On Midnight Wings

hanging in the balance.

“It would ease our minds if we knew what you intended for the Nightbringer’s son,” Mauvais said. “True Bloods have become increasingly rare, and we’re quite loath to lose one because his father is involved in some kind of blood feud with you. Surely you can understand our concern.”

A slow smile curved Loki’s lips. “I mean this Dante no harm. In fact, I hope to become indispensable to him. The most intimate of friends.”

Mauvais found himself oddly unsettled by the fallen angel’s reassuring words. The tension radiating from Giovanni’s tightly strung body suggested he’d also found the words less than comforting.

Giovanni confirmed this by sending: <He’s lying.>

Mauvais sighed. <Of course he’s lying.>

“A noble gesture, given your animosity toward his father,” Mauvais said to Loki, with an acknowledging nod.

“Indeed,” Loki murmured, his attention now fixed on the crowd. “Interesting mix of individuals. What manner of creaw . . . creature is this Dante?”

Wondering what word Loki had intended to use before changing it to creature, Mauvais followed the fallen angel’s line of sight. The swelling crowd was mostly composed of vampires—the majority of them out of town strangers; they glided like pale sharks amongst the mortals. Usually it was the other way around, Dante’s and Inferno’s mortal fans choking the sidewalk in leather and velvet and fishnet and musk.

“He’s a rare beauty,” Mauvais mused. “Riveting. But he’s also a defiant prick and a true pain in the ass. Disrespectful, sarcastic, a catalyst for chaos.”

Loki chuckled. “I like him already.”

“Well, since he’s not here and no one knows where he is . . .” Mauvais began, his words stopping as he caught a peripheral flash of movement from the street, movement aimed straight for him. He deftly sidestepped the onrusher, grabbing a handful of purple hair as he did, and slammed his would-be attacker face-first into the club’s stone facade.

Breathing in the clean, sharp smells of soap and cinnamon along with the scorched and bitter reek of rage —and garlic?—Mauvais spun the vampire around and pinned him to the wall with a hand to his pale throat.

Purple hair, red-streaked silver eyes, a snarling and cornered panther dressed in jeans and a black Voodoo Fest T-shirt, the smooth-cheeked youth looked no older than sixteen. But Mauvais knew better. This vampire was young, oui, but he was no longer a teenager. He did look familiar, however.

Perhaps he was a member of that traitorous Vincent’s household?

“Motherfucker,” the youth spat, struggling to twist free of Mauvais’s implacable hold. “You killed her. You took her from us. And for what?”

Mauvais tilted his head, considering the accusation. “Oui. Most likely I did— whoever she was.”

“Simone. Her name was Simone, you jackass. She died because of you.”

“And no doubt you intend to make me pay, rue the day I was born, and/or tear out my heart and feed it me. How very tedious and melodramatic of you. And, to be honest, I don’t know which is the worse crime.”

“Tedious,” Loki said. “Without a doubt. Melodramatic is entertaining at least.”

The youth’s gaze shifted to Loki, nostrils flaring. Panic fired in his eyes; extraordinary eyes, Mauvais reflected, eyes the color of moon-kissed silver.

“Fallen,” the young vampire breathed.

Mauvais tensed, a dark suspicion creeping into his mind. Most vampires wouldn’t know Fallen by scent alone since most had never encountered one of the immortals. Except for those, of course, in Dante’s household. A chill iced the base of Mauvais’s spine. Mon Dieu. Could his luck really be this bad?

“You’ve been around Elohim before,” Loki stated in a chiming purr, coming to the same conclusion as Mauvais. “Do you know the Nightbringer? Or his son?”

“I’ve seen them at the club,” the youth replied, his fury banked, but not gone, “but I don’t know them.”

“Ah, a shame. What’s your name, boy?”

“Silver.”

“He’s just angry about some girl,” Giovanni dismissed. “Simone. This is tedious, Guy. Send him on his way so we can hunt.”

Mauvais nodded, relaxing his hold on the boy’s neck. “Oui. Excellent idea. We’ve wasted enough—”

“You and Giovanni can go hunt,” Loki interrupted, one large hand locking around the boy’s shoulder. The boy winced as black talons sank into his flesh through the T-shirt. “Or do whatever you wish. Silver and I have a few things to discuss, including how to tell when one is lying.”

Mauvais shared a dark, despairing look with Giovanni as the fallen angel forced Silver into the narrow alley between Club Hell and DaVinci’s Pizza.

<He’s a member of Dante’s household,> Mauvais sent.

Giovanni bowed his head and buried his face in his hands.

32 SHAPE-SHIFTER

SILVER STARED AT THE fallen angel, cold fingers closing around his heart. For the first time since Dante had disappeared, he was grateful he didn’t know where to find him. The angel studied him with eyes as cold as winter stars, his scent crackling with ice and cold stone, the fallow earth of ancient graveyards.

“I have no desire to harm you,” the fallen angel said, pulling his talons free of Silver’s shoulder, but not releasing him. “Or Dante. But my patience has been worn thin. So I will ask you one more time, and if you lie to me again, I will be forced to gather my information in a more direct manner.”

“Ain’t lying,” Silver replied, pleased at the steadiness of his voice. “I don’t know Dante or the Nightbringer. I came to the club to see him tonight, after his announcement, y’know? But, as I’m sure you noticed, the place is fucking closed.”

Silver felt two anxious presences hovering in the alley’s narrow mouth. He had a feeling it was Mauvais and his burgundy-haired buddy, but didn’t risk a look. He kept his attention fixed on his captor’s cold and handsome face.

The angel’s lips twisted into an eager smile. “A more direct manner it is, then.”

Silver’s heart leapt up into his throat as the fallen’s tall form rippled, a shadow undulating behind a thundering waterfall, dark and primal and as terrifying as the thing lying in wait beneath every three-year-old’s bed. Before Silver could shut his eyes or look away from the disturbing sight, the rippling stopped.

Dante stood in front of him dressed in the black latex jeans and fishnet-PVC-metal-strapped shirt he’d been wearing that night in the Cage when he’d done his coming out gig.

Fear iced Silver’s heart.

Shape-shifter.

Dante was pressing against him, his heated lips brushing against Silver’s. Energy electrified the air, tingled along Silver’s skin, raced along his spine, into his skull. The smell of ozone filled his nostrils. Dante’s gleaming hair lifted in a blue-black corona around his head. He touched a long, taloned finger to Silver’s forehead.

Lightning strike.

Standing under a tree in a downpour.

Finishing that final lap in the pool while thunder rolled overhead.

White light exploded through Silver’s skull. His body stiffened, muscles locked and thrumming as electric energy sizzled through him.

A soft voice sounded through his thoughts, a pealing bell that he couldn’t ignore, a lover’s seductive