Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

Alex pushes the plunger .

He twisted flex-cuffs around Annie’s wrists and ankles. Brushing a purple strand of hair away from her lips, he stretched a wide piece of duct tape across her mouth. Alex clicked a picture of her using her own phone. Sliding the phone into his hoodie pocket, he got out of the Dodge Ram and unsnapped the black tonneau cover over the bed and folded it back.

With Annie slung across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, Alex returned to the truck bed and eased her down into it as best he could. Her head bounced against the runneled metal, fanning multicolored hair across her face, but she didn’t stir. She wouldn’t for hours.

Alex snapped the tonneau cover back in place. He leaned against the truck, lit up a Winston, and smoked in silence for a few moments. He hoped he was right about Dante’s feelings for Heather. Even so, it was still possible the True Blood might tell him to fuck off again.

Alex pulled his cell from his pocket and called Athena. After six rings, her voice mail switched on, a message he’d recorded for her years ago: You’ve reached the voice mail of Dr. Athena Wells. Please leave a message .

Anxiety coiling through his guts, Alex rang his father’s cell, then the land line. Six rings, voice mail. Maybe she was so absorbed studying the center footage on the laptop she didn’t hear the phone. Or was ignoring it.

He wished he and Athena shared the long-range telepathy that vampires used so effortlessly, but they’d learned through trial and error that they couldn’t touch each other’s minds or anyone else’s unless they were within a certain proximity.

Taking one last drag from his cigarette, the butt-end smoke harsh against his throat, he flicked it into a puddle. Alex thumbed the END button on his cell, then slid the phone into his pocket. He climbed back into the Dodge Ram and started up the engine. The powerful rumble reverberated against the alley’s stone walls.

Even if Athena was ignoring the phone, the Tightrope Walker should’ve picked up. She’d want to know about his progress since she seemed to be so invested in seeing his father in Dante Baptiste’s hands.

But maybe she couldn’t answer the phone.

Maybe Athena had decided to conduct another experiment.

TRANS AM IDLING IN a passenger unloading zone in front of the main terminal at Sea-Tac, Heather said her good-byes, giving Jack, Eli, and Antoine quick hugs before offering her hand to Silver. With a slight smile, Silver shook her hand.

“I hope you find Annie,” he said. His strange silver eyes glittered like sun-sparked water beneath the lights. “She’s cool, but she’s chewed herself up ragged inside, y’know? She needs an easy touch.”

Heather nodded, surprised by his insight. “She does. Thanks.”

Silver shrugged, then stepped back a few paces to join the guys as Dante, the hood of his black hoodie pulled up to shadow his face, said his good-byes with kisses and murmured words.

“He asked me to shepherd everyone home, make sure they get there safe,” Von said, stepping up beside Heather, his gaze on Dante. “But I goddamned hate leaving him. Between the migraines and the seizures…” He shook his head.

“Has he ever said anything about what Jordan did to him in that van?”

“Nope. Not a word.”

“That’s something else he shouldn’t have to carry alone,” she said softly.

“Yeah, good luck trying to convince him of that.” The nomad bent and dug through the well-weathered olive-green knapsack at his booted feet. He pulled something out, then straightened. “Here, doll.” He held the black, zippered bag in his hands. “You’re gonna need this.”

Heather took the vinyl bag, feeling cold. “Thanks. I hope I won’t have to use it.”

Von shook his head. “Sorry, darlin’, but you will.”

Heather pulled one of her business cards from her purse and handed it to Von. “My cell phone number’s on there,” she said. “Check in with me anytime. Once you’re back home, give me a call. I’ll keep you posted on our progress each night and where we’re staying.”

The nomad nodded. “Good enough.” He slipped the card into an inner pocket of his leather jacket.

Heather caught a whiff of frost-rimed autumn leaves and then Dante was beside her. He hooked his arm around her waist. “Safe flight, mon ami . I appreciate you seeing everyone home. Merci beaucoup for everything.”

“No, thank you . You helped me attain my lifelong goal of roadie-hood,” Von drawled dryly, then something tender warmed his green eyes. He pushed Dante’s hood back and cupped his pale face with his road-weathered hands. “Let them see, little brother.” Then he bent and kissed him.

Let them see .

Heather realized Von wasn’t talking about the voyeuristic appeal of watching two men kiss, he was telling Dante not to hide his beauty inside a hood, and he was also speaking about who and what Dante was—musician, friend, True Blood, and Fallen.

Unique. Brimming with magic and beauty and heart; dark, untamed, and deadly.

Let them see you.

I agree, but not yet, Heather thought. Not until his life is completely his own .

The kiss ended and the nomad released Dante with a pat to his cheek. “Take care, little brother,” he said. He cat-nudged Heather with his shoulder and she bumped him back. “And see if you can keep your gorgeous kick-ass woman outta trouble.”

Dante snorted. Pointed to himself. “Gasoline.” Pointed at Heather. “Match.” He winked at her as Von laughed. “As soon as we find Annie, we’ll head home.”

Von held Dante’s gaze for a few moments, and Heather knew they were speaking mind-to-mind. Something sad and yearning suddenly shadowed Dante’s unguarded face, and he looked away, jaw tight.

Von watched him for a moment, then sighed. “Like a goddamned mule.” Looking at Heather, he said, “Wishing ya easy roads, doll. See ya in a week or two.”

“Take care of Eerie,” she said.

Von snorted. “That cat’s got Eli wrapped around his paw, woman.”

Heather grinned. “That’s my kitty boy.”

Motioning for the guys to move their asses, Von strode toward the terminal entrance, pausing to exchange greetings with a couple of nomads on gear-laden bikes.

Dante untucked his shades from the front of his shirt and slid them on. He looked at Heather. “Let’s go find Annie.”

“FUCKING HELL,” DANTE MUTTERED. He hated restraints. Unbuckling his seat belt, he shifted in the seat, his leather pants squeaking against vinyl, and rested his back against the passenger door. He rested one booted foot on the seat. Better .

Heather glanced at him. “That’s the face I want to remember,” she said, returning her gaze to the road. “The one before the accident.”

“So don’t crash,” Dante teased. “And anyway, the airbag will suffocate me first.”

“Smart ass.”

“Yup.”

The smooth, high-pitched thrum of the Trans Am’s engine filled the silence. But the silence wasn’t tense or awkward, Dante reflected, his gaze on Heather’s face. They were comfortable together even without words, content with their own thoughts.

And that was dangerous.

It would make it even harder to walk away from her when the time came, when he was sure she was safe from the Bureau and anyone else hunting her.