On Midnight Wings

by Adrian Phoenix

Straightening, Von unfolded the paper. And realized with a sharp pang as he stared at the oh-so-familiar face it revealed, that the Magazine Street lord was not only an artist, but a damned good one.

  The sketch also revealed why Mauvais’s crew had broken into the club—they believed Dante and Vincent friendly enough to play artist and model.

  Dante in charcoal—his eyes closed, jaw tight, caught in the act of wiping a dark trickle of blood from his nose with a hoodie sleeve, moonlight glinting from the ring in his collar.

  A simple drawing, not yet completed, or so it looked to Von, but somehow Vincent had managed to capture not only Dante’s beauty, tension, and pain in bold strokes of gray and black, but had symbolized in that casual swipe of a hoodie sleeve the quiet will that kept Dante on his feet, kept him moving, kept him fighting.

  At the bottom of the sketch, printed in charcoal letters: Secrets.

  Von reached for Dante.

  But all Von received was more silence prickling with barbed-wire pain.

  “Is that Dante?” Merri asked as she joined him out in the street, her scent electric with interest. She’d only seen Dante in photos, Von realized, had never met him.

  “Yup,” Von replied, his voice rough. He quickly folded up the sketch, then slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Vincent’s work.”

  “You never mentioned he was an artist.”

  “Never mentioned a lot of things.”

  “True,” Merri said without rancor. “The sketch—is that normal? I mean, does Dante often get nosebleeds during what I’m guessing to be a killer headache?”

  Von hesitated for a moment, then said, “Normal for Dante, yeah.”

  “Christ. Sorry to hear that.”

  Returning to the sidewalk, Merri paused in front of the club’s battered green shutter-style doors and lit up one of her clove cigarettes. They were alone. Silver was inside, salvaging what he could from his room and keeping an eye on Thibodaux.

  “So spill, nomad. Let’s hear what you didn’t want to say inside about your artist friend.”

  Lucien’s old-school Chevy van with its blacked-out side and back windows was parked at the curb, so Von rested his back against it. He folded his arms over his chest, bomber jacket creaking. “Vincent ain’t my friend.”

  “I’m hearing history . . .”

  “Just the usual. Two cocky bastards. One town. Yada, yada. Not to mention that Vincent was playing two sides—namely, Dante and goddamned Guy Mauvais—against the middle.”

  “The Lord of New Orleans?” Merri questioned, frowning. “He’s the mofo who ordered the house you all lived in torched, killing your friend in the fire, right?”

  “Simone, her name was Simone,” Von said, voice harsher than he’d intended. “And, yeah, Mauvais was the one. He also had Dante grabbed and held long enough to ensure he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.” He shook his head, throat too tight for words.

  But we felt her burn. Felt the fire devour her. Heard her screams.

  “Shit,” Merri said. “Then what happened?”

  “Lake Pontchartrain.”

  “Tell me,” she said softly.

  “Is your nosiness natural or something the SB trained into you?”

  Merri snorted. “I’m a born snoop, nomad. Get used to it.”

  “Nosy and full of sass,” Von observed, grinning. “I like that in a woman.”

  Merri laughed, shook her head. “Shee-it. Look, no need to play the old flirtation distraction game with me. If you don’t want to tell me about what happened at Lake Pontchartrain, no problem.”

  “Ooo. Minus points for being touchy. But”—Von unfolded his arms and held up a just-be-patient hand when she scowled, brows knitting over her velvet-brown eyes—“I don’t mind telling you what went down.”

  Von drew in a deep breath, one laced with smoke fragrant with spice and cloves and tobacco, then released it and started talking. Some things he kept to himself, like Dante’s creawdwr abilities and how he turned a ticking time bomb of a yacht into a living, breathing leviathan—or mostly, anyway.

  And what he did to Trey.

  Dante holds Trey’s face—a face that now flickers and shifts, a face that seems composed of blue neon ones and zeros—between his blue-flamed hands. Trey’s dreads, transformed into gleaming and twisted bundles of wire, snake into the burning air . . .

  But he told Merri the rest in a low, flat voice—Vincent informing Dante that Mauvais would be meeting the arsonists responsible for the fire and Simone’s death at a wharf on Lake Pontchartrain and picking them up; Dante’s determination to avenge Simone, to give her brother Trey a reason to keep breathing; the nearly empty yacht, minus Mauvais, a decoy; the explosion.

  “After all the shit that went down on Lake Pontchartrain,” Von concluded, sweeping his gaze along the busy street, “Vincent probably figured someone—Mauvais or Dante—would be coming to rip him and his entire household new ones for being treacherous SOBs, so I’d bet my left rim he went into hiding.”

  “So was he?” Merri asked, dark eyes glinting. “A treacherous SOB?”

  “Well, now, that depends on who you ask,” Von replied, smoothing his thumb and index finger along his mustache. “Vincent was definitely betraying Mauvais when he gave us the info he did; but since the info was false and it led to a trap, he screwed us as well—even if it was an unintentional screwing.”

  “If Vincent was the guy whose web-runner you planned to borrow, then that unintentional screwing isn’t over yet,” Merri said softly.

  “The screwing that just keeps on giving and giving,” Von agreed. He trailed a hand through his unbound hair; Jack seemed to be lacking in hair ties, but not gator print shirts, go figure. “I think my search plan just got flushed down the toilet.”

  So far they had only one piece of the puzzle leading to Heather’s whereabouts and that had come from Heather herself: Strickland. Lucien had questioned a fed in Portland and learned that James Wallace had been unaware that the Bureau had been using him as a means to Heather.

  Unfortunately, that had been all that particular fed had known. He’d been left out of the loop as far as any details of FBI hush-hush operations went, but he’d known who would know, and now Lucien was in Washington, D.C., paying a visit to a fed who was in that oh-so-exclusive hush-hush loop.

  Von felt a grim satisfaction as he imagined how that meeting might go down.

  Basic web searches run by himself, Jack, Silver—hell, even Merri and Thibodaux—hadn’t revealed all that much. Or at least hadn’t revealed much that would lead them to Heather. Turned out that Strickland was a popular name for funeral homes and Chevrolet dealerships. Who knew?

  What they’d needed was a web-runner. Someone who could search deep and fast. Someone they could trust. Or someone who owed them big-time. So he’d figured he’d pay Vincent a little visit while Merri and her partner checked the club for clues to the identity of Dante’s abductor or location.

  No point to that little visit now.

  Von’s jaw tightened. Just a night or two ago, he could’ve put their own web-runner to work on the problem, but Trey’s grief had forced him to do the unthinkable both to himself and to Dante, and now Trey was just fucking gone. Transformed into an instrument of revenge for a sister he could never bring back.

  Grief could tear a person apart and remake them into someone unrecognizable, someone cold and obsessed, a stranger. As much as Von ached to make Mauvais pay for Simone’s death too, he never would’ve used Dante like Trey had done, never would’ve risked a friend’s heart and sanity.

  Of course, in his right mind, Trey never would’ve either.

  Von scrubbed his face with his hands. “Christ.”

  “So now what?” Merri asked. “You got a plan B in mind?”

  Dropping his hands to his sides, Von sighed. “Looks like waiting to hear from Lucien is plan B.” He didn’t like it,
but didn’t have any other ideas—brilliant or otherwise. And there was still Holly to deal with too.

  A moist breeze laced with the smells of fried beignets, whitewashed tombs from St. Louis No. 1, and Mississippi mud momentarily cleared away the rotting vegetation stink from the garbage bags pyramided in the gutter. A brief respite for which Von was grateful.

  “Might as well go back inside and—” He stopped, sentence unfinished as the sidewalk tilted beneath him. He grabbed the van’s side mirror to steady himself—what the hell?—then felt Merri’s hard fingers lock around his biceps.

  “The stay-awake,” she reminded. “Consequences.”

  The club and the street performed a single swooping pirouette, then settled back down. Von exhaled in relief. “If a little dizziness is all—”

  “It isn’t,” Merri warned, releasing him. “Trust me. It’s just getting started. You need to be careful.”

  Von rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t afford to be careful. Couldn’t afford to Sleep. Not when all he felt from Dante was acid-etched pain. Not when Heather was waiting, uncertain if he’d heard her. Not until he’d found them both.

  Von walked into the smoke-reeking club and headed up the stairs to the third floor landing, then his room. It was a smelly mess. Furniture, bedding, curtains, and clothing all stank of smoke and mildew, of dried blood. Sprinkler-soaked throw rugs squished beneath his borrowed sneakers.

  Retrieving his double shoulder holster from the back of the chair he’d slung it over before hitting the hay—what? Only forty hours ago or so, but it felt like weeks, a lifetime—he checked the Browning tucked inside each holster and was pleased to see them in fine working order.

  Shrugging off the brown leather bomber jacket, Von strapped the rig on. Patting the grip of each gun in turn, he whispered, “Missed you.”

  The only other belongings Von was able to scavenge from his room were his well-worn leather jacket and his scooter boots—both of which he promptly put on. He was just plain stuck with Jack’s gatorfied T-shirt for the time being. He silently renewed his vow to make the drummer eat the T-shirt, one tiny gator at a time.

  With Jack’s sneakers and bomber jacket tucked under his arm, Von strode from his room and out into the hall—just in time to see Thibodaux heading for the stairs.

  “Hey,” Von called after him. “Find anything that’ll help us?”

  Thibodaux stopped on the landing, turned around. He shook his head. “Nothing that y’all didn’t already know. Sorry, podna.”

  Von nodded. “I had a feeling that would be the case. Thanks anyway, man.” He glanced down the hall as Thibodaux’s footsteps faded away. Silver stood at the far end, staring at something on the floor in front of Dante and Heather’s room, mingled anger and despair chiseled into his pale face.

  The scene of the crime—or part of it, anyway.

  Von joined him, the odors of copper and cordite—blood and bullets—fading beneath Silver’s clean soap-and-cinnamon scent. A dark stain edged out from the bedroom doorway into the waterlogged carpet like a high tide line on a beach. Blood. And lots of it—too much. Von’s heart constricted.

  “Annie thinks this is her fault,” Silver murmured. His body thrummed with tension. “I told her it wasn’t, but I don’t think she’s listening.”

  “The only one at fault here is her old man,” Von said softly. “She’ll see that once we bring her sister and Dante home.”

  Silver grunted, unconvinced.

  Von knelt on the wet carpet and touched the maroon high-tide line. Little brother. His hand began to shake and, frowning, he clenched it into a fist. More of Merri’s consequences?

  An urgent sending from Lucien arrowed into his mind, and the stay-awakes and their consequences faded in importance.

  Excitement surged through Von, driving him up to his feet. Silver looked at him quizzically, dark brows slanting down over his eyes. “What? Is it Lucien?”

  Nodding, Von held up a just-a-minute hand.

 

  Von stiffened.

 

 

  Lucien agreed, ending the contact.

  “Heather’s in Dallas,” Von said, meeting Silver’s impatient gaze. “I’m joining Lucien, but I need you here to keep an eye on things—like making sure Jack and Annie are safe.”

  Silver opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again when Von added quietly, “They’re mortal, Silver, vulnerable. And Annie needs you. Besides, you’re the only one I trust to protect them. Our household can’t take another loss.”

  Silver raked a hand through his purple anime-styled locks, spiking the air with hair-gel perfume. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Yeah, okay. But you better keep me in the loop.”

  “You know I will,” Von replied, giving his taut-muscled shoulder a quick squeeze.

  “You need a ride to the airport?”

  “Nope. My bike’s out front. But I do need you to take our new SB friends back to Jack’s. Keep a close eye on them. And keep me posted.”

  “Sure. What about your hot friend in the red dress—Holly?”

  “Let me worry about her,” Von said. “Why don’t you start loading up whatever you’ve salvaged and get everyone back to Jack’s?”

  Silver nodded. “Will do.” He moved, blurring down the hall to his room in a cool, cinnamon-scented breeze.

  Von turned, then stumbled as the hallway suddenly dipped, then spun. Black spots flecked his vision. Electricity tingled along his spine. Jack’s sneakers and jacket thudded to the floor. Grabbing the wall for support, he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and waited for the dizziness to pass.

  Shit, not now. Not now. Murphy and his law can sit and spin.

  After a moment, Von cautiously opened his eyes. Nothing dipped or spun or twirled. Exhaling in relief, he scooped up the jacket and sneakers, then headed downstairs and into the club proper.

  As he headed for the bar where Merri and her partner sat, he felt the mental tickle that was a llygad’s warning to stand by, that official information was about to be streamed from the filidh into llygaid minds. Von righted a stool and sat down at the bar.

  “Hear you’re headed for the airport,” Merri said.

  “Hold on.” Von tapped a fingertip against the crescent moon beneath his right eye.

  Merri uttered a soft and respectful “Oh.”

  Von didn’t have to wait long. As he focused his attention inward, vivid and familiar images streamed into his mind—and simultaneously into the minds of llygaid worldwide to be shared with their chosen households—and his belly sank like a fucking anchor.

  The filidh had finally released Dante’s announcement, the one that Von had captured and sent to the master Bards himself almost three nights ago at Dante’s request.

  Talk about lousy, fucking timing.

  When the streaming memory-feed ended, Von closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead wearily with his fingertips. “Christ,” he muttered.

  he informed Silver.

 

 

 

  Shit indeed.

  A sudden, sharp intake of breath dropped Von’s hand from his forehead and opened his eyes in time to see Merri’s dark gaze unfocus. Von knew that llygaid in their individual households were passing along the images now pouring into Merri’s mind. Knew the same thing was happening the wo
rld over, rippling across timelines, and even into the dreams of Sleeping nightkind—llygaid-sent.

  Von rose to his feet and walked behind the soot-and water-stained bar, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s off the glass liquor shelf, and cracked the seal. Deciding to forgo the usual tumbler, he drank straight from the bottle.

  Fuck Murphy and his stupid goddamned law.

  17

  BADASS AND BEAUTIFUL

  MERRI FELT AN URGENT nudge at her shields—a mental touch she recognized as belonging to her mère de sang’s llygad, Juliet. Merri relaxed her shields, then closed her eyes.

  Juliet sent.

  Merri frowned, wondering at the announcement’s delay. Then images flooded her mind in detail so vivid it seemed as though she viewed them through her own eyes, transported in time and place to Club Hell, to a moment almost three nights old—a moment taking place right now.

  She stands in front of the Cage, breathing in air thick with musky pheromones, pungent curls of pot and tobacco smoke, patchouli, and sweat. At her back, she feels the heated, adrenaline-soaked press of the club crowd; hears the jackrabbit rush of mortal pulses mingling with the slow waltz of nightkind hearts.

  And inside the Cage . . .

  A lean-muscled form in a shirt of PVC and fishnet and metal straps; low-slung black latex jeans and boots. A metal studded leather collar encircles his milk-white throat. Light glints from the steel ring at its center, from the rings on his fingers and thumbs, but not from the hoops she knows trace the curves of his ears—hidden behind the nightfall of his black hair.

  He steps forward, a sinuous and natural panther prowl. Merri’s breath catches rough in her throat. She’s only seen him frozen in photos or at a distance in grainy or static-freckled video feed, never like this—right in front of her, pulsing heat through her veins with just a simple movement.

  Badass and beautiful Dante Baptiste curls one pale hand around the microphone, leaning in just a little, his cupid’s-bow lips nearly grazing the mic cover. “This is an official announcement for all you nightkind out there . . .”