Free A Rush of Wings by Adrian Phoenix

head, brown hair falling over his eyes in an aw-shucks kind of way.
    “Must be the professional in him,” Heather said, voice level. “Could be he’s a little more interested in collaring bad guys than hooking up.”
    LaRousse’s smile vanished. He jerked a thumb in Dante’s direction. “Is the rock god over there good for it?”
    Heather glanced at Dante. He stood in the doorway, jacket hanging from one hand, his shaded gaze on her and LaRousse. Could he have killed the girl before De Noir had brought him home in the van? Could that be the reason De Noir had lied about his presence in the club?
    She’s still warm .
    Blood dripping onto carpet .
    The stunned look on his pale, pale face .
    Too much time had passed between Dante’s arrival at the plantation house and their return to the club. The windows had been left open. Cold air would’ve chilled the body; the blood would’ve congealed in the hours between. No, Gina’d been killed as Heather drove Dante into New Orleans.
    Heather’s gaze shifted to LaRousse and his wintry eyes. All his down-home friendliness had frozen over, his gaze pale-blue ice. “No,” she said. “But I do want a statement from him.”
    Digging out a microrecorder from her purse, Heather clipped it to the collar of her trench. “Dante, why don’t you wait downstairs? I want—”
    “Let’s go one better,” LaRousse interrupted, jabbing a finger at Dante. “Manning, run Prejean to headquarters. I think we can dig up a couple of old warrants.”
    “What the hell are you doing?” Heather stared at LaRousse in disbelief.
    “Criminal mischief. Vandalism,” LaRousse said, gaze fixed on Dante. A hard smile twisted his lips. “Spray paints that damned anarchy symbol everywhere.”
    Dante dropped his jacket. It hit the carpet with a muffled jingle. “Nothing like having your priorities straight,” he said. His gloved hands curled into fists.
    “Hold on a minute—” Heather began, but LaRousse nodded at Manning. The uniformed cop unhooked the cuffs from his belt and reached for Dante.
    Dante moved .
    At least, Heather had a glimpse of movement; then Manning flew across the room and slammed into the wall. His head cracked against the plaster, denting it. The handcuffs tumbled from his grasp. Expression pained, dazed, Manning pawed at his holstered pistol.
    Dante stood in the doorway, one hand still lifted, body tensed.
    “Freeze, motherfucker!” Jefferson screamed, swinging his pistol up.
    Dante’s shaded gaze locked on Jefferson. He lowered his hand, then knotted both into fists. His head ducked down just slightly. Heather’d seen enough street fights to know he was going to rush the rookie.
    Stretching out a hand, Heather cried, “No! Wait!” Not sure if she spoke to Jefferson, Dante, or both.
    She hurtled forward, but everything slowed down. Her vision narrowed into a long, dark tunnel ending in Jefferson’s gun. His finger spasmed against the trigger. Pulled it back. Catching peripheral movement—Davis and LaRousse helping? hindering?—Heather lunged for the gun.
    She knew the moment she did that she’d never make it.
    Jefferson fired.
    ***
    E TOOK ANOTHER SIP of whiskey, then set the chilled glass down on the nightstand beside the half-empty bottle of Canadian Hunter. Ice clinked. He stretched out on the bed, worrying his head and shoulders against the piled pillows until he’d made a comfortable hollow.
    E crossed his ankles and picked up his bloodstained book of poetry, Inside the Monster’s Heart and Other Poems by Juan Alejandro Navarro, and resumed reading. He read the same stanzas over and over without taking anything in. After a few more minutes of staring at the page without turning it, E slammed the book shut and tossed it onto the bed.
    He needed sleep, but couldn’t. He was too wired. He burned to create. He kept hearing her voice, begging him to keep reading to her, and he had. In a gentle voice.
…frost-scorched and time-withered, this heart
its black