Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

“Then let’s fight them together, catin .”

Together, guarding each other’s backs. That felt right, just like it had backstage at Vespers while she’d protected him as he’d Slept. An intuitive rhythm pulsed between them, electric and elemental and night-blooded. She touched the spot where the bullet had entered her chest. He had no idea how special he was.

“I’ll have to check with Eerie. If he’s against the idea…” She shrugged.

A smile tugged at one corner of Dante’s mouth. A devilish smile. And sexy, damn him. “I promised him my seat on the plane.”

“You can do that?”

“Make promises?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Yup. First class and Eerie- minou can lounge in his carrier on my paid-for seat.”

“Good idea,” Heather said. “Less stress for Eerie.”

“Oui.”

“We can take the guys to the airport, then come back, load up the boxes I packed, and head for Portland,” Heather said, mulling over their options. “We’ll find Annie, drive to New Orleans, stay in motels during the day.” She stroked a finger along Dante’s jaw, touched his lips. Lips like a cupid’s bow. He kissed her fingertip. “This could work.”

“ Je pense bien, especially since you said it aloud,” Dante said. “Von told me that whatcha say from the heart has power. That a spoken thing or a wished-hard thing takes a shape in the heart and becomes real.”

“I like that,” Heather said softly. She lowered her hand to her lap. “I like it a lot and I’d like to think it was true.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll say this aloud, then. I picked up the flash drive Lyons left behind,” she said. “When you’re ready, we’ll watch it together. Maybe seeing your past will help you keep the memories.” Even though she wished he didn’t have to see all the nasty, fucked-up shit that Wells and Moore had put him through.

“ Bon, chérie . I want to know.”

“About what happened?”

“What I’ve done. What I’ve become. What I am.”

Heather sucked in a breath. “Dante, no—”

“Things are unraveling inside. I feel it and I’m fighting it, but…”

“But nothing. I trust you.”

“Don’t.”

That single husky-voiced word shocked the air from her lungs like a bucket of ice water over the head. She suddenly saw him on the stage floor at Vespers, Von’s arms wrapped around him. Heard him ask: I didn’t hurt no one, did I ?

“I’ve seen you unmake a woman, true, but you also saved my life and you restored Eerie’s leg,” Heather said. She grasped his hand and threaded her fingers through his. “You’d sacrifice yourself without a second thought for those you love. Your heart won me, Dante Baptiste, not your looks. You need healing, and maybe you’ll never heal completely, but you won’t have to do it alone.”

“T’es sûr de sa?” His dark eyes searched hers.

“Yeah, I’m sure. For now. So shut up, Baptiste.” Heather stroked his hair, tucked a shower-damp tendril behind his silver-hoop-rimmed ear. “Time to go.”

Dante kissed her lips, a heated, lingering kiss that sent hot flutters through her belly as she savored his amaretto taste. When the kiss ended, he lifted their joined hands, kissed her knuckles, then released her. Bending, he pulled on his socks and strapped on his boots. Stood, and offered her a hand up. A hand she was happy to accept.

A new future was taking shape in her heart.

PANIC FLASHED THROUGH SHERIDAN as he watched a cab pull up to the curb in front of Wallace’s house. Three men, none of them Prejean, exited the house, loaded their bags in the cab’s trunk, then piled into the vehicle.

Sweat beaded Sheridan’s forehead, stuck his shirt to his back. Was he about to miss his moment? If Prejean left and returned to New Orleans, then he’d have to fly to New Orleans as well, and hunt the vampire on his own turf. That possibility left him cold. And still no sign of Cortini. He thought it likely she was waiting to catch Wallace alone.

Maybe she was watching right now.

Sheridan’s heart triple-timed and, for a moment, he couldn’t catch his breath. Too many pick-me-ups, too many hours crammed in the SUV, breathing his own ever-ripening odor, and chewing stick after endless stick of spearmint gum.

He watched the mini-mon, the screen quivering with every hard beat of his heart. Wallace and a dreadlocked male carrying a pet container walked out of the house. She unlocked the trunk to her Trans Am. Prejean and what looked like a punkedup teenager carried suitcases to the opened trunk.

Prejean was leaving.

“Fuck,” Sheridan breathed.

Then the teenager called, “What about your bag?”

Prejean shook his head. “Leave it. We’re coming back to load up Heather’s stuff. I’ll grab it then.”

The teen nodded, then climbed into the backseat of the car.

We’re coming back…

Sheridan exhaled. Blotted sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve. He hoped to hell Prejean was referring to just himself and Wallace. Sheridan felt confident he could find a way to justify Wallace as collateral damage to Rutgers. He just needed to be damn sure that he caught Prejean off guard and put him down with the first shot. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t live long enough to fire a second.

ALEX TUGGED A BLACK-AND-WHITE composition notebook from Annie’s gym bag and paged through it. He studied the lyrics slanting southpaw style across the white sheets, beautiful and raw phrases; he had to admit Dante was a poet, a dark poet. He thumbed past pages full of musical composition—measures and chords, along with margin doodles and notes to himself: Start drums here; loop the bass; falsetto chorus…

Closing the notebook, Alex tossed it back into the gym bag and continued rummaging through lavender-scented clothes for the other item Annie had bragged about stealing. His fingers glided over the bottle’s smooth shape and wrapped around it. Pulled it free.

Athena’s words whispered though Alex’s memory: Green waters of remembrance. He’ll need the green waters .

Excitement spun through him as he examined the sealed, green-tinted bottle. Although Alex didn’t know what role the absinthe would play in Dante’s upcoming immersion into his past, Athena’s visions were always right.

Alex tucked the absinthe back into the nest of perfumed un-dies, then zipped the bag shut. He scooted the bag onto the floorboards between Annie’s booted feet.

She’d been talkative when she’d hopped into the truck, bouncing from subject to subject like a Slinky flipping from stair to stair, usually switching midsentence. And for one awful moment, he’d expected her to start whispering in an effort to keep up with her racing thoughts.

Then the moment had passed, and Alex’s pulse had slowed. Not Athena, but Annie. A pang of regret had pricked him. Annie’s mind was nearly as ravaged as his sister’s.

Annie had kept thumping the end of one fist against her forehead and Alex had finally realized she was in pain, had realized she’d probably welcome the syringe.

It hadn’t taken him long to find an ill-lit alley to pull the truck into.

As the needle pierces her throat, he says: It’s nothing personal. All I want is Dante .

Annie laughs: Get in line, motherfucker .