Maker's Song - In the Blood Part 15

"Yeah, of course."

Dante walked over to the window and shoved it open. "I'll fix this tomorrow, first thing in the evening," he said, tracing a finger over the broken lock.

"d.a.m.n straight you're gonna fix it," Heather said, though she couldn't picture him wielding a screwdriver. She joined him at the window, then asked, "Why don't you use the front door?"

Dante shrugged. "Going out the way I came in."

He turned and lowered his head, and Heather found herself tipping her face up for his kiss, her heart pounding hard and fast, but instead of the heated touch of his lips, she felt his fingers brush against her face, a lingering touch. His forehead touched hers and she breathed in his smoke and deep, dark earth scent.

"Je te manque," he whispered. His fingers trembled, then vanished from her face.

Heather looked up into Dante's eyes; hunger glinted in their dark depths. She touched his face and, tensing beneath her fingers, he pulled away. Her breath caught in her throat.

Dante kissed for many reasons-he kissed friends, he kissed strangers, she'd even seen him kiss an enemy. So what did it mean when he didn't kiss? When the touch of his lips was denied?

Pushing the curtain aside, Dante ducked down and swung a leg over the window sill. Straddling the sill, he glanced up at Heather. "I'll put you and Annie on tomorrow night's guest list if you'd like to come to the show."

"I'd like that," Heather said with a smile. "Thanks."

"Bonne nuit, cherie," Dante said, dropping to the ground. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Dante pulled up the hood on his hoodie, his fingers tugging the edges past his face. He stepped backward several paces, his gaze on hers, his lambent eyes gleaming in the darkness. Sliding on his shades, he whirled, and ran.

Heather closed the window, leaned her forehead against the gla.s.s, and closed her eyes. The pane felt cool against her skin.

Her fingers grasped the windowsill. The weeks apart hadn't changed her feelings for Dante. But she still hadn't yet sorted out those feelings or her fears. Before she could do anything about those feelings, they both had to survive the fall of Bad Seed.

Closing the curtain, Heather turned and walked over to the sofa where she'd tossed her purse when she'd come in-blind- sided by Annie's dramatic swoon and Dante's breathtaking presence. She eased her Colt Super from her purse, then tucked the .38 into the back of her jeans. The cold barrel nestled against the small of her back.

Quiet sobs, forlorn and raw, drew her back to the guestroom and her now weeping sister. Dante's whispered words circled through her mind: Je te manque.

I miss you too, she thought.

15 NEW G.o.dS ARISE.

On I-205 Between Damascus and Portland March 22

ALEX LYONS STEERED HIS Dodge Ram along I-205 north, headed for Portland to pick up more material for Athena's experiments. She slept, but he knew it'd be brief, even with the drugs. Her restless mind would soon have her on her feet, chasing her thoughts.

Inferno's music pounded from the truck's speakers, filled the cab with raging, sharp-edged sound. Dante's voice snaked around Alex's awareness, husky and heated.

I'm waiting for you / I've watched / and watched / I know your every secret...

I don't think so, Alex thought. But I know yours. An insistent off note trilled underneath the music and Alex realized his cell was ringing. Muting the music, he pulled the Ram over into the emergency lane and stopped. He flicked on the hazard lights. He yanked the cell from his hoodie pocket. The ID read unknown.

Thumbing the answer b.u.t.ton, he said, "Lyons."

"Did your meeting with Heather Wallace produce anything of interest?" His SB contact's voice was smooth and deep and slightly nasal. A New England native, Alex mused, maybe Boston.

"Nothing new," Alex said. "She kept everything close to the vest. She's smart enough to know she's being watched, pumped for info."

"She said nothing about Prejean? Or Bad Seed?"

"No."

"And nothing about Moore or the events at the center, I imagine."

"You imagine right."

His contact sighed. "Ah, well, it probably wouldn't have made much difference even if she had, I suppose."

"What do you mean?" Alex went still, listening carefully for nuance.

"She'll be joining your father in...retirement."

"Is that necessary?" Alex asked.

"Yes."

Alex pictured Heather's lovely heart-shaped face, her deep blue eyes. Remembered what she'd asked of him: Could you keep my father in the dark? And his promise. "I learned some interesting info about Wallace, indirectly," he said.

"And that would be?"

"It wasn't luck or prompt medical attention that saved her life like she claims. Dante Prejean healed her, but he did it without using his blood."

"Interesting, indeed. I also find it interesting that you didn't give up that fact until after I mentioned Wallace's retirement."

A cold sweat beaded Alex's forehead. "Sorry, I just thought of it."

"Is there anything else I should know? Anything else you just thought of?"

Alex paused before replying, pretending to give it thought. "No."

The line went dead, his contact's typical good-bye. Alex slid his cell phone back into his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the heel of his hand. He hoped he'd bought Heather more time; hoped the SB would be more interested in studying her now than in ending her life. She was smart and s.e.xy and full of secrets, one of which they now shared.

I'll keep your old man in the dark.

Alex switched off the hazard lights and, hitting the gas, merged the Ram back into traffic. A few drops of rain hit the windshield and he clicked on the wipers. Inferno shredded the silence, Dante's whispered lyrics slicing to the bone like a razor- edged shank.

Break me / I'm daring you / see if you can / break me / with your whispers and your lies / f.u.c.king break me / with your kiss / I'm daring you / put me on my knees / see if you can...

The Ram's headlights silhouetted a figure walking backward in the emergency lane, thumb out. Alex lifted his foot off the gas and guided the truck off the road. Even before he'd stopped, the figure was loping toward the truck.

A moment later the pa.s.senger-side door yanked open and a rush of cool, rain-laden air swirled into the cab. A youthful, bearded face poked inside. "How far you going?"

"Portland," Alex said.

"Cool, that works." The hitchhiker tossed his stained and road-weathered backpack onto the floorboards and climbed into the pa.s.senger seat. He fastened his seat belt and grinned. "Thanks, man." His damp, collar-length hair curled at the edges.

"Sure," Alex said, returning the hitchhiker's grin. "You're doing me a favor too."

"By keeping you awake?"

"By helping me out with an errand."

The hitchhiker's grin faded. "What kinda errand?"

"Don't worry. You won't have to do anything." Telekinetic energy surged through Alex, rushing up his spine, electric and tingling, as he focused it on his pa.s.senger.

Energy snapped against the hitchhiker, pinning him to the seat and knocking the air from his lungs. The hitchhiker gasped.

The hair on his head and beard lifted. His eyes widened as he flailed to free himself, but remained right where he was, held by invisible hands.

Alex reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled the syringe free. "You're saving me a lot of time and trouble," he said over the hitchhiker's panicked grunts. "Now I won't have to arrest another unlucky vagrant camping under the Burnside Bridge."

Alex wondered what Athena hoped to accomplish with her experiments. He knew she was trying to emulate what she'd seen Dante do to Johanna Moore, fascinated with the idea of unmaking.

How else will I understand him?

Alex didn't have an answer for that, but the experiments kept her happy and occupied and that was all that mattered.

Sometimes Alex lay awake at night, listening to the Athena-wind rushing through the house and pictured her spinning out of control. Murdering their parents. Torching the main house. He could even smell the acrid smoke, hear the fire crackling, felt its heat tighten the skin on his face.

Call me Hades.

Then he'd remember the Bad Seed CD he'd watched of beautiful fourteen-year-old Dante murdering his abusive foster parents, then torching their house. And Alex would grow calmer. Perhaps such scenes were rites of pa.s.sage. Fires to forge and temper blades of flesh.

When the old G.o.ds are slain, the new G.o.ds arise, drenched in blood.

So it was. So it would ever be.

"Amen, brother," Alex murmured, then jabbed the needle into the hitchhiker's throat and thumbed the plunger.

16 NOTHING MORE THAN MYTH.

Seattle, WA-Vespers March 22

DANTE STRODE INTO THE greenroom backstage at Vespers. Von, sprawled in a ratty-looking easy chair, glanced up from the issue of Newsweek he was reading.

"'Bout time," he drawled. "You missed sound check."

"Nope," Dante retorted. "I didn't miss it one bit." He grabbed the back of the metal folding chair set up in front of the dressing table and mirror, flipped it around, and straddled it. He watched in the mirror as Von draped his magazine over the chair's arm.

"Y'know, that line never gets old," the nomad said.

"Glad to hear it. That's me all over, aiming to please."

Von snorted.

Dante took off his shades and tossed them onto the table. He closed his eyes. He still saw Heather at the window looking into the night, still smelled her, lilac and sage and bittersweet hurt, still felt the softness of her cheek beneath his fingers.

Opening his eyes, Dante shoved his hood back, then combed his fingers through his hair. He shivered, cold and knotted up.

He rubbed his hands over his face. He just needed to feed, and he would, after the gig. "You and Silver fed yet?" he asked.

"Yeah...but is that a cut I see in your shirt?" Von's voice was low with suspicion. "You been sc.r.a.pping again? Or did tough little Heather greet you with a big ol' knife?"

Dante looked at Von's watchful reflection in the mirror. "Nah. Her sister did."

The humor vanished from Von's face. He sat up. "Seriously? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." Tugging off his hoodie, Dante draped it over the chair. His personal kit was on the table, beside a tall, deep green bottle of black market European absinthe; he unzipped the kit and felt around inside for his kohl stick. Pulling it out, he uncapped it, leaned forward, and touched up the kohl smudged around his eyes.

"Seattle nightkind are here for the show," Von said. "Well, some of 'em, anyway. The Lady of the leading household asked for some time with you before the show."

"She can wait for the meet-and-greet like everyone else," Dante replied. "Why should she get special attention just cuz she's nightkind?"

"That's you all over, aiming to please," Von said.

"My f.u.c.king mission in life," Dante agreed. He paused, the kohl stick pressed against the outside corner of his eye as sudden movement drew his gaze.

Eli hurried past the curtains and into the room. "Dante! I was beginning to worry," he said, his words rapid, spring-loaded.

"Which set list do you want for tonight?" He hunkered down beside Dante's chair. His patchouli and ganja scents curled up into Dante's nostrils.

"The first one. Why you so anxious, mon ami?"

Eli shook his head, his dreads swaying with the movement. Tension played across his face. "I've been having some programming problems with the keyboards."

"Okay, I'll take a look in a bit," Dante said, "and see what's up."

"D'accord."