Adrian Phoenix - A Rush of Wings

Dante returned his attention to Simone. “Dunno.” He slid his fingers along the silky length of her hair, pushed it behind her ear. “But I’m gonna find out soon. Whether I wanna or not.” He smiled.

Simone watched him carefully, searched his eyes. He shook his head.

She sighed. “If you’re sure.”

Lowering his head, he kissed her, drinking in her magnolias and blood scent. “ Merci beaucoup, chérie ,” he whispered against her lips.

Simone sighed again. She glanced past him to Silver. “Come, petit .” She stretched a hand to Silver and wriggled her fingers. The boy took her hand and pulled her to her feet. They headed down the few steps to the dance floor.

Dante rose to his feet and climbed onto the dais. Under Pressure slammed and raged in the Cage, their music a fist—punching, punching, knockout. Dante closed his eyes. Every chord, every screamed word, every drum strike vibrated into him, thrummed along his spine.

A gentle nudge from Lucien opened the link between them. < She’s FBI. Tried to get rid of her .>

Dante smiled at the chiding tone. < Yeah, yeah. I didn’t stay put. I know . Merci.>

Opening his eyes, Dante spun around. The crowd howled. Several of his tayeaux squeezed from the crowd to curl on the steps below. The tiny bat tattoos at the hollows of their throats shimmered in the overheads, visible only to nightkind, marking them off-limits. Dark emotions oozed from the crowd at the sight of them—envy, bitterness, resentment—and lapped against the edges of Dante’s consciousness. He looked into each pale face, each set of kohl-rimmed eyes, curving his lips into a smile but thinking, as always, What do they want from me ?

Pain flickered and Dante shook his head, one hand to his temple. Drawing in a deep breath of the clove, cinnamon, and sweat scented air, he turned his thoughts outward.

Silver and Simone danced and shimmied on the floor, beautiful and graceful, nearly luminous with inner light—moon-blooded and hungry. Mortal watchers circled them. Hoping to be chosen, dreaming of a smooth, cool hand locking around a wrist and pulling them into the dance.

Beyond them, the crowd parted for Lucien, murmuring as he passed.

The FBI agent stepped out of the crowd and onto the first step leading to the dais, Lucien right behind her. He looked up at Dante, a warning in his eyes. Dante shrugged. He studied the woman climbing the steps. Slender in a black trenchcoat and slacks, trendy black Skechers, dark red hair twisted back in a French braid, stray wisps curling beside her smooth cheeks and forehead, generous lips. Her blue eyes burned with intelligence and determination.

< Cute ,> Dante sent.

Lucien’s warning darkened to a glare as he stepped past the woman to stand behind the throne. < Dangerous ,> he arrowed back.

Dante grinned.

The agent stepped onto the dais. “Dante?” she shouted.

Despite the music, Dante heard her just fine, but was content to let her shout. He nodded. She reached into her purse, withdrew a slim wallet, and flipped it open.

“Special Agent Wallace,” she shouted. “FBI.”

Leaning closer, Dante touched the badge, looked from the photo ID to the agent’s solemn face, back to the photo, back to her. She smelled clean and sharp, like sage, like the city after a hard rain.

“Good picture.” Releasing the badge, he shifted his gaze back to her face. “I’ve already talked to the cops, though.”

Agent Wallace dropped the badge back into her purse. “I realize that. This is a separate inquiry,” she shouted. “I find it—”

Under Pressure ended their set with a long feedback squeal and a final tribal-style pounding on the drums, then the club plunged into darkness so the band could slip unnoticed from the Cage. The noise from the packed club—squeals, shouts, the buzz of a hundred conversations—swelled in the darkness. The low-wattage house lights switched back on to reveal an empty Cage.

Agent Wallace resumed speaking in a more normal tone of voice. “I find it curious that Mister De Noir led me to believe you weren’t here.” Her gaze held his.

Dante shrugged. “I’m hard to keep track of. I come and go a lot.”

“Is there some place more private where we can talk?”

“Probably,” Dante said. “But I don’t want to, so, no.”

One eyebrow arched up. “Is there a problem?” she asked, voice low, taut.

“You mean aside from you being here?” Dante said. “No.”

< Caution, child. This is a game you should not play .>

Dante ignored Lucien, ignored the heat of his gaze, focused on the flash of anger in Agent Wallace’s blue eyes. His pulse raced.

“This is a murder investigation,” Agent Wallace said, stepping in close, too close. “I don’t understand why you’re refusing to cooperate.”

“Yeah, that whole cooperation with the law thing? Just ain’t me,” Dante said, standing his ground, refusing to step back after she’d thought he would by invading his personal space.

He listened to the rapid beat of the fed’s heart, heard the rush of blood through her veins, smelled it, rich and sweet.

“I won’t take much of your time. I just need to verify a few things.”

Dante ran his fingers through his hair. “Everything I had to say is in the police report.” He sprawled onto the throne, stretched his legs out before him. “Read it.”

“I’ll do that,” Wallace said, meeting Dante’s gaze. “But I’d like your permission to look around the premises, the courtyard in particular.”

“Not without a warrant,” Dante said, voice low.

< Child… >

She looked at him for a long moment, head tilted, her gaze considering. “Look, we don’t have to do this the hard way.”

“It’s the only way I know,” Dante said.

“Did you know the victim was from Lafayette?” Wallace asked, voice tight.

Drawing his legs in, Dante sat up. Lafayette . Pain strobed, spasmed. He touched his fingers to his left temple and rubbed until the pain faded. “Fuck,” he whispered.

“Is something wrong?” Wallace said.

“Yes,” Lucien rumbled from behind the throne. “He suffers from migraines. I’m afraid you’ll have to resume your questions at another time.”

< Trouble ,> Von sent. < Étienne’s on his way in .>

“No, I—” Wallace’s words ended abruptly as excited whispers buzzed and echoed throughout the club.

Dante watched as Étienne’s Armani-clad form sliced through the crowd. His chicory-and-cream-colored skin seemed lit from within; he bristled with hate. A step behind, Von strode along the now silent path Étienne had cut.

Étienne stopped at the bottom of the steps. A fringe of cobalt-beaded braids framed his cold, chiseled face. Von stood to the visiting vampire’s right, taking up his duties as llygad on the floor instead of on the dais at Dante’s side.

Dante sat forward, hands on the throne’s armrests, muscles coiled.

“You’ve been ordered to present yourself before Guy Mauvais,” Étienne said.

“You’re fucking kidding,” Dante said, half laughing.

Étienne tensed. “The Council is conducting an inquiry.”

“The Council has no authority over Dante,” Lucien said.

“ Je regrette , Nightbringer,” Étienne said, inclining his head respectfully. “But this doesn’t concern the Fallen.”

“Willing to stake your life on that?” Lucien’s deep voice rang through the club.

FBI investigations. Council inquiries. Goody. “Nothing like being popular,” Dante murmured. To Étienne, he said, “If this is about the fire again , tell ‘em not to waste their time. Sa vaut pas la peine . I don’t know—”