Maker's Song - A Rush Of Wings Part 35

All three fired.

Lucien flew, the wind of his pa.s.sage cold against his face. A different kind of cold rimmed his soul with ice. Through Dante, he'd experienced a brief moment of pain; then his child's consciousness had winked out. A faint thread of life force still pulsed through their bond, so he knew Dante wasn't dead. Injured, perhaps critically, but alive.

On the ground beneath Lucien, skewed headlights pierced the sky. Figures ran. Blood hunger, savage and blind and ancient, stabbed out into the night from the house below. Lucien spiraled down toward the house and its raging occupant.

Thomas Ronin would never be a threat to Dante again.

Lucien glided to the ground, bare feet touching wet gra.s.s as he landed. His wings folded behind him, then compressed down into their pouches. He strode across the lightless backyard and wrenched the screen door - metal screeching - off its hinges. Tossing it aside, Lucien battered the rear door inward with one fist and stepped inside.

From underneath the van, E watched as Heather knelt behind the motherf.u.c.ker who'd tried to kill him, the hard-looking man who'd gunned down his Bad Seed bro instead. Then someone else joined the game. Suddenly, everyone was yelling, shooting, and leaping.

E rolled out from the other side of the van and, keeping low, crept around the front end; the sight of Dante slumped across the threshold drew him like a perv to p.o.r.n.

He wished the best for his lovely Heather and hoped she wouldn't mind his taking advantage of her nasty situation. He preferred to think it was him she fought to protect and not Dante, since she'd come forhim , after all, and not the party-cras.h.i.+ng little bloodsucker.

But, hey, at least now he didn't have to worry about finding the GPS receiver.

E paused at the van's front end, gaze on the plainclothes cop hunkered down near Dante's body. He'd twisted around at Heather's warning and drawn his gun, but before he could fire a single shot, dark bloodstained fingers grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him inside the house.

A creepy-crawly anthill feeling shuddered down the length of E's body. Tom-Tom had gained his feet.

Just beyond the threshold, shadows jerked and jittered. Bloodsucker or the restless dead?

E scuttled forward, hunched low, his gaze locked on Dante's pale face. In the yard, people screamed.

Guns fired. Crossing mental fingers for Heather's survival - the game wouldn't be the same without her - E sidled up the side of the concrete step. Fluids leaked from the MG's ruined front end. Steam hissed and spat.

E reached a shaking hand for Dante's arm. Snagged him. Pulled. Dead weight. Sweating, panting, E dragged Dante down off the step. He hit the ground with a thud, metal jingling. He s.h.i.+fted his grip from Dante's arm to the collar of his jacket. Dante's pretty head lolled. Blood trickled from his right ear, streaking the side of his face.

Tugging and grunting and burning adrenaline, E pulled his bloodsucker bro to the front of the van. The side doors were still open.

Something flew out of the house. Heather yelled, "s.h.i.+t!" More gunfire.

E partially pushed Dante into the van, then hopped inside and dragged him in the rest of the way. Rolled him away from the doors and eased them shut. Fetching the handcuffs from the black bag, he latched them around Dante's wrists. He didn't know how long Dante'd be unconscious, but best not to take any chances.

He hauled Dante's body to the rear of the van, lifted his arms, and slid the handcuff chain over a hook installed for that very purpose. The bloodsucker looked d.a.m.ned fine in handcuffs. A natural.

Grinning, E crawled one-handed to the driver's seat. He worked the keys out of his pocket. And waited.

Heather fired the .38 as she threw herself to the side. Something whizzed past her cheek, stinging. Glock in hand, Stearns rolled across the lawn and to his feet. He opened fire. The dark-haired man -unknown subject- staggered back, then fired again.

Stearns fell to his knees, his face blank.

Aiming for the unsub's head, Heather squeezed off a round just as the man ducked down behind the van. "Trent," she shouted. "Head him off!"

Heather lunged for the MG, diving behind it. She glanced at the house and her heart jumped into her throat. A blood-drenched figure bent over Collins. The detective's hands hung limp at his sides; his entire body seemed boneless. Thomas Ronin lifted his face from what remained of Collins's throat.

Heather swiveled and opened fire on the vampire. Grimacing, fangs bared, Ronin tossed the detective's body at her.

"s.h.i.+t!"

The body hit, knocking the air from her lungs and taking her to the ground. Heather's head bounced against the wet gra.s.s. Flickers of light sparked through her vision. Trapped beneath Collins's weight, shestruggled to breathe. She pushed at the body, sucking in the smells of sweat, blood, and s.h.i.+t; of death.

Images of his shredded throat and lax face filled her mind. She shoved, frantic and gasping for air. Finally with one last thrust, she wriggled free of the body. She sucked in air, half sobbing.

Ronin now held the dark-haired unsub, his face buried in the man's throat. The unsub kicked, pounded, and squirmed. He emptied his gun into the vampire's gut. Ronin quivered with each bullet, snarling as he fed. Blood dribbled onto the concrete.

Climbing to her knees, Heather aimed at Ronin's head. She caught peripheral movement from the house and swung around, gun in both hands. De Noir, s.h.i.+rtless and shoeless, stepped out of the house, crossed the yard in two quick strides, and seized Ronin by the neck with one hand.

The unsub spilled to the drive, his body loose in a way that turned Heather's stomach. Ronin twisted in De Noir's grasp and slashed him across the chest with his fingers. Blood spilled, then...stopped. The gashes faded. Vanished. De Noir's wings unfurled. He carried Ronin into the sky.

The van started up. Reversed. b.u.mped up and over the unsub's body. Skidded out into the street.

Heather jumped to her feet, heart pounding. Jordan! She raised her .38. Jordan puckered his lips, lifted his hand, and blew her a kiss. She fired. The bullet starred the pa.s.senger window. She squeezed off another round, but the gun clicked, the magazine empty.

Jordan hit the gas. The van accelerated down the street and into the night.

Heather tipped her head back and screamed, "f.u.c.k!"

Jordan was gone. Dante shot...Dante...She whirled. The threshold was empty.

De Noir must've moved him or -She ran out into the street. The van was gone.

S is mine.

Lucien twisted in the sky, talons buried in Ronin's shoulders. The vampire sank his fangs into Lucien's chest, sucking in healing, life-sustaining blood. Lucien pummeled Ronin's head with his fist, distorting the skull and popping its fangs from his flesh.

The skull rippled, returned to its original shape. Ronin locked gazes with Lucien. "That taste," he said.

"Like Dante's blood - unique."

"I hope you enjoyed it. It was your last."

Lucien gripped the vampire at shoulder and hip, then wrenched. Blood sprayed into the night as flesh and bones tore, separated. Torqued. Ronin screamed, eyes shut, his fangs moonlit. His nails gouged furrows down Lucien's chest.

Lucien pulled Ronin apart at the waist. Organs dropped to the earth, a shower of gore. Below, the Mississippi snaked, glimmering beneath the stars, a black river crossing a black land. Lucien released the vampire's lower portion. Legs spasming, it fell into the river.

Winging through the night, Lucien slapped away Ronin's clawing, punching hands, fended off hissnapping jaws. He hovered above a riverside factory smokestack. Sparks flitted into the sky from its dark mouth.

"I would lay the world to waste for my son," Lucien said and pulled his talons free of Ronin's flesh.

As the vampire fell, he grabbed the X-rune pendant. The chain snapped. Smiling, Ronin plummeted into the smokestack, the chain wrapped around his fingers. A shower of sparks flew into the air.

Lucien stared into the night, hand at his throat.

The pendant was gone.

29.

All Things S Darkness.

Music pounded, his own. Inferno.

Smelled blood, sour sweat, engine exhaust.

Tasted blood in his mouth, his own.

Something jabbed against his neck. Stung. Cold chemicals flooded his veins. Dulled the pain in his head.

"Mine," a voice whispered. Unfamiliar. Fading. Fingers touched his face. "I'll be your G.o.d and you'll love me."

Darkness. Drug rush. Dante fell, dreaming.

Heather sat in the gra.s.s beside Stearns's body, her hand frozen above his motionless chest, longing to touch the man who'd been more of a father to her than James William Wallace, yearned to say good-bye. But she couldn't force her hand any lower.

He shot Dante in cold blood. And now - A rush of cold air fluttered Heather's hair, drew her gaze up. De Noir's black wings cut through the sky, flapping as he landed. His golden-eyed gaze skipped around the yard. Desperation shadowed his face.

Sirens pierced the silence.

"Where is he?"

"Jordan has him," she said. "In the van."S is mine. Her eyes stung.

"I can'tfeel him," De Noir said, voice strained. "Something has obscured our link. Feels like...static."

Fanning his wings, he lifted into the air. "Wait!" Heather climbed to her feet. She looked around the yard turned killing ground. All dead. A pang of regret pierced her as her gaze fell upon Collins's body. She remembered their earlier conversation about LaRousse:The man didn't deserve to die hard.

Neither did you, Trent,she thought, throat tight.

If she stayed, she'd be busy making statements and doing debriefings for hours, possibly days. The CCK had Dante. Dante was nightkind, true. But Elroy Jordan was a s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.t who now possessed a victim who healed. One he could "kill" over and over again. She couldn't afford to lose time.

"Take me with you," she said.

De Noir hovered in the air, face cold and unreadable.

"I know Jordan's patterns, I can help. Please."

De Noir's taloned hands curled into fists. He dropped to the ground again. The sirens drew closer.

Heather ran across the street to Collins's car, threw open the door and stretched across the seat.

Grabbing the briefcase, she ran back to the yard and De Noir.

"Hold on," he said, wrapping an arm around her waist.

Heather draped an arm around De Noir's neck, heart kicking against her ribs. His wings flared, air gusted, and they rose into the sky. She looked down. Squad cars screeched to a slanting halt in the street before Ronin's house. Blue lights strobed across the houses, cars, bodies. A block down the street, an ambulance waited, lights flas.h.i.+ng, for the all-clear signal from the cops.

The wind of De Noir's pa.s.sage blew cold against Heather's face, frosting her hair, her lashes. s.h.i.+vering, she shut her eyes. De Noir closed his other arm around her, held her tight and without effort. His heat radiated into her, melting away the cold. She tucked her face into his neck. His warm, earthy smell turned her thoughts to Dante.

Heart aching, muscles knotted, Heathershouted her thought into the night, hoping, somehow, that Dante would hear her.

I'm coming for you.

Darkness.

Pain throbbed in his head. His neck. Burned in his shoulders. Muscles twisted. He tried to lower his arms. Metal bit into his wrists. Clunked against more metal.

Handcuffed.

Dante opened his eyes. Red laced his vision. He lay on his side, arms stretched above his head. He smelled cheap tobacco and plastic and the sharp scent of his own blood. A mortal knelt behind him.

Gripped his shoulder. Pain wormed and worried into his neck, the base of his skull. Blood trickled hot down his neck and under his s.h.i.+rt. Papa Prejean's bas.e.m.e.nt.

Dante jerked down with all his strength. Pain bit into his shoulders again. Clunk-tunk.The cuffs held.

The hand on Dante's shoulder pinched. Hard.

"Hold still," an unfamiliar voice said. "You do that again, no telling where this s.h.i.+v'll end up."

Dante squeezed his eyes shut as the s.h.i.+v dug and sc.r.a.ped. More hot blood flowed down his neck.

"Got it! Hot d.a.m.n!"

The digging stopped. Dante released the breath he'd been holding and sucked in a lungful of stale air laced with the mortal's old smoke-and-bile stink; a stink he recognized, but couldn't name. Like an ice pick jabbing behind his eyes, migraine pain stabbed his thoughts, chipped away at his concentration.

The mortal wiped at his neck. Paper rustled. Then he slapped something across the wound. "Gotcha Batman Band-Aids. Thought you'd like that."

A fingertip shove to Dante's shoulder rolled him onto his back. His handcuffs clinked. And, beneath him, plastic crinkled. Dante opened his eyes and winced. A small covered light burned above him in the ceiling. Not a bas.e.m.e.nt, no. A car? No sensation of movement. No engine hum. Not moving.

A shadow shuffled past, silhouetted against the light.Kinda looks like Peeping Tom's a.s.sist - Elroy the Perv knelt beside Dante, a grin stretching his lips. A sling cradled his left arm against his chest.