Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

Von frowned. “Fuck, I dunno.” He patted his jacket pockets, leather creaking with his movement. “I hope you ain’t planning on me taking dictation.” He pulled a Bic pen from an inside pocket.

Dante took the pen, holding it between the fingers of his left hand as the nomad fished a wadded-up receipt out of his front jeans pocket and handed it to him.

Kneeling on the pavement in front of the stone angel, Dante smoothed the crumpled piece of paper against his leather-clad thigh. His pulse raced as he scrawled his prayer on the receipt, wondering if it had the power to protect, the power to reach the ears of the dead.

Dante folded the piece of paper, then raised it to his lips and kissed it. Blood from his nose dotted the prayer with dark color. He laid it at the angel’s taloned feet among all the other paper prayers and chalk wishes.

Dante stood, glanced at Von. Wondered at the expression on his face, shadowed and a little sad. A smile touched the nomad’s mustache-framed lips as he took his pen back and tucked it away again.

“You ready, little brother?” he asked, voice low.

“What time does the plane leave?”

“In about two hours.”

Dante nodded. “Let’s go.”

A sudden gust of vanilla-and wax-scented air blew Dante’s hair into his eyes. The candles flickered wildly and a few dimmed to blue, then died. Von’s gaze shifted up and his brow furrowed. Dante’s muscles knotted. Pain pulsed at his temples. He saw his own tension mirrored in the nomad’s face.

Hoped we’d slip away without a scene. But maybe I need to play this out .

“Child, wait.” Lucien’s deep voice resonated from the sky above.

Pushing his hair back with both hands, Dante drew in a deep breath, swiveled around, and watched as Lucien descended from the star-flecked night, black wings stroking gracefully through the air.

Dressed only in expensive black slacks, Lucien De Noir touched bare feet to the flagstones bordering the Baronne tomb. His wings flared once more before folding behind him, their tips arching above his head. He straightened to his full six-eight height, his black hair spilling over his tight-muscled shoulders to his waist. His handsome face was composed, watchful. Gold light glimmered in the depths of his eyes.

“Wait, huh?” Dante shifted his weight to one hip and crossed his arms over his chest. “Give me one fucking reason why.”

“You can’t go on tour.”

“That’s a command, not a reason . And fuck you.”

“You’re not well. Your control slips more every day. You’re dangerous.”

Fire blazed to life, fused with the pain in Dante’s head, the ache within his heart. “Fuck you twice,” he said, voice low and strained.

Lucien’s face remained impassive, but tendrils of his black hair lifted as though breeze-caught. “You know I speak the truth.”

“Wow.” Dante’s gaze locked with Lucien’s. “Is that like a first for you?”

A muscle jumped in Lucien’s jaw. Shifting his attention to Von, he said, “I need to speak alone with my son.”

Von sent.

.>

.>

“Merde,” Dante muttered, wiping his nose against the sleeve of his jacket.

Von studied him for another moment before nodding. “Okay. See you in a few.” He walked down the path past moon-washed crypts to the cemetery gates. “Play nice, you two,” he called over his shoulder.

“I didn’t lie to you,” Lucien said, voice tight.

“ D’accord, you didn’t lie. But you kept the fucking truth from me and that’s the same as lying. Happy now?”

“How can I be when your search for the truth is tearing you apart?”

“My problem, not yours. Stay outta my business.”

“Impossible. You are my business!”

“Fuck you! I ain’t your business, never was!” Pain fractured Dante’s vision, throbbed at his temples. Blood trickled hot from his nose. “We were friends, remember?”

Lucien looked away. His fingers reached for the pendant that no longer hung at the base of his throat—the rune for friendship, for partnership, that Dante had given him—then closed into a fist. Dante wasn’t sure when Lucien had lost the pendant or how, but its loss seemed somehow karmic to him.

“I made a mistake, one I regret,” Lucien said, returning his gaze to Dante’s. Amber fire flared in his eyes. “But I refuse to keep apologizing.”

“I never asked for a fucking apology.” Rubbing his temples, Dante closed his eyes. Nothing looked right. Blurry. Distorted. “And I ain’t asking for one now either. Quit pushing ! Leave me the fuck alone so I can find what I’m looking for. I need the truth or the past will always control me.”

“The truth is never what you hope it will be, Dante. And the cost is always higher than you imagine. Much higher,” Lucien said, his deep voice as low as a sigh. “I thought I could keep you safe in silence. I thought I could hide you, help you heal from all the damage done to you.”

Dante opened his eyes and lowered his hands. Safe in silence?

“I thought I could contain your song or at least muffle it so it couldn’t be heard.” Lucien closed the distance between them with one long stride. His dark-earth scent curled around Dante. “But I was wrong.”

Dante straightened, suddenly uneasy—something he’d never felt with Lucien before. “Hide me? From who? Are you talking about Bad Seed?”

“I didn’t know Bad Seed even existed. No, I hid you from others. Powerful others who would use you without mercy.”

“Others…like him?” Dante nodded at the stone angel hunched on the path.

Lucien’s gaze flicked to the statue, resting for a moment on the flowers swaying in its hand, then back to Dante. “Yes, like Loki. I trapped him to protect you.”

“Yeah?” Dante questioned softly. “From what?”

“The Fallen.”

Lucien’s golden gaze pierced Dante to the core, iced his heart. “What the hell are you talking about? Why would I need protection from them?”

“You aren’t merely True Blood and Fallen, child. You’re much more.”

“And that is…?”

“Creawdwr.” A reverent note sounded in Lucien’s voice. Pride gleamed in his eyes. “You’re a Maker. The only one in existence.”

A chill rippled down the length of Dante’s spine. He looked at the bouquet bobbing in Loki’s hand. “Is that why I can do shit like this?”

“Yes. You can create anything and everything. Your song carries the chaos rhythm of life. And you can unmake, as well.”

Dante’s memory flipped back. The center. Johanna Moore screams as his song pulls her apart, divides her into elements …

Dante returned his gaze to Lucien, his hands curling into fists. “And how long have you known this? That I was a…Maker?”

“From the first moment I met you,” Lucien admitted quietly. “Your song, your anhrefncathl drew me. Just like it drew Loki. Just like it will eventually draw the rest of the Elohim. Unless I teach you—”

“Forget it. No,” Dante said, throat tight, heart pounding out a furious rhythm. “Instead of pretending to be my friend, you shoulda told me the fucking truth ! Shoulda offered to teach me then . Now’s a little late.”

Pain prickled behind Dante’s eyes and suddenly it was as if he was looking through a shattered window as Lucien’s image fractured and multiplied. Alarm flickered across Lucien’s now diamond-faceted face. “Child…?”

Something abruptly shifted inside Dante, something long broken, carving into his mind with white light and molten pain. The world spun, the stars streaking the night with gossamer ribbons of light, and he felt himself falling, tumbling down, down, down as memory sheared up, sharp and slick and edged with whispers.