On Midnight Wings

swallow.

Von straightened and studied Merri for a long, silent moment. She returned his regard with calm, brown eyes. He’d found secrets in her mind, yeah, but no deliberate deception. Still, when it came down to the wire, would she follow her heart and what she knew to be right or obey her mere de sang?

“Why didn’t you just tell me all this to start with?” Von asked.

Shrugging, Merri blew a plume of clove-scented smoke into the air. “I meant to, but I was a little preoccupied. When were you planning on telling me that De Noir was Dante’s father?”

“I meant to, but I was a little preoccupied.”

A wry smile twitched at the corners of Merri’s mouth. “Touche. But I gotta say—for a llygad, you’re one smart-ass mofo.” She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray, then added, “No offense.”

“None taken,” Von drawled. “I don’t get many compliments like that. Hard to believe, I know. Now, if y’all will excuse me, I need to get to the airport.”

“You want backup?” Merri asked, hopping down from her stool. “We—”

Von cut her off with a shake of his head. “Sorry, darlin’, can’t trust you.” He flicked a glance at Thibodaux. “Either one of you. I think your intentions might be good, but your loyalty ain’t to Dante. Until that changes . . .” He shrugged.

Frustration rippled across Merri’s face, then vanished. “All right,” she said. “I can understand that. Is there anything we can do here to help in the meantime? A way to start earning that trust?”

Von opened his mouth to say no, then reconsidered as he took in the club’s sorry state. “If you truly want to help, talk to Silver and Jack about how best to get this mess cleaned up and repairs started. They’ll know who to call to get the ball rolling.”

“Fair enough,” Merri said.

Outside, Von locked up the club as best he could, given the damaged doors, then saw Merri and Thibodaux off in the van with Silver behind the wheel. As he headed down the block for his Harley, keys in hand, he heard the slow, pendulum swing of nightkind hearts behind him. He stopped, suddenly remembering his appointment with Holly.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” Von said, turning around, “but something impor—” His words cut off when he saw who had joined Holly.

Two male nightkind in the formal black kilts, sweaters, and boots of the filidh guard, horizontal sword tattoos beneath their right eyes, flanked her. Von didn’t see any visible weapons, but then, they didn’t need any. Being llafnau, they were weapons.

“Looks like you’re skipping out on me again,” Holly said.

“I’m really sorry about that, Mikova,” Von said, taking a slow step back toward his Harley. “But our meeting needs to wait one night. One night is all I’m asking and then I’ll head straight for Memphis—as ordered. You have my word.”

“The same word you gave me less than a week ago?” Holly asked, her threadbare Russian accent dropping into a deadly purr. “The same word you gave me not two hours ago? That word, Vonushka? You made me look like a fool.”

“I’m sorry about that too,” Von said, meaning it. “That was never my intention. But all kinds of shit has hit the fan, shit that involves Dante. You saw his announcement. You know what that means.” Von took another backward step. The bike was just behind him. “You’ve got to trust me, Holly. Just one night.”

“No. Not this time. You’ve worn my trust thin.”

Von whirled—

—and the street whirled with him. Spinning in a streak of night and orange gaslight, paving bricks and green shutters, stars and pavement. Darkness bled across Von’s vision. As the sidewalk rushed up to meet him, one thought pirouetted through his mind before darkness shut the show down.

Aw, crap. Motherfucking pills.

19 LIKE ASHES IN HER MOUTH DALLAS, TEXAS THE STRICKLAND DEPROGRAMMING INSTITUTE

HEATHER HAD JUST TUCKED her fork into the sleeve of her cornflower-blue sweater, the steel cool against her skin, when James Wallace walked back into the dining room—empty now except for her—and slumped into the chair opposite hers, the sharp scent of his Brut aftershave wafting across the table. The line of his clean-shaven jaw was nearly white with anger.

“You were right,” he said, light from the overheads reflected in his glasses. “The RN just confirmed it. You are being transferred in the morning.” He shoved aside the plate containing his half- eaten meal, scattering a few kernels of buttered corn across the tablecloth. “Goddammit. No one contacted me about this.”

“I warned you,” Heather said, lowering her hand to her lap and folding her fingers over the heel of her sleeve, securing the fork. “Back at the club. The Bureau isn’t going to let me just walk away. Not with all the secrets I know.”

“That shouldn’t matter. You’re one of the Bureau’s finest—”

“Was,” Heather corrected. “Was one of their finest. Now I’m a major liability.”

“Because of that damned bloodsucker.”

“No, dammit, because I learned the truth, and Dante happens to be a part of that truth, a truth the Bureau never wanted to come to light. They’ll do anything to make sure it stays buried. Anything. Including burying me.”

And Dante, but that was a thought she kept to herself.

“I’m beginning to think you’re right,” James said. “After all, they used me to get to you. Must’ve put a tail on me or a GPS tracker because I took extreme care in covering my tracks.” He raked a furious hand through his gray-flecked blond hair. “I took an official leave of absence to tend to family matters. This is none of their business.”

“The secrets I carry are.”

“Christ.” James pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Heather pushed her plate away, the food untouched, her appetite dead, despite the savory fragrance of pork chops baked in rosemary and spicy brown mustard. The strain of being in the presence of the man who’d shot Dante in cold blood and left him to burn, the man who’d drugged and kidnapped her, kept her stomach twisted into hard knots.

Just a little while longer. . . .

Scraping her chair back, Heather rose to her feet. “Dad”—the word tasted like ashes in her mouth—“If I stay here, they’ll take me. And if they take me, you’ll never see me again.”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” James slipped his glasses back on, then looked at her. A familiar stubborn light glinted in his hazel eyes. “I checked you in and I paid for your treatment. I can check you out, as well.”

Mingled exhilaration and relief flooded Heather’s veins, goosed her pulse. Her gamble, based on her father’s need for control, was paying off in spades. Clamping her fingers tighter over the heel of her sleeve, she said, “Where will we go?”

“Where they can’t find us.” James stood, then grabbed his tan trench coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. “I brought you here to be healed, restored. And if the powers that be in the Bureau are too ignorant to grasp that, well, then, that’s their loss. But they’re not getting their hands on you.” He swept a glance over Heather, tallying her sweater and jeans, the black Skechers on her feet. “Anything else you need in your room?”