Free Etched in Bone by Adrian Phoenix

face, thinned his lips. He regarded Dante through hooded, silver-lashed eyes. “You truly are a pain in the ass,” he muttered. Nodding at the fallen angels gathered on the terrace, he asked, “What shall I tell them? And the thousands who haven’t yet arrived?”
    “Tell ’em we’re gonna hafta schedule a meet-and-greet some other time.” Dante crooked a c’mere finger at Lucien—who seemed to be in a heated conversation with the Morningstar’s silver-haired daughter. “We ain’t sticking around.”
    Heather slipped past the Morningstar and joined Dante. She pulled her Browning free of its pocket. “Ready when you are,” she said, her twilight gaze meeting his.
    “I’m ready, catin .”
    As Lucien started across the terrace, a frowning Hekate padding in his wake, several golden-winged Fallen stepped into his path, taloned fingers resting on the Celtic-scrolled hilts of the long knives sheathed at their sides. Lucien stopped, and a cold smile brushed his lips.
    “ Creawdwr -slayer!” someone shouted.
    Mutters rose from the gathered Fallen, droned like wasps. The sound burrowed behind Dante’s eyes, beneath his skin. White light flickered at the edges of his vision. The terrace blurred into a white-padded room from whose ceiling a light-slicked hook hung. Dante’s heart kicked against his ribs.
    Ready for business.
    No escape for you, sweetie.
    < Stay here, Baptiste. > Heather’s thought wriggled past Dante’s stressed shields. Her sage and lilacs-in-the-rain scent curled around him. < Stay now. > White silence poured into him in a honey-thick rush, swallowing the voices, hushing the noise.
    The terrace returned. Steadied. Blinking, Dante focused on Heather’s worried gaze, suddenly aware that she was holding his hand and squeezing it with everything she had. Sweat trickled along Dante’s temple. “J’su ici, chérie,” he whispered.
    “Your shields are slipping,” she whispered. Sweat beaded her forehead. Pain— his pain—had dilated her eyes to blue-rimmed pools of black/night. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
    Dante nodded and the terrace tilted. He sucked in a breath. Focus . “We’re going. I just gotta set them straight about Lucien first.”
    “Hurry, then.” Heather squeezed his hand one more time, then her warm touch vanished.
    Dante stepped forward, intending to shove his way through the towering Fallen blocking Lucien’s path, but the angry rumblings died at Dante’s approach. A Fallen male in a silken green kilt dropped to his knees on the marble and, like nudged dominos, the others knelt as well.
    “Terrific.” Pain prickled at Dante’s temples. “Ya’ll need to stand the hell up,” he growled. “Knock this kneeling shit off.”
    One musical voice lifted into the air. “But you are the creawdwr . . .”
    Dante raked a hand through his hair. Something dark and weary curled through him. Ça fini pas . “Yeah, yeah. Still. Stand up.”
    One by one, the fallen angels complied, their movements awkward and unsure, their rapt faces—all gleaming eyes and parted lips—fixed on Dante. He felt their heated, hungry gazes nibbling at him, seizing whatever they could grab—whatever he allowed them to grab—just like the Cage-climbing audiences at Inferno gigs.
    He pictured the fallen angels offering him CDs, clothing, and bared flesh to sign. Sign just above my boob. A coy flutter of wings. I plan to get it tattooed on permanently.
    Dante smiled at the image and a measure of calm stole through him, easing some of the tension from his muscles. Stabbing a finger in Lucien’s direction, he said, “No matter what he has or hasn’t done, he’s mon père, my father.”
    A hundred pairs of eyes shifted their attention to Lucien—most wide with shock or surprise, even disbelief. Dante heard the scrape of Lucien’s sandals against the marble as he straightened and folded his arms over his blood-streaked chest, looking uncomfortable.
    “And,” Dante continued, “no one