Adrian Phoenix - Beneath the Skin

Tattoos inked in blue Celtic designs—dragons, antlered hunters, and ravens among them—swirled up from beneath his shorts to just under his pecs, and flowed around his sides, twining up around his spine to his shoulders.

“Are those clan markings?” Heather asked, too tired to truly appreciate the tall, lean-muscled view the nomad presented.

“Yup, rites of passage—from when I was mortal.” A smile flickered across his lips as he traced a finger along an intricate Celtic knot near his right hip. “My first ride as a clan scout.”

The tight, defined muscles in Von’s chest and shoulders rippled as he gathered up his wet clothing and draped it piece by piece over the foot of the bed to dry. He hung his jacket on the back of the desk chair.

Leaning against the waist-high dresser, his gaze skipped from Cortini to Heather. He smoothed his mustache with thumb and forefinger. “Since I figure y’all would come to blows over who’ll get to sleep beside me, I’ll make it easy on everyone and share the bed with Dante. I know you’re disappointed, but, hey, I’m trying to be fair here.”

“It’s kind of you to spare the loser like that,” Heather said, keeping a straight face. Kicking off her mud-caked Skechers, she sat on the bed beside Dante.

“Ouch, woman. I said ‘get to’ not ‘hafta.’ Just for that, I ain’t gonna leave room for you to snuggle up and snooze beside your man.”

“That’s okay,” Heather said. “Given my sister’s concerns, I think having one bed for nightkind and one for mortals might be best.” Best, maybe, but she yearned to curl up beside Dante, to hold him close while he Slept, fevered and lost to darkness, to whisper into his ear, You’re not alone. I’m here, waiting for you.

Von glanced at the closed bathroom door, the humor fading from his face. The sound of shower spray drumming against glass drowned out the whir of the fan. “Anything I should know?” he asked.

“No,” Heather replied. “She was tossed into the deep end of the pool, but I’ve got ahold of her. She’ll be fine.”

Von searched her eyes and she knew what he was thinking: in which direction was the bipolar carousel horse Annie rode headed? Up or down?

Heather sighed and shook her head.

“I hear ya, doll.”

Von tugged the elastic tie free from his wet hair, then slipped it around his wrist for safekeeping. He finger-combed his wet shoulder-length hair—hair that would be a deep, glossy brown when dry—smoothing it back from his face. A vertical line creased his forehead between his eyebrows, his thinking-deep line.

“Got a question for you, Cortini,” he said, gripping the edge of the dresser behind him. The muscles in his arms corded.

Cortini slid from her perch on the easy chair and stood beside it. She met Heather’s gaze for a moment before settling her attention on Von.

“A sniper outside the house shot the shades right off my face.” Von touched one of the small, rapidly healing cuts peppering his face. “Whatcha know about that? One-a your guys?”

Surprise flickered across Cortini’s face. “No. My handlers only sent me.”

“Great.” Von sighed. “So we’ve got other players on the field.”

“The shooter must’ve set up after I arrived,” Heather said. “Or maybe he was just waiting to take down whoever came out of the house.”

“He was hell-bent on keeping me from going in,” Von said, “so I’m betting he didn’t set up until after you arrived, doll. I’m also betting he followed you.”

“I agree,” Cortini said. “The SB instructed the Bureau to drop their surveillance on you and Dante Baptiste. Someone disobeyed orders,” she said. “And I think I know who.”

“Do you think it was ADIC Rutgers?” Heather asked. FBI Assistant Director in Charge Monica Rutgers had offered her a choice just a few days ago: accept a promotion and become a marionette for the FBI or have her career and reputation shredded.

Words whispered through Heather’s memory, a warning from Stearns, her late supervisor and mentor, just a few weeks before in New Orleans, a day before he died:

You’ve been marked for termination. Me too.

How high up does this go?

I think it’s best to behave as though it goes to the top.

“Yes,” Cortini confirmed.

Well, she couldn’t claim to be surprised. Heather closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Weariness siphoned her strength; she was running on empty.

“I can understand Rutgers disobeying orders by keeping the surveillance going,” Cortini said, her brow furrowed. “But why would she jump from surveillance to murder? What am I missing here?”

An image flashed into Heather’s mind of Dante standing in Rodriguez’s living room, Brisia Rodriguez tucked behind him as he guarded her. Remembered her own words just hours earlier: “That’s not Chloe. She’s long gone.”

Dante sucks in a breath. Touches trembling fingers to his temple. More blood trickles from his nose. Heather takes a step closer. Lifts the trank gun and aims.

He lifts his burning gaze to Heather’s and the desolation she glimpses in the dark depths of his eyes breaks her heart. His muscles flex. “Run,” he whispers.

“Dante’s programming was triggered,” Heather said quietly. She lowered her hand to her side and opened her eyes. “Lyons used him to kill an FBI agent.”

Move away from me, chérie. Get outta reach.

“Holy fucking hell,” Von breathed. His gaze lit on Dante’s pale face. “Mother fuckers.”

“He gave himself for Annie,” Heather said, voice low, “knowing they were going to use him. He didn’t even hesitate.”

A smile ghosted across Von’s lips. “He wouldn’t.”

“What happened to the sniper outside the house?” Cortini asked. “Did you kill him?”

Von shook his head. “Nah. I put a bullet in his leg to keep him from going anywhere so we could question him later, but between the house exploding and the frickin’ Fallen popping out of the sky, I lost track of him.”

“Probably long gone,” Cortini agreed.

“Hell,” Von muttered. “I suppose it’s too much to hope the fucker bled to death. We’re gonna hafta continue this later.” He glanced at Heather, then nodded at Cortini. “Think you can work with her while I Sleep?”

“You tell me,” Heather said.

Von crooked a finger. “C’mere, Cortini. Time for a little heart-to-heart.”

Cortini padded across the carpet to where Von stood in front of the dresser, her footsteps almost nightkind-silent. And no wonder—she’d been raised by nightkind, a mortal in a household of vampires.

Von’s words, spoken not even an hour ago in the pouring rain, curled through Heather’s memory: a child of the heart. She couldn’t help but wonder what that meant exactly, what it entailed, and what had happened to Cortini’s mortal parents.

Cortini knelt on one knee in front of Von. “Llygad,” she said, bowing her head, her shoulder-length hair swinging forward to frame her elfin face in dark, rain-damp strands.

The fact that Von was wearing only his boxers made the scene a little surreal, but didn’t lessen his rough dignity one bit. The crescent moon tattoo beneath his right eye glittered like moonlit frost. Llygad. Keeper of history. Poet warrior bard. Nomad. Nightkind.

Von was all of these things and much more. Heather remembered what he’d told her the night before … the long, heartbreaking, furious night that had just ended.

We’re the keepers of nightkind history, the impartial Eyes of truth.

“I need to take a look inside,” Von said, tapping a finger against his own temple. “Wanna know if I need to shoot you or not so I can Sleep.”