On Midnight Wings tms-5
Page 4
Do you bite? she’d asked Dante out of curiosity, touching a sharp fang tip.
Yup. All the time. A smile had slanted across his lips. That I do know.
Will you bite me?
His smile had vanished and his voice had turned fierce. Never, princess. Jamais. I’d never bite you. That I know too.
She’d believed him. But Violet had a feeling he might bite the orderlies.
The gleaming hook captured her gaze again and the moths in her tummy turned to pebbles. “Is that for him? In case he bites?” She forced herself to look away, to look at the orderlies instead, but their blank faces didn’t make her feel any better. “But what if he promises not to bite? What if he promises to be good?”
Joe shook his head. “It’s not right, leaving her in here with him.”
“Shut the hell up,” Tyler growled. He tossed a look at the camera poking out from a corner in the ceiling. “You trying to get us fired? Or worse?”
“Let me add another choice to those options, gentlemen,” someone drawled. Violet looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Purcell standing in the threshold—the man who had brought her here while her mommy got better at the underground hospital.
So she can rest and get well and so you can spend time with your . . . angel . . . while she does. Pretty soon, you’ll all go home.
His words had been smooth and slick and full of poisoned-apple smiles.
Just like now. A shiver creepy-crawled down Violet’s spine.
He’s a bad man, her little voice warned.
Bad enough to hurt angels?
Bad enough to kill angels.
“Tell me what you think,” Mr. Purcell continued, “I leave you in the room to keep our little Violet company. You could even color while you wait for her angel”—his lips puckered as though the word angel tasted as sour as a pickle—“to awaken. I’m sure Violet would be happy to share her crayons. How does that option grab you?”
Shaking his head, Tyler hurried from the room and past Mr. Purcell without a backward glance. Mr. Purcell smiled.
“You don’t need to be scared of Dante,” Violet insisted, looking at Joe. “He’s not mean. And I’ll share my crayons if you want to stay and see.”
Mr. Purcell chuckled. “Helluva offer. Do you want to stay and see, Joe?”
A muscle bunched in Joe’s jaw, then he glanced away, his face looking like he had a tummyache. “Sorry, kid,” he whispered, his shoulders slumping. “Keep as far away from him as you can. Keep yourself out of reach and—”
“Joe,” Mr. Purcell said. Just the one word, and almost a whisper. A whisper once more full of poisoned apples and thick thorns. Then, just as quietly, “Give her the key.”
The orderly’s face turned white. The smell of sweat wafted into the air. He pulled a key from his pants pocket and handed it to Violet. Swallowing hard, he left the room without another word.
Violet studied the key the orderly had given her. Little and light, it looked like a toy key. She looked at the bad-guy handcuffs gleaming around Dante’s wrists. “Is it for those?” she asked.
“I knew you’d figure it out,” Mr. Purcell said. He reached for the big, thick door’s metal latch and started to pull it shut. “He’ll be awake soon, so you won’t be lonely for long.”
“Okay,” Violet said, “but he needs a doctor.” She brushed Dante’s hair back from his pale cheek. Blood glistened beneath his nose, on his lips. “He’s still hurt. See?”
“He’ll be fine,” Mr. Purcell said, his gaze flicking to the hook above. “Trust me. The only thing that’ll happen will be history repeating itself.”
The door swung shut with a heavy thunk before Violet could insist on the doctor again. Red lights lit up on the little panel beside the door. LOCKED.
Her angel shivered on the cold concrete floor for a moment, then lay still again. She had a feeling the orderlies wouldn’t be coming back with a blanket. Feeling the weight of the hook hanging above her, above her sleeping angel, Violet unlocked the handcuffs with the little silver key. Pulled them free from around his wrists and placed them on the floor. The skin of his wrists looked rubbed raw, bruised.
She thought about the lies—just little white ones, sweetie—Mr. Purcell had instructed her to tell Dante to make him happy. Answer to the name Chloe. Call him Dante-angel and let him believe he gifted you with that Winnie-the-Pooh sweater. Poisoned apples.
Why? Why are they hurting him? Why are they asking me to hurt him too? They promised to take care of him. Don’t they know he saved me from Heaven?
Maybe that’s what scares them, her little voice suggested.
“Then they’re being stupid,” Violet muttered, but not disagreeing, not really.
She grabbed Dante’s shoulder and, grunting, pulled him over onto his back. He smelled of Halloween underneath all the blood and he was wearing clothes like the ones she’d first seen him in—leather rock-star pants, a black T-shirt, but without the sleeves with all the little holes this time, and boots with lots of buckles. And, just like before, a collar was strapped around his throat, a black collar with a steel hoop.
He looked like he belonged in the Underworld movies her mommy had Netflixed and Violet had watched in secret, hidden behind the couch, when she was supposed to be in bed. And those movies had been full of scary stuff, dark stuff, dangerous stuff.
The hook in the ceiling told Violet that Mr. Purcell’s promises, every word from his mouth, were only juicy, red poisoned lies. Told her that scary, dark, and dangerous stuff was on its way, scampering on fast little spider legs. And her angel needed to be awake so he could face it. So he wouldn’t have to take another kick in the ribs that he couldn’t even roll away from.
Paper wings rustling behind her, Violet patted Dante’s cold cheek and, calling his name, urged him up from his dreams. Relief spread through her tummy like hot cocoa when Dante drew in a deep breath.
Her nighttime angel was waking up.
5
TRUE NORTH
DALLAS, TEXAS
THE STRICKLAND DEPROGRAMMING INSTITUTE
“YOU NEVER REALIZE THAT you’re under the influence until you no longer are, but I’m finally thinking clearly—I mean crystal, y’know?—for the first time since I met . . . him.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe the difference.”
Pacing the sand-colored carpet in her slippers, Heather Wallace was busy lying through her teeth, lying for all she was worth, an Oscar-caliber, rose bouquet–throwing, standing-ovation performance—or so she hoped, since she desperately wanted to remain free of sedatives and restraints—when an unexpected mental touch put an abrupt stop to her flow of words. Halted her in her tracks.
Llygad. Nightkind. Nomad. Friend.
Heather’s breath caught in her throat as Von’s image suddenly flooded her mind, saturating her senses with his masculine scent—old leather, frost, and gun oil—warm and reassuring. His sending, pearled with intense relief, threaded like silk through her mind.
Boneless with relief of her own, Heather plopped down on the edge of the brown leather sofa, the cushions creaking beneath her. She exhaled, then carefully drew in another breath, in an attempt to calm her racing heart.
Von had caught her completely off-guard—but in one helluva good way.
Between the thick cotton fog of the drugs IV-fed into her veins and the ferocious tsunami of awakening emotions once the drugs had been stopped—a white-knuckled fury at the man she would never call her father again, and a deep, icy fear for Dante—Heather hadn’t realized that her blood link with Von was still intact. Had believed it long gone.
“Heather? You seem very distant. Are you all right?”
Looking up, she met the gaze of the dark-haired therapist—Allan Wade, but please call me Allan—sitting across from her in a polished mahogany leather cha
ir. Dressed casually in white shirt, sage-green tie, and khaki trousers, he studied her, head tilted slightly to one side.
“You look pale,” he added, frowning. “Are you feeling ill?”
“A little nauseous,” she said in a low, reluctant voice as though he were forcing the admission from her. She allowed her fingers to pluck at her hideous peach chenille bathrobe. “I think I’d like to go back to my room and lie down. This has all been so . . .” She paused as though searching for a word.
“Overwhelming?” Allan suggested.
“Exactly. Overwhelming.”
Allan rested his notepad and pen on the small end table beside his chair, then leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “How do you feel about your father’s decision to bring you here?” He regarded her with a penetrating walnut-brown gaze. Analyzing every word, every hesitation, every glance and gesture.
Heather wondered just how strong, how accurate, his bullshit meter ran.
“One problem at a time,” she replied, meeting that gaze with steel of her own. “You’re touching on an issue that goes way back.”
“All right, then,” Allan agreed easily. “We’ll come back to that at another session. For now, let’s get you back to your room so you can rest.” He rose from his chair and Heather caught a strong citrusy whiff of his too liberally applied cologne. “Those sedatives can really take it out of a person.”
Heather stood as well. “I don’t think I need any more sedatives,” she said. “I might not be happy with my dad, but I understand now that I need to be here.”
“You are much calmer and more clear than you were last night. Less volatile. I think we can forgo them for now.”
Relief surged through Heather, weakening her knees with its intensity. “Thanks,” she said, then added a heartfelt lie. “You won’t regret it.”
“No, I won’t,” Allan said quietly. “But you will if you abuse my trust.”
“Don’t worry,” Heather replied as he walked her across the room to the door. “I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid restraints and drugs.” Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the carpet from the two steel-meshed windows behind them, gleamed from the door’s bronzed lever.
It hit her then. Daylight.
Daylight and Von should be Sleeping. De Noir must’ve pulled the nomad up from Sleep like he had with Dante the morning she’d served her search warrant—weeks ago.
A lifetime ago.
“Get some rest,” Allan said, pulling open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Not if I can help it. But Heather kept that thought to herself and gave Allan a quick smile instead, then stepped into the hall, where her assigned security escort, a trim blonde in a charcoal-gray suit with a name tag reading Riggins, waited for her.
Riggins started walking in a long-legged, easy stride and Heather fell into step beside her, slippers soundless against the plush carpet, eager to get back to her room and resume her conversation with Von.
Riggins didn’t pack a gun as far as Heather could tell; instead she carried a Taser in a slim black holder clipped to her belt underneath her suit jacket. Heather judged her to be in her mid-thirties, noted her air of athletic confidence, and wondered how hard it would be to take her down when the time came to make a break for it.
If I tried now, with the drugs still lingering in my system, she’d have me on the floor, arm twisted up behind my back and screaming Uncle! before I could even unholster her Taser.
But now that she had Von online . . .
“Here we go,” Riggins said, stopping at an open doorway. “If you need anything, just use the call button.”
“Will do.”
Once Heather had stepped inside, she heard the click and buzz as the door was shut behind her and the locks activated.
Heather went to the bed and perched on the edge of the mattress. It was a hospital bed despite the resort flair to everything else in the place, from bathrobe to designer accessories in the bathroom to the minifridge stocked with high-end bottled water. A resort minus TVs, phones, and Internet in the guest rooms. But maybe the addition of restraints, burly orderlies, and forced sedatives made up for that lack, she mused darkly.
The air was conditioned and cool, and smelled faintly of ozone. And since it looked like the steel mesh–screened windows couldn’t be opened—at least not from the inside—the air-conditioning was a good thing.
She reached out for Von. Felt him respond, brushing like a cat against her awareness.
Last night, before the honey-talking nurse had released a flood of sedatives into her IV with a single button push, Heather had been convinced Dante was dying, that she was losing him.
In anticipation of her session with Wade, the drugs had been stopped in the morning, and once the fog had cleared from her mind, Heather had reached for Dante through their bond. Their bond still held, the flame that was Dante’s presence burning deep within her, reassuring her that he was still alive. Last night that flame had been guttering, now it was steady again, but subdued—a candle beneath a dark mirror.
She’d tried to connect with him, to fill his dreams—or, much more likely, his nightmares—with white silence and calm, to let him know that he wasn’t alone, that she was with him even in the darkness.
But he’d been beyond her reach, swallowed whole by pain and whispers and the acrid bite of drugs. She’d kept trying though, again and again, until her security escort in the form of Riggins had come to walk her to Wade’s office.
Dante’s silence scared her—without question. But Von’s sudden silence was scaring the holy loving hell out of her.
But Von proved her dead wrong on that point.
He answered her with a controlled stream of images—images gleaned from her sister’s memory. Heather had never imagined any of this. Dante shot in cold blood with bullets designed to kill a True Blood. Von and Silver gunned down in their Sleep as well. The club torched. Her pregnant sister tranked and slung like a deer carcass over their father’s shoulder—no, dammit, he would only be James Wallace from now on, nothing more.
But the worst of all—the one thing she hadn’t imagined: Dante missing. Stolen from the burning club by parties unknown, for reasons unknown, destination unknown.
Heather swallowed hard, feeling hollow and sick.
All because James Wallace didn’t approve of her relationship choice or career decisions. No. It was even simpler than that. Control. It was all about control. He’d felt like he’d lost control over his daughters and he’d decided to rectify the situation.
Jesus Christ. Bitter acid burned at the back of Heather’s throat.
Regret curled thick through Von’s sending, as did a brass-knuckled resolve.
Heather assured him.
A
pprehension sank an anchor into Heather’s belly as she realized she no longer felt the thrum of the nomad’s energy through their link.
Empty silence.
Heather’s hands clenched into fists on her chenille-covered thighs. If the link had finally given up the ghost before she could even give him a hint, some clue as to her whereabouts—
A smile stole across Heather’s lips.
Closing her eyes, Heather did exactly that. She shoved her way past sedative-thickened dreams and shock-hazed memories to the previous night, in search of the words that had spilled so damned cheerfully from James Wallace’s lips.
A ceiling dotted with soft, recessed lights; a fuzzy where-am-I? feeling that quickly morphs into an icy ribbon of fear as she realizes she doesn’t know; the pull of restraints at her wrists and ankles as she tries to sit up.
“Pumpkin.”
James Wallace stands in the doorway, his eyes hidden behind the reflections glimmering on the lenses of his glasses.
“What have you done to Dante?” she asks, her voice tight, simmering with bitter fury despite the drugs cocooning her mind.
“You need to focus on your own life, Heather. You need to reclaim it. And once we’ve freed you of that damned bloodsucker’s influence, once we’ve scrubbed the taint of his touch off you, you’ll be my daughter again, the brilliant FBI agent.”
Heather’s eyes opened. James Wallace didn’t realize he no longer had a daughter. Not yet. But what else had the bastard said? She rubbed her forehead as though she could summon the memory like a genie from a lamp.