait, unable to focus on anything but the anxiety coiling through her body.

“My house isn’t huge, but I’ve got a sofa, two beds, and a very comfy recliner,” she said. “How about you guys come and stay the night with me? In case there’s more trouble.”

Von stroked the sides of his mustache with thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. “Let me ask the guys,” he said. “I’m gonna help ’em pack up and stow the gear first, okay?”

Heather nodded. “Fair enough.”

Von reached inside his leather jacket, then slipped out a pistol. He handed it to Heather. She examined it, checked the safety, then checked the sights. It lined up beautifully. A Browning Hi-Power. She’d left both her purse and .38 at home, knowing how easy it would be to lose both jammed in the middle of a club crowd.

“Nice,” she said, hefting it in her hand.

“Just in case the Seattle crew cause any problems. Aim for the—”

“Head or heart,” she finished.

Von grinned. “You got it, darlin’.” Then he walked away.

Heather got up from the floor and perched on the arm of the sofa farthest from the curtains. Her fingers wrapped around the Browning’s grip. Her pulse was steady and her breathing relaxed. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt like she was right where she needed to be, protecting a friend.