On Midnight Wings

Something goddamned weird is going on down here. There’s graffiti on the sanitarium doors and windows, more like some kind of symbols, actually.”

The chill Teodoro had felt earlier in Violet’s room returned in full force. What Purcell was describing, his inability to enter the sanitarium’s parking lot for more than a few moments before finding himself at home again, stank of Elohim magic. A blood spell designed to keep mortals away.

“What kind of symbols? Describe them,” Teodoro ordered, standing. He grabbed his neatly draped trousers from the chair back, tucked his phone between chin and shoulder, and pulled them on.

“I’ll do you one better. I’m sending over a picture of one.”

By the time Purcell’s photo had finished loading on his phone, Teodoro’s heart was pounding hard and fast and his chill had deepened into glacial ice. He stared at the image of the blood sigil—a No Trespassing, No Admittance sign—and realized that the Fallen had found Dante Baptiste.

If they force-bonded their unstable, young creawdwr before Heather Wallace died, then all of Teodoro’s hard work would be for nothing. He frowned, studying the image. If the Fallen had found Dante, why would they put up sigils to keep out other Fallen?

Maybe it was vampires who had stumbled across Dante, not Fallen. Or maybe the Fallen had split into warring factions. Again.

“You still there?” Purcell’s voice rose from the phone, a fly’s irritating buzz.

“Of course.” Teodoro mentally thumbed through his options, gradually realizing that if the Fallen were indeed on the scene, he had next to none.

“Oh, there’s one other little thing you should know.”

“And that is?”

“Heather Wallace. I think she’s inside.”

“Impossible,” Teodoro said flatly. “You’re mistaken.”

“I don’t think so. I checked out a car parked down the street. It was unlocked and the rental agreement in the glove box was signed by Caterina Cortini, of all people. And judging by the cracker crumbs on the passenger seat, Cortini wasn’t alone. Now what would she be doing in Baton Rouge, let alone Doucet-Bainbridge?”

Teodoro went still. A very good question. Had Heather somehow managed to override Caterina’s conditioning and convince his assassin that Dante was missing and in need of their assistance?

“I wouldn’t know,” Teodoro lied smoothly. “I’m not her handler. But how does Heather Wallace figure into this? All you have is a car rented by Cortini. An empty car.”

“I pulled fingerprints from the steering wheel, Dion. Used my laptop to scan and upload them to the SB database. They matched what we have on file for Caterina Cortini and Heather Wallace.”

“Are you saying Cortini is helping Wallace?”

“Who the hell knows? All I do know is that I found a Little Rock gas receipt in the car. Cortini knows the SB travel routes and she does have bloodsucker relatives—some pretty damned powerful ones. Or maybe you sent her to intercept Wallace.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To break S. You keep yapping about that, right? So maybe when you learned that our people had found Wallace, you decided to use a little of that Jedi mind-trick bullshit of yours to convince one of our own wetwork specialists to kill Wallace or maybe you just bribed Cortini or whatever, but, yeah, I’m pretty damned sure you’re behind this.”

Teodoro didn’t like how close Purcell had come to the truth. He suspects too much. I need to remedy that.

“So where are they, then? Both are mortal, they wouldn’t be able to go inside anymore than—” Teodoro stopped speaking abruptly, as a memory gleaned from his sojourn inside Dante’s firestorm of a mind popped into his thoughts; a memory of Dante healing Heather when she had been mortally wounded in D.C., making her whole with song and blue flames.

Heather Wallace was no longer entirely mortal, then. But Caterina was—so she should’ve returned to her car and driven away—perhaps repeatedly. Since the car was still parked where Purcell had found it, Teodoro believed Heather had traveled to Baton Rouge alone. Meaning she had somehow escaped Caterina, perhaps killed her. No wonder his texts had gone unanswered.

It seemed his imagination was sorely lacking, he reflected ruefully.

“Mortal? Instead of human?” Purcell questioned in low tones. “Interesting choice of words.”

“I think you know, or at least suspect, more than you claim to, Richard.”

“Richard now, is it?” Purcell said after a long pause. “Like we’re buddies or something?” then adding without waiting for a response, “So do you know what those symbols represent?”

“I do. Something I would have to wipe from your memory if I told you.”

“Ah. That shit again. Christ. Look, just tell me what to do so I can get back inside. Wallace managed it, so can I—if I know what I’m dealing with.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside the parking lot, but out of view. Tell me how to avoid the parking lot hypnotic trance hoodoo bullshit.”

Raking his fingers through his hair, Teodoro considered his options again. He could never make it to Baton Rouge in time to keep whoever had found Dante—Fallen or vampire—from leaving with him and his mortal bondmate. And, even if he did make it in time, killing Wallace might prove difficult, if not impossible, if she was with Fallen and/or vampires and in the company of Dante Baptiste.

But Dante could kill her. Unmake her.

With just the right word. Words Purcell knew.

Teodoro’s lips relaxed into a relieved smile. “I can get you back inside, but you need to listen closely to my instructions and follow them to the letter.”

“I’m listening.”

SLOUCHED IN THE PASSENGER seat of his Chevrolet Suburban, Purcell was making yet another visual sweep of the sanitarium with his binoculars before settling down to follow Dion’s bizarre instructions, when a figure—a winged figure—landed in the parking lot.

White wings, gleaming ivory hair, tall. A man wearing what appeared to be black plaid trousers and boots.

A man with wings. Purcell lowered the binoculars and blinked. Before he had time to process the information his eyes had delivered to his brain, two more figures kited down from the cloud-flecked early evening sky to land gracefully beside the first figure.

The male was also tall with black, waist-length hair and black wings, but wearing regular slacks instead of plaid; the silver-haired female, curves draped in what looked like a Grecian-style gown, fluttered her wings in a blur of white and lavender before folding them at her back.

Slowly, heart pounding against his ribs, Purcell raised the binoculars back to his eyes. And received yet another shock: he recognized one of the winged creatures, the black-winged male.

Lucien De Noir. S’s sugar daddy.

Sweat popped up on Purcell’s forehead as he pondered the implications of what he was seeing. Not angels, their wings weren’t feathered, but smooth. If not angels, then what—demons? Aliens? Gods from fucking Mount Olympus?

He wasn’t sure and at the moment it didn’t matter, really. They were here and he had no doubt whatsoever they were here to fetch S. He also had no doubt this was the reason that prick Dion had kept threatening to wipe his memory.

Drawing in a deep breath, Purcell studied De Noir and his winged companions. They were observing the sanitarium and looking very unhappy. And Purcell chuckled in relief as the reason why became clear.

The symbols seemed to be keeping them from entering the building.

He watched as De Noir vaulted into the sky, ink-black wings spread wide as he flew away. Looking surprised, his companions sped after him. Interesting. Maybe S’s sugar daddy wasn’t immune to the goddamned parking lot spell either or maybe he was off for a spell-busting crowbar. In any case, it was time for Purcell to get to work.