On Midnight Wings

command. <Lower your shields, cher. Let me in.>

A cold sweat beaded Silver’s forehead. Not Dante. Not Dante.

<Let me in, p’tit. Let me in. Let me in. I need to be inside you, mon ami.>

The pealing bell reverberated through his consciousness, ringing and echoing and vibrating, crumbling to dust all other thoughts. Shattering his focus.

Silver’s shields fell.

And a dark, complicated, and powerful presence poured in. Silver felt no pain as his memories were—not ransacked, not precisely, but clicked open like folders on a computer. Each folder held hundreds of interconnected memories, images, sensation.

No pain, but he felt despair in spades.

As the search continued, Silver thought he heard/felt a song—wild and searing, hungry. A song that left him breathless and dizzied. A song that filled his mind with Dante’s image, his autumn scent. Then it was gone.

“Anhrefncathl,” the fallen angel whispered in Dante’s voice.

The dark presence withdrew from Silver’s mind and the electric thrumming pinning him like a moth against the alley wall vanished. Boneless, his legs dumped him onto the alley’s rain-puddled floor.

Silver sucked in air, head throbbing, oddly soothed by the zydeco bouncing from the tavern speakers across the street. The world hadn’t ended after all. Not yet, anyway. He glanced up in time to see the fallen angel’s form ripple, shifting back to himself. Black wings unfolded from wing-slits cleverly tailored into his suit jacket.

With a single strong stroke, he took to the air, a triumphant smile on his lips. Silver’s despair deepened. He had a feeling that somehow, some way, the fallen angel had managed to lock onto Dante.

That song . . .

Silver drew his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, then rested his forehead against his denim-clad knees. “Jesus,” he whispered, his voice sounding as shaky as he felt inside.

“Are you all right?”

Silver lifted his head and looked up. Burgundy hair, concerned hazel eyes. Mauvais’s buddy—Mr. Esquire Euro Edition. A quick glance down the alleyway confirmed the Creole bastard’s absence.

“No, I’m pretty fucking far from all right. Where did Mauvais go?”

“He left for his riverboat some time ago,” the stranger said in a low voice flowing with European grace. He crouched down beside Silver. “Said he needed to check on something, hoped that it still worked.” He spat on the alley floor. “Bastardo.”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” Silver asked. “And what are you doing here?”

“My name is Giovanni Toscanini. And I know yours, as well—Silver. Along with the fact that you’re a member of Dante Baptiste’s household.”

“You ain’t said what you’re doing here.” Silver rose to his feet. He walked from the alley to the sidewalk, knowing Giovanni Tosca-whatever was following, then turned to face him.

“I’m here to help Dante Baptiste.”

Silver snorted. “Yeah, right. Help him how?”

Giovanni glanced to his left, face wary. Silver followed his gaze to the club. The crowd had grown even larger.

“Ass-kissers and idiots,” Silver muttered. He returned his attention to Giovanni. “What makes you any different?”

Giovanni considered him for a long moment, illumination from the gaslight dancing reflected in his eyes, ghost flames. When he finally spoke, he pitched his voice low. “I believe it best we speak elsewhere. Too many potential eavesdroppers—including the SB agents who keep eyes and ears on the club at all times.”

Silver straightened, startled. “How do you know that?”

Closing the distance between them with one quick step, Giovanni whispered into Silver’s ear, “The same way I know what all those ass-kissers and idiots over there don’t—that Dante Baptiste is a creawdwr.”

Silver’s heart gave his ribs one hard kick. Creawdwr. Giovanni knew.

Giovanni stepped back and answered the question that Silver knew had to be burning in his own eyes, the same question knuckling his hands into fists, and pumping adrenaline into his blood. A fatal question for Giovanni if he didn’t answer it right: How, motherfucker? How do you know?

“An inside source—one who is working for Dante Baptiste.”

Silver gave the buzzing, restless crowd a long look, then returned his attention to Giovanni. Was he ally or smooth-talking foe? Should he trust him or stake his ass? There was no one Silver could ask. Von was out of commission and missing and Lucien was silent in Gehenna. This time, he was on his own.

“C’mon, then,” Silver said. He started across the street for Aunt Sally’s Tavern & Heavenly BBQ without waiting for an answer.

He knew Giovanni would follow.

33 NIGHTKIND AND CATS

THE TANGY AROMA OF honey-and-whiskey-barbecued pork ribs permeated the air inside Aunt Sally’s Tavern & Heavenly BBQ, thick enough to taste, alongside the buttery smells of skillet-fried corn bread and dark, foamy beer.

Annie and Merri had grabbed a booth near the rear of the tavern, probably the only one available, given the surprising late night crowd. Sliding in beside Annie, Silver made introductions as Giovanni sat beside Merri with a murmured, “Bella.”

Merri gave him a cool, professional once-over, her dark eyes drinking in details Silver suspected he would’ve—and probably had—missed. “Look like you could use a drink,” she said, handing him her half empty bottle of Dixie Crimson Voodoo Ale. “Rough night?”

Giovanni slanted a wry glance at Silver before returning his attention to Merri. “Si. But it’s starting to improve,” he said, raising the moisture-beaded bottle to his lips and taking a long, grateful swallow.

“Go on and finish it,” Merri said. She pulled a pack of Djarum Black from her jacket pocket. “I’m going outside for a smoke.”

Giovanni scooted out of the booth, denim squeaking against vinyl, and stood so Merri could slide out and leave. Once she had, he sat back down again.

“Okay. So spill—” Silver began, only to be interrupted by a cheery female voice.

“Here’s your pork special, sugar,” the waitress said, resting a heaping platter of sauce-slathered ribs, collard greens, and corn bread in front of Annie. The aroma—spicy and sweet and savory—filled the booth. “Anyone else need anything? More beer? You fellas need menus?”

“No menus, thanks,” Silver said, “Just a round of Abita Amber.”

“You got it, sugar.” With a wink, the caramel-skinned waitress sashayed away. Once their beer had been delivered in frosted mugs, Silver looked at Giovanni. “One more time,” he said. “Your inside source—the one working for Dante. Spill.”

“She’s an SB agent,” Giovanni replied, voice low. “And my sister. Caterina Cortini.”

“Shit, you’re that assassin chick’s brother?” Annie said, eyes wide with surprise. “She mentioned that her mother was nightkind, but I didn’t realize that her entire family was too. She never said a fucking word about that.”

Giovanni shrugged. “Why would she? She was adopted into a vampire household as a toddler. For her, it is the norm and not worth mentioning.”