On Midnight Wings

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.

<Right here, doll. Tell me where you are so we can come get you.>

<That’s the problem. I don’t know. It’s a mental health facility of some kind—a rehab apparently for the brainwashed victims of religious cults, deep-cover operations, and apparently, in my case, nightkind.>

<Brainwashed? Shee-it. You? Your old man really doesn’t know you at all, does he, doll? >

<No. No he doesn’t. I know I was told the name of the place last night, but I don’t remember. My goddamned memory’s been drug-bombed. I haven’t seen anything naming the place. Not on stationery, or on the walls, on uniforms—nothing.>

<Relax, and it’ll come back to you. Keep looking. Maybe you’ll spot something.>

<Dante—what did my father do to him? The things I felt . . .>

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.

<Von? Nothing you can say will be worse than the things I’ve imagined.>

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.

<I hate breaking it to you like that, doll. I’m truly sorry.> Regret curled thick through Von’s sending, as did a brass-knuckled resolve. <But we can find Dante—through your bond. You’re like a living, breathing GPS where Dante is concerned. We’ll find him. We just need to find you first. So keep working that memory.>

<I am,> Heather assured him. <Annie? Is she okay? >

<She’s worried sick about you . . . but, yeah, she’s safe.>

<Safe is good. But is she okay?>

Apprehension sank an anchor into Heather’s belly as she realized she no longer felt the thrum of the nomad’s energy through their link.

<Von?>

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—

<Heather. Hey, the damn link is starting to go.> Von confirmed her fear. <And I have a feeling it ain’t gonna last much longer. If you can remember anything that might help me find you, now would be the time, woman. But know this>—a deep and deadly determination composed his sending, a promise mind-to-mind—<whether you remember anything or not before this goddamned link falls apart, I will find you. You and Dante. No matter what it takes.>

A smile stole across Heather’s lips. <I know.>

<Good. Now get to work, woman.>

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.