On Midnight Wings

bone-deep grief.

He yearns to turn back the hands of time, to save those he’s lost, to protect the mortal woman, the red-haired lovely, who is drawing ever nearer. He yearns for what he can never have. Ah, but he is young and still foolish and doesn’t know better. Yet.

Beyond the sanitarium’s thick walls, Loki felt the increase in Louisiana’s vibration as the night waned, giving way to the approaching dawn. But before Sleep claimed Dante, Loki needed to plant a few seeds.

Thanks to Dante’s fallen shields, he knew just how to do it.

Closing his eyes, Loki exhaled, then shifted. Energy prickled over his skin, a hundred million bee stings all at once, a familiar and much loved sensation. Once his new form had settled into place, he opened his eyes, adjusted his transformed clothing, then lowered his head and breathed a stream of energy between Dante’s slightly parted lips. The creawdwr’s long-lashed eyelids fluttered but remained closed.

Loki patted Dante’s cheek, then said in a low, concerned drawl. “Dante, hey. C’mon, man. Hey. Can you hear me? Wake up, little brother.”

40 NORTH STAR BATON ROUGE DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM

AS THE NIGHT BLED away, fading to gray as predawn stretched rosy fingers along the horizon, Heather slowed the Nissan to a stop, parking on the quiet, somewhat secluded street in front of a tall building—a quick count tallied eight stories—glowering with institutional grimness. The inward North Star pull she’d been feeling and following since Dallas now pulsed with an urgent, feverish intensity.

Hereherehereherehere . . .

Locking her fingers around the steering wheel in order to keep herself from just bolting from the car and dashing into God-knows-what, Heather forced herself to sit still and study the building and its surroundings. She knew her bond with Dante had guided her true when she read the sign posted in the modest green swath of lawn between the front doors.

Doucet-Bainbridge Sanitarium

Medical Research & Treatment

PRIVATE

Heather’s knuckles blanched white against the steering wheel. She had no doubt this was another FBI/SB run facility like the one in D.C., another circle of hell masquerading as psychological research for the public good.

And Dante was here.

Again, something deep inside her whispered and cold fingers closed around her heart. Heather tucked Cortini’s confiscated SIG Sauer into her jeans at the small of her back, then regarded her borrowed Glock and Taser.

Seems I have a regular arsenal, she mused. An arsenal I’m definitely going to need against a building full of security and who the hell knows how many random SB, maybe even FBI, agents, research techs, and medical staff.

Heather’s pulse drummed a little faster. Sweat dampened her palms. Despite the odds, she knew she wouldn’t wait. She would go inside and she would stop at nothing to bring Dante back out again. The trick would be managing to do so without triggering every alarm in the building or winding up as another involuntary resident in a padded room.

At least Dante’s Sleeping now—or soon will be. The bastards can’t hurt him while he’s Sleeping.

Can they?

She hoped the answer was no, but the cold knot in her belly suggested otherwise.

How the hell do you plan to carry him if you do find him? Into the morning light? Wrapped in what? You need to wait for nightfall.

Sighing, Heather trailed her fingers wearily through her hair. Exhaustion was nibbling away at the adrenaline that was keeping her on her feet. Siphoning her clarity of mind.

Hereherehereherehere . . .

The internal tether linking Heather to Dante continued to pull and tug and pulse. Dante’s presence burned at the back of her mind, blazed in her heart, a blue-white star.

She’d thought the bond-GPS would switch off once she’d found him, but maybe she needed to touch him before that could happen. Maybe she needed to make her way past the thorns and kiss his lips, a reversal of roles, the Princess breaking the spell enchanting the pale, black-haired Sleeping Beauty.

No waiting. She was going inside.

But first, I need to let the others know where I ended up.

When Annie answered her phone, Heather filled her in, wishing her sister was safe in New Orleans, not driving a van of Sleeping nightkind (and a pair of awake mortal males) to Memphis, but short of requesting that Jack and Thibodaux stuff her kicking and screaming onto a NOLA-bound Greyhound, Annie was in for the long haul.

But the alternative, Annie alone with her grief and her guilt, wasn’t an option either. Maybe finding Von and hauling his tattooed bacon out of the fire might help Annie focus, channel her frantic energy.

A pang cut Heather heart-deep. Von. Small comfort that Silver and Merri believed the nomad wasn’t in danger of losing his life, just his status as llygad.

They might kick him out. Maybe even wipe out his memory. I don’t think they’d execute him for being an oath breaker, but I don’t know that for sure. Llygaid are real fucking secretive, Red. Wish I knew more.

Red, huh? That’s new.

Yeah, well, obvious nicknames are better than none, right?

I suppose. Which reminds me, Silver-boy, what’s your real name, anyway?

What was that? Couldn’t hear you. You’re breaking up . . .

“Do you know if Silver has heard anything from De Noir yet?”

“Nothing so far,” Annie replied. “We figure he’s still at Fallen Central. But don’t worry, as soon as the big guy makes contact, we’ll make sure he knows right where you are.”

“Thanks,” Heather said. “Keep safe, okay? I’ll call as soon as I can.”

“I wish you’d fucking wait for De Noir, but I know you won’t,” Annie said. “So you keep fucking safe too, hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Heather replied, her throat suddenly tight. Ending the call, she switched off the cell and slid it into her pocket.

Don’t need it going off at an inopportune moment.

Tucking the Taser into the front of her jeans beneath her sweater, she grabbed the Glock, then got out of the car. Pain stabbed up from her ankle, a white-hot blade. She bit her lower lip, waiting it out. She felt pretty sure that it wasn’t broken but badly sprained and in desperate need of ibuprofen, elevation, and an ice pack.

Heather sighed. Yeah, in a perfect world—which this definitely isn’t.

Once the pain had returned to a dull throb, she closed the Nissan’s door quietly and studied the sanitarium parking lot and entrance.

Wait. Was that graffiti painted on the doors and windows?

Heather frowned. How had the taggers even managed to shake their cans of paint before security swarmed over them and shoved said cans up their artistic urban asses, let alone practically tag the entire building? And something about the graffiti seemed familiar, something itching at the back of her weary mind.

Her gaze skipped from the dark paint to the eerily silent parking lot. Beneath the pinkish glow of the lot’s