A Rush of Wings (44 page)

Memory seizure
.

Dante wasn’t
remembering
. No, Lucien thought, that was too kind of a word for what his child experienced…relived…endured. A moment from Dante’s past rippled, like the land during a quake, edging up, then sheering away into darkness. Gone.

Dante endured, yes
. Lucien’s throat tightened as he held his son’s trembling body, brushed the hair back from his pale face.
But for how much longer
? He could hide Dante from the Elohim, protect him from nightkind and every other creature walking the earth—but he couldn’t protect him from his past or from his own mind.

Dante needs to confront the past my absence condemned him to. Needs to confront Johanna Moore. Then, perhaps, he will heal
.

Forgive me, my Genevieve. I failed to keep our son safe
.

But I stand beside him now and will guard him forevermore
.

“
Sa fini pas
,” Dante whispered. His eyes opened. Exhaustion shadowed his gaze, smudged the skin blue beneath his lashes.

“Shhh,” Lucien murmured, touching Dante’s temple. “It
will
end. I’ll drive the van while you Sleep. We’ll be in D.C. by nightfall.”

Dante’s eyes closed as Sleep took him.

Lucien eased his Sleeping child onto the bloodstained carpet. His gaze fell on the handcuffed mortal. Jordan glared at him with hate and jealousy.

Lucien moved beside him. Wrapped a hand around the knife hilt sticking up from his thigh, looked into Jordan’s seething gaze, and yanked. The mortal sucked air in through his teeth.

Lucien tilted his head, listening. “A god? I’ve known gods. You’re just rotting flesh needing to be buried.”

A grin stretched Jordan’s lips. “Yeah? Well, guess what? I’ve got Dante’s protection.” His gaze flicked to Dante’s Sleeping form. “Ain’t that an ass-kicker?”

The smell of pungent lust curled into the air. Lucien grasped Jordan’s chin, forced his gaze away from Dante. “Touch him again and I’ll peel that rotting flesh from your bones while you watch with lidless eyes.”

Jordan jerked free of Lucien’s hand. “I’ve got something he wants.”

Lucien shrugged. “Your bargain is with Dante, not me. Remember that.”

Jordan looked away. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Half an hour later, Lucien pulled the van back onto I-75 and into Tennessee. Jordan sat in the front passenger seat, his right wrist handcuffed to the molded emergency grip above the passenger window. He stared straight ahead, face sullen.

Dante Slept behind the curtain on the rear seat Lucien’d unfolded, a blanket draped over him, head to toe. The bloodied air bed and protective sheet of plastic had been tossed into a Dumpster. Using the mortal’s Zippo, Lucien burned the file on S, but kept the photos of Dante.

Snow drifted down from the gray late-morning sky. Lucien listened for trilling
wybrcathls
, but the sky remained silent. None of the Elohim winged overhead in answer to his
wybrcathl
, seeking the
creawdwr
who’d sang a powerful, chaotic response.

Yet.

32
A Rising Storm

«
^
»

V
OICES PENETRATED THE DARKNESS—quiet voices, terse.

“Traffic’s finally moving,” a man said. “We’ll be there in fifteen.”

A radio crackled. A car, then. A heater purred warmth into the air. A lurching forward motion.

“This is some storm,” a woman said. “I hope we don’t get snowed in.”

“Check Wallace.”

Fabric rustled. Vinyl creaked. A whiff of sweet melon. Perfume?

“Still out.”

Heather’s heart double-timed as memory awakened. Parka and Trenchcoat. The airport. Falling. Snow cold against her face.

We’re taking you to Dr. Moore
.

Images flashed through Heather’s mind, stark and vivid—Dante slipping out the window of his smashed MG; Dante sprawled across the threshold of Ronin’s house, blood trickling along his temple; Jordan grinning as he drove away in the van—and her heart sank.

Have I failed again
?

Heather felt herself sliding toward darkness once more. She bit the inside of her cheek. Tasted blood. The gray morning light and bright swirling snow hurt her eyes, lanced pain into her head. She shifted her gaze to the seat in front of her, focused on the beige vinyl. Ignored the hypnotic
whoosh-shoosh
of the windshield wipers. Her entire body tingled, like she’d taken a massive shot of Novocain.

Glancing down, Heather saw her purse on the floor behind the front passenger seat. No doubt she’d been patted down and her .38 confiscated. She tried to move her hands. The index finger on her right hand twitched. A quick look confirmed that her hands were cuffed in front. Easier to slide her onto the backseat with her hands in front instead of behind?

Heather closed her eyes in case Trench checked on her again. She struggled to keep her breathing even without slipping into the comforting embrace of sleep. Why did Moore want her? Did she suspect that Jordan and Dante were on their way to D.C.? If she’d tried to have Heather killed in New Orleans, why not now? What had changed?

If Moore wanted her dead, like Stearns had said, why weren’t these two taking her to the woods or a field and putting a bullet in her skull?

Had someone intervened? Spoken for her? Her father, perhaps?

She suddenly flashed back to her recurring dream of the shadow-faced driver slipping out of the idling car, hammer gleaming in his hand.

No
. She shoved the memories and images away.
Focus on now
. Vinyl creaked and she kept her eyes closed, counting to a thousand before she risked a glance through her lashes. Trench’s blonde head faced the windshield.

The tingling intensified, shifted into a prickling vibration. Heather’s hands clenched into fists. Hope ignited within her. She relaxed her hands. The tingling and prickling faded to a pins-and-needles sensation. She lifted her cuffed hands, her gaze fixed on Trench’s blonde head, and edged her awakening fingers toward her purse.

The wipers
tick-tock
ed across the windshield. The snow-chained tires crunched through the snow, the sound thick and muffled. Heather’s fingers slipped inside her purse. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Her fingers fumbled through the purse’s contents, tracing shapes, seeking a slim edge, seeking the feel of metal, the grit of alley dirt. Her heart thudded hard against her chest as Trench moved her head, then glanced out the passenger window. Heather yanked her hands out of her purse and returned to her original position. Closed her eyes. Breathed in and out, slow.

“It’s really coming down,” Trench said.

“The commute home’s gonna be a bitch.”

“
If
you get to go home.”

“I’m getting out of there if I have to snowshoe home,” Parka said, voice low, tense. “Have you read any of those reports? Do you know what S is?”

Heather listened, eyes closed, her fingers inching back to her purse.
So Moore
does
know. But how
?

“I know,” Trench murmured. “I’ll admit, I’m curious. I kinda want to see him in the flesh, y’know?”

Heather’s hands dove into her purse. Her fingers plunged to the bottom.

Parka snorted. “You know what they say about curiosity and the cat.”

“Yeah, yeah. When did you get to be such an old maid?”

“I don’t plan on being psycho bait,” Parka said.

A finger tapped against a sharp point. Cool metal touched her palm. Heart hammering, Heather slipped the nail file out of her purse.

“Me neither,” Trench said. “Maybe that’s what
she’s
for.”

Parka grunted.

Heather froze. Moore couldn’t know about her relationship with Dante. Unless…Dante was still being monitored, hidden cameras watching his every move at home and at the club. If so, it explained why she wasn’t dead and buried beneath the snow.

And De Noir? Had he abandoned her to search for Dante? Intuition told her yes. The memory of De Noir’s stricken face burned bright in her memory.
Hush, child. I will find you
.

Eyes burning behind closed lids, Heather wished it so—funneled every bit of awakening energy, every future birthday wish, into the image of Dante safe beneath De Noir’s black wings.

In the meantime, she didn’t need intuition to tell her she was alone and without backup. Her fingers curled around the nail file. She lifted her hands, raised them to her chest. Dropped the file inside her blouse. Tucked it inside her bra.

Saved my ass in the alley
.

She hoped it would again. She dropped her hands, lay still. A moment later, vinyl creaked and she caught another whiff of Trench’s sweet melon perfume.

The car slowed, then stopped. Cold air blew into the car as Parka rolled down a window. “Hey, Morris,” he said. “Where is everyone?”

“Doctor Moore sent most everybody home ‘cause of the storm,” a gravelly voice answered. Security check? “I’m surprised you’re coming in.”

“Me too,” Parka grumbled as he rolled up the window, sealing off the flow of frigid air. The car moved forward, snow crunching beneath the tires.

A moment later, it stopped again. Parka switched off the engine. Heather opened her eyes. Glancing up, she caught Parka’s blue-eyed gaze in the rearview mirror. Caught the lift of his eyebrow. Heather tensed. Parka
knew
. While she’d been watching Trench, he’d been watching her.

“Looks like our passenger’s awake,” Parka said. He opened his door and stepped out. Cold air and snow whirled into the car before he shut the door.

Trench swiveled in her seat, looked at Heather. “Let’s do this easy. Okay?”

Heather nodded. She pushed herself up into a sitting position with her elbows. White specks whirled through her vision like snow. She lowered her head until the dizziness passed. Another blast of cold air followed by a solid thunk told her Trench had gotten out of the car.

The passenger’s side door opened. Parka reached in, grasped Heather’s upper arm. Snow blew into the car. Heather looked at him. He held her gaze for a long moment, then helped her out of the car and into the storm.

The cold bit through Heather’s trench, iced her fingers, stung her cheeks. She stared at the building ahead of them, at the sign half hidden by the blowing snow.

The Bush Center for Psychological Research

WHAT HEATHER HAD SEEN in Parka’s eyes stunned her. He knew she’d taken the file, but kept silent.

Trench gripped Heather’s other arm. They crossed the parking lot hunched against a whirlwind of stinging snow and ice.

***

JOHANNA WATCHED ON THE security monitor as Bennington and Garth escorted Wallace into No. 5 and stripped her of her trenchcoat and shoes.

“Tell Moore I want to talk to her,” Wallace said, her voice surprisingly strong and level for a woman recovering from a dose of Down-in-Three.

Garth exited the room without a word, Wallace’s black trench draped over her arm, her shoes in hand. Bennington paused at the door, and then looked back.

“Might as well relax,” he said. “It could be a while.”

“Do you know why I’m being held?”

Bennington shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t.” He walked from the room, closing the door behind him. Red light scrolled across the door panel as it locked.

Wallace walked the padded room’s circumference, her sharp gaze flicking up to the ceiling.
No fool
, Johanna mused. After one circuit of the room, Wallace sat, her back against the north wall. Wrapping her arms around her drawn-up knees, she lowered her head. Red hair swung forward to veil her face.

Headache and lingering sleepiness—two aftereffects of the trank. Johanna swiveled her chair away from the monitor. She glanced at the file on the polished surface of her desk. Wallace’s record was exemplary. She’d done well in the Academy, graduating at the top of her class at age twenty-five. In the six years since, Wallace had proven to be a dedicated, talented and intelligent agent.

And, if Johanna remembered right, intuitive and compassionate and tough.

Memory sparked. A test given to the recruits to determine their motives for wanting to join the FBI; the simplest question the most revealing.

Why do you want to be an agent of the FBI
?

Most answers had been along the lines of
to get the bad guys off the streets
or
to help protect my country
or
to make a difference
or even
to have a career in law enforcement with decent wages
.

But Wallace’s answer was the one Johanna remembered:
I want to be a voice for the victims. To be a voice for the dead, a voice of justice
. She wondered if Wallace still believed in justice, still yearned to be a voice for the dead. Or had the last six years in the real world sucked her spirit dry?

Johanna combed her fingers through her hair. She hated losing an agent of Wallace’s caliber and potential. She’d been sharp enough to question the Pensacola M.E. on the autopsy findings and had been ballsy enough to challenge Anzalone to her face, then had returned to New Orleans to seek the true CCK.

A sudden thought flared to life. She didn’t have to lose Wallace. Could she
turn
her? Convince her to be a voice for justice—not for just a couple of decades, but for centuries? Millennia?

A better question: Was Johanna ready to be a
mère de sang
? Her first attempt had been during a vacation in New Orleans. In truth, she’d only meant to feast upon Genevieve. Not until she’d nearly drained the dark-haired beauty had Johanna heard the second tiny heartbeat. The mortal hadn’t even known she was pregnant. Burning with curiosity, she’d forced her blood past Genevieve’s pale lips.

What would happen to an embryo when the mother was turned?