In the Blood

23 TIGHTROPE

Damascus, OR

March 23

CATERINA PICKED THE LOCK, then eased the back door open. Slipping inside, she pressed her back to the wall. She scanned the room, a kitchen—refrigerator, butcher’s block, wall oven, and stove. Quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator. The smells of chili, hot peppers, and cucumber spiced the air.

Caterina crossed the faux-brick tiled floor to the doorway. A hallway stretched in both directions and a glimmer of light spilled from a doorway to the right. To the left, she saw light from the room at the end of the hall.

Caterina paused, tightened her grip on her Glock. The refrigerator clicked off and the sudden silence shocked her senses, like an unexpected zap of static electricity.

She touched the com bud in her ear.

“Here,” Beck said.

“Keep sharp,” she sub-vocced.

She had no doubt that Athena Wells had somehow known she and Beck were on the hill, watching. Had no doubt Athena Wells had also shut off the alarm system.

Time to find out why.

Rolling the tension from her shoulders, Caterina stepped into the hall and listened. To the left, she caught a faint whisper, like a breeze rustling through the trees late at night: a female voice. A low groan, deep and male, cut intermittently through the whispers.

Staying against the wall, Caterina followed the whispers to the lit room at the end of the hall. As she drew closer, she heard the steady beep of medical machinery. Gloria Wells’s room, then. Now she could just make out the words whispered over and over: shewalksonatightropeshewalksonatightropeshewalksonatightropeshewal ksonatight—

The whispers suddenly stopped and fear knocked an icy fist against Caterina’s sternum. Tightrope? Drawing in a deep breath, she centered herself and pushed her fear aside. She whirled into the room. She went low and to the left, swinging the Glock up as she moved.

Caterina scoped the scene in milliseconds—two beds, only one occupied, one at either side of the room, medical equipment between, a chair, a man sprawled on the floor, a blonde in cords and a blood-spattered lab coat at the foot of one bed, a spear clutched like a walking stick in one hand, a gun or Taser in the other.

Caterina halted, gun aimed at the blonde, and straightened. “Athena Wells?”

She shook pale curls back from her face and said, “Once. I’m Hades now.”

Lying in the bed, a thin and wasted older woman watched Caterina, her eyes narcotics-glazed but lucid. IV lines threaded into the back of one bruised hand. “Help me,” Gloria Wells whispered. “My daughter’s insane.”

Understatement, Caterina thought.

She swung her gun around to the man on the floor, aimed. Taser prongs protruded from Dr. Robert Wells’s chest and his head lolled to one side. Foam flecked his lips. His eyelids fluttered and Caterina caught a glimpse of rolled-up white. He groaned deep in his throat. A faint odor of piss and singed flesh drifted up from the floor. She wondered how many times Athena Wells had zapped her father.

“She’s come to kill you,” Athena said to her father. “But I won’t let her.”

Athena was wrong about that, but Caterina saw no point in telling her so.

Caterina’s finger tightened against the trigger. But instead of pulling it, she heard herself say, “How did you know we were here?”

“I knew the tightrope walker was here.”

Athena’s words hung in the air, charged and potent. Caterina’s skin prickled. She kept her finger against the trigger. She nodded at Wells. “Why?”

“I’m warming him up for Dante.”

“Explain that.”

“Xander went to Seattle to get Dante and bring him home. We’re going to give Father to him.”

Renata’s furious words hissed through Caterina’s memory—Kill that one slowly, very slowly—searing the strangeness of this encounter into her mind.

Wells had tortured and twisted an innocent child, a True Blood child, and murdered his mother. If anyone deserved a chance to kill this man, it was Dante Baptiste. If she could give him that, she might earn his trust. Then she could take him to Rome and her mother. Caterina’s pulse quickened.

She shifted her gaze to Athena. “When will your brother be back?”

Athena’s sea-green eyes seemed almost translucent in the light. “As soon as he has Dante.”

“Please help me,” Gloria Wells whispered again, her words clicking from a dry throat. “My husband…”

“Is a monster,” Caterina said, lowering the Glock to her side. But maybe the monster’s wife was a victim also. She moved to the bed and handed Gloria a glass of water from the nightstand. Gratitude glinted in Gloria’s eyes. Slipping the straw between her lips, she drank.

If Lyons didn’t return with Dante Baptiste, Caterina could still kill Wells and fulfill this part of her assignment. She felt the tightrope quivering beneath her feet.

She tucked the Glock back into her shoulder holster. She stepped behind Wells. Bending, she hooked her arms around his shoulders. She glanced at Athena. “Grab his legs. Let’s get him on the bed.”

Without a word, Athena leaned her spear against her mother’s bed and slid to her feet. She ghosted over to the closet, her dirty, bare feet soundless on the carpet. Pulling the accordion-style door open, she rummaged through its contents. A moment later, she turned around, a girlish smile lighting her face. She held up leather restraints.

“He used to put these on me back in the days when I was still his daughter.”

“We’ll use them now,” Caterina said.

Draping the restraints over her shoulder, Athena crouched and grabbed her father’s ankles. Between the two of them, they managed to wrestle Wells’s slack body up off the floor and onto the second bed. A few moments more and he was restrained at wrists and ankles. Caterina wiped sweat from her forehead.

“Do you know if your father received a package from Nevada a week or so ago?”

Athena glanced at her father, a dark smile twisting her lips. “Yes,” she said and walked into the hall.

Caterina followed Athena, listening to the sound of her renewed whispers, down the hall to the faint pool of light and the room beyond, a well-appointed office decorated with spears, shields and breastplates—most likely Hellenic, given Wells’s interests in all things Greek.

Athena led her to the desk. She bent over the computer and tapped her fingers across a couple of keys and clicked open a file. She stepped back. “There.”

Caterina took Athena’s place at the desk and glanced at the monitor. Black wings arched behind the back of the man—man? No, Fallen—who held Dante in his arms.

“Do you remember Genevieve Baptiste? My son’s mother?” the fallen angel said.

Knees weak, Caterina sank into the chair, her heart pounding hard against her ribs, her thoughts whirling.

At long last, she learned what had become of Johanna Moore.

And why Jon Bronlee had stepped in front of a semi.