A Rush of Wings

by Adrian Phoenix

  “What —” Johanna’s mouth snapped shut when one of the guards raised a rifle, no, shotgun, and fired. She stared at the screen, pulse roaring in her ears.

  De Noir grabbed S by his jacket collar and pulled him off E, shielded the child with his own body. The shot went wide. Missed.

  “Call them off,” Johanna said through clenched teeth. “Call those idiots off before they get killed.”

  The door hissed as Bennington left. Johanna stared at the screen. E rolled to his feet, then staggered away into the storm, one arm in a sling, the other hand pressed against his bleeding throat.

  Another shotgun blast. Johanna gritted her teeth. S ducked low, then moved. She gasped, astonished by his speed. Was it the True Blood? De Noir moved, as well, his speed equally astonishing. Then S stood over the body of one of the guards, hands clenched into fists at his sides. A puddle of blood, bright red and steaming, melted the snow. Johanna blinked. She hadn’t even seen S kill the guard. And the other? De Noir dropped the second guard’s broken body into the snow.

  Apprehension rippled into Johanna. “We’ll direct them,” she said. “Lock down parts of the building and leave other areas open. We’ll have the advantage.”

  Black wings flared behind De Noir. Johanna froze, mouth open, mind empty of rational thought. De Noir wrapped an arm around S and lifted him into the air. Into the storm.

  Fallen. One of the Fallen walks at S’s side. Guides him. And I feared Ronin?

  Johanna pushed away from the monitor, looked up into Garth’s stricken face. “Okay. Okay. I want you to shut down —”

  An explosion echoed through the corridors. The power went out. The building plunged into darkness.

  Johanna felt the icy touch of real fear.

  * * * *

  Lucien dropped the guard’s lifeless body into the snow. His wings untucked and fanned out into the wind. Before Dante could take off on his own, Lucien locked an arm around the boy’s waist and lifted them both into the air.

  “What are you doing?” Dante automatically slipped an arm around Lucien’s neck.

  “Looking for their power source.” The wind buffeted them. Ice edged Lucien’s wings. He scanned the power poles, listened to the frozen land. Captured electricity thrummed. Lucien smiled. He flapped down to the building’s rear. Touched bare feet to the snow-covered pavement and released Dante.

  Dante saw the door marked FIRE EXIT and loped toward it.

 

 

  Lucien spiraled up into the savage sky, watching his son as he stood in front of the exit door, black hair whipping in the wind, his hand poised to grab the handle.

  As he flew toward a transformer, Lucien wondered where Jordan had gone, wondered if the mortal would freeze to death and hoped he wouldn’t. Lucien had a different death in mind for him, one that involved his own knives and his own skin.

  Hovering beside the transformer, Lucien arced blue flame across the sky.

  * * * *

  A loud explosion vibrated in from outside. The light went out. Staring into the darkness, Heather reached inside her bra, felt beneath the warm curve of her breast for the nail file, and pulled it free.

  She padded to the door. No red LOCKED light. Any secondary systems? If so, she’d better move before they switched on. She pushed. The door swung open. Pulse racing, Heather slipped out of the padded room and into the dark corridor. She pressed up against the wall. Listened. Allowed her eyes time to adjust.

  Red lights flickered to life and bathed the corridor in an eerie glow. Nail file in hand, Heather made her way down the corridor. She wondered who had arrived. Jordan? Dante? De Noir had to be with Dante. Was Jordan still alive?

  She remembered Dante’s words: I’m coming for you, chérie.

  I’m here, Heather “shouted.” I’m here.

  An image of Dante poured into Heather’s mind, washing away all thought, all worry. Dizziness whirled through her and she stumbled. Grabbing at the wall, she caught herself before she fell. She closed her eyes, breathing fast, fire searing her veins.

  Dante’d heard and answered.

  He was on his way.

  * * * *

  E shivered convulsively. His hands and feet were numb, but his heart blazed, an inferno. An inferno he was dying to unleash on his betraying Bad Seed bro. He grinned, or tried to anyway, but his face was also numb. Maybe a grin was plastered across his face, frozen for all time.

  Hunkered down behind a shrubsicle, E watched as De Noir —wow. Wings. Holy fucking shit!— rose into the sky, Dante clutched to his side. Something else Ronin had neglected to mention. Fucker.

  E tasted bile at the back of his throat and swallowed. Thought of the hypo hidden in his sling. Thought about the sweet smell of dark cherries and Gina’s last words. He knew Dante wouldn’t leave without them.

  Bam!

  Heart thudding against his ribs, E glanced over his shoulder. The research center went dark. Swinging around, he ran for the door and the warmth beyond. Ran knowing Dante was stepping inside at the same moment.

  A contest, fuck yeah. May the best Bad Seed bad-ass win.

  E grabbed the ice-slicked door handle and, yanking it open, darted inside.

  * * * *

  Dante threw the door open and ran inside, then stopped. Uneasiness curled through him, snaked around his spine. He breathed in the scent of pine antiseptic and ammonia. Memory prickled.

  A woman, blue eyes almost black with wonder as she slides a knife into his side —

  No, that was the Perv — or —

  Wasps droned, needled venom beneath his skin. I’ve been here. Many times. Dante pushed the thought away, tried to refuse the memory, but it pushed back. Hard. Fragmented images whirled through his mind: Restraints strapped tight and biting into his wrists, his ankles, his chest; a liquid bead hanging from a needle tip; white walls smeared and streaked with blood.

  The droning faded and Dante shuddered. Heather. Focus on Heather, dammit. Don’t fucking fall apart. Pain throbbed at his temples and behind his eyes; he shoved it below.

  Red lights winked on. A fiery glow lit the corridor.

  Heather’s voice whispered into his mind: I’m here. I’m here.

  Dante listened for her heart, her steady, quiet rhythm. There. White light strobed at the edges of his vision.

  Dante ran.

  * * * *

  Johanna strode out into the corridor. The emergency backups powered on, flooding the building with red light. Garth stepped out behind her, gun in hand.

  “Don’t shoot S,” Johanna said. “I have tranks for him.”

  “What am I supposed to do if he comes at me in the meantime?” Garth asked, one eyebrow arched. “Throw my gun at him? Offer my fucking throat?”

  “You wanted to see him. Well, here he is. Just stay out of his way.”

  “Great. What about the guy with wings?”

  Good question. “I’d advise staying out of his way, as well.” Johanna moved, leaving Garth alone. And cursing.

  Her little True Blood walked corridors he hadn’t walked in six years. He’d been seventeen the last time she’d had him drugged and picked up. Of course, he had no memory of that, just another blank spot in his mind.

  But this time, S walked these halls because he chose to. Because he meant to rescue Wallace. Because he meant to confront Johanna. Her heart jumped when she remembered his speed.

  Confront? No, he means to kill. That’s what he knows. It’s in the blood.

  * * * *

  Heather glanced down the empty red-lit corridor. She still felt the heat of Dante’s mental touch; his image-voice circled through her mind —On my way.

  Pushing away from the wall, she ran down the corridor in her stocking feet, the green-cool glow of the EXIT signs her guide. She couldn’t stay put and wait for Dante to find her. Couldn’t risk Moore finding her first. Couldn’t risk Dante sacrificing himself for her. Because she knew he would.

  Shhh. Je sui
s ici.

  Pain bit into the undersides of the fingers on Heather’s right hand. She glanced down. Her hand, white-knuckled and stinging, was clenched around the nail file. As she forced her fingers to relax, she heard a soft padding behind her, moving fast—

  “Freeze, Wallace. Hold it right there.”

  Heather heard the unmistakable sound of a round being chambered and smelled the faint scent of sweet melon. Trench. Parka’s partner.

  “I’m not the one you need to worry about,” Heather said, tucking her fingers over the nail file. “He’s coming for me.”

  “Psycho bait. I know. Turn around. Slow.”

  “Walk away,” Heather said. She measured the distance to the corridor’s bend. If she was needed as bait, would Trench risk killing her?

  “Don’t. I’ll put one into your knee.”

  Heather stared straight ahead. Shifted her sweat-damp grip on the nail file. Slid the point between her fingers. Heard Moore saying: Should I let him have you?

  Not for you to decide. Heather whirled to the left, her hand arcing up and over for a file-toothed shoulder punch. Then she froze.

  Elroy Jordan jerked a syringe from Trench’s neck. The agent gasped, her eyes rolling up white. Her gun dropped from her fingers and clattered against the tiled floor. His gaze met Heather’s. Abyss-eyed. A shark’s unemotional regard.

  “Looks like I’m the one she needed to worry about,” he said as Trench collapsed, limbs twitching against the floor tiles. He shook his head. “That was supposed to be for my Bad Seed bro.”

  Trench went still, eyes wide. Silent. The pungent smell of piss filled the corridor.

  “Oops,” Jordan said. He grinned.

  Heather lowered her hand, tightened her fingers around the nail file. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Jordan, alive. But a little worse for wear — bruised and bitten throat, arm in a sling, disheveled.

  Jordan’s gaze dropped to the gun on the floor between them. “Faithful Heather,” he murmured. “I knew you’d come for me.” He looked up. “But S is still mine.”

  “Wrong,” Heather said. And lunged for the gun.

  Jordan dropped at the same moment. As his fingers wrapped around the pistol’s grip, Heather stabbed the nail file into the back of his hand. Jordan screamed. She yanked the bloodstained file from Jordan’s hand. Lifted it again.

  But Jordan spun on his knees and slid the pistol down the corridor behind him. The gun skittered across the gleaming tile into darkness.

  Jordan sprang to his feet. “Whoever finds Dante first can keep him.” He locked gazes with Heather. The abyss kaleidoscoped open within each eye, endless and hungry. “Race ya,” he said.

  Heather ran.

  * * * *

  Johanna reached the med unit. Her fingers curled around the door handle. A scream echoed through the center and she paused. Male — Bennington? E? A shadow jittered on the wall at the corridor’s end. She yanked open the door and slipped inside. As she eased the door shut, she tried to calm her frantic heart. She sneaked a peek out the door’s window.

  Johanna felt him before she saw him — mingled pain and rage spiked against her shields. And desperation. He struggled for control. He burned.

  She carefully removed her shoes, then stepped backward to the drug cabinets. S’s shadow stopped, twitched against the wall in the red light. Sweat trickled between Johanna’s breasts, along her temples.

  As Johanna unlatched the cabinet, the door flew open and slammed against the wall, denting the plaster. She brought up the Glock. S stepped into the room and she couldn’t breathe for a moment, dazzled, as always, by his beauty.

  “Welcome home,” she said.

  S stopped, dark eyes perplexed. He winced, touched a hand to his head. Blood trickled from his nose.

  “Dante!”

  S spun. The red-haired agent grabbed the doorway’s threshold as she slid across the tile in her stocking feet. She looked past S to Johanna.

  He wants to save Wallace.

  Ah, but what if he doesn’t?

  “Shit,” Wallace said.

  Johanna fired.

  * * * *

  A gunshot cracked down the corridor. E’s heart leapt into his throat. He edged around the corner. Hugged it. Dante knelt on the floor, his Heather cradled in his arms. She touched a shaking hand to the backstabber’s pretty face. E tensed.

  Had her eyes gleamed golden? For Dante? For his cheating/ lying/backstabbing Bad Seed bro?

  Looks like Heather won the race. Fire charred E’s heart. He reached into his sling, his fingers finding the syringe. He regretted emptying the vial into the ponytailed blonde, wished he’d saved just enough for Dante. Hand shaking with cold, with rage, he pulled the syringe free.

  Something on the floor glinted in the red light. A gift to an angry god?

  The bad-ass bloodsucker bent his head and kissed Heather’s lips.

  E’s cindered heart crumpled to ash. Does she taste of honey? I bet she does. Syringe full o’ eye-pricking pain in hand, he stepped forward, back still pressed against the red-lit walls.

  A dart suddenly sprouted from Dante’s neck. The bloodsucker shivered, but continued to kiss Heather. Or was he giving mouth-to-mouth? No, his Heather’s fingers were wrapped in Dante’s black hair.

  Where had the dart come from?

  E went still and watched. Johanna Moore stepped from the room behind Dante, leaned over him and plucked the dart free. Stroked his hair.

  “You failed,” she whispered. “Again.”

  Another shudder snaked the length of Dante’s spine, then he slumped to the side, Heather still in his arms, her fingers still entwined in his hair.

  Together.

  A strange wailing noise filled the corridor, rising and falling, like a siren. E became aware that he was running, the syringe raised in his bad hand like a shiv, when Bitch-Mommy’s head jerked up. Looked at him.

  “Ffffuuuucccckkkkkk yyyyooooouuuuuuu!”

  E scooped up the shining gift from the floor with his good hand. Metal, sharp and slender. A nail file.

  Bitch-Mommy Moore lifted the Glock. Fired. Pain flowered in E’s chest, hot and full of thorns. Grinning, he kept running. Bitch-Mommy fired again. Another pain-flower blossomed in E’s belly. He launched himself. He flew, a golden arrow, a god of death, pure and terrible. Golden light starred from his body, piercing, white-hot, and unerring.

  The god slammed into Johanna Moore, knocking her back into the room. The syringe broke off in her throat. The nail file punctured her gut. Choking, she shoved the god to the floor. The god’s stomach heaved blood up into his mouth. The god grinned. Bitch-Mommy clutched at the broken syringe in her throat and pulled it out. Then she lifted her eyes up and up and up.

  So she finally sees me, the god thought.

  Bitch-Mommy’s face turned fifty shades of white.

  Pleased, the god closed his eyes.

  * * * *

  Something hot and wet spread across the front of Heather’s blouse. She glanced down. Blood, bright red. Arterial. Dante caught her as she fell, gathered her into his strong arms. She looked at him and tried to say, I’m sorry, but couldn’t find her voice.

  Cradling her against his chest, Dante dropped to his knees. She touched a shaking hand to his beautiful, devastated face and smoothed her thumb beneath his left eye.

  “Not for me, Dante,” Heather whispered, showing him the moisture on her thumb. “No tears for me. Not your fault.”

  Dante pulled her closer. His heat radiated into her. “I won’t lose you.” He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit it. Dark blood welled up on his pale skin. He pressed the wound against her lips. “Drink,” he urged. “S’il te plait.”

  Dante’s blood smeared across Heather’s lips as she turned her head away. It smelled of dark sun-warmed grapes and tasted like Dante’s kisses, heady and tempting. Her throat tightened.

  “No,” she whispered. Her vision swam. “No. I want to stay what…I…am…” She shivered, suddenly cold. Sleepy.r />
  Gold fire lit Dante’s eyes. Lowering his head, he kissed her.

  * * * *

  Dante’s song stirred within him, layering chord upon chord. Bending his head, he kissed Heather’s bloodstained lips and breathed his song into her. He filled her with his essence, kindling blue fire at her core. He imagined her whole, healed, and wove blue-lit thread through her wound. Heather’s fingers twisted around his hair. Her faltering heart beat strong and fast.

  Something stung Dante’s neck.

  “You failed,” a familiar voice said. “Again.”

  Dante shivered as cold spread through him, crackling like ice through his veins. His song faltered.

  “Not true,” Heather murmured against his lips.

  He tasted the salt of her tears. Fire flared for a moment, and he breathed it into her before they sank together beneath the ice, plunging through starless night.

  * * * *

  Pain and grief slapped against Lucien’s shields like twin tsunamis, receding to return in ever stronger waves, deadlier surges. He ran, following his bond to Dante. Loss reverberated within Lucien like a broken song. Power swirled into the air, buoyed by a creawdwr’s energy. Then, Dante lapsed into unconsciousness.

  As Lucien rounded the corner, he saw Jordan fling himself at Johanna Moore, a syringe in one fist, a bit of metal in the other. He saw Moore shoot Jordan twice before the mortal tackled her. They both hit the floor hard. Her gun skittered across the tiles, coming to a stop against Dante’s back.

  Dante lay in the corridor, his arms wrapped around Wallace. Fading blue flames sparked and danced around them. Lucien heard Dante’s slow, measured heartbeat, smelled the chemicals flowing in his blood. Wallace’s heart pulsed, as well, a rapid patter.

  In one long stride, Lucien stood beside his drugged child and the woman he cared for — cared for enough to sacrifice his own safety to ensure hers — but hadn’t that always been his way?

  It was one of the things Lucien loved and treasured most in Dante — his compassionate heart. All the things Moore had subjected his child to hadn’t stolen that compassion or broken his spirit. He was wounded, yes, and some of the wounds might never heal, yes. But he’d survive. And he’d love.