Maker's Song - In the Blood Part 16

Dante dropped the kohl stick onto the table. Worry still darkened Eli's hazel eyes. "What ain't you saying? What's got you worked up?"

"Nightkind in the crowd," Eli said.

"That ain't nothing new."

"Looking for easy out-of-town meals."

"Yeah? Where're Jack and Antoine?"

"Watching Dogspit set up. Silver's with 'em, keeping an eye on things."

"I'll say a few words to the nightkind in the audience at the start of the show." Dante touched a finger to the hollow of Eli's throat, his black-painted fingernail underlining the tiny iridescent bat tattoo etched into the skin-visible only to nightkind. "Make sure you don't cover that up. Remind the guys; the mark needs to be seen."

"Will do."

"Anything else?"

Eli shook his head again, smiling. "That takes care of it."

Dante twisted around, bent his head. Eli lifted at the same moment, and Dante cupped a hand against his face, and kissed his offered lips. Murmured, "Bonne chance, ce soir."

"Et toi." Eli straightened, and then walked from the room.

"So why ain't Heather here?" Von asked. "The way she was looking for you, you woulda thought you'd burst into flames and she was the only one with a bucket of water."

Dante stood, then turned around. He trailed a hand through his hair. "Her sister's kinda messed up at the moment, not well, y'know? She needs to be with her."

Von nodded his head at the slice in Dante's latex s.h.i.+rt. "No s.h.i.+t."

"The Bureau ain't letting her go either," Dante said, his voice low. "They plan bad f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t for her if she refuses to sign over her soul. She's got till Monday."

"She never said a word about that," Von said, looking a little indignant. "She only talked about the trouble you might still be in. Told me a bit about Bad Seed."

"Yeah, well, I'm only concerned about Heather," Dante said. "I'm gonna help her win her freedom, one way or another."

"Naturally, you're counting me in on the action."

"Yeah?" Dante said softly. "Okay, then, mon ami. Merci." Some restless part of Dante drummed a fast-paced tempo within, a rhythm he paced out across the floor. "After I make sure she's safe, I'll walk away."

"Dante, man, walk away? What are you saying?"

The tone in Von's voice, troubled and tight, drew Dante's gaze and stopped his feet. Von parked his shades on top of his head, and an emotion Dante couldn't name flickered in the nomad's green eyes.

"What I have to do."

"Have you talked things out with Heather?"

Dante shook his head. "Why? What's to talk out?" His resumed pacing, his boots silent on the floorboards as he walked back and forth, measuring with his stride the rhythm pulsing in his veins. Underneath the rhythm, voices whispered, droned like angry wasps crawling beneath his skin.

She trusted you. I'd say she got what she deserved.

Tainted. Everything you touch, boy, dies.

I knew you'd come for me.

Little f.u.c.king psycho.

Whirling, Dante kicked the metal chair he'd been sitting in, knocking it across the room-a blurred, gray streak. It hit the wall with a loud clang, then clattered to the floor. The noise pierced his head, sc.r.a.ped down his spine like flint, sparking pain in his mind.

Hands suddenly latched onto his biceps, spun him around, and held him tight. Von's frost and leather and gun-oil scent enveloped him. Dante heard the steady beat of the nomad's heart, and looked up into Von's face. Light gleamed in his eyes, sparkled along the edges of his crescent moon tattoo.

"You honestly don't know, do you?" Von said.

"Know what?"

A smile lifted one corner of Von's mustached mouth, but it wasn't amused or laughing, just kind of sad, which perplexed Dante. What the f.u.c.k? He tensed beneath the nomad's hands. "C'mon, let go."

"You're in love, little brother."

Dante stared at him. "Yeah? I know what love feels like, but this, this man...f.u.c.k me. Steals my breath. Knots me up.

Torches me."

Von shook his head. "No, this is what denying love feels like, man. Why you denying your heart?"

Dante flexed free of the nomad's tight-fingered hold and stepped away. Images flickered behind his eyes, like pictures seen in a burning-white lightning flash.

Flash: Gina's tear-streaked face turned toward the door, her eyes empty.

Flash: Jay, straitjacketed, blood pouring from his throat and puddling around him, staining his blond hair red.

Flash: Heather, falling, a wet circle of blood spreading on her sweater, her twilight-blue gaze locked on his face.

Flash: A child's hand, fingers curled in toward the palm...

Dante-angel?

Here, princess.

Chloe.

Pain spiked through Dante's head. He tried to capture the images that'd just lightning-stroked through his mind, but he couldn't hold onto the last one, couldn't even recall the name that'd flared like a candle in his mind and was just as quickly snuffed.

Blood trickled from his nose and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. Sniffed, and tasted blood. Pain jabbed like an ice pick behind his left eye. "Penance," he whispered.

"f.u.c.k. Sit down, and put your head back," Von said. "You're bleeding."

Dante shook his head. "Traca.s.se toi pas. I'm okay." As he walked to the table, he saw Eli, Antoine, and Jack cl.u.s.tered near the curtains, their faces solemn. Silver stood just behind them, his arms crossed over his chest, his purple, gel-spiked hair glistening under the lights, his expression pensive. Dante paused, wiped at his nose again. "I'm okay," he repeated. Their expressions didn't change.

"Like h.e.l.l you are," Von muttered, grabbing him by the arm, whipping him across the floor, and practically flinging him into the easy chair. "Head back, you stubborn sonuvab.i.t.c.h."

"It's nothing," Dante protested, but he tipped his head back. Pain p.r.i.c.kled at his temples and behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "d.a.m.n thing got broken earlier this evening."

"Heather's sister?"

"Yeah. She's got one mean head-b.u.t.t."

Von snorted. "Sounds like she needs to teach Heather that particular move."

Dante pictured that and smiled. "f.u.c.k you."

Von chuckled. "Thank you. My work here is done."

The ice pick lodged behind Dante's eye burned red-hot. White squiggles of light bordered his vision. Sweat trickled down his temples. A sudden breeze smelling of cinnamon and hair gel fluttered across him, blowing several strands of his hair across his face. Silver. Von murmured a thanks.

"Here," Von said, and wrapped Dante's fingers around a cold compress.

"You need us?" Silver asked. "Or can we get back to what we were doing?"

"Show's over, yeah," Dante said, replacing his pinching fingers with the compress. "But thanks." He sat up, and suddenly thought of Lucien, of how he could cool the fire raging in his skull with one touch.

"You heard anything from Lucien?" Dante asked.

Von shook his head. "Not a peep." He looked at Dante for a long moment before asking quietly, "You ever gonna forgive him?"

"I honestly don't know."

"He f.u.c.ked up hard-core, but he cares about you. h.e.l.l, he's your dad."

"Yeah, that's the problem, ain't it?"

"You need to talk this out with him, little brother."

"Drop it."

"I'll leave it for you to pick up," Von drawled. "I think I'll go scan the audience for dudes in trenchcoats and shades. Just in case."

Dante lowered the compress. Blood stained its blue fabric. He watched as the nomad walked across the room, leather creaking and tiny chains jingling, then slipped behind the curtains.

Rising to his feet, Dante returned to the table and opened the half-full bottle of absinthe. He wrapped his fingers around the bottle's neck and lifted it to his lips. The liqueur smelled of anise, hyssop, and wormwood, and promised answers. So far, though, it'd only shaken loose a few memory glimmers that'd quickly slipped out of his grasp. f.u.c.king naturellement. Just like at Heather's place. He delivered you and ordered the death of your mother.

Dante wanted to remember that motherf.u.c.ker's name and face. Wanted to tattoo both into his mind. He took a long swallow of the absinthe. Tasting like black licorice, sweet and strong and bitter just underneath, it burned through him. Lit up his mind. Uncoiled his muscles.

Dante lowered the bottle back to the table, but kept his fingers locked around it. As the absinthe trickled into his veins, the pain in his head faded. But another pain strengthened, hard-knuckled and relentless.

Why you denying your heart?

He met his reflection's dark-eyed and dilated gaze. "Can't trust it."

DOGSPIT LAUNCHED INTO THEIR set with a kick-a.s.s drum solo while their front woman screamed, "Fuuuuuck you Seattle!" The crowd roared, a hungry beast, and the sound of it vibrated the floor beneath Von's boots.

The crowd moshed beyond the curtains, booted feet jackhammering the floor as Dogspit created an aural firestorm. But Von wasn't watching the band or the crowd. He stood at the curtain's edge, a fold of worn velvet between his fingers, watching Dante.

Dante lifted the absinthe bottle to his lips again, tipped his head back, and drank. Boy was hurting. Hurting bad.

Ever since D.C., Dante had been tossing back a lot of the green-tinted psychoactive. Von suspected it wasn't to ease migraine pain or even just to catch a buzz. He had a feeling Dante hoped to pry open the locks on his past with a wormwood- scented crowbar. And given what Lucien had told him, that wouldn't be good.

Lucien's voice rumbled through Von's memory: I fear for him. He refuses to rest or to grieve. Refuses to release his rage.

So why'd you hide the truth from him? Truth he needed?

He needs time to heal before facing his past. Or before facing who and what he is. I need you to guide him, llygad.

And guard him, especially from himself.

I chose Dante over the Road. Of course I'll f.u.c.king guide him. Watch out for him. But Dante's a big boy and I trust him to make his own decisions.

You shouldn't-not until he heals. Not until he's bound.

Bound? What the h.e.l.l you talking about?

Guard him from the Fallen, llygad. Guard Dante from them, most of all.

Why?

Dante is a Maker.

Von stares at Lucien, unable to corral his thoughts into any semblance of order.

Von had figured Makers were nothing more than myth, a nightkind fairy tale of Fallen power. But here he was, watching as the myth downed a bottle of absinthe.

Dante lowered the bottle to his side, turning as if he meant to head backstage, maybe to work on the keyboards, but he stumbled instead, like he'd taken a punch to the temple. He nearly lost his grip on the absinthe bottle. He held himself still, eyes closed, pain shadowing his face.

Von heard the breath catch in Dante's throat. Smelled his hunger, sharp and alkaline. "You haven't fed, have you?" he said quietly, walking up behind Dante.

Dante shook his head. "After the show."

"You f.u.c.king kidding me? You ain't gonna make it through the show."

"Yeah, I will." Dante set the bottle on the table.

"No, you won't. You may be the most mule-headed sonuvab.i.t.c.h I've ever met, but you're too young and in too much pain."

Opening his eyes, Dante whirled around to face him, his hands knotting into fists. "What the f.u.c.k do you expect me to do?

There ain't time!"