Adrian Phoenix: A Rush of Wings

And if the glitch was deliberate? Could it have been Stearns?

She shook her head. Her SAC was a stand-up guy, hard but honest. He’d even helped her with Annie when Dad refused. That kind of deception wasn’t Stearns’s way.

Heather’s fingers dropped onto the keys: Checking leads. Nearly finished. Will contact you tomorrow . She hit send.

Scooting her chair back from the desk, she shut the laptop down and switched off her iPod. Heather shrugged on her trenchcoat. Scooping her Colt .38 up from the desk, she slipped it into the trench’s specially designed inside breast pocket.

Time to go to Hell.

“FUCK YOUR MONEY. Go to the back of the line.”

Heather squeezed free of a knot of people clustered in the crowded, narrow street and, grabbing hold of one of the brass horse head hitching posts, pulled herself up onto the teeming sidewalk.

She glanced at the speaker. He stood at the club’s entrance behind a velvet and barbed-wire rope barrier, eyes hidden behind shades. Reflections of neon light winked and edged the dark lenses and lit up the silver crescent moon inked below his right eye. Tall and lean, he wore jeans, road-weathered leather chaps, and a leather jacket marked with nomad colors, which surprised her. She’d never seen a member of one of the family-oriented gypsy-style clans working before, let alone for in-town squatters. At least, not at something legal. Long dark hair tied back, a mustache framing his mouth, he grinned at the fetish-dressed-but-slumming tourist slinking to the back of the line.

Heather paused. Had she seen fangs when the bouncer grinned? Maybe so. She’d learned at one of Annie’s gigs that for a few thousand dollars a person could get customized fangs implanted.

And given that this was Club Hell…

People fought their way onto the sidewalk, elbows and shoulders jostling Heather. A sharp jab to the ribs made her pull her arms in tight against her sides. She locked one hand around the purse strap looped over her shoulder. Her gaze skipped along the swollen line of people waiting to gain admittance.

The majority were Goth—dyed black hair, pale makeup, black lipstick and eyeliner, male and female. Some of the young men seemed to think they were Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise in that old vampire movie: long hair, lace ruffled shirts, velvet jackets, and silver-headed canes. The young women squeezed into form-fitting rubber or latex dresses, or dark velvet minis with tights and fishnet stockings.

Splashing the line with odd bits of color were kids in torn jeans and Ts, their hair buzz-cut or knotted into dreads. Some, like the admonished tourist, were simply curious.

Looking up the three-storied, black iron balconied building, Heather saw curtains fluttering in the night breeze from opened French windows on the third floor. Light flickered inside, like from a candle, and beckoned, like a curved finger.

Heather edged her way through the crowd, slipping between partiers reeking of beer and patchouli and sweat, to the bouncer. She glanced at the unmarked door beyond him—nothing identified the club.

The rain shifted into a cool drizzle, beading on Heather’s face, in her hair, and on her trench. Like Seattle, she mused. She reached into her purse and palmed her badge.

A punk queen in plaid trousers with bondage straps and a torn, black EATS YOUR DEAD tee safety-pinned up the sides submitted to the bouncer’s search. His skimming, fight-scarred hands paused at the cuff of her left trouser. Reaching under and into her boot, he slipped free a secreted switchblade.

“Naughty, naughty,” the bouncer said, one eyebrow arched. He held the gleaming blade like a pro, spinning it between his fingers before sliding it into a pocket of his leather jacket.

The punk queen smacked her forehead with a tattooed hand. A sheepish smile touched her lips. “Fuck, Von. Forgot.”

“I’ll bet,” he said. “You can have it back when you leave. Go in.”

Heather noted the name. She stood on the sidewalk, maybe a yard from him. She knew he was aware of her presence; saw it in the deceptive ease of his body, the deliberate refusal to look her way. That was fine. For now, she was content to observe.

After a couple of minutes, the bouncer turned and, head tilted to one side, regarded Heather for a long moment. “Okay, little girl,” he said, flashing another fanged grin. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Special Agent Wallace,” Heather said, stepping beside him. She flipped open her badge so only he could see it. “I’m investigating the murder next door.”

The bouncer shook his head. “Cops already been here, darlin’.”

Palming her badge, Heather looked up into the nomad’s shaded eyes. Her twinned reflection looked back: face wet, hair pulled back, rain glistening on her black trench. “I’m looking for Dante Prejean.”

Shrugging, the bouncer shifted his attention to the Goth princess swinging her weight from one foot to the next, a pout on her red-lipsticked lips. “Might be in, might not,” he said. “No tellin’.”

His hands skimmed the Goth princess’s velvet-clad curves. “Go on in, darlin’,” he said to the girl. He glanced at Heather. “You, too. Doubt it’s your kinda scene, but—”

“What’s your last name, Von?”

Arching an eyebrow, he murmured, “Sharp ears.” He shrugged again. “Smith. Or maybe Jones. Mama lost track. But if you get it figured out, doll,” he said, looking at Heather from over the tops of his shades. His green eyes seemed to glow. “Call me.”

“Count on it,” Heather said.

VON WATCHED THE FED disappear into the club.

< Law coming in. Pretty trenchcoat with no-nonsense eyes .>

As always, Lucien’s mind felt busy, structured, somehow alien. But receptive. Von felt the activity pause, then his thought was allowed in. < She wants Dante .>

Lucien’s thought arrowed into Von’s mind with an intensity that sometimes unnerved him, especially when he reflected on the fact that Lucien’s reply was gentle .

< She’ll have to settle for me .>

Good enough. Two surprises so far and the night was young. The fed had been numero dos . A nightkind stranger—a bearded black dude wearing jeans, untucked pearl-buttoned blue shirt and snakeskin boots, and trailed by a geeky-looking mortal—had been numero uno .

An honor , llygad, the stranger had said as Von patted him down. But his rigid body language had totally disagreed with that statement.

As had his mortal buddy’s amused grin.

Von’s attention returned to the line. He smiled at two pretty young things clutching each other, laughing and peering at him with drug-dilated pupils. He smelled them—sandalwood, vanilla, and chemical tang. He listened to the blood pulsing through their veins.

With a half bow, he unhooked the rope barrier and gestured them through. The first one, honey-haired and dark-eyed, grasped his hand, then kissed it. Her soft lips lingered, warm against Von’s skin. Her kiss tingled up his arm and down the length of his spine.

She looked at him with adoring eyes. “Nightkind,” she sighed, blowing him a kiss as her giggling girlfriend grabbed her hand and led her into the club.

Hunger unwound within Von. The honey-haired mortal’s warm vanilla scent tugged at him. Sucking in a deep breath, he slid his hands over the next person in line. He scanned the bobbing crowd, looking and sensing for someone else who was out of place. Feds rarely worked alone. He tamped down his hunger. He had to stay sharp. Tonight was not a night to dream of warm flesh and hot blood and sexy giggles. Not with a fed inside.