On Midnight Wings

“I’ll take the other side,” Caterina said.

Heather stepped up onto the sidewalk. Dizziness spun her thoughts. For a split second, she thought she smelled Dante—frost and fire and fallen leaves—thought she felt his heated presence, thought she heard his husky voice.

“Dante?” she whispered, halting.

Again, she thought she heard his voice, but not in her mind through their bond. Instead his voice haunted the chilly air like an autumn ghost, like a faraway echo.

Catin, look out. Run!

The skin prickled on the back of Heather’s neck, triggering her inner alarms. Adrenaline surging through her veins, she ducked and swiveled smoothly to her left, while swinging the Glock up in both hands.

A muted thwip burned through the air where her head had just been.

Heather felt a cold shock to find herself practically nose to nose with Caterina instead of the unknown SB or FBI assailant she’d expected. Her finger flexed against the Glock’s trigger.

Time slowed, stretched out like a loaded slingshot—then snapped back. Three things happened simultaneously and with breath-stealing swiftness.

A gun barrel was jammed against Heather’s left temple in a heated, cordite-scented kiss.

She fired the Glock as her hands were knocked aside, the gunshot cracking like winter ice through the night.

Electric pain jolted from Heather’s wrist to her shoulder as Caterina seized the Glock and twisted it. The gun dropped from Heather’s pain-numbed fingers to clatter against the sidewalk.

Caterina kicked away the gun. She regarded Heather with hazel eyes devoid of emotion. Perspiration glistened on her forehead. Strain etched stark lines around her mouth. “How did you fool us?” she demanded. “All of us—Dante, the llygad, me. It’s important I know how you did it.”

Heather’s muscles ratcheted another turn tighter. This isn’t just betrayal. Something’s wrong with her. Very wrong. But whatever it is, I’m not going to stand here and let her kill me. I’m not going to die in a rest area parking lot surrounded by weeds and silence and the stink of piss.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Heather replied, inching her hand toward the hem of her sweater and the Taser hidden underneath it. “And I could ask the same thing of you. You gave your word to Dante. I watched you put your gun at his feet and promise to guard and defend him.”

The gun barrel jammed harder into Heather’s temple. Leather creaked as Caterina’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Caterina said, her voice cold enough to hang icicles from the eaves of the restrooms.

As Caterina squeezed the trigger a second time, Heather dropped to her knees. She felt something blaze past the top of her head, almost skimming her scalp. A split second later the SIG’s muted thwip reached her ears.

Heather yanked the Taser out from beneath her sweater and fired. The prongs hit the assassin in the throat. Caterina stiffened, muscles rigid. She toppled over, hitting the pavement hard, and knocking the gun from her grip.

Heather jumped to her feet and delivered a solid kick to the assassin’s temple. She didn’t stop the current running through Caterina’s body until after she’d scooped up the SIG and aimed it.

But once Heather stopped the current, Caterina’s eyes closed and her body went limp. She was out cold.

Or pretending to be.

Panting, pulse pounding through her veins, Heather crouched and shoved the gun’s muzzle against Caterina’s chest, right above her heart. Several long minutes slipped past. Nothing. Not a twitch or flutter. Not faking, then. Keeping the gun muzzle firmly in place, she searched Caterina. She found the car keys in a blazer pocket, along with a smartphone.

Well, well, well. What do you know? Heather pulled the phone free, relief flooding through her. Guess the meeting with De Noir wasn’t the only thing she lied about.

One quick call, then she’d hit the road.

Heather punched in Annie’s number.

29 IT’S NOW OR NEVER BATON ROUGE DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM

BROWS ANGLED DOWN INTO a deep, frowning V, SB agent Bryan Graham glanced at his partner, then back at the vamp strapped to the table. “What’d he just say?”

“Dunno and don’t care.” Morgan hefted his blood-spattered drill in one beefy hand. “At least the seizure’s over. About fucking time too. I was getting worried that we’d have to quit before we even got really started.”

S blinked, dazed, his attention focused on the ceiling. Tendrils of black hair clung to his sweat-slicked face. Blood smeared his lips, trickled from one nostril, oozed a deep red snail’s path from his ears down along his pale neck to disappear beneath the collar of his straitjacket.

Graham nodded. “Yeah, no point in beating the crap out of a guy when he can’t appreciate the effort you’re putting into it.” He’d only managed to wallop the bloodsucker a couple of times—good, solid bone-breaking blows (well, or would’ve been if the wallopee had been human)—before the seizure had struck, bringing the fun to a screeching halt.

Graham had never witnessed an actual, honest-to-God seizure before and, even though he felt pretty damned certain that human seizures lacked the speed and violence of vamp fits, he’d pass on witnessing another—human or vamp—thank you very much.

S’s body throws itself with mouth-drying speed against the restraining bars in violent, muscle- twisting convulsions. His head is a thrashing black-and-white blur, flinging warm droplets of blood from his bitten lower lip into the air.

“Break time’s over, you murdering bastard,” Morgan informed S cheerfully. His drill whined back to life. “Hope you enjoyed it.”

S coughed, then turned his head and spat blood onto the floor. “I’m a little disappointed by the lack of an in-flight snack,” he said hoarsely, “but you’ll do. Hell, you’re a big boy. More of a seven-course banquet than a snack, yeah?”

The cheerfulness vanished from Morgan’s hazel eyes as his expression darkened. “Asshole,” he gritted, bringing the drill down, its whirling bit aimed for the bloodsucker’s canvas-covered belly.

Graham narrowed his eyes. Was that light shimmering on the table from underneath S? Maybe a reflected glare from the overheads? “Wait,” he called. “What the hell’s that?”

His partner paused, the drill poised a breath above S’s straitjacket and the taut flesh beneath it. He regarded Graham from beneath his blond brows, snapped, “What’s what?”

“That,” Graham said, nodding at S’s prone form. Faint bluish light rippled along the straitjacket’s arms, spreading into its midsection. “See it?”

A frown furrowed Morgan’s forehead as his gaze shifted back to his drill and S. His frown deepened. “Dunno,” he said, taking a wary step back. “Never seen anything like that before. You?”

“No. Maybe it’s a born vamp thing.”

“Maybe.” Uncertainty shadowed Morgan’s eyes.

S turned his blood-smeared face toward Graham and studied him from beneath coal black lashes with eyes gone golden.

Pulse picking up speed, Graham tightened his grip on the bat’s blood-slick aluminum handle. Freaky gold eyes. Mysterious blue glow. WTF? Purcell hadn’t mentioned anything unusual about S. Only the obvious—make