Beneath the Skin

26 SCARRED-UP KNUCKLES

SOMEWHERE IN UTAH ON I-84 EAST

March 26

No matter how lost I get, I will always find you, chérie. But that didn’t seem to work in reverse; not lost, she couldn’t find Dante. Pressed against his fevered body, whispering in his ear, she’d heard only her own thoughts.

Heather rolled away from Dante’s sleeping bag and sat up between him and Von. She pushed her sweat-soaked hair back from her face. Exhaustion spiraled through her, dark and draining. Her throat ached from hours of whispering.

Let me in, Baptiste.

She didn’t know if Sleep kept him from hearing or reaching for her; didn’t know if he heard her just fine, but was refusing to let her in.

I don’t need to be saved. Don’t wanna be saved.

A chill rippled along her spine and, shivering, Heather drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Even as down-to-the-bone tired as she felt, she doubted she could force herself to sleep. Tension had ratcheted her muscles tight enough to sing.

And her heart pounded so hard that her body quivered with each painful pulse.

You’re losing him. He’s slipping, falling, tumbling past your reach.

Von too.

“Everything all right back there?” Annie called.

“No, not even close.”

“A rest area’s just ahead. Need to pee?”

“Yeah, but why don’t you take the nearest food exit instead? Lunch would be good too.”

“I’m for that.”

Heather picked up her flashlight and switched it back on. Swiveling around on her hip, she centered the light on Von’s face. His nosebleed had stopped. Gently turning his head, she checked his ears for more blood, but didn’t find any. She released her breath in a low sigh.

A good sign, but that didn’t necessarily mean the nomad had Slept his way out of the woods. He still didn’t look right to her, his expression too lax, too empty.

Bending over and bringing her lips to Von’s ear, Heather said, “You don’t get off this easy, Mr. I’m-Still-Jailbait. I thought nomads were tough. C’mon, let’s see those scarredup knuckles of yours, lift ’em and fight.”

Von’s words slipped through her mind: Keep close, doll. Keep close to your man until we can get him home.

Heather shifted around to Dante, checked him with the flashlight beam. Blood still trickled from his nose, but tears no longer slicked his lashes. Rage and grief blazed like holy fire on his face. His body was as hard and tight as a brass-knuckled fist.

And if that fist was turned inward? Aimed at himself?

Heather thought of the blood cupped in Von’s ears. Thought of Von pushing Dante’s hood back at Sea-Tac International and cupping his face.

Let them see, little brother.

The never-ending Road.

Maybe she hadn’t been able to tumble inside Dante’s head because she needed to be asleep like before. Or drugged. Or maybe it’d just been a fluke.

Wait. Drugged.

Dante had been pumped full of morphine the last time. He’d told her that maybe it had lowered his shields and allowed her dreaming mind to slip inside his or maybe it had allowed his opium-soaked mind to reach into hers, and pull her into his nightmare.

“Annie,” Heather called. “Toss me the morphine kit and a bottle of water.”

HEATHER EMPTIED THE PLUNGER with a push of her thumb, then slipped the needle from Dante’s throat. Tossing the syringe back into the black zippered bag, she watched as tension eased from Dante’s muscles. As his hands unclenched.

Heather tucked herself against Dante again. His body felt as hot as sun-baked blacktop in August and sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat and trickled between her shoulder blades, beading on her face.

Fear coiled along Heather’s spine. Fever that intense couldn’t be good, nightkind or not. Twisting open her bottle of water, Heather splashed some of it on Dante’s face, half-expecting steam to curl up from his skin and into the air. No sizzling or steaming, but the water evaporated within seconds.

She plucked open the collar of her T-shirt and poured water between her sweat-slicked breasts before wetting Dante down again with the last of it.

Heather dropped the empty bottle on the floor. She reached for Dante’s hand and laced her fingers through his.

“Let me in, Baptiste,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

Something hot and prickling—a thorned lasso—looped around Heather and cinched tight. Vertigo spun through her. Nausea squeezed her belly.

Dante yanked her inside and slammed the door.