On Midnight Wings

proclaiming he’d acted alone and the death was the result of a robbery gone wrong, that no one had hired him to murder Stephen Underwood, let alone his wife, Valerie.

So the plan had changed slightly. Underwood decided to employ S one last time, a fanged vehicle for much-delayed justice. Purcell’s job had been to travel to New Orleans, activate S’s programming, and sic him on the daughter-in-law.

Then permanently retire S afterward.

It was the least Purcell could do for the woman who’d mentored his career from the very beginning and who’d always entrusted him with her secrets.

But all that had changed four days ago when Dion called him in New Orleans to inform him of SOD Underwood’s sudden and unexpected death by stroke.

So how come you’re breaking the news?

So we could discuss mutual concerns.

Those being . . .?

Terminating Prejean and fulfilling Underwood’s last request. She told me about the gift for her daughter-in-law you were set to deliver.

Prejean—the name given to S by his final set of foster parents. He’d thanked them by making sure they were deader than doornails before torching their house.

Dante Baptiste—S’s true full name, according to Dion.

S—the Bad Seed designation that Purcell preferred, a reminder of what the bloodsucker truly was, a programmed True Blood sociopath that had been allowed to slip his leash.

Keep talking.

We’re not going to kill S, we’re going to break him.

Dion believed Heather Wallace to be an intrinsic component of that goal and had built his plan around her. A simple plan, really. Since he was already in New Orleans on Underwood’s behalf, Purcell was supposed to grab the redhead at the first opportunity, transport her to the SB-operated sanitarium/study lab—S’s old training grounds as a kid—and then make sure the bloodsucking psycho knew right where to find her.

So he could watch her die. Hard and ugly.

But then James Wallace and his ill-timed paternal outrage had showed up . . .

Purcell nodded at the T-shirt-blanked monitor. “Heather Wallace, my ass. Maybe if the bastard could’ve focused on his hunger instead of his next goddamned breath, he might’ve drained the kid like he was supposed to.”

“The resin keeps him from healing,” Dion explained patiently. “Slows him down, and the continued blood loss keeps his hunger sharp. Hopefully it short-circuits his telepathy as well. Perhaps even his other gifts.”

Purcell frowned. “Other gifts?” He swiveled his chair around so he could see Dion. “What other gifts?”

The SB interrogator regarded Purcell with amused purple eyes from where he leaned against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. Toffee-colored hair and short, stylish sideburns framed his face, making him look younger than the forty-two or forty-three Purcell pegged him at, as did his tall, athletic build.

“He’s a True Blood and it varies, but you can bet he’s full of surprises,” Dion said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Surprises like what?”

“Flying. Fire. Shape-shifting. Telekinesis.”

“How about making little girls look like someone else?”

Another very European shrug—from a man Purcell suspected wasn’t even completely human. “With True Bloods, you never know.”

Whatever Dion was, it wasn’t vamp. Not with his tanned olive skin and regular daytime hours. But given his ability to alter and wipe memories, to extract information from even the most reluctant mind with a soft word and a deft touch, he couldn’t be human either.

“But you seem to be in the know,” Purcell pointed out. “Sounds like you stumbled across a copy of True Blood Psychos for Dummies in the bargain bin at Barnes & Noble. Care to share?”

“Psycho,” Dion rolled the word slowly as though tasting it. “Given that the whole purpose behind Bad Seed was to create sociopaths, I’d think that you’d be proud of S. But it sounds like you resent him for being what he was conditioned to be. Did you feel the same contempt for the human members of Bad Seed—before they were permanently retired?”

Folding his arms over his chest, Purcell shook his head. “See . . . I always thought Bad Seed was one huge fucking mistake—not that my input was sought, needed, or welcomed. Creating sociopaths to study them? What bullshit. That was never the plan.”

“But creating them to use and control was?”

“Bingo. The day that I transferred out of the project to become Underwood’s assistant was a good day. But I never forgot S. Never forgot what he was capable of. Or what he was programmed to do. Fucking little psycho.”

Dion shrugged. “I’m not convinced that term applies to Baptiste. He did everything he could to keep away from Violet, despite his hunger and blood loss. Hardly the actions of a psycho.”

“That’s what he wants you to think. S is just playing games with us. You don’t know him the way I do. Let your guard down and I promise you, that fucking psycho you’re so busy defending will tear your heart out and eat it.”

“Hence the resin,” Dion pointed out. “I have no intention of letting my guard down. And I’m not defending, merely trying to understand. Know thy enemy, yes?”

“Definitely,” Purcell agreed, holding the interrogator’s gaze. “Always wise.” But S wasn’t the enemy as far as Purcell was concerned, only an evil in need of eradication. Dion, on the other hand, was another story entirely— especially since Purcell had an ever-deepening suspicion that Dion had somehow caused Underwood’s fatal stroke.

She never would’ve told Dion about our plans. Never would’ve included anyone else. Not when our lives depended on no one ever finding out we were behind it.

“Looks like we’re going to have to try something else where Baptiste is concerned,” Dion said. “This bit with ‘Chloe’ didn’t work.”

Purcell glanced sourly at the blank monitor. “Even if the bastard had killed the kid, I never thought it would break him. He survived Chloe’s loss the first time he murdered her.”

“Which is why I wanted Heather Wallace,” Dion said. “For now, let’s get Violet out of that room, then send a medic to clear Baptiste’s lungs.”

Activating the com set hooked around his ear with a touch, Purcell issued the orders, making certain his men understood that restraining S was their first order of business. “Don’t hesitate to put another bullet in his skull, if necessary. And get that goddamned T-shirt off the camera.”

Purcell caught a whiff of Dion’s cologne—a hint of vanilla spice and dandelions—when the interrogator moved from the wall to rest one hip against the edge of the control panel. “Have you heard anything yet from your Bureau contacts about where James Wallace might’ve taken his daughter?” he asked.

“The Bureau’s official line is that Special Agent James Wallace is on leave while he tends to personal matters,” Purcell replied. “Wallace didn’t say where he was going or what he was doing, and his SAC probably didn’t ask, but whether it was by GPS tag or a tail, you can bet your well-tailored ass he knows.”

“No doubt.”

“But the only way we’re going to find out where Wallace went is for you to fly to the Portland field office and extract the information directly from the SAC’s mind.” Purcell shook his head. “Forget Heather Wallace.”

“No, she’s key to breaking Baptiste.”

“You’re wrong,” Purcell stated matter-of-factly. “I doubt Heather Wallace is anything more than a piece of ass to S. Just a way of literally fucking authority.”

Dion folded his arms over his chest. “No, she’s more than that to him. I have reason to believe he loves her. His hold on reality is slipping and Heather Wallace balances him, anchors him. If he loses her, he loses everything.”

Purcell regarded the interrogator skeptically. “Loves her? Anchors him? How the hell do you know any of