On Midnight Wings

left him cold.

Knowing he needed to get back to Heather before time ran out, Von reluctantly withdrew from his link with Dante, but not before arrowing a message at the barricade: <We’re coming for you, little brother. Just hold the hell on.>

Drawing in another deep breath, Von caught a whiff of cinnamon and dried blood and knew that Silver had walked into the kitchen even before he heard his voice, low and tense, asking Lucien what the hell had happened. Heard Silver’s breath catch rough in his throat as the fallen angel answered him mind to mind.

“Jesus Christ,” Silver whispered.

“It’s my fault.” Annie’s small and desolate voice disrupted Von’s concentration. “I never should’ve fucking called Dad. I just wanted to rub his face in it . . . I wish I’d killed the bastard when I stabbed him in the throat with that goddamned dart.”

So do I, Von thought, tuning everyone out and focusing every bit of attention on the fading link and the red-haired woman at the other end. As the hours unwound, he realized that Sleep might claim him before he could make contact with Heather. If that happened, the link would be well and truly gone by the time he woke up again.

He couldn’t let that happen. He redoubled his efforts, feeling the cold prickle of sweat along his scalp. He didn’t know how much time had passed when he caught a fragrant whiff of cloves and spice and rich tobacco. He felt a cool-fingered touch on his arm. Opening his eyes, Von looked up into long-lashed velvet brown eyes—a detective’s penetrating gaze.

Thibodaux’s nightkind partner, Merri Goodnight.

She wore black slacks and a white blouse beneath a black suede jacket and stood a slim but curvy five- foot-nothing. Apparently someone—Thibodaux and Jack, most likely—had left the house at some point to pick her up at the French Quarter hotel where the two former SB agents were staying.

“Llygad.” Merri Goodnight’s face, espresso-dark and ageless and framed by sleek black hair, was respectful as she eyed him curiously, her gaze sliding over the tattoos on his arms. “Never met a nomad llygad before.”

“Now you have,” Von growled, not even bothering to keep the irritation from his voice. “So be sure to note the occasion in your diary with a smiley face and a kiss. I’m a little busy here, darlin’. What the hell do you want?”

Looking completely unfazed by his surliness, she replied, “To help you keep busy. It’ll be dawn in a few hours, but I have a way to keep you from Sleeping.” She offered him a small purple pill. “A stay-awake,” she informed him. “Created for vamp agents in law enforcement divisions.”

“How well does it work?” Von asked, studying the pill pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

“Perfectly. You’ll be awake all day. But there’re consequences.”

“Ain’t there always?” Von plucked the pill from her grasp, tossed it into his mouth, and washed it down with a warm swallow of a beer someone had kindly left idling on the table.

Merri folded her arms over her chest, then slung her weight onto one rounded hip. She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you even want to know what those consequences are?”

Von shrugged. “Not really. I’ll take my chances. You’ve used them, right? And you’re still upright and breathing. That’s good enough for me, darlin’.”

“I hope you remember that when you’re twitching on the floor.”

“If I don’t, I trust you to remind me,” Von drawled. Merri’s quick smile told him that he’d pegged the situation right—she would rub his face in those repudiated consequences for all she was worth.

“Not to be rude, but . . .” Von closed his eyes again and directed his attention inward. A moment later he heard the soft whisper of suede, the deliberate tap of boot heels against oak as Merri turned and walked away.

“By the way, Emmett isn’t the only one who’s sorry to have missed that wet boxers contest, Mr. Champion,” she purred, her voice all silk and amusement, as she walked out of the kitchen.

“Holy hell,” Von muttered.

Jack was going to eat the goddamned shirt, one tiny gator at a time.

With Merri’s scent still spicing the air, Von returned his focus to Heather. <C’mon, doll.>

Minutes multiplied into hours. And, for the first time since he’d been turned, Von was awake to witness the sunrise he’d willingly sacrificed forty years ago. Or could’ve, if he’d opened his eyes, hauled his ass out of the chair, and twitched the curtain aside for a peek.

But he didn’t.

Dawn came and went unlamented, then noon slipped past. The strength of his link to Heather was beginning to thin and weaken, when the static suddenly dissipated like smoke in the rain.

And Heather reached back.

4 POISONED APPLES BATON ROUGE DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM MARCH 31

THEY DUMPED HER BLACK-HAIRED angel on the concrete floor, as if he were a piece of curbside junk, a banged-up gift for the donation truck. Dumped him right underneath the big metal hook hanging like a sharp and scary question mark from the ceiling of chalk-white squares.

Meat hook, the little voice in Violet’s tummy had told her when the smiling orderlies in their white ice-cream-man uniforms had ushered her—black paper wings taped (after a bunch of pretty-pretty-pleases) to the back of her Winnie-the-Pooh sweater—into the empty room with its soft padded walls.

“Go ahead and color, sweetie. We’ll be back in just a little bit.”

Violet had stared at the hook, her fingers clenched around the box of crayons in her hand, her gaze fluttering like a hummingbird along the glittering curve of metal.

What’s it for? she’d asked uneasily, her tummy suddenly full of fluttering moths.

But her little voice had become silent.

Violet was busy coloring the pictures she’d drawn on the soft padded wall when the orderlies had come back, minus smiles and nice words this time as they dumped Dante onto the cold floor.

He hit the concrete with a soft thud, his long black hair fanning across his snow-white face, hiding his closed eyes and the faint blue smudges beneath them. He almost looked like he was sleeping. But Violet knew better. The metallic smell of pennies folded into the air as blood trickled from his nose. From his ears. Smeared his lips. Again.

Violet sucked in a breath. “I think he needs to go back to the doctor. He’s still hurt. His owies are still bleeding.” She couldn’t believe she needed to point that out. They were grown-ups. Couldn’t they see the blood glistening on his white skin?

Yes, the little voice in her tummy said. They could and they do.

Then why don’t they help him?

They aren’t supposed to. But someone else can.

“Me,” Violet whispered. “That’s why I’m wearing wings.”

One of the orderlies kicked Dante from his side and onto his tummy, revealing the pale, pale hands twisted behind him at the small of his back. Metal gleamed around his wrists.

Bad-guy handcuffs. For her angel.

Violet felt the crayon she was holding—Fire Engine Red—snap in two against her palm. She let the crayon