On Midnight Wings

When Purcell had called yesterday to tell him that Dante wasn’t healing from the bullet wounds, that he was, in fact, bleeding out, Teodoro had instantly known what James Wallace had put in his bullets, because he’d once used sap from the dragon’s blood tree himself for a very similar purpose centuries ago.

Fatal to True Bloods, yes, but Dante’s Fallen heritage had saved his life—barely. And because of that, Teodoro had believed—no, be honest, had hoped—that the resin, in combination with the damage James Wallace had wreaked with his oh-so-well-placed bullets, would short-circuit Dante’s use of the creu tan.

And it had. Until Dante had managed to make a snack out of Bronson.

Until that awful moment on the rooftop.

On midnight wings, Dante rises from the sanitarium’s roof.

Fury shadows his pale, blood-streaked face. His eyes blaze with gold light. Blue flames flicker to life around his fingers as his anhrefncathl slashes a dark and savage melody into the night.

Teodoro stares, dread and awe pulsing through his veins in equal measure. He’s never seen a creawdwr in action before, never seen a living creawdwr— until now. And he has a gut-knotting suspicion that it might be the last thing he ever sees.

But a split second later, Dante’s eyes roll back into his head. The seizure’s sucker punch breaks his song, snuffs the flames, and slams him back down to the roof.

While the seizure had been a welcome surprise, the wings had been both unexpected and problematic. Teodoro had never imagined that Dante would have wings. No half-blood did. At least not those born of Fallen and mortal unions. Perhaps it was different with vampire-Fallen offspring, although he didn’t know of any. More likely the reason rested in who and what Dante was—creawdwr.

In any case, Teodoro had carefully erased the memory of Dante’s wings from the minds of each agent on the roof. No one else needed to know what Dante was.

Not yet.

Not even Purcell. Although Teodoro could just imagine the man’s reaction.

You’re telling me that this bloodsucking son of a bitch not only has wings and a fallen angel daddy, but he’s also a fucking god? What goddamned bullshit.

A fucking god, yes. Bullshit, no.

“So do I get your stamp of approval?” Purcell asked from the foot of the table.

Back in the moment once more, Teodoro nodded, then murmured, “Nice work. This should actually hold him.”

“Personally, I think shooting him full of resin and hoisting him onto the hook would hold him even better,” Purcell grumbled. “But, yeah, this’ll work. Lucky for you he had that seizure. Why the hell couldn’t he have had the damned thing before he slaughtered two of my men?”

“Their error,” Teodoro pointed out with a shrug. “You did tell them to make sure Baptiste was secured before doing anything else and they failed to do so.”

Purcell blew out an exasperated breath in agreement.

“His file doesn’t mention seizures,” Teodoro commented, slanting a glance at Purcell. “I take it that’s something new?”

Purcell raked a hand through his gray-flecked sandy hair, then nodded. “Definitely. And he had one yesterday following surgery, but I have no idea what’s causing them and—to be honest—I really don’t give a rat’s ass. For all I know maybe it’s an indication that his sanity is about to take that plunge you’ve got such a hard-on for.”

“Perhaps,” Teodoro agreed, straightening in his chair. He thought of the elaborate scar on the creawdwr’s left pectoral, near his heart. A sigil. One Teodoro had recognized—as any nephilim would. His jaw tightened.

“And the mark on his chest?” He jerked his chin at Dante. “Is that new too?”

“He didn’t have it the last time we picked him up and brought him in,” Purcell said. “But that was six, almost seven, years ago. S usually keeps his shirt on when he’s onstage with his band, so there’s no telling when he got it. What does it matter? It’s just one of those neoprimitive cuttings or whatever.”

Teodoro shrugged. “Simply curious.”

“So what now? You still plan on breaking him even after all this?”

“Definitely. But I think I’ll take a look inside this time”—Teodoro air-tapped a finger next to his own temple —“and see if I can find the best way to accomplish that goal.”

“Christ.” Purcell sighed. “Talk about a waste of time, but fine. You do that. I’ll go check on the kid, tell her that her goddamned angel is all right and blah, blah, blah. Any other instructions before I go?”

Teodoro frowned, considering. Bright blood welled up from the half-healed bullet wounds above Dante’s heart, soaking through the canvas straitjacket in a small dark circle. It also trickled dark along his temple and pooled in his ear.

“Yes,” Teodoro replied. “Have a medic waiting on standby.”

“If you want the bastard to heal, then you should quit giving him the resin.”

Teodoro lifted his gaze to Purcell, met his unreadable olive green eyes. “I don’t want him to heal. I want him weak.”

“Weak is good,” Purcell said. “Dead is better.”

“Be patient and we’ll both get what we want.”

“Bronson and Holland are dead. How’s that for patient?” Turning, Purcell kicked Dante’s discarded boots from his path and strode from the room.

Teodoro wondered if he’d made a mistake in taking only temporary control of the prickly agent’s mind—a brief visit, one just long enough to make Purcell rescind his shoot-the-little-fucking-psycho order and erase the memory of having ever given that order in the first place.

If so, it was a mistake that could be corrected, if necessary.

Once Purcell had exited the room, Teodoro scooted his chair closer to the table and gave his attention to the sigil above the drugged and dreaming creawdwr’s heart.

He’d lied when he’d told Purcell the scar didn’t matter. In truth, it mattered a great deal because it was the Morningstar’s mark and a blood pledge. Which begged the very troubling question: How had Dante managed to remain free in the mortal world, given that the Fallen—or at least the Morningstar—apparently knew of his existence?

Teodoro touched the blood-soaked spot on the straitjacket, his finger tracing the sigil’s design from memory upon the material—an upside-down pyramid with a smaller reversed triangle hooked to its base with graceful curlicues.

“Foolish child,” he whispered. “What bargain did you make with the Devil?”

Dante’s head was turned toward Teodoro, his pale, pale face half hidden beneath a fall of night-black hair. Blood glistened beneath his nose, smeared his cupid’s-bow lips, its coppery odor mingling with the autumn sharp scent of frost and burning leaves. Teodoro moved his hand up from Dante’s chest and trailed a finger along his smooth jawline. Brushed the pad of his thumb across that full kiss-me-bite-me lower lip.

Breathtaking.

Even bloodied and unconscious, the creawdwr’s beauty scorched. Hinted at tangled sheets and hungry moans. Moonlight and fire seemed to pulse white-hot through his veins, smoldering beneath his alabaster skin, skimming the length of his lean-muscled body—intoxicating and deadly.

Tempting.

A unique creature—even in beauty and power and bloodline.

And the only creawdwr in existence.

Teodoro felt a sharp, unexpected pang of regret. He planned to shatter a creawdwr’s fragile sanity and reshape him into the Great Destroyer, leaving the Fallen no choice but to kill the Maker they’d spent thousands of years yearning and searching for before he unmade the mortal world and their own.

But no matter how beautiful Dante was, or how brutally he’d been used by others, no matter how innocent of long-ago Elohim crimes, Teodoro refused to let his sudden sympathy sway him from his course.