On Midnight Wings

hafta worry about her again, yeah? Now she’s safe. And so are we.

We? Fear scraped a hollow in Dante’s heart.

Movement in the doorway drew his gaze. A middle-aged guy wearing an official gray suit and an unofficial smirk stood there studying him, one shoulder resting casually against the threshold.

A steady, hypnotic drumming filled Dante’s ears, the succulent sound of the man’s heart pumping blood in a high-pressure hiss through his veins. Hunger twisted, a circling shark.

“You don’t remember, do you?” the man asked. “Where you are, who I am?”

“But you’re gonna tell me, yeah?”

“That I am—again. But, hey, all good things bear repeating. So here it is: Welcome home, S. Welcome back to Doucet-Bainbridge. Welcome to your final destination. And, trust me, it is your final destination.”

Welcome home? Welcome back? Memory flickered, then vanished, a finger-pinched flame. Pain pounded at Dante’s temples with sledgehammer intensity. He felt the hot trickle of blood from his nose, sniffed it back.

“Name’s Purcell, by the way.”

His voice. That’s fucking familiar as hell too.

It was like a jackhammer drilling against a dam’s massive concrete face, gouging a path toward a series of cracks created by the dark, restless waters on the dam’s other side—Dante’s fucked-up memory.

“Ain’t S,” Dante replied flatly. “And I ain’t staying.”

Ain’t S? Liar, liar, latex pants on fire. Now who’s the big, fat menteur?

Tais-toi. Shut the fuck up. Ain’t listening.

Oh, yeah, you are. Even when you think you ain’t, you are.

The impatient sound of snapping fingers drew Dante’s gaze back to the doorway and the man lounging against it. Lowering his hand, Purcell questioned softly, “You still with me?”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Dante admitted reluctantly. “Need to change that, though.”

Purcell laughed, low and very amused. “You just don’t get it, do you? You’re not going anywhere. You’re not killing any more of my men. You’re done.”

Purcell’s voice triggered more jackhammer action against the dam. He was an unfamiliar asshole, yeah, but one with an oddly familiar and dangerous voice. The cold smell of deep water and friction-scorched concrete filled Dante’s nostrils, a pungent future odor that knotted him up with dread.

That jackhammer’s gonna break through.

Quiet and level, those words; a stated fact.

Peut-etre que oui, peut-etre que non. But before it does, I might still have an ace up my sleeve.

He hoped.

On the roof, his power had finally flared to life. Sure it had been pale blue and watery, a thin reflection of itself, and had vanished a split second later, but a split second would be all he needed.

Closing his eyes, Dante drew in a wet, shallow breath and summoned his song. Nothing. No electric tingle as flames swallowed his hands. No blue glow, no song, no transforming fire. Nada. He only felt/heard an inner silence, as though some essential thing had been disconnected or blocked or corralled.

Dante opened his eyes in frustration. Shit. Fuck. Sonuvabitch.

“What, nothing? No smart-ass comments?” Purcell said. “No threats to rip out my heart or tear off my head?” He shook his head. “You must still be doped up to the gills.”

“Blow me. Given the conversation, I don’t think I’m doped up enough.”

“There we go. That’s more like it. That’s the S I know and despise.” A cold, contemptuous smile curved Purcell’s lips. “And given the multiple times James Wallace shot you before torching your club and disappearing with his wayward daughter, I’d say he must feel the same way about you.”

Dante blinked. Heather’s father? He didn’t want to believe it, but if Purcell was telling the truth, and he had a feeling that this time the fucker was—at least mostly, then James Wallace had managed to blindside them all.

“Sonuvabitch.” Dante stared at the white-tiled ceiling, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Did the bastard take Annie too?”

“Couldn’t say. What do you care, anyway? You’ve got more pressing concerns.”

“Oui. Like finding Heather. Like killing you.”

“Nice trick for someone who’s never leaving that table. Not alive, anyway.”

Dante shifted his gaze from the ceiling to Purcell. “We’ll see, yeah?”

“That we will,” Purcell agreed, his eyes dark green flint. He sauntered into the room, stopping at the foot of the table. “But for now, Violet wants to tell you good-bye before we head out to the airport. And the only way I’m ever going to get her to shut up about it—short of pumping her full of tranks, that is—is to let her.”

“She okay?” Dante asked, remembering someone yanking her from his arms—against orders—as the seizure knocked him from the night sky.

“She’s fine. Of course, I don’t know how long that’ll be the case.”

“Where are you taking her?” Dante asked warily.

“To HQ,” Purcell replied. “Our science and medical geeks are salivating over what you did to her—not to mention the mystery of how you did it. They can’t wait to get their latex-gloved hands on her and begin their tests and experiments. Kind of like they used to do with you.” A mocking grin stretched his lips. “Not that you remember, of course.”

“Smug fi’ de garce,” Dante said, his voice low and coiled and full of blood, a venomed promise. “Enjoy it. It ain’t gonna last.”

Purcell chuckled. “Really? You keep forgetting I’m not the one in a crazy jacket strapped to a table.” Touching a finger to the com set curving around his right ear, he murmured, “Bring in the kid.”

ANOTHER SUIT ESCORTED VIOLET into the room, box of crayons clutched in her hands. As the little girl walked over to the table, her freckled face somber, her black paper wings rustling behind her, Dante’s reality wobbled. The box of crayons shifted into a plushie orca, the paper wings became shadows.

Pain pulsed at Dante’s temples, behind his eyes.

Stay here. Stay now. Stay . . .

Reality wheeled.

“Looks like you found Orem, princess,” he heard himself saying. “Did one of these bastards give him ba—” His words cut off as a soft voice, one stitched into the very fabric of his heart, whispered from within.

That’s not me, Dante-angel. She’s not me. I’m where I’ve always been.

And that would be dead on the floor in a pool of blood, yeah?

Cold shivved Dante’s heart, sheeted his soul in black ice. As bad as those words were, the voice speaking them—Cajun-spiced and whiskey smooth—was worse; it was his own.

You won’t save her, you know. You’ll fail.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispered, the words hoarse, barely audible. “Tais-toi, tais-toi, tais-toi, tais-toi—”

“Dante-angel. Who are you talking to?”

He smelled soap and strawberries and coppery blood pulsing beneath freckled skin. Heard the hummingbird patter of a little girl’s worried heart. Hunger sat up and took notice. Turning his head, he looked into sky-blue eyes—concerned, curious, trusting. His whispered and furious chant slowed, then trailed away.

Reality wheeled.

Shadows sharpened into paper wings. Plushie fur sloughed away to reveal a bright box of crayons.

“Who are you talking to?” she repeated. “And what does tay-twah mean?”

“Tais-toi means shut up. And I’m just talking to myself—hence all the tais-tois.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Ca va, Violet? You okay?”