On Midnight Wings

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 DiON 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.