On Midnight Wings

27 NO WITNESSES INTERSTATE 530 SOUTH

HEATHER WALLACE TALKED A good game. Spun a well-crafted web of lies.

But then, Caterina reflected as she steered the Nissan south at Heather’s urging, so do I. A skill she’d learned in Renata’s household as a mortal girl trying to counter and survive the machinations of bored vampires; a skill honed in the SB.

And a large part of that skill involved listening, so she could then use the liar’s own verbal web against them. In this case, knowing the truth definitely helped. Otherwise, Heather’s detailed recitation of events at Club Hell—spoken in low, emotional tones—might have been convincing.

The son of a bitch shot Dante with bullets containing sap from a dragon’s blood tree, then torched the club, leaving him and Von and Silver to die in the flames.

But then Heather had taken her bit of creative fiction a step too far.

I don’t know how it all works, but Dante bonded me, and I feel its pull. I know I can follow that pull straight to him . . .

Caterina couldn’t understand why Heather had risked the believability of her story with an outrageous statement like that. A bond with a mortal would leave Dante ultimately vulnerable. And that wouldn’t be allowed.

Maybe Heather had been overconfident. Or maybe an intuitive part of her simply sensed what was coming and was attempting to prevent it. The woman was a survivor.

Kill me and harm Dante.

Doubts floated to the surface of Caterina’s aching mind like rain-drowned worms.

A bond would mean that Dante had seen into the core of her. She wouldn’t be able to hide lies or treachery from him then. And if that were the case, it would mean that I’ve been the one fooled, not Dante.

No. That was what Heather wanted her to think. Dion had revealed the former fed for who she truly was—a backstabbing undercover spy.

Caterina took one hand from the steering wheel and rubbed her forehead. Her headache hadn’t improved since she’d driven from Germantown despite the handful of ibuprofen she’d swallowed. In fact, since Heather Wallace had slid into the Nissan’s shotgun seat beside Caterina, her pain had worsened.

“Headache?” Heather asked. “You have anything to take for it?”

“Ibuprofen in the glove box. Snacks too, if you’re hungry.”

“Great. I’m starving.”

A moment later, Caterina had dry-swallowed four more ibuprofen tablets. She heard the crinkle of a wrapper as Heather tore into a package of snack crackers. The smell of peanut butter and fake cheese filled the car’s interior.

“The pull’s getting stronger,” Heather said around a mouthful of cracker. “So south is definitely the right direction. My gut says he’s still in Louisiana. We just need to figure out where. If the bastards would stop drugging him, I could reach him.”

Caterina cut a quick glance at the FBI agent. Red light from the dashboard glimmered faintly against Heather’s face, highlighting the tension in her jaw, her compressed lips, her shadow-hollowed eyes. She held one vivid orange cracker tightly between her fingers.

I could almost believe that she’s speaking the truth. She’s damned good. Maybe she missed her true calling in Hollywood.

Caterina’s fingers twitched against the steering wheel. She itched to reach inside her jacket for her SIG, yank it free of its holster, and fire a bullet point-blank into Heather’s temple.

But she had a better plan, one that didn’t involve extensive cleanup of the Nissan or torching it; a plan that had been inspired by Heather’s kidnapping fairy tale.

“Don’t worry,” Caterina said, giving her attention back to the white-lined road stretching endlessly beyond her windshield. “We’ll find him.”

“The sooner, the better,” Heather replied. “Can’t we go faster?”

Nice touch. Again, she was almost believable.

“Better not,” Caterina murmured. “We can’t chance getting pulled over. I don’t know if anyone’s realized you’re gone yet or my role in things. Which is why—”

“You dumped your cell after letting Von and De Noir know that you’d found me,” Heather finished. “In case you were being tracked. You’re right. We can’t risk it. Dammit.” She sighed. “How much farther to the rendezvous?”

“A few more miles,” Caterina replied. “De Noir will probably be able to help you follow that pull to Dante more accurately than I can with a car.”

“I hope so,” Heather said. Weariness blunted her words, robbed them of force. “We’re almost out of time,” she added softly, as if to herself.

Well, you are, at least. But Caterina kept that thought to herself. Even though Heather had grabbed a gun from the agent she’d downed back in Little Rock, Caterina had no intention of giving her an opportunity to use it—not like she would have with an opponent she respected.

Spies and traitors only deserve a quick execution.

How did she manage to fool all of us?

(she didn’t)

Headlights from cars traveling the opposite way on the other side of the barrier throbbed behind Caterina’s eyes, whited out the edges of her vision like a late spring blizzard, ratcheted her headache into high gear. A sick feeling knotted her stomach.

Something’s wrong.

But she lost the thread of that thought when she caught a glimpse of the sign she was looking for: REST AREA 2 MILES. A white banner reading: CLOSED had been slapped across it diagonally.

“There it is,” Caterina said, nodding at the sign.

Popping the last cheese cracker into her mouth, Heather sat up straight. Relief washed across her face. “Good,” she breathed. “And it looks like we won’t need to worry about freaking out any civilians.”

“No, we’ll definitely be alone,” Caterina said as she arrowed the car toward the off-ramp. She offered Heather a tight smile. “No witnesses.”

28 THE SMELL OF PISS

HEATHER SHUT THE CAR door and looked up, hoping to hear the rush of wings. Bright, cold stars gemmed the otherwise empty night sky. “When is De Noir supposed to be here?” she asked, scanning the black-inked horizon.

“Anytime,” Caterina replied. “In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to check the building and make sure we’re actually alone.”

“Good idea.”

Heather lowered her gaze from the sky and studied the darkened building beyond the sidewalk. On one side, a sign read WOMEN, on the other side, MEN. And painted in huge white letters between the two sides: CLOSED DUE TO BUDGET CUTS.

Pulling her borrowed Glock free from the back of her jeans, she limped across the weed-choked parking lot toward the side marked MEN, pebbles gritting beneath her Skechers. Behind her, she heard Caterina following, the assassin’s tread soft, sure, and quick.