On Midnight Wings

The message had no sooner been sent than Teodoro’s cell was ringing. “I’m listening,” Caterina said when he answered. Her faint Italian accent was flat, all business.

“Bueno. I need you to keep listening.”

Teodoro filled Caterina in, but with selective bits of information, changing Heather’s kidnapping by her father to a meeting with FBI handlers instead.

“Our people grabbed her when she was on her way back to Baptiste’s club. If she’s brought into HQ, she’ll spill everything to avoid interrogation and then they’ll learn who and what Baptiste is—what they’ve really got on their hands. A Maker. Programmed to obey. To use however they choose.”

“Not if I can help it. I’ll intercept them and make sure she never says a word. Give me their route and time table.”

Teodoro did exactly that, then ended the call. He tossed the cell back into his briefcase; the audio jammer he slipped into a trouser pocket instead. With Heather Wallace’s death, the bond she shared with Dante would be severed, giving him that last hard shove into madness.

And stealing all hope from the Fallen.

Teodoro left his office, heading for the elevators.

AS HE WALKED INTO the evidence warehouse on level ten, Teodoro caught the gleam of ivory wings beyond the rows of metal shelves containing plastic evidence tubs and cartons piled with old files. Ivory wings frozen in mid-slash.

He followed the aisle leading to the warehouse’s center, breathing in the faint smells of ozone and musty cardboard and things forgotten. Or hidden, he reflected as he strode past the last set of shelves and saw what waited beyond them.

The work of one angry creawdwr, Dante Baptiste.

A Fallen Stonehenge.

One carefully reconstructed from photos taken at the Damascus, Oregon, site before the “statues” had been transported across the country to HQ.

Transformed into alabaster statues of exquisite detail and captured motion—standing, crouching, kneeling, flying, fleeing—the fallen angels ringed the concrete floor, capped by those medusaed in mid-flight, wings spread.

Wearing a plum-colored dress belted at the waist and elegant black pumps, Seraphina Ivey waited in front of one the statues. Tall and curvaceous, with dark, golden-blond tresses tumbling to her shoulders in glossy waves, winter-gray eyes, and flawless skin, she looked to be in her early thirties.

She was a good decade older. And, thanks to a nephilim ancestor, one she hadn’t even known existed until Teodoro had enlightened her, she would retain her beauty and youthful appearance for many decades more.

Teodoro drew to a stop beside her, but remained silent until he had the audio jammer set up on the concrete floor. Once it was burbling away, he said in a low voice, “Sorry about the delay.”

“S has announced that he is True Blood and Fallen,” Seraphina said. “Every vampire in the world—including those within the SB—knows by now or soon will, once they awaken and receive the feed from their household llygad.”

Teodoro stared at her, hoping he hadn’t heard right, but the sinking feeling in his belly told him that he had. “How is that even possible? He’s stashed away at Doucet-Bainbridge.”

“I know,” Seraphina replied, worry sharpening the planes of her face. “But apparently S made the announcement several nights ago. It was delayed until the filidh had verified his claims.”

Teodoro raked a hand through his hair in chagrin. It hadn’t occurred to him that Dante would give up his secrets. According to his research, Dante rarely spoke about himself, even in interviews.

Of course, he never knew much about himself until recently, now did he?

“Did he say anything about being a creawdwr?”

“No,” Seraphina answered. “But he named his father as the Nightbringer. We know him as Lucien De Noir. Do you know anything about him—as the Nightbringer, I mean?”

Teodoro felt a hot and cold shock at that revelation. “No, the Nightbringer’s a bit before my time. All I know is that he fled Gehenna after killing the last creawdwr.”

“And now he’s the father of the next,” Seraphina murmured. “Talk about karma taking an ironic twist.”

“To say the least. ?Madre de Dios! This is a mess.”

“More than you know,” Seraphina said grimly. “S’s little announcement has the rest of the committee looking at him in a new light and reexamining certain questions.”

“Such as?”

“Everything, Teo. Everything. Why is it that wherever S goes, inexplicable events follow? The destruction of St. Louis No. 3 in New Orleans. The bizarre events in Damascus, including”—Seraphina turned and waved a hand at the stone angels—“this. Then there’s the matter of S transforming one little girl into another long dead.”

“Remind your fellow committee members that there’s no proof of that,” Teodoro said. “Those who witnessed Violet’s so-called transformation might’ve simply witnessed a bit of True Blood or Fallen illusion, a magical sleight of hand, a—”

Seraphina shook her head. “That’s not going to fly. Not now. They want to round S up and bring him in and find out exactly what they have on their hands. They also want Violet’s psychological testing ended and for her to be returned.”

“Returning Violet won’t be a problem,” Teodoro said. “I no longer need her.”

Which was a relief, truth be told. He liked Violet. Yes, he’d been willing to sacrifice her to a greater cause, but that didn’t mean he liked her any less. It would be easy enough to ensure that the girl was brought to him first upon her return to HQ, even easier to alter her memories of the sanitarium and erase those involving her time with Dante.

“And S?” Seraphina stepped closer to Teodoro. She smelled faintly of cherry vanilla perfume. “How damaged is he?”

“Beyond repair. He’s already becoming the Great Destroyer.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer to kill him before he does?”

“Safer—yes. But not nearly as satisfying as forcing the Fallen to kill him instead.”

Seraphina cupped a hand to his face, her palm warm against his skin. Sympathy gleamed in her eyes. “I know how much you want this, but how long will the Fallen merely wait and watch? How many mortals will have to die before they put an end to their maddened creawdwr?”

“As many as it takes, querida.”

Seraphina frowned. “But that’s wrong. We can’t allow it, that’s—” Teodoro tenderly brushed his fingers against her temple and her words stopped mid-sentence. Her hand fell away from his face.

Despite the natural shields provided by her nephilim bloodline—diluted as it was by generations of mortal descendants—Teodoro made his way easily into Seraphina’s mind, erased her lingering doubts and fears, then withdrew again.

Seraphina blinked, rubbed her forehead, then said, “Um . . . I’ll do my best to stall the committee where S is concerned.”

“Thank you. That’s all I ask,” Teodoro said, lowering his hand from her temple. He glanced at the jammer. “Is that everything?”

“Yes.” Swiveling around with stiletto grace to face the statues again, Seraphina rested a hand against a Fallen male’s stone chest. “I can still feel their hearts. A distant boom like when the ocean surges against a cliff.” She cast a winter-gray glance at Teodoro from over her shoulder. “Have you noticed?”

Teodoro nodded. “I’ve also noticed that the time between beats gets a little longer with each passing day.” He smoothed his hand along one cool stone limb, wondering—not for the first time—if the aingeal within was aware of his predicament, an immortal trapped in stone. Counting each and every endless second.

Teodoro certainly hoped so.