leg of the nearest gold comforter-draped bed. Scrambling to her feet, Heather tucked the Glock into her jeans at the small of her back, covering it with her sweater, but kept the Taser in hand.
She hurried over to the desk and picked up Roberts’s cell phone. She could call Annie, then speak to Von, but she didn’t want to remain here while she did. And taking it with her would be too risky. GPS, sure, but she had no idea what else SB agents might have attached to their phones.
Heather tossed the cell back onto the desk. Nope. Not worth the risk. She’d rather try her luck at borrowing a phone from a friendly stranger. Outside, a diesel engine rumbled, the sound vibrating like a heavy bass note into the room.
Roberts groaned. Stirred.
Time to go.
Heather unlocked the door, then raced out into the chilly night air, teeth gritted against the bolt of pain from her ankle. She slowed to a limping walk when she saw the bus—ALL SAINTS GOSPEL TOUR!—in the parking lot and the presumed saints climbing down from it, trudging wearily to the manager’s office. The pungent odors of diesel fuel and exhaust permeated the air.
Suddenly aware of the Taser she held, Heather stuffed it into the front of her jeans, underneath her sweater. She kept walking, edging toward the parking lot’s shadows as she wiped cold sweat from her forehead and combed her fingers through her hair in an attempt to look normal. Nonmemorable.
A vehicle turned into the parking lot, its halogen headlights blinding Heather with blue-infused brilliance. The relief she felt when she realized it was a car and not the rented SUV the SB agents were driving died quickly. The car steered past the bus and the little knots of people from the bus and pulled alongside her.
Heather halted, pulse pounding in her throat, and pulled the Glock free from the back of her jeans. She held the gun at her side, ready to swing it up, if necessary.
A window hummed down.
“Wallace,” a woman said. Faint Italian accent. A voice Heather recognized.
“Cortini,” Heather breathed. “How the hell did you find me?” Not that it mattered, she wasn’t about to look a gift assassin in the mouth. This time her relief was so intense, it nearly took her knees out from under her.
Caterina shrugged. “SB agents on an expense account are very predictable. Let’s get you out of here before reinforcements arrive.”
Hurrying around to the passenger side of the car, Heather slid inside. “Talk about perfect timing,” she said with a quick smile. “Thanks.”
“No, thank you,” Caterina countered with a smile of her own as she guided the Nissan out of the parking lot. “You just made things a lot easier for me too.”
25
DEEPER INTO HELL
BATON ROUGE
DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM
YOU’RE GONNA END UP hurting everyone around you because you can’t help it.
You’ve done well, S. You failed to protect Chloe, but you protected yourself. No one can ever be used against you if you’re willing to kill them yourself.
How does it feel, marmot?
Your nose is bleeding. That’s kinda sexy.
Dante’s fragmented dreams—little splinters of nightmare gleefully carving up his subconscious—suddenly whirled together like filaments of razor-edged cotton candy on a thorned spindle, taking on form, shape, and substance.
A dark and deadly window. Already jimmied. Open and waiting.
A way out of the shattered depths, maybe.
Or maybe a way deeper into hell.
Dante climbed through without hesitation. Swinging his legs over the sill, he dropped down and . . .
. . . finds himself standing on the edge of an empty, weed-choked parking lot. A car pulls in and glides into one of the slots marked in faded white paint in front of an unlit building. A faint fetid odor hangs in the cool night air—old piss and mildew and neglect. On one side of the building, a sign reads WOMEN, on the other side, MEN. And painted in huge white letters between the two sides: CLOSED DUE TO BUDGET CUTS.
The headlights and taillights wink out and the engine shuts off. Car doors creak open, then thunk shut as two women get out—Heather from the passenger side and from the driver’s side, Caterina Cortini, the SB assassin with the nightkind mother.
Dressed in jeans and a blue sweater, Heather stands uneasily beside the car, her gaze scanning the weathered building. She swings her right hand behind her, resting it near the small of her back and the gun that Dante figures she has tucked there into her jeans. Weariness and a fierce determination illuminate her face.
“This is a good spot,” she says. She glances up, studying the star-sprinkled sky. “No one around to see De Noir land and get freaked out.”
On the opposite side of the car, Caterina nods, her dark coffee-colored hair brushing against the shoulders of her black blazer. “That was the idea.”
“When is he supposed to be here?”
“Anytime,” Caterina replies. “In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to check the building and make sure we’re actually alone.”
“Good idea,” Heather agrees, pulling the gun free from the back of her jeans and holding it down alongside her leg. She heads for the shadow-shrouded restrooms, aimed for the side marked MEN.
Caterina pulls a gun from a holster underneath her blazer. She steps up onto the sidewalk. But she doesn’t move toward the sign reading WOMEN. Instead, she follows after Heather in quick, silent strides, coming up behind her fast, lifting the gun, her face cold and hard and unforgiving.
Dante tries to move, to blur across the neglected parking lot and rip out Caterina’s throat before her finger even finishes pulling the trigger—but his body refuses to obey. His limbs feel like they’re encased in cement. Dead weight.
He opens his mouth to shout a warning, but no sound emerges.
Dante keeps fighting, struggling, pouring all of his strength and concentration into moving, dammit, just . . . fucking . . . MOVE as Caterina aims the gun at the back of Heather’s skull. The dark-haired assassin’s finger curls around the trigger. Then she stops, turns her head, and looks right at him.
And her features shift. She becomes taller. Blonde. Nightkind pale.
Dante goes still. She is no longer Caterina.
Johanna Moore’s ice-blue gaze meets his and her generous lips curve into a smile. “What are you waiting for?” she asks, then adds in a commanding near-whisper, “You should do the honors, my sleeping beauty.”
Something calm and cold uncoils inside of Dante and slithers into place. Something he can’t stop. And he suddenly finds himself in Johanna/Caterina’s place, the rubber grip of the gun in his hand, the muzzle aimed at the back of Heather’s head, the trigger smooth beneath his finger.
He draws in an easy breath, smells her—lilacs and sage and rain. He hears his own voice, low and husky, saying, “Hey, catin.”
Heather starts to turn around.
He pulls the trigger.
