Beneath the Skin

21 ON MY WAY TO HELL

OUTSIDE BOISE, ID

ROLLING RICK’S TRUCK STOP

March 26

“SHIT.” Heather stared at the headline of the newspaper showcased in the vending machine in front of Rolling Rick’s Stick-to-Your-Ribs Eats.

TRAGIC MENTAL ILLNESS CLAIMS FBI STAR PROFILER.

So Rutgers had made good on her threat. And hadn’t wasted any time doing so either. Only three, no, four days had passed since their meeting in the Seattle field office.

Heather shivered in the predawn chill. She dug in her jeans pockets for change, but came up empty. “Shit.”

The low thunder of idling truck engines rolled through the night and diesel fumes fogged the air, pungent and heady. Even so, she still caught a whiff of frosted earth and burning leaves as Dante stepped up beside her.

“What’s wrong, catin?”

Heather pointed at the vending machine. “More CYA by the Bureau. This time it’s aimed at me. You got any change?”

Dante patted his pants pockets, then shook his head. “Nope.”

Stepping past Heather, he wrapped his fingers around the vending machine’s pull-handle and yanked. The door snapped off with a metallic pop. Dante fished out a copy of the Idaho Statesman. He propped the broken door beside the vending machine.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Heather protested. “We could’ve scrounged up some money.”

Dante shrugged one shoulder. His brows slanted down as he scanned the article. “Motherfuckers,” he muttered, handing the newspaper to Heather. “The assholes are also calling you despondent and delusional and in treatment at an undisclosed location.”

“Sure. First they’ll discredit me,” Heather said. “Then see if that’s enough.”

The meeting she’d attended in Rodriguez’s office along with her father, SA James William Wallace, and a webcast-projected ADIC Rutgers replayed through her mind:

Mental illness has claimed two members of your family so far, your mother and your sister, I believe.

That’s false, ma’am. My wife was an alcoholic—

Bipolar. Mom was bipolar. Annie too.

It’ll be made clear that you are the third member of the family to become ill. We’ll express our regret at seeing one of our finest brought low by ill health. We’ll also let it be known that we wouldn’t hold you responsible for any delusional comments you might make.

Meaning: just in case you decide to turn into a whistleblower about Bad Seed and the FBI’s involvement, we’ll make sure no one listens to you.

Heather glanced at the paper, then folded it and tucked it under her arm. Should make interesting breakfast reading, as long as “interesting” meant blowing out a few blood vessels in the brain with a warp-speed rise in blood pressure.

Heather drew in a long, hopefully calming, breath. She focused on her mantra: One thing at a time, Wallace. But this time it didn’t work; her pulse continued to fly through her veins.

Not only had the Bureau officially cut her loose and smeared her name and reputation—as promised—she’d dreamed about her mother’s murder again, with even more disquieting details.

This time she’d seen the killer—Craig Stearns, her late mentor and the man who’d been more of a father to her than James William Wallace ever had.

She refused to believe that Craig Stearns had anything to do with Shannon Wallace’s murder. He’d been a young and dedicated fed at the time, and the man who had eventually tracked down the serial killer who’d murdered her mother and twenty-three other women along the I-5 corridor.

Dante had crafted changes into Heather when he’d saved her life, changes he hadn’t intended to make and didn’t know any more about than she did; changes she would have to discover as they made themselves known.

Maybe the dreams were just that, nothing more, not visions from a woman twenty years dead; just a scenario tossed together by her overworked subconscious and not due to Dante.

Maybe. But every instinct Heather possessed insisted otherwise, insisted she was witnessing events from her murdered mother’s perspective.

Gotta be wrong about Stearns, though. He never would’ve hurt Mom. Must be a reason I saw him, though. Maybe someone who reminded Mom of Stearns?

And somehow she had become entangled in Dante’s dream/memory as well. The image of him as a slender teen, cuffed and unconscious, dumped from a car trunk and into a shallow grave had seared itself into her heart.

What had actually happened after Cecil Prejean and his accomplice had dumped both boys into that grave?

She jumped when Dante’s hot hands cupped her face, melting away the chill sinking into her bones. “You okay? You look like you’re a million miles away.”

“For a despondent and delusional lunatic, I feel pretty good, actually,” Heather said, offering him a smile.

Blue and gold flames flickered like stars in the ink-black depths of Dante’s eyes. “What ain’tcha telling me, catin?”

Heather drew in a deep breath. “What the Bureau’s doing—that’s just step one. Next they’ll try to make it a reality, have me committed somewhere. Or make me a suicide, just to be safe.”

Fire ignited in Dante’s eyes, his body coiled. “Try being the key word, chère.” His hands slid away from her face.

“And it’s not just the Bureau. The SB is playing some kind of game.”

“I think it’s called cat and mouse.”

“Hey, little brother, catch,” Von said, joining them on the sidewalk. He tossed Dante a pair of sunglasses, then lobbed a plain black hoodie at him.

Dante caught both with a quick flick of his wrist. “Merci beaucoup,” he said, sliding on the shades. He slung the hoodie over his shoulder.

Von nodded at the small pack of nomads at one of the truck stop’s fueling stations. “Raccoon clan, on their way to Wyoming,” he said. “I dropped by to say hello and they said they’d be more than happy to offer us blood.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup. Dawn’s a coupla hours away, so there’s time if you’d rather hunt.”

Dante trailed a hand through his hair. “Nah. Should be fine. Ain’t got time to mess around. Not when we’re the ones being hunted.” He glanced at Heather.

“True …” Von stopped speaking, his gaze flicking between Dante and Heather. A vertical thinking-deep line creased his forehead. “What’s up?” he asked, shoving his shades on top of his head.

“The Bureau just stepped things up.” Heather pulled the paper out from under her arm and showed it to Von. He scanned the headline, his expression speed-shifting from neutral straight into indignant.

“So now the bastards claim you’re loony tunes,” Von said, voice flat. The crescent moon tattoo beneath his eye glinted in the starlight. “And the media’s eating it up with a big ol’ spoon.”

“The FBI’s expert in manufacturing evidence when necessary,” Heather said. Her hands knotted into fists. Learning that fact had been a recent and bitter lesson. “Wasn’t always that way, though.”

“For you it never was,” Dante said. He reached for her hand and smoothed her fingers away from her palm. “Yeah?”

Heather felt a smile tug at her lips. “Yeah.”

Von pulled a map out of his back pocket and handed it to Heather. “I’ve got our route marked out. Why don’t you go over it during breakfast, make sure everything’s okay?”

“Good idea. I will.”

Von glanced at Dante. “Ready, little brother?”

“Yeah, mon ami, I’m ready.” Squeezing, then releasing Heather’s hand, Dante bent and planted a heated amaretto kiss on her lips. “Back in a bit.”

Heather nodded, unsure of what was the proper thing to say when one’s nightkind boyfriend slipped away for a little breakfast. Somehow bon appétit felt more than a little wrong. She settled on, “Be careful.”

A smile tilted Dante’s lips as he backed away. “That’d still be a first, chérie.”

“A woman can dream,” Heather replied.

Laughing, Dante blew her a kiss, then turned and walked across the parking lot toward the nomads, a smoldering and sexy vision in snug leather pants and mesh-andPVC-sleeved T-shirt. He paused to pull on his new hoodie.

“I’ll keep close to him, doll,” Von said. “In case anything goes south.”

“Good,” Heather said. “He’s still struggling.”

“I know,” Von said quietly. He sauntered after Dante, catching up in just a few long-legged strides.

More than one trucker stopped what he was doing to stare at Dante as he passed in a graceful, easy stride, his beauty and pale, pale face unhidden.

Light from the fueling station’s overheads glinted silver off the metal buckles on Dante’s boots, off the studs on the belt slung around his hips, on the rings gracing his fingers and thumbs, and off the collar strapped around his throat.

Dante flipped up the hood and tugged the edges past his face.

Heather studied the nomads as they gassed up several different types of motorcycles—Harley, Kawasaki, Sucker Punch Sally’s, Ducati—and family-hauling Jeeps decorated with swirling Celtic designs in bright colors; men and women in road-dusty leathers checked knapsacked supplies and chatted while children raced each other to the restrooms.

Annie shoulder-opened the gift store’s heavy glass door, and walked outside, tearing open a pack of Camels. “When are we going to eat? I’m fucking starving.”

“Go grab us a booth,” Heather said.

“What are they doing?” Annie asked. “Are those nomads friends of Von’s?”

“I think they just met, but nomads regard nightkind with respect,” Heather said. “View them as part of the natural order of things.”

“Oh sure,” Annie said. “Like leeches and mosquitoes.”

Heather chose to ignore her sister’s comment. Annie was bored and hoping for an argument, as usual. Heather heard the click of a lighter wheel, smelled burning tobacco as Annie lit a cigarette.

“I thought you were going to get us a booth.”

“After my smoke.” Annie paused, then said, “Holy shit, are they gonna feed on the nomads?”

“The nomads offered,” Heather replied, her gaze still on Dante. He stood beside Von, his weight shifted onto one hip, hands at his sides. Several nomads, two men and a woman, knelt in front of Dante and bowed their heads. Dante shook his head, bent, and pulled one of the men to his feet.

“Huh. So why you watching? You jealous or something?”

Anger flared and Heather turned to face her sister. “No, I’m not jealous,” she said, just managing to keep her voice level. “I sure as hell don’t want to be food.”

Annie regarded her for a moment, exhaling a gray plume of smoke, a wry gleam in her eyes. “Sure, not food. But I’ll bet anything you don’t want his lips on another woman. Or his hands. Or his—”

“Shut up,” Heather cut in.

“He told me he kills them sometimes.”

“Just shut the hell up, Annie.”

If Annie had a superpower it would be button-pushing, because she always knew which ones to push. Always knew if a little tap would do or if she needed to lean into it with all she had. Worse? This time Annie was right. She’d nailed it on the head. The hard, heated knot coiled around Heath-er’s heart verified it.

Jealous, and not proud of the fact. As for Dante killing those he fed upon, Heather felt more than a little uncertain. He hadn’t killed Cortini—even when Athena had encouraged him to finish his “meal.”

“Oooo, Gorgeous-But-Deadly picked one. Boy or girl? Guess!”

A chilly breeze smelling of sagebrush and gas fumes swept through the parking lot. Shivering, Heather folded her arms over her chest. But she refused to look, refused to swallow her sister’s bait.

“I’m going to get us a booth.”

Heather grabbed the door handle, pulled it open, and warm air whooshed out as she stepped inside, the sizzling smells of sausage, green peppers, and eggs making her stomach rumble. Checking to make sure the Browning was still snug against the small of her back and covered by her pink Emily the Strange T-shirt, Heather walked into the restaurant.

IN BETWEEN BITES OF scrambled eggs, Heather studied the map Von had given her since she and Annie would be handling driving duties during daylight hours.

Von had bought a few supplies before arriving at the Happy Beaver Motel to pick them up, and once Dante was conscious again, he’d suggested they drive straight through to New Orleans.

We can’t risk Sleeping in motels. It’ll give the SB and whoever else is chasing our asses too much time and opportunity to fuck with us.

What Dante didn’t say, but Heather understood, was that he didn’t trust Annie either. Motel time would give her opportunities to run away and opportunities to betray them. And Heather was pretty damned sure Annie would take advantage of those opportunities first thing.

So they’d stopped at a twenty-four-hour Walmart Super-center and bought blackout curtains and sleeping bags.

Between the curtains duct-taped over the back windows and dividing the front of the roomy Mercedes-Benz SUV, and the mummy-style sleeping bags with their face-hugging snorkel baffles, Dante and Von figured they’d have enough protection to Sleep in the back during the day while Heather and Annie drove.

At night, they’d switch places.

The route on the map led through Salt Lake City, Utah; down to Denver, Colorado; then on to Wichita, Kansas; Norman, Oklahoma; and Dallas, Texas. Then they’d cross into Louisiana, through Shreveport, Baton Rouge, and ending in New Orleans.

It chilled Heather to realize that their route was almost identical to the one Elroy Jordan, the Cross-Country Killer, had taken on his serial killer vacation tour.

Stopping only for food and bathroom breaks, the goal was to reach New Orleans in another forty hours—give or take. And the sooner the better.

Before the SB reversed their mysterious decision to let them go and burned rubber chasing them.

Before the Bureau decided Heather Wallace needed to run away from treatment and throw herself off a bridge.

Before the Fallen winged down from the sky in another bid to claim Dante. If they’d learned from the last experience, they’d come equipped with tranks and a large net.

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

Just as Heather finished the last bite of raspberry jam–slathered toast, Dante slid into the booth beside her. He parked his shades on top of his hooded head. His autumn scent curled around her. “Hey, chérie.”

“Hey, back,” Heather said, smiling.

Even through his clothes and hoodie, Dante’s heat baked against her and, for the first time since they’d arrived at Rolling Rick’s, she felt grateful she wore only a T-shirt and not something heavier.

“Hey, how was the guy you chowed down on?” Annie asked.

Without looking at her, Dante flipped her off. The intensity of the relief melting through Heather at Annie’s words almost embarrassed her. He’d chosen a male.

“Von’s in the SUV double-checking the blackout curtains,” Dante said, picking up the check. “You about ready?” He held a debit spike—one of Von’s—in his other hand.

“Definitely.”

Heather and Annie visited the restroom one more time while Dante paid for the meal. When Heather walked outside into the wind-chilled night, she noticed Dante standing in the parking lot between the sidewalk and the SUV, his hood pushed back and his head tilted to one side, his gaze on the clear sky.

She hurried across the parking lot. “What is it?” she asked, gut-sure she knew the answer. His words validated her instincts.

“One of the Fallen.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

Dante considered, then shook his head, his gaze still on the fading night sky. “I don’t think so. But, his song … a part of me wants to answer it.” He shivered suddenly, then lowered his gaze. Curled his hands into fists.

“Maybe you should,” Annie said, her voice low and urgent. “You’d be happier with someone like you. Someone who could take you to your true home.”

“My true home? Someone like me?” Dante looked at Annie, his expression half amused, half exasperated. “Ain’t no such things. Trying to get rid of me, p’tite?”

“Excuse me for trying to help.” Annie marched around the SUV to the front passenger door and climbed inside.

“Do you still hear it?” Heather asked, walking with Dante to the rear of the SUV.

Dante nodded, his gaze traveling back up to the sky. “He’s hoping I’ll answer.”

And Heather would bet anything that Annie was hoping Dante would too.

Dante looped an arm around Heather’s waist and pulled her up against him. He burned against her, his body fire and steel, his dark eyes dilated with coming Sleep. Hooking a finger through the ring on his collar, she pulled him down into a deep and lingering kiss.

“Bonne nuit, catin,” he whispered against her lips. “See you tonight.”

“Sweet dreams, Baptiste.”

Heather stepped back as Dante climbed into the back of the SUV and joined Von. All of the SUV’s seats were folded down flat except for the two up front. She closed and locked the door, then walked around to the driver’s seat and hopped in.

Heather held her breath, listening for the rush of wings, but she only heard rumbling diesel engines and the throaty roar of kick-started motorcycles.

And the hard pounding of her own heart.