Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

You wanna take her punishment, p’tit? D’accord, take it if you so hellfire eager .

He’s quiet now. Take him down .

Little fucking psycho .

Pain wrenched Dante apart and his vision winked out in an explosion of incandescent light—

Wings rustled.

Dante tasted blood, pomegranate-tart and heady. Felt heated flesh against his cheek. He opened his eyes and looked up into Lucien’s shadowed face. He tried to remember where he was and why he was cradled in Lucien’s lap, held tight within his arms. Lucien’s wings curved forward and purple-tinged darkness folded around them, creating a warm shelter smelling of dark earth and green leaves, of wing musk.

“I was falling…” Dante said, then stopped, uncertain. Or had that been a dream?

“Shhh, mon fils . You’re safe. Rest.” Gold motes danced in Lucien’s dark eyes.

“You need morphine, little brother?” Von asked, voice pitched low.

Ice frosted the base of Dante’s spine. There were only two reasons Von would spike him full of dope. Migraine or…

Another fucking seizure.

“No, mon ami .” The lingering taste of Lucien’s blood on Dante’s tongue, his lips, told him why red-hot pain wasn’t needling his joints and muscles, why he wasn’t sapped of strength. “Did you give me blood? Or did I jump you?”

A smile quirked up the corners of Lucien’s mouth. “I gave.”

“Merci,” Dante murmured. He felt Lucien gently tapping against their closed bond, urging him to reopen the link. Shaking his head, he pushed free of Lucien’s embrace. As he rolled to his knees, kneeling within the circle of Lucien’s wings, the where and why suddenly poured into his mind like water from a broken levee.

The cemetery.

I tried to keep you safe in silence .

The bead-draped stone angel.

Yes, like Loki .

Creawdwr.

Dante’s hands clenched into fists on his leather-clad thighs as his rage reignited. He met and held Lucien’s gleaming gaze.

To Von he sent, < How long was I down? Did we miss our flight?>

.>

.>

Lucien’s wings swept back and folded behind him. He un-crossed his legs, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. “You are ill, Dante, and hurt. You need time to heal.”

Dante stood. “Don’t tell me what I need.”

A muscle ticked in Lucien’s jaw. “Let the past go. Cancel the tour and let me teach you what you need to keep safe.”

“No.” Dante turned and headed down the path, his fingernails biting into his palms.

“The Fallen will find you, one night,” Lucien said quietly. “And, if I’m not with you to prevent it, they will bind you.”

Dante paused on the path. Deep inside, wasps droned. “ If they find me, they ain’t binding me,” he said, his voice low and taut. “They’re gonna hafta kill me.”

“Not if, Dante. When.”

“ Peut-être que oui, peut-être que non . Same ending.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“You ain’t got a say,” Dante said, his throat almost too tight for speech. “And we’re done here.” He moved, racing down the path, the night streaking past in a blue-white ribbon, the smells of moss and weathered marble deep in his lungs.

A few moments later, astride Von’s Harley, his hands on the nomad’s hips, the wind cold against his face, Dante wondered if Lucien followed. Wondered if any of the Fallen followed. Wondered if Lucien had finally given him the truth.

I hid you from others. Powerful others who would use you without mercy .

The Fallen will find you. And bind you .

No, they wouldn’t. Not ever. Not unless they knew how to bind a corpse.

One way or another, he would be free—his life, his own.

Dante glanced up. The sky was empty but for stars and moon and pale streamers of clouds. Nothing winged above. Not that he could see. And the Harley’s deep-throated rumble swallowed any sound he might hear.

Like a rush of wings.

New Orleans, St Louis No. 3

March 15

LUCIEN DE NOIR STOOD motionless on the moonlight-bathed path, Dante’s furious words— They’re gonna hafta kill me —battering his calm like brass-knuckled fists. He drew in a deep breath and forced his muscles to relax. Unclenched his hands.

Perhaps knocking his stubborn son to the ground and sitting on him until reason overcame rage—as Von had suggested a few nights earlier—would be necessary.

Shouldn’t have to sit on him for longer than a week or two, Von says, straight-faced. Maybe three. He’s your son, after all.

I am patient, Lucien reminds him, not stubborn .

Von laughs .

Lucien bent and searched through the scraps of paper at Loki’s stone feet for the blood-kissed prayer Dante had placed among them. Finding it, he plucked it from the pile and straightened. The fading essence of creawdwr blood magic tingled against his fingers. Unfolding the liquor store receipt, he read the words scrawled in Dante’s lefty slant:

Watch over her, ma mère. S’il te plaît, keep her safe. Even from me .

Lucien reread the prayer until the words blurred. He closed his fingers around the receipt, the paper crinkling against his palm. He had no doubt who she was—Special Agent Heather Wallace.

Wounded, his child, yes. Damaged, yes. But Dante’s heart was whole and in love, it seemed, with a mortal. Perhaps Heather Wallace could bind Dante and help keep his sanity from unraveling.

Insanity. The fate of an unbound creawdwr .

Until Dante relented and forgave him, Lucien would be unable to teach his son how to control his gifts. Would be unable to help him keep his balance as creawdwr power raged through his mind and heart. Would be unable to lend him the strength to fight madness.

He wasn’t the only one Dante hadn’t forgiven. Dante also refused to forgive himself. Still sought penance for acts he’d committed as a child struggling to survive, acts he couldn’t even remember. Penance unowed, as far as Lucien was concerned.

Lucien studied Dante’s handiwork, the bouquet his child had created. The soft-petaled flowers in Loki’s hand danced as though breeze-stirred. Thorned tendrils snaked around the stone figure’s arms, neck, and wings. The scent of smoky incense, of myrrh, wafted up from each flower’s glossy black heart, a night perfume.

A song, delicate and dark, chimed up from the bouquet.

Dante’s power strummed across Lucien’s heart and radiated into the star-pricked sky—a beacon for any Elohim within range. A cold finger traced the length of Lucien’s spine. He straightened and listened to the night. Listened for wybrcathl . Listened for the rustle of wings. He heard only the faint pulse of Loki’s stone-caught heart.

Lucien looked at Loki’s crouched and screaming form. Time was running out. Soon, whoever had sent Loki would wonder at his absence.

Ever since Yahweh’s death, well over two thousand years ago, the Elohim had waited for the rise of another creawdwr . But only Lucien knew the wait had ended nearly twenty-four years ago, when a Maker had been born, a creawdwr like no other—vampire and Fallen.

Only Lucien knew—so far.