Maker's Song - In the Blood Part 34

Sheridan's heart triple-timed and, for a moment, he couldn't catch his breath. Too many pick-me-ups, too many hours crammed in the SUV, breathing his own ever-ripening odor, and chewing stick after endless stick of spearmint gum.

He watched the mini-mon, the screen quivering with every hard beat of his heart. Wallace and a dreadlocked male carrying a pet container walked out of the house. She unlocked the trunk to her Trans Am. Prejean and what looked like a punkedup teenager carried suitcases to the opened trunk.

Prejean was leaving.

"f.u.c.k," Sheridan breathed.

Then the teenager called, "What about your bag?"

Prejean shook his head. "Leave it. We're coming back to load up Heather's stuff. I'll grab it then."

The teen nodded, then climbed into the backseat of the car.

We're coming back...

Sheridan exhaled. Blotted sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve. He hoped to h.e.l.l Prejean was referring to just himself and Wallace. Sheridan felt confident he could find a way to justify Wallace as collateral damage to Rutgers. He just needed to be d.a.m.n sure that he caught Prejean off guard and put him down with the first shot. If he didn't, he wouldn't live long enough to fire a second.

ALEX TUGGED A BLACK-AND-WHITE composition notebook from Annie's gym bag and paged through it. He studied the lyrics slanting southpaw style across the white sheets, beautiful and raw phrases; he had to admit Dante was a poet, a dark poet. He thumbed past pages full of musical composition-measures and chords, along with margin doodles and notes to himself: Start drums here; loop the ba.s.s; falsetto chorus...

Closing the notebook, Alex tossed it back into the gym bag and continued rummaging through lavender-scented clothes for the other item Annie had bragged about stealing. His fingers glided over the bottle's smooth shape and wrapped around it. Pulled it free.

Athena's words whispered though Alex's memory: Green waters of remembrance. He'll need the green waters.

Excitement spun through him as he examined the sealed, green-tinted bottle. Although Alex didn't know what role the absinthe would play in Dante's upcoming immersion into his past, Athena's visions were always right.

Alex tucked the absinthe back into the nest of perfumed un-dies, then zipped the bag shut. He scooted the bag onto the floorboards between Annie's booted feet.

She'd been talkative when she'd hopped into the truck, bouncing from subject to subject like a Slinky flipping from stair to stair, usually switching midsentence. And for one awful moment, he'd expected her to start whispering in an effort to keep up with her racing thoughts.

Then the moment had pa.s.sed, and Alex's pulse had slowed. Not Athena, but Annie. A pang of regret had p.r.i.c.ked him.

Annie's mind was nearly as ravaged as his sister's.

Annie had kept thumping the end of one fist against her forehead and Alex had finally realized she was in pain, had realized she'd probably welcome the syringe.

It hadn't taken him long to find an ill-lit alley to pull the truck into.

As the needle pierces her throat, he says: It's nothing personal. All I want is Dante.

Annie laughs: Get in line, motherf.u.c.ker.

Alex pushes the plunger.

He twisted flex-cuffs around Annie's wrists and ankles. Brushing a purple strand of hair away from her lips, he stretched a wide piece of duct tape across her mouth. Alex clicked a picture of her using her own phone. Sliding the phone into his hoodie pocket, he got out of the Dodge Ram and unsnapped the black tonneau cover over the bed and folded it back.

With Annie slung across his shoulders in a fireman's carry, Alex returned to the truck bed and eased her down into it as best he could. Her head bounced against the runneled metal, fanning multicolored hair across her face, but she didn't stir. She wouldn't for hours.

Alex snapped the tonneau cover back in place. He leaned against the truck, lit up a Winston, and smoked in silence for a few moments. He hoped he was right about Dante's feelings for Heather. Even so, it was still possible the True Blood might tell him to f.u.c.k off again.

Alex pulled his cell from his pocket and called Athena. After six rings, her voice mail switched on, a message he'd recorded for her years ago: You've reached the voice mail of Dr. Athena Wells. Please leave a message.

Anxiety coiling through his guts, Alex rang his father's cell, then the land line. Six rings, voice mail. Maybe she was so absorbed studying the center footage on the laptop she didn't hear the phone. Or was ignoring it.

He wished he and Athena shared the long-range telepathy that vampires used so effortlessly, but they'd learned through trial and error that they couldn't touch each other's minds or anyone else's unless they were within a certain proximity.

Taking one last drag from his cigarette, the b.u.t.t-end smoke harsh against his throat, he flicked it into a puddle. Alex thumbed the END b.u.t.ton on his cell, then slid the phone into his pocket. He climbed back into the Dodge Ram and started up the engine. The powerful rumble reverberated against the alley's stone walls.

Even if Athena was ignoring the phone, the Tightrope Walker should've picked up. She'd want to know about his progress since she seemed to be so invested in seeing his father in Dante Baptiste's hands.

But maybe she couldn't answer the phone.

Maybe Athena had decided to conduct another experiment.

TRANS AM IDLING IN a pa.s.senger unloading zone in front of the main terminal at Sea-Tac, Heather said her good- byes, giving Jack, Eli, and Antoine quick hugs before offering her hand to Silver. With a slight smile, Silver shook her hand.

"I hope you find Annie," he said. His strange silver eyes glittered like sun-sparked water beneath the lights. "She's cool, but she's chewed herself up ragged inside, y'know? She needs an easy touch."

Heather nodded, surprised by his insight. "She does. Thanks."

Silver shrugged, then stepped back a few paces to join the guys as Dante, the hood of his black hoodie pulled up to shadow his face, said his good-byes with kisses and murmured words.

"He asked me to shepherd everyone home, make sure they get there safe," Von said, stepping up beside Heather, his gaze on Dante. "But I G.o.dd.a.m.ned hate leaving him. Between the migraines and the seizures..." He shook his head.

"Has he ever said anything about what Jordan did to him in that van?"

"Nope. Not a word."

"That's something else he shouldn't have to carry alone," she said softly.

"Yeah, good luck trying to convince him of that." The nomad bent and dug through the well-weathered olive-green knapsack at his booted feet. He pulled something out, then straightened. "Here, doll." He held the black, zippered bag in his hands.

"You're gonna need this."

Heather took the vinyl bag, feeling cold. "Thanks. I hope I won't have to use it."

Von shook his head. "Sorry, darlin', but you will."

Heather pulled one of her business cards from her purse and handed it to Von. "My cell phone number's on there," she said. "Check in with me anytime. Once you're back home, give me a call. I'll keep you posted on our progress each night and where we're staying."

The nomad nodded. "Good enough." He slipped the card into an inner pocket of his leather jacket.

Heather caught a whiff of frost-rimed autumn leaves and then Dante was beside her. He hooked his arm around her waist.

"Safe flight, mon ami. I appreciate you seeing everyone home. Merci beaucoup for everything."

"No, thank you. You helped me attain my lifelong goal of roadie-hood," Von drawled dryly, then something tender warmed his green eyes. He pushed Dante's hood back and cupped his pale face with his road-weathered hands. "Let them see, little brother." Then he bent and kissed him.

Let them see.

Heather realized Von wasn't talking about the voyeuristic appeal of watching two men kiss, he was telling Dante not to hide his beauty inside a hood, and he was also speaking about who and what Dante was-musician, friend, True Blood, and Fallen.

Unique. Br.i.m.m.i.n.g with magic and beauty and heart; dark, untamed, and deadly.

Let them see you.

I agree, but not yet, Heather thought. Not until his life is completely his own.

The kiss ended and the nomad released Dante with a pat to his cheek. "Take care, little brother," he said. He cat-nudged Heather with his shoulder and she b.u.mped him back. "And see if you can keep your gorgeous kick-a.s.s woman outta trouble."

Dante snorted. Pointed to himself. "Gasoline." Pointed at Heather. "Match." He winked at her as Von laughed. "As soon as we find Annie, we'll head home."

Von held Dante's gaze for a few moments, and Heather knew they were speaking mind-to-mind. Something sad and yearning suddenly shadowed Dante's unguarded face, and he looked away, jaw tight.

Von watched him for a moment, then sighed. "Like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned mule." Looking at Heather, he said, "Wishing ya easy roads, doll. See ya in a week or two."

"Take care of Eerie," she said.

Von snorted. "That cat's got Eli wrapped around his paw, woman." Heather grinned. "That's my kitty boy."

Motioning for the guys to move their a.s.ses, Von strode toward the terminal entrance, pausing to exchange greetings with a couple of nomads on gear-laden bikes.

Dante untucked his shades from the front of his shirt and slid them on. He looked at Heather. "Let's go find Annie."

"f.u.c.kING h.e.l.l," DANTE MUTTERED. He hated restraints. Unbuckling his seat belt, he shifted in the seat, his leather pants squeaking against vinyl, and rested his back against the pa.s.senger door. He rested one booted foot on the seat. Better.

Heather glanced at him. "That's the face I want to remember," she said, returning her gaze to the road. "The one before the accident."

"So don't crash," Dante teased. "And anyway, the airbag will suffocate me first."

"Smart a.s.s."

"Yup."

The smooth, high-pitched thrum of the Trans Am's engine filled the silence. But the silence wasn't tense or awkward, Dante reflected, his gaze on Heather's face. They were comfortable together even without words, content with their own thoughts.

And that was dangerous.

It would make it even harder to walk away from her when the time came, when he was sure she was safe from the Bureau and anyone else hunting her.

The words Von had arrowed into his mind at the airport darted through his memory: Don't deny your heart, little brother.

Gotta. She'll die if I don't.

No, Dante, no...

A song suddenly disrupted the silence, a tinny version of Rob Zombie's "Living Dead Girl." "That's Annie's ringtone,"

Heather breathed. "Phone's in my purse." She steered the Trans Am to the shoulder of the road. "Talk to her until I get stopped."

Dante swiveled around in his seat, grabbed Heather's purse from the backseat, and fished out the Zombie-rocking cell. He flipped it open. "Annie?"

The Trans Am slowed to a stop. Heather pulled up the emergency brake.

"No, but you're not who I was expecting either." Alex Lyons's voice was level and warm. "You're who I wanted to speak to, though."

"Fi'de garce," Dante spat. "Where's Annie?"

Heather stared at Dante, fear flickering across her face. "Who is it?"

"Lyin' Lyons," Dante told her. "Where the f.u.c.k's Annie?"

"She's with me and she's safe, for the moment."

"Give me the phone," Heather said, holding out her hand. All fear was gone from her face, but her hand trembled. Dante gave her the phone.

"What have you done with my sister, Lyons?"

Heather's expression tightened as she listened to whatever the motherf.u.c.ker was saying. Dante trailed a hand through his hair. Annie was in trouble. Bad trouble. Because of him.

He should've killed Lyons when he'd had the chance. Should've torn into his throat and fed.

Heather lowered the cell from her ear. The phone beeped and she looked at what appeared on the tiny monitor. Her breath caught in her throat. Wordlessly, she extended the phone to Dante so he could see too.

The screen held a photo of Annie, eyes closed, duct tape across her mouth. Anger burned through Dante's veins.

"He wants to talk to you," Heather said, her voice strained.

Dante took the phone from her fingers. He knew what she was thinking because he was thinking it too. "How do we know she's alive?" he said into the cell.

"You'll just have to take my word for it," Lyons said. "She is, but if you want to keep her that way, you need to meet me."

"Where?"

"Heather's house. If you aren't there in ten minutes, Annie will be dead." Lyons ended the call.

Dante flipped the cell closed and dropped it back into Heather's purse. "Your house in ten minutes," he told her.

Heather nodded, jaw tight. She dropped the emergency brake, slammed the Trans Am into gear and burned rubber out onto the road. Dante listened to the rapid, furious rhythm of her heart. Adrenaline heated her scent, edging its lilacs-in-the-rain sweetness with the sharp tang of steel.

"Hang on, p't.i.te," Dante said under his breath, wishing hard and from the heart. Memory whirled through him, edging his vision with white light.

Jay, straitjacketed and dying on the slaughterhouse's cold floor, blood from his slashed throat pooling around him, staining his blond hair red...