On Midnight Wings

Silver, now standing at Von’s left, whistled, low and impressed. “Can all llygaid kick ass like she does?”

“Aside from me, you mean?” Von said, dryly. Folding his arms over his chest, he added, “Mikova there used to be llafnau before she came to her senses and joined the llygaid ranks.”

Silver whistled low again. “No shit?”

“No shit, indeed.”

Von caught a peripheral flash of movement from his right and looked in time to see Merri push her partner’s gun hand down. He felt a sudden pang, missing Heather and her quiet confidence, her inner strength.

You hold tight, woman. We’re coming for you too.

“See the crescent moon?” Merri murmured to her partner.

“Yeah, okay. Got it. But what the fuck is . . . lav-nigh?” Thibodaux asked, brow furrowed.

“Llafnau are the nightkind version of Navy SEALs,” Merri replied, sparing Von the necessity. “The special forces branch of the llygaid.”

“Roger that.” The wariness in Thibodaux’s sharp blue eyes throttled down a notch, but he didn’t holster his gun. He kept the Colt ready at his side and glanced at Von. “I also get that this is vampire business. Think I’ll go upstairs and take a look around. Make sure our Navy SEAL there didn’t miss someone.”

Crossing the floor in a long-legged stride, the former SB agent headed for the staircase.

Von watched him go, amused. Double-checking our hearing and our noses. Man doesn’t take anything for granted—including supersonic nightkind senses. Gotta admit, I like that.

The reek of smoke, scorched wood, and freshly spilled blood hung thick in Von’s nostrils, at the back of his throat, as he got his first good look at the damage to the club, courtesy of James Wallace.

The fire-blackened bars of the Cage, the fetishes nothing but ash.

The flame-gutted stairs leading up to Dante’s cheesetacular bat-winged throne. Or the twisted and fused thing that used to be his cheesetacular bat-winged throne, anyway.

Water damage.

Fire extinguisher foam—thick and petrified and reeking of chemicals—on walls and floors and furniture.

The stink of scorched wood and plastic and metal.

It hit Von again—the cold, furious feeling that had struck him like a brass-knuckled fist to the gut when he’d learned from Lucien what had happened while he’d Slept. His jaw tightened, pulse throbbing at his temples.

An image stolen from Annie’s memory flashed behind his eyes.

Dante half slides, half falls to his knees in the bedroom doorway, his black-painted nails scraping furrows along the threshold on his way down. Head bowed, black hair veiling his face, he whispers, “J’su ici, catin. Je t’entends.”

I’m here, doll. I hear you.

Those words alone told Von that Heather had managed to summon Dante up from Sleep—through their bond, no doubt—and most likely saved his life in the process.

J’su ici.

But that was the problem. He wasn’t here.

Worse, they still had no idea where to find him.

Everything could be repaired, rebuilt, bought anew. Tougher security installed. Guards hired. But without Dante, none of it mattered.

“I don’t know who they are,” Holly was saying. “But I followed them in.”

“Thanks for that, Mikova,” Von said.

Holly shrugged. “I needed the workout. Sadly”—she glanced down in disdain at the nearest unconscious idiot—“they didn’t give me much of one.”

Von tilted his head, studied the groaning nightkind on the floor. “Might’ve seen a few of these bastards aboard the Winter Rose.”

“Figures,” Silver growled. <We should stake them and send their ashes back to Mauvais. For Simone.>

Von met and held Silver’s seething gaze. <Mauvais needs to pay for Simone, no one else. And once we have Dante and Heather home again, trust me—the motherfucker will pay.>

Silver nodded, then looked away, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

Shifting his attention back to Holly, Von said, “Did anyone happen to say why the fuck they were in here?”

“Da. They mentioned looking for some poor bastard named Vincent. Seems they wish to tear him a new one.”

“Well, they can stand at the back of the line.” Von looked at Silver, perplexed. “Wanting to tear Vincent a new one I get. But why look for him here?”

Silver shook his head. “Beats the hell outta me.”

“Who’s Vincent?” Merri asked.

“Magazine Street lord,” Von replied. “British. Seventies glam. Looks like Ewan McGregor in that movie Velvet Goldmine. Full of himself. Annoying. Generally harmless. Until recently.”

“And what happened recently?”

“None of your business,” Von said, looking at Merri pointedly from beneath his lashes.

Comprehension glimmered in her eyes. To her credit, she didn’t even look in Holly’s direction. “Fine. Be that way.”

Holly said softly, “We need to talk, McGuinn.”

Von nodded. “I figured as much.”

“Alone,” Holly suggested.

“Okay. But before we talk, I wanna haul the rest of this trash out to the curb.”

“Fine. Haul away.” Holly sauntered across the nightkind-littered floor to the bar, stepping on anyone in her path and leaving a renewed trail of pained grunts and groans in her wake. “There’s a restaurant across the street. Meet me there when you’ve finished.”

“I’ll do that,” Von said.

For a split second, as she passed him, Von caught a whiff of her homey, warm-kitchen-in-a-snowstorm scent—honeyed black tea and vanilla—before it was swallowed up by the stink of charred wood and melted plastic.

“Still like your style, darlin’.”

Heading for the exit, Holly shrugged. “I know.”

15 LIKE DISTANT THUNDER WASHINGTON, D.C. PLEASANTVIEW CONDOMINIUMS

BARRY LANG STEERED HIS Prius into his slot in the condo parking lot, switched off the engine, and barely resisted the urge to thump his head repeatedly against the steering wheel. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, the vinyl squeaking beneath him, and rubbed a hand over his face.

The news from Portland was bad.

No, worse than bad, unbelievable.

As if the mess dumped into his lap following Monica Rutgers’s abrupt resignation hadn’t been enough, the murder of an FBI agent at the satellite forensics lab—inside his own goddamned office, no less—was definitely the tasty cherry on top of the steaming shit sundae Barry’s life had become since he’d taken over Rutgers’s position as ADIC.

Sighing, Barry lowered his hand to his seat belt, his gaze focused on the night-draped greenery beyond his