Etched in Bone (30 page)

The pain and sorrow shadowing Dante’s pale face had told Lucien all the things his son
hadn’t
voiced. Simone had died hard. And she had died alone.

Lucien’s muscles flexed. Rippled taut under the skin. Metal shrieked as the edge of the driver’s door twisted beneath his hand. Releasing the door, he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath of air, dragging the wet and smoky reek of destruction deep into his lungs.

But underneath, he caught a whiff of Simone’s night-dewed magnolia scent—or imagined he did. Thought he heard her voice, a teasing, Cajun-lilted rhythm, imagined the smile smoldering on her lips.

Such big wings
, cher.
What does that say about Fallen males?

He laughs:
Everything
, ma belle femme.

Opening his eyes, Lucien walked up the sidewalk beside the undamaged rock wall to the black iron-piked gate. The yellow crime scene tape stretched across its bars fluttered in the afternoon breeze. He ripped it off, then fed it to the breeze.

The gates creaked as he pushed them open and strode up the driveway, passing fire-twisted oaks and seared weeping willows, their branches black and skeletal. The roses and flowering shrubs that Simone had planted beside the house, the wisteria and scarlet four o’clocks, were gone along with their sun-sweet perfume. Just a few fire-hardened stems poked up from the ground like desiccated fingers.

And the house . . . Lucien’s heart drummed a savage rhythm against his ribs.

Only the charred foundation and one blackened porch column remained of their home, the interior gray and hollow. Dante’s studio, most of his guitars and musical gear, the life and history he’d forged for himself night by night—gone, along with everything else.

But none of that compared to the loss of Simone.

Stepping up onto the foundation, Lucien dropped down into the debris and ash-filled basement. Gray ash puffed up into the air when he landed, dusted his shoes and trousers. Burnt wood cracked and fragmented beneath his feet.

The smoke reek was thicker in the basement’s moist and already moldering depths. Lucien didn’t know what he was looking for, what he hoped to find, but he walked with care, kept his eyes on the rubble beneath his feet.

The police visit had gone as well as possible for an arson and murder investigation. Questions had been asked and deflected.

Who do you think torched your house, Mr. De Noir? Any recent threats?

I have no idea. And no, no threats, recent or otherwise.

What about Prejean? We’ve heard that he has a bit of a fire-bug history . . .

His name is Baptiste, not Prejean, and I believe his juvenile records and all they contain are sealed. I also don’t like what you’re suggesting. This interview is now finished. My attorney shall be contacting you.

And that was another concern twisting around Lucien’s heart—Dante’s slipping sanity. What had happened to Dante, been done to him, during Lucien’s absence?

What Lucien had witnessed in Gehenna—Dante’s inability to remain in the present without Heather’s help—had iced him to the bone.

And a
creawdwr
bonded with a mortal. Lucien shook his head. However it had happened, it was dangerous for Dante and Heather both. Her very mortality was a threat. If she died . . .

A metallic glint caught Lucien’s eye. Bending, he dug through the charred and broken bits of wood, tiles, glass, furniture, and what looked like a melted recliner, soot and wood oils greasing his fingers black, and fished free a spoon that was bent and scorched.

No treasure. No keepsakes. No hint of Simone. Nothing remained.

They would have to start anew. Just like he needed to do with Dante.

With a soft sigh, Lucien dropped the spoon back into the wreckage. He straightened. Brushing soot and ash from his hands, he returned to the wall, leaping with easy and powerful grace up from the basement and over the foundation.

He walked back to the SUV, straightened the door’s twisted frame as best he could, then slid in behind the wheel. He longed to take to the sky and wing over the broad, brown expanse of the Mississippi in search of Mauvais’s riverboat, the red and white
Winter Rose
. But he would have to wait until nightfall.

Then, once found, Mauvais and his
fille de sang
Justine would die slow. Hard.

And each very much alone.

Keying on the engine, Lucien steered the SUV into the street.

27
CROWBARS

N
EW
O
RLEANS
,
A
BOVE
A
UNT
S
ALLY’S
T
AVERN
& BBQ
March 28

P
URCELL FETCHED AN ICE-COLD
bottle of lemon water from the mini-fridge the SB had so thoughtfully provided for the surveillance team. Of course, since the surveillance team had been abruptly recalled to Alexandria, they no longer needed the mini-fridge or anything it contained. Purcell, on the other hand . . .

In a few days, a paperwork snafu would be discovered at HQ and agents would be reassigned to New Orleans, but by then Purcell would be long gone and they’d have two less subjects to watch—Heather Wallace and S.

Purcell returned to the canvas chair parked in front of the window and sat down again, breathing in the tangy aroma of barbeque wafting in from the tavern below. Twisting the cap off the bottle of water, he took a long, throat-chilling swallow of the icy lemon water as he returned his attention across the narrow street to the club with the black iron letters reading
666
above its green shuttered door.

There’d been no movement since Lucien De Noir had walked out the front door an hour or so earlier dressed in well-fitting black trousers and a black button-down shirt clearly tailored for his tall and powerful physique.

Looks like S’s sugar daddy has errands to run,
Purcell mused.
Wonder if it has anything to do with last night’s fire?

De Noir had folded himself in behind the wheel of a forest green and road-grimed SUV, then driven out of view.

Purcell scanned the club’s empty, ivy-looped balconies, with their baskets full of deep green–leaved ferns and white and purple little flowers hanging from the intricate scrolled ironwork. Heavy curtains masked each set of French doors and windows.

Snatches of conversation swarmed up from the tavern’s outside tables below, buzzing like bees against Purcell’s mind.

You been out there? Seen the destruction? It’s awful. They say it was terrorists.

What kinda terrorists blow up a goddamned cemetery? What would be the point?

Exactly. Maybe it was some kinda scientific project gone awry.

A scientific project in a cemetery? Run by who? George Romero?

I’m just saying. Witnesses talked about seeing a ring of blue fire.

Purcell found it interesting that wherever S went, disaster, ruin, and death seemed to follow like loyal hounds padding behind their pack leader.

The center in D.C., Seattle, Damascus, here. Enough to make a man wonder.

The club’s door swung open and Heather Wallace, dressed in hip-hugging black jeans and a short-sleeved moss green sweater, paused in the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other hand behind her. Purcell had no doubt that a gun was tucked into the back of the FBI agent’s jeans and that her fingers were wrapped around its grip

She studied the street, looking for stakeout vehicles, tourists with the wrong stride, anything or anyone out of place. Her gaze shifted up as she scanned the windows in the buildings on Purcell’s side of the street.

Purcell eased back from the window like a long afternoon shadow. He counted to ten, then chanced another glance.

Wallace had stepped outside and was being followed by a guy wearing faded jeans and a black wife-beater, with tribal-style tattoos black-inked along his neck and sculpted arms, his hair a horse’s mane of red braids. Together, they walked down the tourist-thronged sidewalk to a black and dented van parked against the curb.

Purcell identified the guy as Jack Cheramie, aka Black Bayou Jack, the drummer for Inferno.

Wallace unlocked the vehicle, slid the door open, and hopped inside. A moment later, she shoved a lidded carton with worn seams into the drummer’s muscled arms before jumping out of the van with a carton of her own.

Touching the rim of his networked Ray Bans, Purcell toggled the binocular lenses into place and studied the black marker–scrawled numbers on the cartons, knowing they and everything else he viewed was being transmitted to Díon.

WALLACE, SHANNON, CASE NO. 5123441.

Purcell frowned as he mentally scrolled through his knowledge of Wallace and her family. If he remembered right, her mother had been murdered some fifteen or twenty years ago. He wondered why Wallace was looking into the case file on her long-dead mother and how she happened to be in possession of the files in the first place.

Late afternoon/early evening sunshine sparked fire in Wallace’s red hair as she scanned the street again, across, down, and up. Purcell wondered if the FBI agent was always this careful or if she was feeling particularly paranoid today.

After a moment, Wallace slammed the van’s door shut, re-locked the vehicle with a tap of the smart key, then returned to the club with Cheramie.

Flipping the regular lenses back into place on his sunglasses, Purcell relaxed against the sun-heated canvas back of his chair, the warmth soaking in through his Hawaiian shirt. He plucked the bottle from the window sill and took another long sip of the lemon water.

Díon’s plan was simple.

We’re not going to kill S, we’re going to
break
him.

He planned to bash S’s sanity to little tiny pieces with several crowbars: Heather Wallace was one, a little girl named Violet Sullivan another, and the skin-peeling, angel-freeing lunatic priest named Matthew Moses was a third.

All Purcell needed to do was wait for the right moment, the perfect opportunity, to grab Heather Wallace, transport her to the Doucet-Bainbridge Sanitarium in Baton Rouge—S’s old stomping grounds—hand her over to angel-freeing Father Moses, then make sure S knew where to find her.

And wait for him to come claim his property.

28
WRITHING WORMS

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.,
G
EORGETOWN
March 28

C
ATERINA DISABLED THE SECURITY
camera nearest the cranberry red Cadillac Escalade with a beam of light from her laser pointer, then crossed the parking garage to the vehicle. She unlocked the SUV with the remote that had once belonged to the late Stephen Underwood, then slipped inside.

Climbing into the back, Caterina sat down behind the driver’s side captain’s chair with its cream-colored leather, her presence hidden by the black tinted side and rear windows. She thumbed the remote, relocking the car, then dropped it onto the carpeted floorboard.

She reached inside her black blazer, pulled her Sig from its holster. She rested it against her black-clad thigh, leather creaking as her gloved fingers curled around the gun’s grip.

As Caterina waited for her mark to arrive, her restless thoughts skipped back to the camera feed from Purcell’s surveillance, the images she’d studied on Díon’s computer.

Lucien De Noir walks out the club’s front door dressed in black trousers and a black button-down shirt, his waist-length hair tied back and gleaming like polished black onyx.

Not dead, after all
, Caterina had mused.

Even through the monitor, Caterina had felt the intensity of De Noir’s presence like a hand to her chin, focusing her attention on his face. A sense of childlike wonder had twirled around her for a split second, a wish to see his wings unfurl, a yearning for magic.

I am looking at one of the Fallen.

Then he’d climbed in behind the wheel of the travel-spattered SUV Von had rented back in Damascus and driven away.

Caterina couldn’t help but wonder if De Noir was in on the plan to betray his son, and the thought twisted her muscles tight.

A voice, muffled and faraway, whispered:
That makes no sense. Why would he turn against Dante? Why would he use him to gain power—now? He has always known Dante was a
creawdwr,
shared a bond with him before it was severed. That makes no sense, Caterina.

Pain ashed the voice, and Caterina realized she couldn’t even remember what it had been saying. Pain throbbed at her temples, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

She knew something was wrong.
Very
wrong. Her mind felt full of writhing worms. But whenever she tried to root them out, to lift them into the light of reason and look at them, they wriggled in deeper.

Caterina drew in a long, slow breath. The air inside the Escalade was stuffy and warm and smelled faintly of apples and cinnamon and leather.

Her headache eased off the throttle, downshifted into a dull, manageable ache, and she felt the tension start to unwind from her shoulder muscles. She released her breath in a low, grateful sigh.

What had she been thinking about?

Writhing worms . . .

She remembered. Protecting her True Blood prince from the treachery of the woman who had claimed his heart. Caterina opened her eyes.

Wallace had me fooled. If Díon hadn’t revealed the truth, I’d
still
be fooled.

Caterina had promised to guard Dante Baptiste and all he cared for with her life. But the woman Dante cared for was working undercover for the FBI—had been from the very start—and was planning to hand him over. So Heather Wallace was no longer a part of Caterina’s vow. And soon, she would no longer be a part of Dante Baptiste’s life.

Purcell would intercept the lying bitch and transport her to a safe location to be interrogated. Caterina would’ve preferred to simply put a bullet in Wallace’s brain, but Dion had explained that in order to protect the
creawdwr
they had both dedicated themselves to, they needed to know who else was spying on Dante. Once Wallace had spilled all that she knew . . .