On Midnight Wings

caught a whiff of the man’s scent—fresh ice and anise, sharp and cool—which mingled uneasily with the faint odor of smoke and acrid chemicals clinging to his clothes.

Fire extinguisher, I’m betting. Lucien said Thibodaux helped him put out the blaze at the club.

So throw confetti and pin a medal on the fucker. Didn’t mean he could be trusted.

“We know James Wallace took Heather,” Von said quietly, sauntering over to the table to stand opposite Thibodaux. He folded his arms over his gator-afflicted chest. “But who the hell grabbed Dante? I find it damned curious that all this shit went down right after you and your partner showed up bearing gifts for Dante.”

Yeah, a Pandora’s flash drive of a gift, one that should probably be left unopened—Dante’s past from the moment he’d been born into Bad Seed.

Thibodaux set the condensation-dewed beer bottle down carefully on the Formica table, then met Von’s gaze, his own wary. “Bad timing. Me and Merri had nothing to do with any of this.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Lucien said. “I had the same concerns, so the first thing I did when I arrived here was scan his mind. Thoroughly. He’s clean, llygad—no deception, no hidden agenda. That’s not to say that the SB wasn’t behind Dante’s abduction—just that Thibodaux and his partner had nothing to do with it.”

Thibodaux’s expression tightened, chiseling his features into razor-sharp angles, hard planes, and narrowed blue eyes. “The bastards wiped my memory of everything I’d learned about Baptiste and Bad Seed for a reason. Could be they’re planning to use him again, trigger his programming and have him waste another FBI agent like they did in Seattle.”

“And want to keep him invisible,” Von growled. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“If they took him,” Lucien pointed out in a deep rumble.

“If,” Thibodaux agreed. Lifting the beer bottle, he tipped it against his lips, took a long swallow.

“We’ll sort out the who and why after we find him,” Von said. He abandoned the table to join Lucien in front of the sink. “You got the bullets?”

Lucien answered him by unfolding his arms from his bare chest, extending one hand, and uncurling the taloned fingers. Cradled in his cupped palm were two bits of skull-mangled brass.

Picking up the bullets, Von took a quick sniff, even though he didn’t need to. He’d caught and recognized the woody, amberish scent the moment Lucien had opened his hand. His stomach sank—hell, it cannonballed—into uncharted depths.

No True Blood can survive that . . .

Von closed his eyes, then tried to reach Dante through their link. His heart constricted painfully when he felt the low and erratic pulse of Dante’s poisoned life force. At least he was still alive, but his continued survival was definitely in question.

<Little brother.>

But Von’s sending hit a barrier surrounding Dante’s mind—a barrier composed of poison, pain, and drug static—then bounced away, unheard. His breath hissed out in renewed frustration between his teeth. He opened his eyes.

“What did Wallace use?” Lucien demanded, dark brows slanted into a deep V. “What did he put in those bullets?”

“Something very few know about,” Von replied. His hand knuckled shut around the bullets, squeezing them into his palm. “Resin from a dragon’s blood tree.”

“Tree resin?” Thibodaux questioned incredulously. “That’s all it takes to put down a fucking powerful born vamp? Sap?”

“Sap,” Von confirmed. “The resin from a dragon’s blood tree is medicinal for mortals, but fatal to True Bloods. Nature’s way of balancing shit out by giving born immortals an Achilles’ heel, I guess.” He scowled. “Goddamned nature.”

Jack’s breath caught. “Fatal?”

“Yeah, and with as many times as that bastard shot Dante, he should’ve been dead by now. The only reason he’s still alive is because of you.” Von nodded at Lucien, saw comprehension and relief flash in his eyes. “Because of his Fallen bloodline. But I don’t know if or how long it’s gonna keep him that way. This is uncharted territory.”

“What does he need?” Lucien asked.

“That’s the problem—I don’t know what he needs. No one does.” Raking a hand through his hair in frustration, Von fingered apart blood-matted locks, welcoming the distracting pull of pain at his scalp. “Any other True Blood would already be dead.”

Gold light flared in Lucien’s eyes, gleaming like stars in the gloom. “Good thing, then, that he’s not any other True Blood.”

“Doesn’t hurt that he’s also one tough, stubborn-ass sonuvabitch,” Von said. “That’s another good thing. Damned good.” He returned to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He tossed the crumpled bits of brass onto the table. “We’re gonna find him and his equally stubborn-ass woman, bring them both home.”

“Yes, we will,” Lucien rumbled. “And the sooner, the better. I trust you’re ready to resume your attempts to contact Heather?”

Von shook his head. “No, I’m ready to succeed in contacting Heather, not attempt to succeed. But first . . .” Reaching across the table, he grabbed up Thibodaux’s bottle of Dixie and, giving the man a quick thanks-for-your-generous-donation wink, poured the remainder of the cold, hopsy brew down his throat.

“Please, by all means, take mine,” Thibodaux drawled, amusement glinting in his eyes. “It’s a helluva long way to the fridge and back, after all. Would probably take at least four whole seconds. Maybe even five. Who’s got that kind of time or energy?”

Von thumped the empty down onto the table, then belched. “Exactly. Y’know, I think I’m starting to like you.”

Thibodaux lifted one ginger eyebrow. “As a person or as lunch?”

Von shrugged. “Don’t wanna spoil the mystery. Thanks for the beer, man.”

Shrugging, the former SB agent started reassembling his just-cleaned gun, his long-fingered hands moving with a deft and practiced ease. “Eh. You’re welcome.”

Von closed his eyes, then reached out to Heather again.

<C’mon, doll. Talk to me.>

All he heard/felt was drug-thick static. But that didn’t stop him. He could be one stubborn motherfucker too, especially when it came to family—and whether Heather knew it or not, she was definitely that.

So was Dante. Maybe they hadn’t been born brothers, but they were brothers under the skin, their fates tied together. Von had known that inexplicable truth the moment he’d first seen Dante standing onstage with his band in a smoky N’awlins dive. And Von had made himself a promise that night.

Wherever his path takes him, he ain’t gonna be walking it alone. I’ll be right beside him. Each step of the way. I’ll always have his back.

Really? Sure about that?

Right now Dante was very much alone, his back unguarded.

Jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, Von leaned forward in his chair, elbows to knees, and rested his head in his hands. Drawing in a deep breath, he reached for Heather again.

<C’mon, doll. I need you. And I mean that in a totally platonic way.>

Only static.

Von kept at it.

When he felt Silver awaken through their link, felt his confusion at his unexpected whereabouts, he realized that the sun had slipped beneath the horizon. He shifted his focus from Heather to Dante, hoping against hope that his friend had awakened as well.

<Little brother . . .>

But once again, his sending bounced back from the barricade of resin, drugs, and pain that still surrounded Dante’s mind, leaving him unable to determine if Dante was conscious or not. But gut instinct whispered, He’s out cold, poison racing through his veins, pulsing through his heart; a whisper that