Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

Pleasure pulsed through Heather and blue sparks lit the darkness behind her eyes. Dante drove deeper and faster, harder, and she came suddenly, the orgasm’s intensity stealing her voice. Dante’s breath quickened and his lips returned to hers. She tasted her own blood on his lips, his tongue, copper and amaretto. Electric tingles prickled along her spine, fluttered through her belly.

I’m inside of him .

Pleasure pyramided within her again, building and building. Music—vibrant, dark, and yearning—resonated between them, palm to palm, heart to heart. Blue fire lit Heather’s mind and she cried out as pleasure poured hot through her veins like melted wax, rippling through her center and out, in wave after molten wave.

A low moan escaped Dante’s lips. Heather opened her eyes and watched through her lashes as pleasure illuminated his beautiful face. Blue flames haloed their joined bodies, shimmered in the darkness.

His lips parted and his breathing became rough and ragged. He pounded into her faster, deeper. Cupping her hand against his face, she kissed him as his muscles tensed and he came. She came again with him, moaning against his lips as the orgasm intertwined with the song pulsating through them.

One midnight-dark note held—burning and bittersweet, yet edged with hope—gradually fading as Dante’s movement slowed. Heather wrapped herself around him, her thigh over his hip, her fingers in his hair. Dante held her tight, his breathing slowing, his heartbeat steady and strong against her cheek. His body fit against hers as though he’d been made for her alone, the second half of a locket clicking into place.

She never wanted this moment to end.

Just her and Dante, curled together. Bodies glistening with sweat, fingers entwined. Breathing as one.

No government conspiracies or buried memories; no deep, dark secrets; no loss.

Nothing beyond this moment, a moment that couldn’t last.

Heather realized neither one of them had said a word. But that was okay. Everything she had to say to Dante at the moment, she’d said with her body and her lips. She hoped it was the same for him.

Dante stroked her shoulder, his touch soothing. He planted tender little kisses on her forehead and eyes and lips as she drifted back to sleep, satiated and relaxed, thinking, We’ll go slower next time. Play more. And I swear to God I’m going to learn how to get his goddamned pants off .

DANTE WATCHED HEATHER SLEEP, her head resting on his shoulder, her body warm and snug against him, one leg over his. He brushed her hair back from her face, trailed his fingers through its soft, tousled length. She smelled of lilac and musk, smelled warm and sticky and of him. She breathed easily, her lips slightly parted, her lashes shadowing the skin beneath her eyes.

Inside, it was quiet, the whispers hushed, as though Heather’s embrace was a sacrament of silence, white and tranquil. He kissed her lips. Memorized her night-shadowed face, the feel of her against him, soft skin and taut muscles. Memorized the rhythm of her heart.

The noise has stopped, chérie.

Gray, predawn light spilled around the edges of the curtain, and he felt Sleep uncurling within him, mingling with the last of the morphine in his system.

He tried to remember what had happened at Vespers, but smacked into a wall. A hard, blank wall. D’accord . One step at a time. Onstage at Vespers. Singing. Performing. Scrapping with Seattle nightkind. Heather pushing through the crowd. Then nothing. Dante sighed.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up beside Heather, not knowing where he was or how much time had passed. It wasn’t anything new, the not knowing or the loss of time. Yet he felt uneasy, and he wasn’t sure why.

Something Heather had told him earlier? Rodriguez filed a malpractice lawsuit against …

Pain, like a red-hot skewer, lanced through his skull. Dante sucked in a breath and shut his eyes. Orange light cobwebbed the darkness behind his eyes. The pain faded. Sleep snaked through his veins, slowing his heart rate and damping down his heat. He forced his eyes open. Try again. A malpractice lawsuit against Dr. Robert …

Another red-hot skewer twisted through his mind. This one didn’t fade. Yeah, well, fuck it . Dante grabbed for the thought again. Pain corkscrewed in behind his left eye, intense and sharp and unrelenting. His vision grayed.

Dante eased out from under Heather and sat up, rested his aching head against his upraised knees. He tasted blood and wiped at his nose. He waited for the pain to either subside or kick him ass-first into Sleep.

Something soft bumped his calf and mewed a quiet question. Dante’s fingers found and stroked Eerie’s head, the warm fur soft as silk. He drew in a shuddering breath as the pain gradually released him. Eerie arched up into his hand, twisted around and arched again.

Sniffing back blood, Dante raised his head and looked at Eerie. He smoothed his hand down the length of the cat’s spine. A song curlicued into his mind, a symphony composed of sweeping genetic strings and twisting DNA rhythm. Electricity crackled along Dante’s fingers and its reflected blue light danced in Eerie’s eyes. Purring, the cat leaned against Dante’s leg.

Dante closed his eyes and plucked at the strings, rearranged the rhythm, adding measures, new beats. Composed. Strummed new chords. Imagined Eerie whole. Imagined Eerie walking and running.

Just as Dante lifted his hands, pain slashed a dissonant cross-rhythm across the melody he wove and the song split apart and unraveled, as did the white silence within, fraying beneath the sudden angry droning of wasps.

Let’s see how long you can stay under .

I think he’s dead. I think you killed him .

Tais toi, you fool . Put him in the trunk .

Pain jack-knifed Dante’s thoughts, stole his breath. He opened his eyes. White light strobed at the edges of his vision. Then Sleep rushed over him in a black tide and shoved him beneath its lightless surface, but one image followed him into the dark—the image of Eerie jumping off the bed and slipping through the cracked-open door, blue sparks trailing from his fur.

Gehenna, the Morningstar’s Aerie

March 23–24

LILITH PULLED THE VEIL from her head, wadding it into a ball in her hand, as she marched into her aerie’s spacious living chamber. The Morningstar stood at the window in a purple kilt and white platinum torc and bracers, his gaze on the dying night beyond the glass. He tilted his head in her direction, but didn’t look at her.

“Ah, there you are, my love,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“When were you going to tell me about your plans for this morning?”

“At the last moment.” He turned around to face her. “But you weren’t here.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Truly?” Star murmured. “You certainly looked asleep when I saw you last.” A smile brushed his lips. “Faking, my love?”

“When necessary.”

He chuckled. His blue eyes gleamed in the darkness pooled beside the window. “That’s my Lilith.”

“I am not your Lilith,” she said, throwing her veil at him. It floated like a crimson leaf to the pale, polished floor. She stared at the veil in frustration.

“Funny,” Star said. “I could’ve sworn that for the last five centuries or so, you’ve been exactly that.”