Maker's Song - In the Blood Part 21

"An FBI agent, Rodriguez," she said. "He filed a malpractice lawsuit against the man you can't remember because that man had treated Rodriguez's son for an antisocial disorder."

"And the son became the Boxcar Strangler," Dante said. He pushed his hair back with both hands. His pale face was thoughtful, but pain glimmered in his eyes. "You wanna bet Rodriguez's son was part of Bad Seed?"

"It's a sure bet," Heather said. "Which would explain why Rodriguez asked an SAC like Lyons to accompany me.

Anything or anyone connected to Bad Seed, like me and like you, Rodriguez would want to keep tabs on. And he'd want people he trusted to keep him informed, people with skill. He must trust Lyons."

She shifted in her chair and cupped her palm against Dante's face. "You okay? I shouldn't have let you read-"

"Nuh-uh, don't even go there. My choice."

"I'm going to make some coffee," Heather said, sliding her hand from his face and standing. "I'd offer you something stronger, but with Annie around, I'd rather not."

"Je comprend, catin."

Eerie bunted Dante's chair with his head, mewed. Dante picked him up and placed him in his lap.

"He's really taken to you," Heather said, walking into the kitchen. "I expected animals to be wary of nightkind, predator to predator, but so far, Eerie's proved me wrong on that account."

"Nah, I've never had problems with animals," Dante said. "Some nightkind do, but only the d.i.c.kheads, y'know? I think it's because we're a part of the natural world."

Interesting thought. Vampires a part of the natural order. Heather spooned coffee into the filter, poured water into the coffee maker, and switched it on. Returning to the table, she sat down again.

Eerie was curled in Dante's lap, purring, eyes closed while Dante scratched under his chin with his left hand. He held a photo in his other hand. Heather took a quick glance-it was a photo of Shannon and James sitting on a floral-patterned sofa just before they married, before she'd been born.

Shannon had been captured in the act of planting a kiss on James's cheek, her hands with their purple-lacquered nails clutching his jeans-clad thigh. Her long red hair, teased into a retro-nineties stripper-chic bouffant, framed her face. A grin parted James's lips, and behind his gla.s.ses his eyes were closed. A lock of honey-blond hair had tumbled across his forehead. They both looked so young. Happy.

If Heather asked her father, would he even remember one laughing minute from twenty-plus years ago? Laughing moments slipped away, transient, light as a summer breeze; but tragedy was etched into hearts and souls, indelible, a lightning strike altering lives in a split second...

Your mother isn't coming home....forever.

"You look a lot like her," Dante murmured, voice husky.

"Maybe a little," Heather allowed. "Ever since she died, I've had dreams about her death, nightmares, I guess I mean."

Dante nodded.

"The thing is, ever since D.C., the dreams have become more vivid and detailed, but they don't feel like dreams. It feels like I'm seeing it all through her eyes. And last night, it was like I was Shannon Wallace." Heather paused a moment, then said, "Is it because of you?"

Dante carefully placed the photo of her parents on the table, then met her gaze, his own troubled and thoughtful. "Could be, yeah. If it is, it wasn't deliberate."

"I know that," Heather said softly. "I'm not trying to blame you. I'm just trying to understand it. Or maybe nearly dying triggered a latent ability."

Dante nodded. "That's possible too."

It was, but she'd bet a year's salary on Dante being the originator of the change within her. The real question, one that Dante couldn't answer, was: Had he woven any other changes into her while saving her life?

"How about you? Have you learned anything about your mom?"

"I had Trey search for info on her," Dante said. "We found nothing. Like she never existed. They not only killed her, they f.u.c.king erased all trace of her."

"There's gotta be something," Heather said. "She lived in New Orleans. Someone had to know her. Worked with her.

Something." She caressed his arm, her fingers whispering across the mesh, feeling the heated skin and hard muscle beneath. "You might consider asking De Noir." The muscles beneath Heather's fingers tensed.

"No." Dante's gaze smoldered, his jaw tight.

"You look like her, you know," Heather said softly. "A lot. She was a beautiful woman. Black hair, dark eyes, warm smile."

Dante nodded and looked away. "Yeah, Lucien said so too."

Heather wished De Noir hadn't destroyed the Bad Seed CD doc.u.menting Dante's birth and his h.e.l.lish childhood. Wished she had a picture of Genevieve Baptiste she could give Dante, a memory he could look at whenever he wanted, and keep. Wells and Moore couldn't have erased Genevieve's existence. Not completely. She and Dante would just have to dig a little deeper, that was all.

The aroma of fresh coffee drifted into the room. Releasing Dante's arm, Heather rose to her feet and went to the kitchen to pour coffee for both of them. When she turned around, Dante was walking into the kitchen and brushing cat fur from his velvet- and-vinyl pants.

"I can pour my own, y'know," he said.

Heather handed him a mug. "Yeah, yours is so tough to remember. Black."

He smiled. "Merci beaucoup."

"I want to thank you for last night," Heather said.

Dante looked at her, his pale face puzzled. "For what?"

"For picking up the mess, and for being so good to Annie, even when she was telling lies about you. I owe you an apology for that too."

"No, you don't," Dante said. "You owe me nothing."

"Yes, I do, Dante, I do," Heather said. "I gave you s.h.i.t over kissing my sister and I had no right-"

"Shhh." Dante pressed his fingers against her lips. "Forget it." Leaning in, he bent and replaced his fingers with his lips, a warm kiss, lingering. She laced her arms around his waist, his earthy and intimate scent teasing her nostrils. Heat kindled in her belly, stoked a fire she realized had never died.

Looking into her eyes, he said, "Annie's home."

Heather heard the front door open, then shut. "Gotta love nightkind hearing," she murmured. Sliding her hands from his waist, she stepped past him and walked into the living room. Annie flounced onto the sofa and switched on the TV with the remote.

"Hey," Heather said. "I was starting to worry about you."

Annie rolled her eyes. "No need. I was good. I didn't drink or buy anything illegal, I-" Her words ended abruptly, her gaze sliding past Heather. Her eyes widened.

Heather felt Dante step up beside her.

"Hey, Annie," he said.

"Holy f.u.c.k," Annie breathed. "It wasn't the tequila and oxy. You really are that f.u.c.king gorgeous." "Thanks, but I've been told. Ain't nothing I care about. Just so you know."

"You'd care if you weren't good-looking," Annie declared, settling back into the sofa, a sardonic gleam in her eyes. "Then every compliment would melt your heart and make you fall in love with the person saying them."

"Annie..." Heather sighed.

"Nah, she may be right," Dante said. "But, tell me, Annie, you know this how?"

Annie lifted a hand and flipped him off. Dante pointed to the words on his shirt-BLOW ME-and lifted an eyebrow.

"Yeah?" Annie challenged. She pointed at her crotch. "You first."

"Is this a new game?" Heather asked, pretending innocence. "How does it work? You point at body parts until someone misses and pokes an eye out?"

Annie stared at her for a moment, then said, "Y'know that might work as a drinking game."

Dante looked at Heather and amus.e.m.e.nt gleamed in his eyes. He looked happy and untroubled, relaxed. She liked seeing him that way, and she liked that she was the cause of it. Liked it very much.

She realized that she knew so many dark and painful things about Dante's life, more than he did, but she didn't know any of the simple things about him like his favorite color or his favorite band or what he liked to read or what size shirt he wore. And his birthday was coming up in...oh...twenty-four days.

Dante walked over to the table and set his cup on its cluttered surface. "I should fix your window before I head over to Vespers," he said, pulling tools and a lock kit from the pockets of his leather jacket. He headed to the window, Eerie hopping after him, then bent over the windowsill, twisting the screwdriver with precision.

Heather smiled. "So you do know how to use a screwdriver."

"Great for jimmying locks."

"Don't make me arrest you."

Dante laughed. "No ma'am. We've already been there, done that."

"Yes, we have."

A few minutes later, he'd installed the new lock. Eerie leaped onto the sill and mewed his approval. Grinning, Dante scratched the top of the cat's orange head. "Couldn't've done it without your supervision, minou," he said. Glancing at Heather, he added, "He's got a lotta grace for having only three legs."

"He does," Heather said. "The shelter I got him from said he'd been attacked by a dog. He survived somehow and it's never really slowed him down."

"Slow he ain't, eh, minou?" Dante said, giving Eerie one last pat.

Dante plucked his hoodie and leather jacket free from the chair and tugged both on, chains jingling. He slid the screwdriver into his pocket. He pulled up his hood, shadowing his beautiful face. Heather understood why he hid his looks, but it made her a little sad that he felt it was necessary. She walked to the window with him.

"So what do you want for your birthday?" she asked.

"My birthday?" Dante's voice was what the h.e.l.l puzzled. His expression matched his voice. "What birthday?"

Heather stared at him. "Didn't you ever have a birthday party growing up?"

"Nope, not that I remember. I just thought it was something not meant for me, y'know, like school and daylight." His voice was even and matter-of-fact-no big deal.

Anger flashed through Heather, a full-on wildfire, scorching through her veins. Her heart pounded so hard, it seemed like her entire body shook with the force of it. Dante had no idea how old he was or when he was born. No one had told him. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had stolen even that from him.

"Heather? You okay?" Dante's dark brows were knitted together.

She drew in a deep breath. Calmed herself. "Yeah, I'm fine," she replied. "Your birthday's on April sixteenth."

"Really? April sixteenth. How old will I be?"

"Twenty-four, Dante," Heather said, chest aching. "You'll be twenty-four."

"Yeah?" A smile tilted his lips, lit his eyes. "Good to know."

"You ever going to use the front door?" she asked as he slid the window open.

"Dunno." Dante climbed out the window. "Maybe. See you at Vespers, cherie."

23 TIGHTROPE.

Damascus, OR March 23 CATERINA PICKED THE LOCK, then eased the back door open. Slipping inside, she pressed her back to the wall.

She scanned the room, a kitchen-refrigerator, butcher's block, wall oven, and stove. Quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator.

The smells of chili, hot peppers, and cuc.u.mber spiced the air.

Caterina crossed the faux-brick tiled floor to the doorway. A hallway stretched in both directions and a glimmer of light spilled from a doorway to the right. To the left, she saw light from the room at the end of the hall.

Caterina paused, tightened her grip on her Glock. The refrigerator clicked off and the sudden silence shocked her senses, like an unexpected zap of static electricity.

She touched the com bud in her ear.

"Here," Beck said.

"Keep sharp," she sub-vocced.

She had no doubt that Athena Wells had somehow known she and Beck were on the hill, watching. Had no doubt Athena Wells had also shut off the alarm system.

Time to find out why.

Rolling the tension from her shoulders, Caterina stepped into the hall and listened. To the left, she caught a faint whisper, like a breeze rustling through the trees late at night: a female voice. A low groan, deep and male, cut intermittently through the whispers.

Staying against the wall, Caterina followed the whispers to the lit room at the end of the hall. As she drew closer, she heard the steady beep of medical machinery. Gloria Wells's room, then. Now she could just make out the words whispered over and over: shewalksonatightropeshewalksonatightropeshewalksonatightropeshewal ksonatight- The whispers suddenly stopped and fear knocked an icy fist against Caterina's sternum. Tightrope? Drawing in a deep breath, she centered herself and pushed her fear aside. She whirled into the room. She went low and to the left, swinging the Glock up as she moved.

Caterina scoped the scene in milliseconds-two beds, only one occupied, one at either side of the room, medical equipment between, a chair, a man sprawled on the floor, a blonde in cords and a blood-spattered lab coat at the foot of one bed, a spear clutched like a walking stick in one hand, a gun or Taser in the other.

Caterina halted, gun aimed at the blonde, and straightened. "Athena Wells?"

She shook pale curls back from her face and said, "Once. I'm Hades now."

Lying in the bed, a thin and wasted older woman watched Caterina, her eyes narcotics-glazed but lucid. IV lines threaded into the back of one bruised hand. "Help me," Gloria Wells whispered. "My daughter's insane."