Read Online Etched in Bone by Adrian Phoenix - Free Book Online

ascent, their wings no longer folded at their backs, but flexing and fluttering.
    The Morningstar looped through the air, heading back toward the pit and Heather. She stood at the pit’s edge, gun in hand, her lovely face tipped up to the sky, expression composed. The jasmine and myrrh scented breeze tugged at the hem of her black trench, rippled through her hair.
    “She may be human, but she’s far from ordinary,” the Morningstar commented.
    “Wow. Beaucoup talented at understatement,” Dante said. “With that kinda sweet-talking, I’ll bet you spend most of your nights alone. And you forgot the most important thing.”
    “And that would be?”
    “She’s mine.”
    “Ah. Yes.”
    The Morningstar glided down to the sandy ground beside Heather, wing-gust blowing her hair back from her face, her trench coat back from her body, and plastering her purple tank top against her breasts.
    “Hey, catin .”
    A relieved smile played across Heather’s lips. “Hey, Baptiste.” Dropping the Browning into the trench’s pocket, she stepped up beside the Morningstar and slipped an arm around the angel’s neck.
    Her hand brushed against Dante’s, her fingers warm against his skin as her hand slid past his to secure her hold. Now that she was with him again, his tension eased, but only a little. As long as they remained in Gehenna and among the Fallen, the last thing they were was safe.
    The Morningstar locked an arm around Heather’s waist. His powerful wings lifted them effortlessly into the air. Dante heard multiple wing whooshes as the Fallen who had watched as he’d freed his father took to the air. Ahead, he saw Lucien and Hekate—black wings and white—flying side by side toward the distant lights of the Royal Aerie.
    < Who’s the woman? > Heather sent.
    < Hekate. The Morningstar’s daughter. She was there because she tried to help Lucien escape. >
    < His daughter? He doesn’t seem at all concerned that she was up on hooks. >
    < No, > Dante agreed. < He doesn’t. >
    Dante caught the faint tang of brine in the air and heard the rhythmic pounding of surf against rocks. He realized that an ocean seethed on the other side of the mountains.
    Landing terraces shadowed the mountain faces like opened and chocolate-emptied windows on the Christmas advent calendars that Simone had insisted on putting up on the fireplace mantel every December.
    Simone.
    Grief coiled around Dante’s heart. It’d only been a few hours since that Creole asshole Mauvais, the so-called nightkind Lord of New Orleans, and his chienne of a daughter, Justine, had torched Dante’s house—payback for his killing Justine’s play partner, Étienne.
    Dante remembered his answer to Justine’s accusation of murder.
    Oui, I did. And I’d do it again. No regrets.
    And Justine’s furious response, her words like daggers of ice.
    Trust me, I’ll make sure you regret every breath you’ve ever drawn.
    Simone had helped Heather’s sister Annie escape the Molotov-cocktail birthed firestorm engulfing the house before the intense flames had blocked her from following Annie and the others to safety.
    Fire scorches her lungs. Blackens her skin. Devours her with relentless teeth.
    Pain pulsed at Dante’s back and at his temples. Within his heart.
    Chloe’s voice whispered up from the darkness deep inside.
    She trusted you too, huh, Dante-angel?
    Yeah, she did, princess. Now hush, p’tite, and go back to sleep.
    Knowing laughter slithered up from below. Still no regrets?
    Dante didn’t know who had asked that last question, even though the voice and the laughter had sounded familiar. He struggled to put a name or face to the voice, but the memory capered at the edge of his recall, out of reach and beyond his grasp.
    Still no regrets?
    And the answer to that question?
    The hard truth torqued through Dante, ratcheting every tendon, nerve, and muscle piano-wire tight. Simone would still be breathing if I hadn’t killed fucking Étienne.
    Dante’s budding