Adrian Phoenix - A Rush of Wings

The llygad nodded at him, his shaded eyes no doubt observing every detail, his body language wary. Ronin nodded in return. Another marvel. Why had an llygad abandoned his impartiality and aligned himself to one House? And worked as a fucking bouncer?

“Dante,” Ronin whispered. True Blood.

Strolling along the wet cobblestone streets, Ronin headed for Canal Street. With every wasted soul he fed on this night, he’d be sure to thank Dante for rousing an intensity of hunger that had slumbered for years.

HEATHER SIPPED AT HER café au lait, the Styrofoam cup finally cool enough to hold. Dawn edged the gray horizon with orange and peach and gilded the undersides of the clouds. She yawned and rubbed at her face. The search warrant fluttered on the rented Subaru Legacy’s dashboard vents. She switched off the heat. The car’s engine clicked and tinked as it cooled.

She was parked across the street from Dante’s plantation house, some miles from New Orleans. Old river rock and black iron walls surrounded the house. On paper the house belonged to Lucien De Noir, but Heather suspected that, as with the club, the house was actually Dante’s. Thick greenery and fragrant flowers twisted along the walls. Huge oak trees shaded the property. The black iron gate hung open. In the circular drive a black van, a chopped Harley, and a little black MG were parked.

Heather glanced at her watch. Six thirty. About an hour ago, she’d seen the van pull into the drive, followed by Von on the Harley. The blonde and the pretty punk boy had climbed out of the van. De Noir had carried Dante in his arms like a child. Drunk? Migraine sick? They’d all gone inside the house. The door had closed. Nothing had stirred since.

A twinge of guilt pricked Heather. Migraines. She remembered Annie’s pain-dilated eyes, her desperation. Shaking her head, she looked down at the coffee cup in her hand, then glanced out the window. Dante was not Annie and it couldn’t be helped. He’d given her no other choice.

There was something strange about the relationship between De Noir and Dante. Could they be lovers? She replayed the events at Club Hell through her mind, looking for clues. Remembered De Noir lying about Dante’s presence, remembered De Noir flying from behind that ridiculous throne when Armani Suit had charged up the steps. Remembered De Noir saying, He suffers from migraines , heard the sheltering tone in his deep voice.

No, Heather finally decided. Not lovers. De Noir had been protective and caring, but she hadn’t felt any underlying sexual tension or erotic chemistry between the two. Instead, they’d seemed comfortable with each other. Old friends, then.

Heather sighed, then took a long sip of her rapidly cooling coffee. No, there was something else between De Noir and Dante. Unrequited love? Something like that, hidden and secret, but only on De Noir’s part. He’d watched Dante every moment they were together. At least, he had last night.

Finishing her coffee, Heather tossed the cup onto the passenger-side floor. It had cost her a lot of time and considerable charm to convince a judge to agree to a search warrant. In truth, she believed Detective Collins had had more to do with it than any amount of personal charm. Despite all that, the warrant was for the courtyard only.

Heather looked at the silent plantation house. Dark curtains blinded every window. Must be sound asleep by now. Time to serve the warrant. Dante wanted to be difficult, fine. Gravel crunched beneath her Skechers as she got out of the car and crossed the road to the yawning gate.

Heather followed the broken, tree-root-uplifted path alongside the house to the front porch. The steps creaked under her weight as she climbed onto the wide porch. Grabbing the black iron gargoyle knocker bolted to the door’s center, she thunked it repeatedly against the solid oak. The sound echoed throughout the silent house.

Wrapping her fingers around the cold iron knocker again, Heather pounded it against the door three more times. The sound rippled through the plantation house, then faded into silence.

Heather was reaching for the knocker again when the door’s inside locks clicked and the door cracked open. De Noir looked down at Heather, his face cold. Still dressed in his clothes from last night. Not asleep yet, then, she mused. The rough-edged X pendant around his throat caught rosy light from the rising sun.

“What can I do for you?” De Noir said, his deep voice level and controlled.

Heather held up the search warrant. “Get Dante up.”

De Noir frowned. “Can’t your warrant be served at a more convenient time? In the evening, perhaps?”

“No.”

Golden light sparked to life in De Noir’s narrowed eyes. He slammed the door shut. Twisted the locks.

Smiling, Heather relaxed against the door frame. She glanced at her watch. She’d give him fifteen minutes to rouse Dante, then put the gargoyle knocker back to use. She’d wake up everyone in the goddamned house, if necessary.

Look, we don’t have to do this the hard way .

It’s the only way I know .

His choice. Heather tucked the search warrant into her purse. His words.

Fifteen minutes passed and Heather thumped the gargoyle against the door. In another fifteen minutes, she’d give another twenty whacks, she thought as she leaned back against the door frame once more. The sky brightened, turned the dew-laden grass into a sea of jeweled fire.

Just as Heather was about to grab the gargoyle again, the locks clicked and the door opened. Dante slipped out of the house and onto the porch, still fastening his belt. Definitely dragged out of bed.

Heather stared, suddenly breathless, her gaze lingering on his pale face—dark eyes, last night’s eyeliner smudged underneath, high cheekbones, full lower lip… She was disgusted with herself for being sucker punched by good looks.

“Lucien doesn’t think very much of you,” Dante said, walking past her and down the front steps. He pulled up the gray hood of a sweatshirt worn under his leather jacket, shadowing his face.

Heather followed him onto the buckled flagstones. “Sorry to hear that. Good morning, by the way,” she said. “Got that search warrant.”

Dante raised a gloved hand; his index finger circled whoop-de-do. He kept walking.

“My car’s across the street,” Heather said.

Dante strode through the wrought-iron gate.

Heather shook her head, bemused. Even at this hour, Dante looked as though he’d dressed for a Goth convention: stylish shades, leather gloves, leather pants, and black long-sleeved mesh shirt under a black T, both shirts only half-tucked, and black, silver-buckled biker boots. The back of his leather jacket read MAD EDGAR, the safety-pinned letters looking like they’d been cut out of magazines: a walking ransom note.

Lengthening her stride, she passed Dante, crossing the street to the Subaru. She unlocked both doors, then waited until Dante had slouched into the passenger seat before seating herself.

“Seat belt,” she said, strapping her own shut.

“Got a warrant for that too?”

“No,” Heather said, voice low. “Is this how it’s going to be with you?”

“Most likely.”

Heather stared at him for a long moment. Opened her mouth. Shut it again. Pick your battles. This one isn’t worth it .

“Good to know,” she said finally.

Keying on the ignition, Heather slammed the gearshift into drive and peeled out onto the street, the Subaru’s tires spitting gravel. Dante pulled the sun visor down.

Heather drove in silence until her anger and irritation were under control. He’s tired. I’m tired. Cranky is the word for the day . She loosened her grip on the steering wheel. She eased the Subaru onto the interstate and aimed it for New Orleans.