On Midnight Wings

Anyone strong enough could bind him against his will, and each would slaughter the other for the chance to do so. Gabriel especially, given his precarious perch upon the black-starred throne because of Dante’s violent rejection of him and of his authority. Binding the creawdwr would guarantee his continued rule.

Not to mention being a sweet bit of revenge on both father and son.

Lucien absolutely couldn’t allow any of them to know what had happened to Dante or Heather. He needed to pretend that everything was fine, that Dante would return to Gehenna as pledged when the time came. As symbolized by the sigil on his chest.

And that very sigil was the only option left. Lucien winged through the night until he caught a glimmer of color in the frozen dark. Where once a golden gate had spun, visible only to Elohim eyes, now there was only an untethered rip in reality. One awaiting Dante’s restorative touch.

Voicing his wybrcathl as he winged through the rip and past the guards on the other side, Lucien flew into the shimmering colors of the faded aurora borealis undulating across Gehenna’s pale night sky. He breathed in the smells of jasmine and smoky myrrh and salt air. The scent of home, yes. For thousands of years. But no longer.

Wings cutting through the air in sure, strong strokes, Lucien aimed himself toward the Royal Aerie. Landing on the marble terrace, he warbled a call to the healer with hyacinth eyes and hair the color of a blue-frosted winter moon—the Morningstar’s beautiful daughter.

Hekate’s musical response came almost immediately.

22 AS MANY AS IT TAKES ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA SHADOW BRANCH HQ

WALKING INTO THE FIFTH-FLOOR cafeteria for a cup of hopefully fresh coffee, Teodoro wasn’t surprised to see only a handful of people scattered amongst its white Formica tables, given that it was nearly midnight.

What did surprise him was seeing his supervisor sitting at one, methodically eating what looked like a gravy-slathered turkey sandwich paired with a cherry tomato–topped side salad.

“I thought you’d be home in bed by now,” Teodoro commented as he stopped beside Webster’s table. “Long gone by the time I got here.”

With his salt-and-pepper hair; short, wiry build; and fierce dark eyes, Webster always reminded Teodoro of a banty rooster. At the moment, though, all he saw in the other man’s eyes as he met his gaze was a muddied, disgruntled weariness.

“That’s what I thought too,” Webster grunted, resting his fork on his plate, leaving his sandwich with its savory-smelling brown gravy—roast beef, not turkey—unfinished. “But here I am. And it seems that the interruption to my sleep and your vacation just got a little longer.”

Frowning, Teodoro pulled out the chair across from Webster and sat, resting his briefcase on the floor beside him. “Why is that?”

“We’ve picked up Heather Wallace,” Webster replied. “Stole her right out from under the feds. She’s on her way to HQ even as we speak. And the OC wants you to delve into her mind. Could be a while, though. We’re moving her by car to avoid any potential difficulties with the airlines.”

Excitement pulsed through Teodoro’s veins at this unexpected bit of news.

“Which route are they taking and when do we expect them?”

Webster told him, then added, “With food and sleep stops, we’re figuring on two days. Sorry about your vacation.” He shook his head, expression almost sympathetic.

Teodoro left Webster to finish his hot—well, lukewarm perhaps—roast beef sandwich, fetching himself a cup of coffee, before heading for his office on the eighth floor.

He couldn’t believe his luck. With Heather Wallace found, there was no longer any need to go back into the searing chaos that comprised the creawdwr’s mind.

Hey, motherfucker. I don’t remember inviting you.

All he needed to do now was intercept Heather and sever the bond she shared with Dante. A bullet fired into her skull would do the trick nicely. And Teodoro knew just the person who could accomplish both.

Caterina Cortini—an assassin for the SB and, quite possibly, their very best wetwork expert, period. The attractive brunette was much more than a killer who neatly wrapped up other people’s loose ends. She was also the mortal daughter of Renata Alessa Cortini, a vampire’s child of the heart.

And a spy for Dante Baptiste.

Or so she had been, until Teodoro had captured her while she was engaged in a bit of self-assigned and extremely unsanctioned wetwork. Once he’d sunk his mental fingers deep into Caterina’s mind, Teodoro had learned—among so many other fascinating things—that the dark-haired assassin had laid her gun at Dante Baptiste’s bare feet and sworn complete loyalty to him.

A fact that Teodoro had taken advantage of immediately.

He’d carefully seeded false information into Caterina’s mind—information transforming Heather Wallace from Dante’s lover into an undercover agent for the Bureau, a coldhearted betrayer of the True Blood prince and creawdwr that Caterina had vowed to protect.

Now Caterina was also Teodoro’s deadly little puppet.

A puppet he was about to spin into motion.

Striding across the threshold into his office, Teodoro caught a faint but fragrant whiff of frankincense, anise, and paint from the angel trap he’d painted on the floor from the threshold to his desk—just in case Dante Baptiste or even one of the Elohim paid him a visit.

Though the trap with its glyphs and sigils was hidden underneath the carpet, Teodoro still felt an electric prickling along his skin. The protection sigils tattooed centuries before above his heart and solar plexus threaded cool energy throughout his body, insulating him from the spell he’d created and painted on the floor as magical insurance.

Mortals could saunter across without feeling a thing. But if one of the Fallen—or even a Fallen half-breed— should set foot inside the trap, there they would remain, powerless, until Teodoro released them.

The prickling vanished once Teodoro stepped behind his desk and beyond the trap’s reach. As he settled into his chair, the leather squeaking comfortably beneath him, he noticed the red message light pulsing on his desk phone.

Someone delivering the news Webster already gave me, no doubt.

After resting his briefcase on the desk’s neat cherrywood surface, Teodoro reached over and nabbed the handset. He punched VOICE MAIL, then LISTEN. A woman’s voice, smooth, confident and melodic, a voice he recognized as belonging to Seraphina Ivey of the Oversight Committee. A voice he knew well.

“Agent Dion, as soon as you receive this message, please meet me in the tenth-level evidence warehouse. We need to discuss tonight’s interrogation agenda.”

Teodoro erased the message. He would join Seraphina in the warehouse as soon as he had taken care of one little thing. He had no intention of wasting an opportunity like the one the SB had given him when they’d intercepted Heather Wallace.

Flipping his briefcase open, he pulled an audio jammer and the cell phone he used for his clandestine conversations with Caterina—which comprised nearly all of them—from its interior.

He deftly set up the jammer/iPod look-alike and switched it on. It burbled and chirped, effectively desensitizing all audio recording equipment—including any routine SB office bugs.

Grabbing up the cell phone, he thumbed a brief text to Caterina: Where are you?

Less than a minute later, a quiet beep announced her reply: Germantown, TN. On assignment. Finished. What do you need?

Have urgent task. Regards D. Call me.