Adrian Phoenix - A Rush of Wings

Ronin watched as Dante dropped back onto his throne, fingers at his temple, caressing his pale skin.

Or maybe he hasn’t endured, after all. Maybe he fell further than anyone else. And is falling still .

Ronin turned to face his companion. “Anyone catch your fancy yet?”

“Maybe the purple-haired kid or the blonde vamp with him.” E continued to look straight ahead, scanning the crowd. Red telltales shone from the edges of his shades. Infra, thermal, name it, E most likely had it installed.

Ronin shook his head. “Too much for you to handle.”

“I’ve got an idea,” E said, voice cheerful. He turned to look at Ronin. “What about Dante? He’s fucking gorgeous and fucking dangerous. I bet he’d be a shitload of fun.” The grin vanished from E’s face. “Whaddaya say? Can I play with Dante?”

Metal whispered against denim as E slipped free one of his shivs, smuggled in past the llygad who’d let them into the club. Ronin’s hand snapped out and seized E’s wrist, locking it at hip level. He squeezed. Sweat beaded E’s forehead. Ronin twisted. E grimaced, baring his teeth. The smell of his pain, hot and bitter like bile, rushed into Ronin’s nostrils. The shiv tink-tunk ed onto the mist-shrouded floor.

“You do and I’ll feed you your own guts,” Ronin snapped. “Touch him before it’s time and see if I don’t.”

E stared at him, his eyes hidden behind his shades, but his hatred shimmered in the dim light like radiation from a leaking nuke. Ronin twisted E’s wrist a little more, then released him.

“Have you forgotten what he is?”

“No, asshole, I haven’t. Fucking bloodsuckers.” E rubbed his wrist.

He bent and scooped his shiv from the floor. Then, like a magician at a cheap Las Vegas dinner show, he made it disappear. Jaw clenched, he turned and stabbed a finger at the bartender, then down at his glass in case the bartender was an idiot.

“Are we clear?” Ronin said.

E spun around. “Like a two-way mirror,” he muttered.

A pretty dark-haired girl plopped down onto Dante’s lap, while a blond youth in lace, velvet, and black eyeliner stood on the steps, watching as they kissed.

“Keep our goal in mind,” Ronin murmured. “Remember who truly deserves your… artistic …touch.”

Hand in hand, the dark-haired girl and the blond youth walked down the steps and into the crowd.

“Tag. They’re it.” Tossing back the last of his gin and tonic, E slammed the glass onto the bar. A smile crawled onto his lips. He glanced at Ronin. “See ya later, Tom-Tom.” He shoved away from the bar and into the crowd.

“Have fun,” Ronin said, voice dry. When he couldn’t see E any longer, he shifted his attention back to the dais.

E didn’t seem to get that Dante was more than just a “bloodsucker.” He’d been born vampire—a rare True Blood. A fact even Dante seemed unaware of; an ignorance Ronin hoped to use to his advantage.

Ronin watched as De Noir brushed his fingers against Dante’s temples. The boy closed his eyes, but only for a moment. Twisting free of De Noir’s caress, he stood. Strode down the steps and disappeared into the sweating, adoring, grasping crowd. The house lights dimmed twice, then went out.

Ronin worked his earplugs back into his ears. The crowd buzzed and chattered. He shivered as the crowd’s sense of anticipation splashed over him like a wave of warm seawater. He stared through the darkness and into the Cage. Stark-white bone, red feather, and leather fetishes hung from its steel bars.

“Dante! Beautiful angel!” a pining female voice cried out.

“ Mon beau diable ,” a male shouted.

A low growl rumbled through the crowd as voices took up the chant of: “Inferno! Inferno! Inferno!”

The fetishes swung and twisted as heat-radiating bodies climbed into the Cage. An aura of bluish-silver light surrounded one slender figure.

True Blood . Ronin drew in a deep breath of the club’s reeking, heady air. When our paths join, only one of us shall walk away into the night .

The lights switched back on. The crowd roared.

“Can’t believe I wanted it,” Dante whispered into the microphone, dark eyes hidden behind shades. His hands cupped the mike like a lover’s face. “Needed it. Tied to the bed. Unable to reach myself.”

The overhead lights sparked silver fire from the rings on Dante’s fingers and thumbs and glinted from the rows of hoops piercing each ear. Dante rocked the microphone back and forth, leaning it over, straddling it, then stepping back and jerking it up again. Ronin noticed Dante’s fingers trembling as he yanked the mike free of the stand, caught the gleam of sweat at his temples.

He’s hurting , Ronin thought, sipping at his bourbon. And he’s using it .

Behind Dante, the rest of Inferno flailed and slammed at their instruments—braids, dreads, and ’hawks swinging through the air, their frenzied movement a blur of tattoos, piercings, leather, steel, and races—almond eyes; toffee-colored skin; strong noses; and hard, wiry muscles.

Kicking the mike stand to the floor of the Cage, Dante turned his back to the screaming crowd. “Your promises squirm like worms in my soul…sweet parasite…” Spinning around, he dropped to one knee and crossed his arms over his face. The mike dangled seemingly forgotten from one white-knuckled fist. “I want more…more…”

Several people had climbed the Cage to its steel-meshed top and had lain facedown, spread-eagled, offerings to their dark, beautiful god. They screamed his name, slicing at their wrists and forearms, even nicking their throats with quick flicks of razors and box knives. Blood dripped down, spattering the Cage’s floor and Dante’s pale face.

Hands reached through the bars, grasping, fingers flexed, poised to grab clothing, flesh, hair, anything within reach. The other three members of Inferno sidestepped and kicked, and kept pounding their instruments without missing a beat.

Dante, however, was precariously close to the bars and the greedy hands.

Had he positioned himself deliberately? Ronin wondered. Punishment? Or distraction?

“I want more…” Dante half sang, half growled, his voice low and strained, simmering with rage. He stood. And Ronin witnessed pain blossoming full flower as Dante suddenly stumbled. Eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, neck muscles corded, he screamed, “ More of your fucking lies !”

Hands seized him, yanked him against the Cage’s steel bars. Dante hit hard, shoulder first, his back to the surging crowd. The microphone tumbled from his fingers, thudding onto the floor with a piercing feedback squeal. The crowd screamed, wild, hungry. Fingers latched around Dante, grabbing his arms, his hands, his thighs; clutched at his clothing, yanked at his hair. Imprisoned him within manacles of flesh.

Knocked loose, Dante’s shades bounced onto the floor and under the boots of the keyboard player. Dark bits of plastic and glass scattered across the Cage. The other members of Inferno kept playing, frenzied and thrashing, the music hard and angry.

Ronin leaned forward, muscles coiled, shades lowered below the bridge of his nose. Why was Dante allowing them to hold him? Was he that lost to the pain? A blur of movement captured Ronin’s attention. De Noir rushed from the dais to the Cage with a speed that Ronin doubted any mortal eye could perceive.

Drinking in Dante’s rage and anguish, the crowd pulsed like a huge tribal heart, its fierce and primal rhythm beating against Ronin, drumming up his own hunger.

His need sliced into him like one of E’s shivs. He stepped into the crowd. Hot, sweaty bodies moshed against him, blood thundering through their veins, hearts jackhammering. Not here. He’d feed in some dank back alley, feasting on the forgotten and unwanted. As a stranger in a claimed city, Ronin had no desire to draw attention to himself. Sliding through the crowd, he stepped outside into the cool, rain-misted night.