Authors: Adrian Phoenix
Sweat beaded along his hairline as he struggled with the urge—the
hunger
—to Make. After several tense moments, his song quieted. The electric tingling in his hands vanished.
Dante opened his eyes. Annie was gone. Not that he blamed her. That had been too fucking close. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. He shoved both hands through his hair.
What the hell just happened?
One thing—okay, several things, but one in particular—troubled Dante about the incident: Annie’s not-quite-a-baby-yet had
sang
to him, Sharika’s hadn’t. And a dark suspicion as to why roosted in the back of his mind, since he had a feeling that non-singing unborn babies were the norm.
Heather’s words trickled through his memory:
I think I found out what the Morningstar did that morning in our motel room.
Yeah, me too
, catin. Anger surged through Dante.
Motherfucker . . .
He glanced down the hall toward the Cage, regretting that he’d ruined Annie’s night and siphoned away the buoyant joy that she’d carried inside the Cage. Sighing, he pushed away from the wall and went to join Von in the courtyard.
36
INEXTRICABLY BOUND
N
EW
O
RLEANS
,
C
LUB
H
ELL
March 28
“S
UMMONED
?” B
LUE FLAMES FLARED
around Dante’s fingers, snapping the electric smell of ozone into the jasmine and honeysuckle-sweetened air. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at his glowing hands.
Von tensed, sitting up straight on the black wrought-iron bench as Dante paced in front of it, his boots silent against the courtyard’s brickwork.
“It’s not a big deal,” Von said, keeping his voice an easy drawl, “so put out the fire, little brother. I like the courtyard just the way it is.”
Dancing yellow light from the gargoyle candle sconces burnished the ring in Dante’s collar, flashed from his studded belt, the rings on his fingers and thumbs. His burning hands clenched into fists.
“Dante . . .”
“Working on it. It ain’t like flipping a fucking switch. Not yet, anyhow.”
Dante stopped pacing and closed his eyes. Tension seemed to thrum beneath his skin like a plucked piano wire. He drew in a deep breath of air and closed his eyes. The
creawdwr
flames around his hands winked out.
Von sagged against the back of the bench, his pulse easing off the throttle.
Dante opened his eyes and looked at Von, the intense molten color of his eyes cooling back to brown. He wiped absently at the blood oozing from one nostril.
Boy’s still hurting, dammit.
“So spill. What’s going on? Why are you being summoned back to Memphis?”
Von held Dante’s gaze, realizing a choice he’d never anticipated waited for him in those dark, unguarded depths.
If I tell him the truth, that I went dark—that I
chose
to go dark—to keep his secrets safe until he was ready to share them, he’ll blame himself for whatever consequences are heaped on my plate.
And that’s the last fucking thing he needs at the moment.
If I lie to him, he’ll walk out of this courtyard unaware that I’ve betrayed his trust, unaware that
I
decided what’s best for him and what his limits are.
Unaware, for now. He’ll find out eventually. And when he does, there will be no coming back from that. He’ll never trust me again.
He’s had all he can take. Mind and heart.
Von drew in a deep breath, decision made. “I stopped reporting about a month ago. I went dark. They want to know why.”
Dante stared at him, dark brows knitting together. “A month ago?” He shut his eyes and groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ. You went dark because of me.”
“Look, it was my decision to hide your secrets until
you
chose to share them. I knew the consequences. Withholding information is a
llygad
’s greatest sin. That and lack of impartiality, and I’m guilty of both—no regrets.”
Opening his eyes, Dante raked a hand through his hair. “Fuck, man, I appreciate it. I do. But I never would’ve asked that of you.”
“I know. Like I said, my decision, my consequences. Right now, all they want is an explanation. Like I said, no big deal.” Von figured it was more likely they’d drum his ass out of the
llygaid
and cut off his access to the mind-net, but saw no harm in downplaying that particular possibility.
“I can go to Memphis with you, help explain shit,” Dante said. “Whatever I can do to help,
mon ami
, just let me know.”
“Don’t worry about it, little brother. I think your coming-out gig tonight will do the trick.” At least, he hoped so. Stretching his jeans and leather chaps–covered legs out in front of him, Von crossed his road-scuffed scooter boots at the ankles. “Now since I’ve shown you mine, it’s time you showed me yours—starting with that goddamned mark the Morningstar put on your chest.”
Dante studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “
D’accord
.” He unstrapped his PVC and fishnet shirt and peeled it off. Candlelight and shadows rippled against his white skin. Glinted in his eyes. “This is still new to me, so hold on.”
New?
Von watched him, mystified, his attention fixed on the scar looped on his chest like the ivy on the stone wall behind him. Did the sigil
do
something?
Face tight with concentration, his dark brows knitted together, Dante flexed his shoulders. Von heard the soft shush of velvet against flesh, then Dante flexed his shoulders again and a whoosh filled the room—like the rush of wings.
Von felt his jaw drop open. He perched on the bench’s edge, the cold iron biting into his fingers as he gripped its edge, his heart kicking against his sternum. He stared at Dante, his mind on pause. “Holy fucking hell,” he breathed.
“Holy fucking shit was
my
initial reaction,” Dante drawled, dry amusement leavening his voice. “But holy fucking hell works too. But we’re in a rut. We
gotta
come up with some new expletives.”
“Holy fucking hell.”
“You said that already.”
“Wings. You’ve got wings.”
Dante nodded. “Yup.”
“But . . . how? When?”
“Be easier to just show you,” Dante said, touching a finger to his temple.
“Agreed. Yeah.” Von lowered his shields in anticipation, pried his fingers loose from their deathgrip on the bench, and stood.
Dante took a step closer, but the edge of his right wing brushed a planter full of yellow roses and knocked it to the bricks in a shower of dirt and petals, while the arched tip of his left wing thumped into a branch of the dogwood tree overhanging the bench. White blossoms and green leaves bounced from Dante’s hair and shoulders, slid along his wings to the ground. Wood creaked.
Irritation flashed across Dante’s pale face. “
Fuck
.” Scowling, he flexed his shoulders until his wings folded behind him. “Jesus Christ.”
Von grinned. “Beauty
and
grace. Killer combo, little brother.”
“The complete package, yeah.”
“By the way, I noticed the left wing popped out before the right one,” Von commented, stroking his mustache thoughtfully with thumb and index finger. “Having trouble getting ’em up, man?”
“Fuck you,” Dante said, flipping him off. “Oh, wait. Look at what I just found.” He extended his other middle finger. “Fuck you twice.”
Von’s grin widened. “Twice is a good warm-up.”
Dante laughed, tension spilling like water from his muscles. “For true,
mon ami
.” He sauntered to a stop in front of Von.
“You flown yet?” Von asked.
“Nope. I’m gonna give it a try later.”
Von tilted his head, studying Dante’s gorgeous wings up close and personal. And they
were
gorgeous—just like the rest of Dante. Blacker than a moonless night and edged with crimson, the blue and purple undersides smelled of wing musk and of Dante—burning leaves and November frost and deep, dark earth.
An image strobed behind Von’s eyes, a dizzying vision of time and chance and destiny. A vision he’d had before.
Tendrils of Dante’s black hair lift into the air as though breeze-caught. Gold light stars out from his kohl-rimmed eyes, He looks up as song—not his own—rings through the air. The night burns, the sky on fire from horizon to horizon.
The never-ending Road.
The Great Destroyer.
No matter which Dante turned out to be—one or neither or both—Von knew beyond even the thinnest whisper of doubt that his fate was inextricably bound to Dante’s. Knew that, no matter what, he would always stand beside him.
To the very end.
“Hey, you ready?” Dante asked.
From inside the club, a woman’s voice cried out over the microphone, “Glad to be back in New Orleans! Here’s a nightmare just for you!” Music exploded into existence, crashing dark and wild against the walls as the band tore into their set.
Von looked into Dante’s dark eyes, looked straight into the intelligent, compassionate, burning heart of him, and nodded. “More than ready, little brother.”
Dante cupped heated hands against Von’s face, then slid his fingertips up to his temples. Von closed his eyes. Images flooded his mind, a violent, churning current of sensory detail that his
llygad
-trained mind was able to channel and process without tumbling beneath the surface like a hiker swept up in a flash flood.
Dante punches his blue-glowing fist into the tomb . . .
“Jesus Christ,” Von whispered.
37
RUMOR’S END
N
EW
O
RLEANS
,
C
LUB
H
ELL
March 28
T
HE MOURNFUL AIR-RAID SIREN
wailing beneath the pensive chords of “End of Days” spoke of impending loss and irreversible disaster, of hearts stripped bare.
Dante stood in the courtyard door, Heather beside him, watching as Saints of Ruin ruled the fetish-and-
gris-gris
-hung Cage.
Black hair edging her pale face, frontwoman Ruby curled her hands around the microphone. “Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days to end,” she sang, her scarlet-glossed lips almost brushing the microphone in a lover’s kiss. “Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days . . .”
“You sure you wanna do this in front of everyone?” Von asked, eyeing the pulsing crowd of mortals and nightkind packing the club’s floor, the air thick with musky pheromones, sweat, and warring perfumes—patchouli, cherry-vanilla, sandalwood.
“Yup.”
More nightkind than usual were present, threaded like pearls through the mortal throng, and Dante had caught more than one lambent pair of eyes directed his way, burning with a cold and preternatural curiosity.
Waiting to see what I’m gonna do about Mauvais. Gathering like crows. All tilted heads, sharp beaks, and glittering eyes.
No one had said a word about Simone—except for Vincent. And, at the moment, the Magazine Street lord stood at the bar beside Silver and Annie, smoking a Pink Elephant, his gaze on the Cage, glammed to the max in face and body glitter, lipstick, kohl, and dressed in a white faux fur vest and skin-tight silver vinyl pants.
“There will one day be peace,” Ruby sang. “There will one day be light.”
Dante doubted that, but at least the waiting was over. He felt a gentle tap against his shields and recognized Lucien’s touch. He opened to his father’s sending.
<
I’ve informed the band that you’re going to do an announcement at the end of this song.
>
>
<
Remember. No word about your
creawdwr
gifts,
> Lucien reminded. <
Not yet.
>
>
<
And here I thought you didn’t even know the word.
>
Lucien stood beside the Cage, his hair a loose spill of night down his back, his arms crossed over his black silk shirt. A teasing smile curved his lips.
Arching a
touché
eyebrow, Dante lifted both hands and flipped him off.
Lucien’s smile deepened.
“One day there will be no more sorrow. Waiting, waiting, waiting for these days to end . . .”
As SOR guided the song to its end, Dante turned, cupped Heather’s face between his hands, and kissed her deeply. “For luck,” he murmured against her lips.
Her fingers brushed against his temples. Her twilight-blue gaze held his. “For luck, Baptiste,” she agreed.
Releasing her, Dante
moved
through the crowd, Von following in his wake. Lucien unlocked the Cage and swung the steel-barred door open. The crowd screamed and cheered as they realized who was climbing inside. The jockeying for position at the front of the Cage intensified, more than one person took an elbow to the nose.
“Fuck, YEAH!”
“Oh my God! Dante! Dante!”
Ruby looked up, startled, her hands frozen on the mic stand. Tommy Dark spun around, guitar held at his side, light glinting from the stud patches on his black stretch denim pants. The three remaining band members all slanted uncertain glances at Dante.
Looks like Ruby and Tommy mentioned I was nightkind.
Dante greeted Tommy, then Ruby, with a kiss to the lips. Smiling, Ruby wiped her lipstick from Dante’s mouth with a swipe of her thumb. Her midnight blue taffeta dress rustled as she stepped back, relinquishing the microphone.
A smile tilted Dante’s lips. “
Merci beaucoup, chère
.”
Von took his position in front of the Cage, the crowd melting away from him like ice on a hot sidewalk. Dante waited for the enthusiastic screams and raw-throated shrieks to die down. Once they had, he stepped in front of the mic.