Beneath the Skin (7 page)

"Not always,
llygad."

Heather twisted around to look at Cortini. She leaned one shoulder against the wall, her gaze on Dante, her dark hair framing her face. "Sometimes the damage is subtle," she said, "and takes hours to reveal the extent--a hemorrhaging brain or one seared from the inside out."

"Thanks," Von growled. "Just the note I wanna Sleep on."

"I can hang towels over the curtains if it needs to be darker in here," Heather said, scooting off the bed.

"Nah, we'll be just fine. Keep the curtains closed and the blankets up." Turning around, he yanked down the comforter and blankets on his side of the bed and tucked himself underneath.
"Bonne nuit,
y'all," he slurred. "Don't let the bedbugs ..."

The nomad's eyes closed and he was gone, lost to Sleep's narcotic embrace before he'd even pulled up the blankets. His breathing slowed. All the tension eased from his handsome face, smoothing worry lines and creases from his skin. He looked peaceful.

Heather pulled the blankets up over his head, making certain he and Dante were 100 percent covered. "Sleep well," she wished them both.

She sat down on the unoccupied bed and slid the Browning underneath the pillow. Despite Von's words, she was worried, deep and down to the bone. What had been unleashed inside of Dante?

Weariness burned through Heather, fogged her mind. Her thoughts kept circling, taking on a looping
Wizard of Oz
singsong rhythm:
the Bureau, the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my.
She'd bet anything an APB was out on them--Dante, because of Rodriguez's murder, herself as an accomplice.

But Dante had been no more responsible for the death than a fired gun. He'd had no choice, his programming triggered by the man who'd implanted it. Dr. Robert Wells and his twisted son, Alexander Lyons, had used Dante like a weapon.

How could she keep Dante hidden and safe--and, most importantly, unused? The walls barricading his hidden past had been breached; how much of it had slipped through? The memory of Chloe's loss alone and his role in it would be enough to break his heart. And coupled with Lucien's death ...

Heather's fingers felt along the outline of the plastic-case protected flash drive in her pocket. The drive contained all of Dante's documented life in Bad Seed from the moment he'd been born and his nightkind mother, Genevieve, slaughtered.

Heather had hoped to help him regain his past bit by bit, together, so he wouldn't have to face the nightmare hell of his childhood alone.

Dante needed time to come to terms with his past. To come to terms with himself. Time to grieve. To heal.

But they were fresh out of time.

The Bureau, the Shadow Branch, the Fallen. Oh, my.

"You should catch some sleep while you can."

Heather blinked, then looked up. Cortini still leaned against the wall, her body language relaxed, her gaze sharp. Heather forced her hands open. She shook her head. "I'll take first watch."

"Second would be better," Cortini said. "You're dead on your feet." Her gaze slipped over to Dante's blanketed form. "I won't let anyone near him or you."

"How did--" Heather's question died unasked when the bathroom fan fell silent and the bathroom door was yanked open.

Annie stepped out in too-big blue plaid pajama bottoms and a faded black Danzig skull tee, a white bath towel wrapped around her hair.

"We need to get more clothes and stuff," she said, bee-lining for the easy chair. "And I need shoes since I left my Docs at ..." She waved a hand toward the window to indicate
out there.
She flopped into the chair, the vinyl squeaking beneath her.

"She's right," Cortini said. "When everyone's awake, that should be one of the first things you do. You also need to dump your car and get another."

Heather studied Cortini for a long moment, mulling over her choice of the word
you
instead of
we.
The assassin held her gaze, her face unreadable.

Even though she hated the thought of abandoning her Trans Am, she knew Cortini was right. Heather sighed, then nodded. "We can't risk renting a car. My bank and credit accounts are probably being monitored. What about you?"

"I doubt I'm being monitored," Cortini said. "Not yet. But if my handlers don't hear from me by the end of the day, that'll change."

"So what's your plan?" Heather asked. She slid her hand underneath the pillow, the sheets cool against her fingertips. "I'm getting the distinct feeling that you won't be traveling with us."

A faint smile curved Cortini's lips. "I plan to return to the SB."

Heather's fingers wrapped around the Browning's grip. Her pulse picked up speed. Von had looked into Cortini's mind. Was it possible for her to fool him? "Part of your plan to guard Dante?" she asked, keeping her voice light.

"I'll be more use to him--and you--
inside
the SB."

"How do you plan to explain your absence?"

"I don't exactly punch a time clock," Cortini said. "I'm allowed downtime between assignments. I'll simply tell them I decided to sightsee."

Heather searched for deception in the assassin's face, her posture, her hands. Everything about her--from the top of her head to the toes of her sneakered feet--suggested sincerity. Steady gaze, open hands, relaxed posture.

If Cortini was planning to betray them, she never would've said she was returning to the SB. All she would've had to do was simply wait for all of them to fall asleep.

And Cortini was right. A pair of eyes inside the SB would be more than a little useful. "Christ," Heather muttered, sliding her empty hand out from under the pillow.

Cortini nodded her head at the pillow. "I would've done the same in your place," she said. "Except I probably would've pulled the trigger."

Heather met her gaze. "That's one of the differences between us."

A smile quirked up the corners of Cortini's mouth. "You should sleep. It's going to be a while before anyone knows what's happened or puts all the pieces together. We'll never be safer than we are right now."

Small comfort, but true. "I will. In a bit." Heather looked at Annie slumped in the easy chair, fingering one of the small hoops piercing her eyebrow, pretending not to be interested in the conversation. "I owe my sister some answers first."

"The less she knows, the better," Cortini said.

"Too late for that," Heather replied. "She's involved now."

Annie flashed Cortini a triumphant look, then pulled her feet up into the chair and wrapped her arms around her legs. "So what's the SB?" she asked, returning her attention to Heather.

Cortini shook her head and folded her arms over her chest. Tension sharpened the planes of her face.

"The SB is the Shadow Branch," Heather replied. "A branch of the government that officially doesn't exist. Its members are composed of DOD, FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security agents. The SB and the FBI together initiated a black ops program called Bad Seed to create sociopaths."

"To
create
?" Annie said. "You fucking kidding me?"

"I wish I was," Heather said, pushing her fingers through her damp hair. "They wanted to see if certain criteria could create a sociopath. They studied their subjects' development and progress right up until they were either imprisoned or killed."

"And Dante? What's he?" Annie stabbed a finger in Dante's direction. "I just saw him create the Underworld and turn angels to fucking stone."

"Not angels, exactly," Heather said. "Well, they are, but they're the Fallen."

"Oh,
excuse
me," Annie muttered. "The Fallen, huh? First, vampires, now fallen angels. When will the unicorns and fairies prance on over for a visit, huh? What's next? The Flying Dutchman? Howling werewolves?"

"I know this is a lot to swallow--"

Annie laughed. "A nine-inch dick is a lot to swallow, this--this is just insane. I watched Dante twist the Psycho Twins and their unhinged Dr. Evil dad into ... shit, I don't know
what
he twisted them into. And you want me to tag along with you and Gorgeous-But-Deadly? Nope. Nuh-uh. No way."

"I'm not leaving you behind," Heather said, rising to her feet and walking to the foot of the nightkind-only bed. She bent and scooped up Dante's wet clothes, intending to throw away his rain- and blood-soaked hoodie and PVC shirt. But as she straightened, breathing in the mingled scents of blood and anise-spiced absinthe and crisp autumn leaves, she hesitated, hugging the clothes to her chest instead.

"What if I went someplace else? Australia or China or Russia?"

"They'll
find
you," she said, holding Annie's gaze. "And they'll
hurt
you--because of me, because of Dante. I'm sorry I got you into this, I really am. But you can't stay behind."

"I got myself into this when I climbed into that asshole's pickup," Annie muttered, shifting in the chair and sitting cross-legged. "I could really use a smoke. Hey, hit woman, you got any cigarettes?"

A smile tugged up one corner of Cortini's mouth. "No."

"Fuck," Annie sighed. "Suppose there ain't any booze in this shithole either."

"No, and that's the last thing you need," Heather said. She dumped Dante's ruined clothes in the trash bin beside the desk, then sat down beside Dante, bedsprings creaking beneath her.

"So what the hell is he?" Annie asked. "I mean, besides a freaking vampire?"

"Dante Baptiste is a Maker and a True Blood prince," Cortini said.

Annie frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"

"True Blood means he was born nightkind," Heather said. She pulled the blankets from Dante's face. Even with blood trickling from his nose, the sight of him caught at her heart, his beauty lit from within, incandescent and riveting. She touched the backs of her fingers to his pale, fevered cheek.

"You can be
born
vampire?" Annie said. "Holy shit."

"Yes, but True Bloods are rare," Cortini said. "Very rare."

"So what's the Maker part?"

"Dante's father, Lucien De Noir, is ...
was
... Fallen," Heather replied. "It has something to do with that. Do you know what?" she asked, glancing at Cortini.

The assassin's gaze lit on Dante, lingered. "A Maker is a Fallen creator. A
creawdwr.
According to vampire lore, the last known Maker was called Yahweh, though most knew him by his Old Testament name, Jehovah."

Cold fingers trailed down Heather's spine at Cortini's words. Her heart drummed hard and fast.

"The gods of this world--in all cultures and mythologies--have been the Fallen," Cortini said. "But the only Fallen who could create--places, beings, life itself--were
creawdwrs,
and only one
creawdwr
exists at a time."

"Wait, wait, hold on," Annie butted in. "You saying God was a fucking fallen angel? What kinda drugs you on? And you'd better've brought enough for everyone, dammit."

Cortini leveled her gaze on Annie. "I only know what my mother taught me," she said. "She told me that Yahweh died thousands of years ago. But only the Fallen know the details behind his death." She hesitated for a split second and Heather realized that Cortini knew
some
of those details at the very least. "All we know is that there's never been another Maker." Her gaze returned to Dante and her face softened. "Until now."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Heather asked.

Cortini shrugged. Her gaze shifted to Von's blanketed form. "I think that's a question you should ask the
llygad
once he's awake again."

"You're fulla shit," Annie said. "That's all you are--a big old pile of walking, talking shit."

"Annie ..."

"Well, she is!"

Cortini shoved away from the wall. "Think what you want," she said. "I really don't care." Stepping over to Heather, she said, "I'm going to move your car behind the motel, where it won't be seen from the highway." She held out her hand for the keys.

"Good idea," Heather murmured. Standing, she reached into her front jeans pocket and fished the keys free from its cold and wet interior. "Thanks," she said, handing over the keys.

Cortini nodded, closed her fingers around the keys, then went outside, closing the door quietly behind her. A moment later, Heather heard the low, powerful thrum of the Trans Am's engine.

"She's nuts," Annie declared. "You're all fucking loco, y'know that?"

"Maybe." Heather walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light. Moisture beaded on powder blue tile and chrome fixtures, remnants of Annie's shower. The smell of coconut oil shampoo lingered in the air. "But what if she's right?"

Heather wet a washcloth with cool water, then wrung out the excess. She returned to the bed and sat down beside Dante again. She wiped away the blood trickling from his nose. She hoped the wet cloth would cool the fevered heat spiking out from his pale skin and prickling against her. Dante's face wasn't peaceful like Von's, and blue shadows smudged the skin beneath his eyes.

"She can't be right. She
can't.
It's just ..." Annie's voice trailed off. "I need a fucking smoke, dammit."

Heather placed her hand over Dante's heart, covering his little bat tattoo, and pressed her palm against his heated skin. After a moment, she felt the strong, reassuring thump of his heart.

Von's words from two nights ago--forever ago, another lifetime ago--whispered through her mind:
He
is
the never-ending Road.

"So which is it?" Annie asked, her voice little more than a husky whisper. "Is he a sociopath or a fucking god? Hell"--she laughed--"maybe there ain't even a difference."

"I know he's not what Bad Seed tried to shape him into," Heather said, straightening up. "He's remained himself." But at great cost--damaged, maybe permanently.

"But you saw what he did--to those torturing assholes and to the ... angels."

Heather doubted that the
thing
Dante had transformed the twins and their father into had been a deliberate decision. He'd been drug-dazed and pain-shattered, his power triggered by dark and desperate need. But still, the memory--only an hour or so old--left her queasy.