On Midnight Wings

by Adrian Phoenix

  But breathing seemed like a small thing, really, maybe even an unnecessary thing, as the seizure devoured Dante with a voracious white-hot appetite. Tore him apart, joint by joint, tendon by tendon. Torqued each muscle and limb and wing without mercy.

  Send it below or fucking use it.

  But below seized the opportunity to fucking use him instead when the dart pierced his throat and threaded ice through his veins.

  Below yanked Dante under.

  Shoved him down.

  Kicked his convulsing ass into the shattered, wasp-droning depths.

  11

  DARK PROPHECY

  DALLAS, TEXAS

  THE STRICKLAND DEPROGRAMMING INSTITUTE

  SHE SEES DANTE, DESPITE the fact that he’s blurring up endless flights of concrete stairs, a red-haired little girl tucked against his side. Sees a determined scowl on his beautiful pale face and crimson striping the deep brown of his irises. Sees blood smeared on the skin above his heart, staining his lips, the skin beneath his nose. His black hair trails behind him, a silken slice of starless night.

  For a moment, she thinks she has somehow stumbled into Dante’s memories since he’s carrying Chloe in her Winnie-the-Pooh sweater and purple cords tight against him. Thinks he’s caught in an old and heartbreaking loop—himself and Chloe at the sanitarium—but then she realizes he’s not the thirteen-year-old version of himself in jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, but the lean-muscled adult in boots, leather pants, and bondage collar.

  Not the past. Not haunted memories.

  Then she notices that black paper wings are taped to the back of Chloe’s sweater. Black paper wings. No plushie orca.

  The little girl isn’t Chloe at all.

  She’s Violet. The head-shot child Dante had transformed in the motel parking lot in Oregon. And she remembers all the SB agents that had been there. Remembers the sweating, grim-faced agent who ordered the resurrected and newly freckled Violet and her mother away from Dante and—no doubt—into their custody.

  And she knows, bone deep—no dream. Not memories. Reality.

  Her pulse races. She’s found him at last. Then fear knots cold in her belly. She’s found him, yes—in a desperate run for survival.

  A voice with a mild European twist echoes up the stairwell, calling Dante’s name, but he never slows. Yanking open a door, he streaks out onto a rooftop.

  She’s right behind him, close enough to touch. She feels the cool night air against her face, smells old tar, coppery blood, and Dante’s scent of frost and burning leaves. But when she tries to grasp his arm, to pull him against her and to safety, her fingertips brush a smooth, invisible barrier—like a one-way observation mirror in an interrogation room.

  So she reaches for him through their bond instead, to let him know that he’s not alone and that she’s okay, to guide him back, to anchor him in the present.

 

  He stumbles. Nearly falls to his knees. Blood trickles from his nose. His face blanks and his shocked gaze turns inward—and seeing that, she knows he was mentally locked into the past, her psionic touch triggering an avalanche of now inside him.

 

  She hears Dante’s breath catch in his throat as an expression of stunned revelation washes over his face, sweeping the blankness away. Then he looks around, his expression sharp and aware and troubled, a dreamer awakening to find himself on the floor beside a bed he doesn’t recognize.

  She has a feeling Dante reaches back—or tries to—but scalding pain blasts through the bond and he disappears from her sight as the mirror ripples, then shatters into thousands of glittering pieces.

  HEATHER AWAKENED, HEART THUDDING hard against her ribs, temples throbbing as the lights overhead pierced her eyes.

  “Found you,” she whispered. Closing her eyes again, she draped an arm across them to seal in the darkness and to prevent any last needles of light from sliding in. Her headache dimmed.

  Found Dante, yes, but where? An institutional building of some kind, judging by the stairwell and the big air-conditioning units on the roof. Heather realized that the urgent, insistent tug she felt to the east was now defined as southeast.

  It she truly was in Texas, then maybe, just maybe, Dante was still in Louisiana.

  And what had happened, anyway? What had she just experienced?

  Not a dream—or not just a dream.

  Or maybe it was a vision like the ones she had of her murdered mother’s last walk. But while those were glimpses into a twenty-year-old past, Heather felt in her gut, that what she’d just seen—vision, dream, farsight, whatever the hell you wanted to call it—was actually happening as she watched.

  Heather was pretty damned sure that she’d been connected to Dante, that for a moment, the drugs and/or resin in his system had receded enough for her to reach him. But not enough for him to reach back, to send to her.

  And attempting to had cost him—a lot.

  Heather’s throat tightened as she replayed the details she’d seen. Partially healed bullet wounds on Dante’s chest. Blood smeared on his face, the bare skin of his chest. Bluish shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes. Dilated pupils. A sense of wrongness, his frost and burning leaves scent tainted with a bitter undertone.

  She attributed the sense of wrongness she detected to the dragon’s blood tree resin and whatever drugs were being pumped into his veins, to his injuries and the muffling of their bond, to his worry for her and the others. To his goddamned captivity.

  At least she tried to, anyway. But Von’s warning looped through her memory, a grim whisper: I think he’s had all he can take, doll. Heart and mind . . .

  Throat tight, Heather silently agreed.

  Rubber soles squeaking against tile brought Heather’s arm down from her eyes. As she cautiously opened them, she discovered that her headache was gone and the light no longer bothered her.

  A nurse with short, dark hair and wearing blue scrubs met Heather’s regard with a quick smile. Her name tag read RN Sue Bieri.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse chirped without a hint of regret. “I hope I didn’t wake you. But there’s someone here to see you, and I thought, since it’s coming up on dinnertime, that it might be nice if you could share a meal with your visitor.”

  “Visitor?”

  Frowning, Heather sat up and pushed her hair back from her face. She glanced toward the window. Night glimmered like a dark jewel beyond the glass. “Wait. What time is it?”

  What if her visitor was a certain llygad, a green-eyed nomad?

  “Seven thirty. Dinner’s at eight.”

  “Kind of late for dinner, isn’t it?”

  “Not in Europe,” Sue replied, then smiling, she rolled her eyes. “I know, I know—this isn’t exactly Europe. But there’s a very good reason why our dinners happen to be served at such an hour—it’s the meds. Most of our clients sleep late because of their treatments.” She shrugged. “So we adjust.”

  “Very civilized,” Heather murmured dryly.

  Seven thirty. Jesus Christ. She’d slept nearly three hours. Even if Von had received her last message—something she was far from sure of—she doubted that enough time had elapsed for the nomad to a) figure out where in Texas the Strickland Institute was located, since she was pretty damned sure the place was off the grid, and b) arrive. Besides, he sure as hell wouldn’t stand around waiting politely for her invitation to what would surely be a yummy institutional dinner—bathrobe optional.

  Not Von, then. Heather sighed, knowing who her visitor had to be—the last person she wanted to see. But if she refused dinner with her father, it might be viewed by the Strickland powers-that-be as a setback in her therapy and cost her all the drug-free ground she’d gained.

  Heather shook her head. “I’m too drained, Sue,” she said, truthfully. “Another time, maybe.”

  “You sure, sugar? I thought you might like to have a nice meal together since it’s your last night here
.”

  Hope fluttered within Heather, a fragile butterfly. Maybe Von had found her, after all, and was playing it by the book. Maybe belated paternal instincts had awakened within James Wallace’s cold, cold heart and he’d realized the mistake he’d made.

  “My last night? Why? When did this happen?” But even as the questions bounced past her lips, another more likely possibility suddenly unfolded in Heather’s mind, pricking cold along her spine.

  The Bureau had found her.

  Worse—what if they’d been behind everything—from James Wallace’s kidnapping, arson, and attempted murder spree to Dante’s disappearance—sharing the Bad Seed wealth with the SB?

  Sue shrugged, a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes. “The FBI has decided to pick up the cost of your treatment, apparently, but they’ve chosen a different facility.”

  Heather sucked in a breath, belly knotting, her fear realized. But she was grateful that she’d been forewarned. “What if I don’t want to go?” she asked. “I’m just getting settled here.”

  “I know, and it’s a shame. But I’m afraid you have no say in the matter.” Sue tsked and shook her head. “Just know that everyone has your best interests at heart.”

  Heather knew better, but kept that knowledge to herself. “Do you know where I’m being transferred?”

  “No, I don’t,” Sue replied. “But I’m sure it’ll be fine—wherever it is.”

  Heather doubted that with every fiber of her being. The FBI planned to fulfill their dark prophecy—mental illness and a tragic suicide. One less loose end.

  She couldn’t wait for Von to find her. She needed to escape before morning.

  Before the FBI made her vanish. Permanently.

  “So how about it? Dinner with your father? Might be your last chance for a while.”

  “Does he know about the move?”

  “I don’t believe he does. Yet. The news just came down.”

  Heather’s pulse raced as an idea, a wild and dangerous gamble, took shape in her mind. “Y’know, I think you might be right about that last chance stuff. Please tell my”—she forced the word out through clenched teeth—“father that I’d love to have dinner with him.”

  Sue’s smile returned full force, a whitened laser beam of cheer. “That’s wonderful, sugar. I’ll let him know.”

  Heather smiled as well, but the cheer offered up by her lips was cold and hollow. “You do that,” she said.

  12

  NOTHING PERSONAL

  BATON ROUGE

  DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM

  TEODORO DíON PULLED A chair up beside the steel examination table and sat, elbows to knees, chin to steepled fingers, and studied Purcell’s handiwork.

  The white, leather-strapped straitjacket fit as snugly as though it’d been tailored specifically for Dante, which, Teodoro had no doubt, it had been, its thick leather straps pulled painfully tight.

  Straitjackets worked just as well on vampires as they did on mortals. Of course, straitjackets for vampires were woven of more durable stuff than those manufactured for mortals. Still, the simple fact remained—if you couldn’t move your arms or use your hands, you couldn’t tear free—even with preternatural strength.

  But Purcell hadn’t stopped at the straitjacket.

  Double loops of steel gleamed at Dante Baptiste’s socked ankles, a pair of handcuffs on each. Each cuff’s twin and linking chain had been pulled down through a slot in the table and pulled taut from underneath, before being looped back over the table’s edge to snap the second cuff shut around the same wrist or ankle.

  Handcuffs double-looped. Slots that couldn’t be wrenched free like welded-on door handles, since they were part of the table. Metal bands across Dante’s chest and thighs.

  All made of reinforced vampire-proof steel.

  But creawdwr-proof was another matter entirely, Teodoro knew.

  When Purcell had called yesterday to tell him that Dante wasn’t healing from the bullet wounds, that he was, in fact, bleeding out, Teodoro had instantly known what James Wallace had put in his bullets, because he’d once used sap from the dragon’s blood tree himself for a very similar purpose centuries ago.

  Fatal to True Bloods, yes, but Dante’s Fallen heritage had saved his life—barely. And because of that, Teodoro had believed—no, be honest, had hoped—that the resin, in combination with the damage James Wallace had wreaked with his oh-so-well-placed bullets, would short-circuit Dante’s use of the creu tân.

  And it had. Until Dante had managed to make a snack out of Bronson.

  Until that awful moment on the rooftop.

  On midnight wings, Dante rises from the sanitarium’s roof.

  Fury shadows his pale, blood-streaked face. His eyes blaze with gold light. Blue flames flicker to life around his fingers as his anhrefncathl slashes a dark and savage melody into the night.

  Teodoro stares, dread and awe pulsing through his veins in equal measure. He’s never seen a creawdwr in action before, never seen a living creawdwr—until now. And he has a gut-knotting suspicion that it might be the last thing he ever sees.

  But a split second later, Dante’s eyes roll back into his head. The seizure’s sucker punch breaks his song, snuffs the flames, and slams him back down to the roof.

  While the seizure had been a welcome surprise, the wings had been both unexpected and problematic. Teodoro had never imagined that Dante would have wings. No half-blood did. At least not those born of Fallen and mortal unions. Perhaps it was different with vampire-Fallen offspring, although he didn’t know of any. More likely the reason rested in who and what Dante was—creawdwr.

  In any case, Teodoro had carefully erased the memory of Dante’s wings from the minds of each agent on the roof. No one else needed to know what Dante was.

  Not yet.

  Not even Purcell. Although Teodoro could just imagine the man’s reaction.

  You’re telling me that this bloodsucking son of a bitch not only has wings and a fallen angel daddy, but he’s also a fucking god? What goddamned bullshit.

  A fucking god, yes. Bullshit, no.

  “So do I get your stamp of approval?” Purcell asked from the foot of the table.

  Back in the moment once more, Teodoro nodded, then murmured, “Nice work. This should actually hold him.”

  “Personally, I think shooting him full of resin and hoisting him onto the hook would hold him even better,” Purcell grumbled. “But, yeah, this’ll work. Lucky for you he had that seizure. Why the hell couldn’t he have had the damned thing before he slaughtered two of my men?”

  “Their error,” Teodoro pointed out with a shrug. “You did tell them to make sure Baptiste was secured before doing anything else and they failed to do so.”

  Purcell blew out an exasperated breath in agreement.

  “His file doesn’t mention seizures,” Teodoro commented, slanting a glance at Purcell. “I take it that’s something new?”

  Purcell raked a hand through his gray-flecked sandy hair, then nodded. “Definitely. And he had one yesterday following surgery, but I have no idea what’s causing them and—to be honest—I really don’t give a rat’s ass. For all I know maybe it’s an indication that his sanity is about to take that plunge you’ve got such a hard-on for.”

  “Perhaps,” Teodoro agreed, straightening in his chair. He thought of the elaborate scar on the creawdwr’s left pectoral, near his heart. A sigil. One Teodoro had recognized—as any nephilim would. His jaw tightened.

  “And the mark on his chest?” He jerked his chin at Dante. “Is that new too?”

  “He didn’t have it the last time we picked him up and brought him in,” Purcell said. “But that was six, almost seven, years ago. S usually keeps his shirt on when he’s onstage with his band, so there’s no telling when he got it. What does it matter? It’s just one of those neoprimitive cuttings or whatever.”

  Teodoro shrugged. “Simply curious.”

  “So what now? You still plan on breaking him even after all thi
s?”

  “Definitely. But I think I’ll take a look inside this time”—Teodoro air-tapped a finger next to his own temple—“and see if I can find the best way to accomplish that goal.”

  “Christ.” Purcell sighed. “Talk about a waste of time, but fine. You do that. I’ll go check on the kid, tell her that her goddamned angel is all right and blah, blah, blah. Any other instructions before I go?”

  Teodoro frowned, considering. Bright blood welled up from the half-healed bullet wounds above Dante’s heart, soaking through the canvas straitjacket in a small dark circle. It also trickled dark along his temple and pooled in his ear.

  “Yes,” Teodoro replied. “Have a medic waiting on standby.”

  “If you want the bastard to heal, then you should quit giving him the resin.”

  Teodoro lifted his gaze to Purcell, met his unreadable olive green eyes. “I don’t want him to heal. I want him weak.”

  “Weak is good,” Purcell said. “Dead is better.”

  “Be patient and we’ll both get what we want.”

  “Bronson and Holland are dead. How’s that for patient?” Turning, Purcell kicked Dante’s discarded boots from his path and strode from the room.

  Teodoro wondered if he’d made a mistake in taking only temporary control of the prickly agent’s mind—a brief visit, one just long enough to make Purcell rescind his shoot-the-little-fucking-psycho order and erase the memory of having ever given that order in the first place.

  If so, it was a mistake that could be corrected, if necessary.

  Once Purcell had exited the room, Teodoro scooted his chair closer to the table and gave his attention to the sigil above the drugged and dreaming creawdwr’s heart.

  He’d lied when he’d told Purcell the scar didn’t matter. In truth, it mattered a great deal because it was the Morningstar’s mark and a blood pledge. Which begged the very troubling question: How had Dante managed to remain free in the mortal world, given that the Fallen—or at least the Morningstar—apparently knew of his existence?

  Teodoro touched the blood-soaked spot on the straitjacket, his finger tracing the sigil’s design from memory upon the material—an upside-down pyramid with a smaller reversed triangle hooked to its base with graceful curlicues.