Maker's Song - A Rush Of Wings Part 19

Powerful muscles flexed. The s.h.i.+rt fluttered down the stairs like a rose petal dropped from a lover's bouquet.

A silhouetted figure scurried up the stairs after De Noir had rounded the corner and vanished from view.

A red-haired Goth princess in black crinoline and fishnet scooped up the abandoned s.h.i.+rt. She pressed it against her cheek as she trotted back down the stairs.

"Is De Noir a vampire...nightkind...too?" Heather turned to look at Dante.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Dante shook his head. "No. He's Fallen."

Talons. Golden eyes. Blue fire. "As in angels?" This doesn't concern the Fallen.

Dante shrugged. "That's one of the stories."

"Sothat's it," Ronin murmured.

"Time for you to go, Peeping Tom," Dante said. "We're done here."

"Okay." Ronin held up his hands. "I didn't come here to make enemies."

A smile quirked up one corner of Dante's mouth. "Liar."

A flicker of movement out of the comer of Heather's eye, the sudden scent of smoke and frost on a gust of air, and then Von stood beside Ronin. The two men -vampires? - were the same height, and looked eye to eye.

"I walked you in," Von drawled. "I'll walk you out."

"Again,llygad , I'm honored."

The nomad walked past Ronin and down the steps. Ronin met Dante's dark gaze. "True Blood," he said. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Turning, he followed Von down the steps. Heather watched until she saw him stride into the entrance hall, the nomad in his wake.

"True Blood?"

Dante shook his head. "He's full of s.h.i.+t."

"But what does it mean?"

"It doesn't matter," Dante said. "The note mentions my car. I'm gonna look."

Heather stepped in close, inhaling his warm, earthy scent. "Not alone. Too dangerous."

"I ain't asking permission," Dante said. "I'm not gonna sit on my a.s.s and let someone else I care about die."

"Of course not. But I'm coming with you."

Surprise flashed in Dante's eyes. "As a friend or as a cop?"

"Both," Heather said, voice low. "I'm both."

"Yeah?" A smile curved Dante's lips.

"Yeah. You're gonna need a friend and some luck -"

Dante cupped Heather's face, his hands warm against her skin. "For luck," he murmured against herlips, then he kissed her.

Her eyes closed. His lips, soft and firm against hers, stoked the fire simmering in her veins, stirred the embers glowing in her belly.

Too soon the kiss ended and Dante's hands slid from Heather's face. She opened her eyes. She didn't see amus.e.m.e.nt in his expression, or a smirk on his lips. He just looked at her, completely open.

Her spinning thoughts slowed. Heat flushed her cheeks when she realized she'd been so stunned by the kiss that she hadn't touched him, had stood there with her hands hanging at her sides. Like she'd never kissed before.

Sure beats a handshake, though.

"Let's go," Dante said. He held out his hand.

Heather grabbed it and followed him down the steps. Faces and scents blurred past her - dreads, mohawks, golden Claudia curls, acrid tobacco, clove, patchouli. She flew, weightless, Dante's warm hand in hers.

Suddenly outside, Heather's weight returned and Dante released her hand. She followed him through the narrow alley between the pizza parlor and Club h.e.l.l to the back street behind the club.

Dante stopped beside the MG parked at the curb. Heather paused on the pa.s.senger side. "You don't have a driver's license," she said.

"True." He opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. "That a problem?"

Heather pulled the pa.s.senger door open, then bent down and peered inside. "You don't lock your car?"

Dante didn't answer. He stared at something tied to the steering wheel, face stricken. He untied it with trembling fingers. It unfurled from the steering wheel. A sheer black stocking.

Just like the one left knotted around Gina's throat.

17.

Born Sociopath Blood slicked E's fingers. He gritted his teeth and dug his s.h.i.+v in a little deeper. The tip sc.r.a.ped across something, stuck. He paused, waiting for the pain. Nuthin'. Reaching back with his other hand, he slid his fingers across the wound at the base of his skull. Gingerly touched the thing his s.h.i.+v had nicked. Soft edges. No sensation.

Laughter poured from E's throat, the sound low and strained and p.i.s.sed.

Sothat'show he found me in New York. How long had the f.u.c.ker been tracking me? Interesting that he never mentioned the bugs.

E tugged. His fingers slipped and he lost his grip on the implant. Blood trickled inside the back of his collar, warm against his icy skin. s.h.i.+fting the bloodied s.h.i.+v to his other hand, E wiped his sweaty palm offon his jeans. Switched hands again. Tightened his grip and went back to work.

E gripped the implant's edge. Pried with his s.h.i.+v. Wormed with his fingers. Here he was, at one of the cheap motels he despised, straddling a wobbly kitchenette chair, digging a satellite chip out of his f.u.c.king flesh with one of his own f.u.c.king s.h.i.+vs.

Thanks, Tom-Tom.

Blinking sweat out of his eyes, E levered the tip of his s.h.i.+v under the implant. Flipped it. A sudden sharp pain, poking fire all the way down his spine, then the bug popped free.

Cold and shaking despite the fire raging at the base of his skull, E lowered his hands to the table. The b.l.o.o.d.y s.h.i.+vtunk ed onto its cheap, laminated surface. His other hand cupped the tiny, blood-smeared transmitter. He poked it with his index finger. Nuthin'.

E's fist closed around the implant. He swiveled in the chair and looked at the file contents strewn across the stained bedspread, at the image on the cheap laptop monitor: Dante, thirteen or fourteen years old, tearing open his foster father's throat with his fingertips, blood spraying his pale, gorgeous face. Mrs.

Prejean was already dead, crumpled on the dining room floor, her head little more than bits of white bone, hanks of hair, and oozing brains.

f.u.c.kin' beautiful! Go, little bro, go!

Foster parents, E snorted. Yeah, right. If you considerpimps parental figures.

Of course, Bad Seed Mommy and Daddy knew all about the Prejeans, knew how they used the kids the state handed over to them. Knew how they'd p.i.s.s themselves with delight when Dante was placed in their home.

The Prejeans had made alot of moolah off Dante. Course, even with their ward properly restrained, a few of their clients had taken serious injuries. Something about a d.i.c.k bitten off, or nearly, anyway.

E grinned. He stood, then walked into the john. Standing over the toilet, he opened his hand and dropped the implant into the bowl. Thin swirls of blood tinted the water red. He flushed.

Let Tom-Tom track him now.

Let Johanna Moore sweat.

Mommy, I'm coming home and I ain't coming alone.

Walking back into the other room, E knelt beside the bed. He popped the CD out of the laptop. Folded the monitor down. He shuffled the doc.u.ments, reports, and photos back into the manila folders.

One photo caught his eye and he pulled it free from the pile. A small boy, two or three years old, a tuft of sandy hair sticking up at the back of his head, grinned at the camera. Behind him, a man and woman slumped on a vine-patterned sofa, blood smearing the cus.h.i.+ons. A dark hole gaped in the man's - Daddy's- temple, and in the woman's -Momma's- forehead. A gun was on the floor just beneath the man's dangling hand.

E couldn't remember if he'd seen his father ice his mom, then himself in the standard murder-suicidething. If he had, it must not've bothered him much. He couldn't remember the incident and he'd never been troubled by nightmares.

Well, not about his parents, anyway.

E tucked the photo back in with the papers and shoved them all into the folder. So, his parents had died when he was almost three, and Bad Seed had directed his life from that moment on. Dante's mother had been taken by Bad Seed while pregnant, then slaughtered once she'd given birth.

E shook his head. Born a bloodsucker. Who woulda thought?

Back at the kitchen table, E mixed himself another gin and tonic. He took a long, cool swallow and washed the day's flat taste out of his mouth.

Created sociopath. So Bad Seed named him.

Born sociopath. So Bad Seed named Dante.

But they were wrong. He tossed back the rest of his drink, the gin's clean taste clearing his head. Very wrong. He set the gla.s.s down and walked into the bathroom. The fluorescent light buzzed. The mirror reflected his shaded gaze, his blood-streaked neck. He grinned. Switched off the light. Switched it back on. Grinned again.

Wetting a hand towel at the tap, E wiped at the blood on his neck. Dante wasn't the only true blood.

Bad Seed hadn't created E from little grinning Elroy. E had already existed and had been busy nudging little grinning Elroy outta the picture.

E rinsed the towel in the sink. b.l.o.o.d.y water swirled down the drain. He patted the towel against the implant site and sucked in a breath through his teeth. d.a.m.n if it didn't sting like amother f.u.c.ker.

E's little sister hadn't died of SIDS. He'd suffocated her. Had pushed her blankie against her face until she'd quit squirming and gone still. He remembered that as one of his earliest memories. Odd he didn't remember his folks, but, hey, that's the way it goes. Maybe if he'd been the one to snuff 'em, he'd've remembered.

Draping the bloodstained towel over the edge of the sink, E turned off the faucet. He'd have to buy some Band-Aids. He wondered if Dante'd need bandaging after he dug the implant out of him. Vampires were supposed to heal fast and s.h.i.+t, so maybe not.

Bad Seed had f.u.c.ked up. They didn't have just one born sociopath, they had two, true bloods - vampireand human - and they'd just lost all control of their little project.

E gathered up the file box and the black bag he'd borrowed from Tom-Tom's closet, opening the motel room door with one cramped hand and a kick from his Nikes. He strode across the semideserted parking lot, gravel gritting beneath his sneakers. Balancing the box and bag on his uplifted thigh, E managed to unlock the Jeep and wrestle the door open. He shoved the box onto the backseat, then tossed the bag in beside it.

The black bag was full of all kinds of goodies to subdue a bloodsucker. Drugs - only drugs derived from natural s.h.i.+t or designed for bloodsucker systems worked on 'em; handcuffs - oh, not your ordinary, for-humans kinda cuffs, oh no; and a strait-jacket, aspecial straitjacket. At first, E had thought he'd pay Ronin a surprise visit during daylight hours and try some of the goodies out on his black bloodsucker a.s.s. But then he'd gotten another idea.

Abetter idea.

He was gonna play possum. Go back to the rental. Put all the goodies away. Pretend he still didn't know s.h.i.+t. Until the right moment...the moment Tom-Tom managed to bring Dante home or the moment Dante decided to crawl in through Ronin's window to take care of business.

In either case, E would be ready.

E slid into the driver's seat and keyed on the ignition. The Jeep started up right away, the pungent smell of gasoline and exhaust puffing white into the chilly air. He glanced at the newspaper lying beside him on the seat, and reread the headline.

CROSS-COUNTRY KILLER DEAD IN FLORIDA.

Really?

A sc.r.a.ping, steam-roller-over-rocks sound filled the Jeep's interior. E forced his jaw open. The sound stopped. p.i.s.sed enough to grind his teeth. Either some idiot had dared to copy his work and had been f.u.c.king nailed in the act...

Or someone wanted to lure the Bureau away...lureHeather away from him. That someone would have to be Bad Seed momma, Johanna.

If he continued to cull, it'd be obvious he wasn't dead, unless Bad Seed planned to make sure he never killed again.

Sweat popped up along E's hairline. Did they think they were smarter than he was? Did they think they knew more about death than a true-blue sociopath, one born, not created?

E fetched his satchel of tricks from the Jeep's floorboards and took inventory: a length of rope, coiled wire, pliers, latex gloves, duct tape, a small cutting torch. The only thing missing was his book of Navarro's poetry. He'd pick that up when he dropped Ronin's goodies off.

Tonight he'd a.s.sert his independence. Tonight he'd look for that special someone. Someone who'd appreciate both his skills and his poetry...

With a little coaxing.

Sleep released Johanna and her dreams dissipated like night mist caught in sunlight. Fat b.u.mblebees buzzed, the sound vibrating in through her fingertips. She opened her eyes. No b.u.mblebees. No sunlight.

Just carpet under her cheek and a buzzing phone.

She pushed herself up to her knees. How long had she been Sleeping? Hours? Days? The pills threw her natural rhythms out of sync. With each use, it took longer and longer to regain the flow. Scooping her cell phone up from the floor, she flipped it open. "Yes?"

"I checked all incoming flights for the last twenty-four hours," Gifford said. "Craig Stearns arrived at Dulles at five-thirty this morning."

"When did he leave?"

"Seven p.m. For New Orleans."