bowed his head, closed his eyes, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
Shit, not now. Not now. Murphy and his law can sit and spin.
After a moment, Von cautiously opened his eyes. Nothing dipped or spun or twirled. Exhaling in relief, he scooped up the jacket and sneakers, then headed downstairs and into the club proper.
As he headed for the bar where Merri and her partner sat, he felt the mental tickle that was a llygad’s warning to stand by, that official information was about to be streamed from the filidh into llygaid minds. Von righted a stool and sat down at the bar.
“Hear you’re headed for the airport,” Merri said.
“Hold on.” Von tapped a fingertip against the crescent moon beneath his right eye.
Merri uttered a soft and respectful “Oh.”
Von didn’t have to wait long. As he focused his attention inward, vivid and familiar images streamed into his mind—and simultaneously into the minds of llygaid worldwide to be shared with their chosen households—and his belly sank like a fucking anchor.
The filidh had finally released Dante’s announcement, the one that Von had captured and sent to the master Bards himself almost three nights ago at Dante’s request.
Talk about lousy, fucking timing.
When the streaming memory-feed ended, Von closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead wearily with his fingertips. “Christ,” he muttered.
<Dante’s announcement,> he informed Silver.
<Fuck. Now?>
<Yup. Now. Bets on how long before nightkind start lining up outside hoping to kiss Dante’s firm, lily-white ass?>
<Shit.>
Shit indeed.
A sudden, sharp intake of breath dropped Von’s hand from his forehead and opened his eyes in time to see Merri’s dark gaze unfocus. Von knew that llygaid in their individual households were passing along the images now pouring into Merri’s mind. Knew the same thing was happening the world over, rippling across timelines, and even into the dreams of Sleeping nightkind—llygaid- sent.
Von rose to his feet and walked behind the soot-and water-stained bar, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s off the glass liquor shelf, and cracked the seal. Deciding to forgo the usual tumbler, he drank straight from the bottle.
Fuck Murphy and his stupid goddamned law.
MERRI FELT AN URGENT nudge at her shields—a mental touch she recognized as belonging to her mere de sang’s llygad, Juliet. Merri relaxed her shields, then closed her eyes.
<Dante Baptiste in an official announcement made at his Club Hell at approximately eleven p.m. Central Time on March 28th,> Juliet sent.
Merri frowned, wondering at the announcement’s delay. Then images flooded her mind in detail so vivid it seemed as though she viewed them through her own eyes, transported in time and place to Club Hell, to a moment almost three nights old—a moment taking place right now.
She stands in front of the Cage, breathing in air thick with musky pheromones, pungent curls of pot and tobacco smoke, patchouli, and sweat. At her back, she feels the heated, adrenaline-soaked press of the club crowd; hears the jackrabbit rush of mortal pulses mingling with the slow waltz of nightkind hearts.
And inside the Cage . . .
A lean-muscled form in a shirt of PVC and fishnet and metal straps; low-slung black latex jeans and boots. A metal studded leather collar encircles his milk-white throat. Light glints from the steel ring at its center, from the rings on his fingers and thumbs, but not from the hoops she knows trace the curves of his ears —hidden behind the nightfall of his black hair.
He steps forward, a sinuous and natural panther prowl. Merri’s breath catches rough in her throat. She’s only seen him frozen in photos or at a distance in grainy or static-freckled video feed, never like this—right in front of her, pulsing heat through her veins with just a simple movement.
Badass and beautiful Dante Baptiste curls one pale hand around the microphone, leaning in just a little, his cupid’s-bow lips nearly grazing the mic cover. “This is an official announcement for all you nightkind out there . . .”
Merri had planned to approach Dante—when they finally met—with an open-minded neutrality in order to assess the damage done to him by Bad Seed. She had studied his photos, memorizing every contour of his ivory- pale face, each line of his tight-muscled body, in an effort to inoculate herself against his thought-scorching beauty.
And she believed she had succeeded. Believed herself ready and more than capable of doing what her mere de sang had requested of her.
The Conseil du Sang want you to be their emissary to Dante Baptiste. They want you to assess his condition, to determine whether he can be salvaged. As rare and powerful as True Bloods are, no one wants to just throw this boy away. But if he’s too damaged, then he’s much too dangerous to remain free . . .
Now, watching him in the Cage, Merri knew herself for a fool.
“I’M GONNA SHARE A few things I’ve learned recently and end the rumors tonight.” Dante’s kohl-rimmed, deep brown eyes skim the crowd for a moment before he continues. “I’m the Nightbringer’s son and I was born nightkind.”
Stunned silence from the crowd. Lucien De Noir stands beside the Cage door, his chin lifted, his face nearly luminous with pride.
“Just so there’s no confusion,” Dante continues into the silence, his Cajun-accented voice shifting into a warning drawl, “no, I won’t turn you. No, you ain’t getting a taste. No, I ain’t interested in claiming power, your fucking household, or your girlfriend.”
“Bullshit! You’re lying through your fangs!” someone shouts. “You’re just trying to win support against Guy!”
“Yeah, that’d be my thought too, in your place,” Dante says, unstrapping his latex shirt and peeling it off.
Lusty catcalls scrape into the air at the sight of Dante’s bared torso—all lean, defined muscle and ivory skin. A ridged white scar forms an odd blend of pyramids and loops on one pec. “Don’t stop there!” someone teasingly pleads. “Keep going!”
Dante turns around, giving the crowd his back. He flexes his shoulder and deltoid muscles, then smooth black wings edged in deepest crimson slide out from beneath his skin in a rush and unfurl, snapping the scent of burning leaves and musk into the air.
Silence swallows the crowd whole, mortal and nightkind alike.
Dante swivels back around with an unconscious and sexy grace and displays the undersides of his wings—streaked in fire patterns of brilliant blue and purple—before folding them shut behind him. He grasps the microphone again, the rings on his fingers and thumb clinking against the metal, yanking it close to the wicked, knowing smile tilting his lips.
