illusion of wakefulness, an illusion she accepted and needed.
Caterina walked over to the bed shared by Dante and Von. Knelt one knee down on the carpet at Dante's side of the bed. She glanced at the window and gauged the amount of rainy-day light filtering in through the curtains. Not much. The gloom seemed thick enough even for a True Blood.
Winding her fingers tight around the warm, fleecy blankets, she slipped the covers down from Dante's face, ready to yank them back into place if she'd misgauged the amount of light in the room.
Dante's glossy black hair, smoothed away from his face by Heather's hands, trailed across the pillow. Kohl smudged his eyelids. Blood trickled from his nose and stained his lips and chin red.
His scent tugged at her, perfumed each breath--burning leaves and frost and deep, dark earth. She wondered what her mother would detect in his scent, wondered if his spell--cast unaware even as he dreamed--would also enrapture Renata Cortini.
Caterina touched the inside of her wrist against Dante's forehead and sucked in a breath as heat pulsed into her flesh at the contact.
He burned when he should be Sleep-cool.
Rising to her feet, Caterina padded into the bathroom and wet two washcloths with cold water. Wringing out the excess, she returned to the bed. Dante didn't stir as she placed the folded washcloth over his forehead. She used the other washcloth to clean the blood from his face.
Her mother's words whispered up from memory: Earn his trust, cara mia, then bring him to us. I'll tend to those hunting him.
He'd be safer in Rome within the protective embrace of Renata Cortini, that was certain. If he remained in the States, the SB would eventually haul him in. Lock him up. Or worse--they'd use this True Blood child and Fallen Maker like a weapon against their enemies.
She wouldn't ... couldn't ... allow that.
But if Dante refused to travel to Rome? Refused the wishes of Renata?
Caterina wadded up the bloodied washcloth in her left hand and pulled the blankets back over his face with the other.
Given time, perhaps she could change his mind, persuade him to listen to her mother and the Elders composing the holy Cercle de Druide.
And if not? What then?
Caterina tossed the washcloth into the bathroom sink, then returned to the desk chair and sat down. She rubbed her face with her hands, trying to push away the exhaustion nibbling away at her awareness, despite the Red Bull and snacks.
She'd guard Dante with everything she had--heart, mind, and razor-sharp reflexes. And share with him everything she knew. From the interior of the Shadow Branch's labyrinthine heart to her mother's whispered bedtime tales about the Elohim.
But she didn't know if she could or should force him to do Renata's bidding.
Reaching behind, Caterina pulled the Browning free from the back of her jeans. She rested the gun on her thigh, her fingers curled around its grip.
What she'd seen up on the hill ... Images of what Dante had done swooped like gulls through her mind.
Dante, curled up on the carpeted floor, shivering with fatigue and seizure-induced pain as spokes of blue light wheel from his hands, transforming everything they touch.
The carpet ripples, shifting into a forest floor of pine-needled dirt, thick underbrush, and tiny blue wildflowers. Thorned blue veins slither across the room.
Blue light stabs out from the house, from its shattered windows and yawning front door, as Heather and Von--Dante draped over his shoulder--run from the shuddering, quaking building.
Above, a massive rush of wings draws her gaze. Shapes dive and glide through the rain-cloud-paled night, outlined against a shimmering splash of vivid twilight colors--an aurora borealis--where none belongs. The night rustles, full of wings. Ethereal music rings through the wet air as the Fallen sing to Dante Baptiste.
Singing to guide their young creawdwr home to Gehenna.
But Dante had set the Fallen ablaze with blue fire, turned them to stone
Caterina walked over to the bed shared by Dante and Von. Knelt one knee down on the carpet at Dante's side of the bed. She glanced at the window and gauged the amount of rainy-day light filtering in through the curtains. Not much. The gloom seemed thick enough even for a True Blood.
Winding her fingers tight around the warm, fleecy blankets, she slipped the covers down from Dante's face, ready to yank them back into place if she'd misgauged the amount of light in the room.
Dante's glossy black hair, smoothed away from his face by Heather's hands, trailed across the pillow. Kohl smudged his eyelids. Blood trickled from his nose and stained his lips and chin red.
His scent tugged at her, perfumed each breath--burning leaves and frost and deep, dark earth. She wondered what her mother would detect in his scent, wondered if his spell--cast unaware even as he dreamed--would also enrapture Renata Cortini.
Caterina touched the inside of her wrist against Dante's forehead and sucked in a breath as heat pulsed into her flesh at the contact.
He burned when he should be Sleep-cool.
Rising to her feet, Caterina padded into the bathroom and wet two washcloths with cold water. Wringing out the excess, she returned to the bed. Dante didn't stir as she placed the folded washcloth over his forehead. She used the other washcloth to clean the blood from his face.
Her mother's words whispered up from memory: Earn his trust, cara mia, then bring him to us. I'll tend to those hunting him.
He'd be safer in Rome within the protective embrace of Renata Cortini, that was certain. If he remained in the States, the SB would eventually haul him in. Lock him up. Or worse--they'd use this True Blood child and Fallen Maker like a weapon against their enemies.
She wouldn't ... couldn't ... allow that.
But if Dante refused to travel to Rome? Refused the wishes of Renata?
Caterina wadded up the bloodied washcloth in her left hand and pulled the blankets back over his face with the other.
Given time, perhaps she could change his mind, persuade him to listen to her mother and the Elders composing the holy Cercle de Druide.
And if not? What then?
Caterina tossed the washcloth into the bathroom sink, then returned to the desk chair and sat down. She rubbed her face with her hands, trying to push away the exhaustion nibbling away at her awareness, despite the Red Bull and snacks.
She'd guard Dante with everything she had--heart, mind, and razor-sharp reflexes. And share with him everything she knew. From the interior of the Shadow Branch's labyrinthine heart to her mother's whispered bedtime tales about the Elohim.
But she didn't know if she could or should force him to do Renata's bidding.
Reaching behind, Caterina pulled the Browning free from the back of her jeans. She rested the gun on her thigh, her fingers curled around its grip.
What she'd seen up on the hill ... Images of what Dante had done swooped like gulls through her mind.
Dante, curled up on the carpeted floor, shivering with fatigue and seizure-induced pain as spokes of blue light wheel from his hands, transforming everything they touch.
The carpet ripples, shifting into a forest floor of pine-needled dirt, thick underbrush, and tiny blue wildflowers. Thorned blue veins slither across the room.
Blue light stabs out from the house, from its shattered windows and yawning front door, as Heather and Von--Dante draped over his shoulder--run from the shuddering, quaking building.
Above, a massive rush of wings draws her gaze. Shapes dive and glide through the rain-cloud-paled night, outlined against a shimmering splash of vivid twilight colors--an aurora borealis--where none belongs. The night rustles, full of wings. Ethereal music rings through the wet air as the Fallen sing to Dante Baptiste.
Singing to guide their young creawdwr home to Gehenna.
But Dante had set the Fallen ablaze with blue fire, turned them to stone
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