On Midnight Wings

practically worthless against the Fallen, even as a distraction, but still wanted the reassuring grip of the gun in her hand, no matter how illusory that reassurance might be.

Loki grinned, approval gleaming in his eyes. “What a fierce little guard dog. Loyal. Protective. A one-woman rescue team. No wonder the creawdwr bonded you.”

Heather kept her face still. He doesn’t know what Dante’s done. And I think I just discovered one of the reasons he found it necessary.

“You have no business wearing Von’s face. Afraid to show your own?”

Loki laughed, as delighted as though she were a dancing hamster in a pink tutu.

She took that as a no.

I know from my Norse mythology classes in college that Loki was a shape-shifter, but can all Fallen change shapes?

“No,” came the drawled reply. A disquieting reply in Von’s familiar voice. “Only a special few of us possess that particular talent . . . darlin’.”

Heather tightened her shields. Her lips compressed into a grim line. Bastard had read her thoughts. She needed to make sure that she kept her shields up and reinforced at all times. Her life—and Dante’s—might depend on it.

“And speaking of special talents”—Loki tilted his head and studied her with Von’s green eyes, now crow- bright—“how did you get past my spells?”

“Without a bit of difficulty,” she retorted, keeping the Glock aimed at the heart beating beneath Loki’s idly rubbing fingertips. “Others are on their way,” she lied—well, a partial lie. She had no idea when or if Lucien would show up, but fervently wished it would be sooner rather than later—“An entire army of nightkind, Fallen, and mortals. You still have time to escape. Just leave Dante and go.”

The green eyes flicked down at Dante. Mingled fear and excitement danced there for a split second, bright embers, there and gone so quickly Heather wasn’t even sure she’d seen anything at all.

“You think I want to escape?” he whispered, lifting his gaze to hers. No fear, no excitement, no bright embers.

“If you’re smart, yes.”

Loki chuckled, a sound lacking warmth or humor. “And what would one little mortal know of ‘smart’? Or of Elohim desires?” He offered her a mock sympathetic smile. “No doubt you even think you understand Dante.”

Heather’s chin lifted as she held his gaze. But she kept silent, deciding to save her breath. Nothing she said would make any difference to this shape-shifting, egotistical bastard anyway.

Despite the slaughter surrounding her, she knew who Dante was, knew his heart.

But even the strongest heart can break.

Heather’s throat constricted. Yes. Oh, yes. And that was why she needed to get him out of here and somewhere safe before that happened.

And if it already has?

Heather shoved the disquieting thought aside. Not now.

“I’m betting you think that when Dante awakens, he’s going to be the vampire—excuse me, apologies— nightkind he was when he went to Sleep, broken and haunted and full of suppressed rage, am I right?” Loki asked, a slow grin parting his lips. He continued without waiting for Heather’s reply; his knowing, arrogant words had her tightening her grip on the Glock. “If so, you’d be wrong. Very, very wrong.”

“I don’t think so, you son of a bitch,” Heather replied, her voice Arctic ice. “I know Dante.”

“And that will be the death of you,” Loki said, voice flat, his grin gone. His form rippled, like wind-stirred water, became fluid. When he spoke, his voice flowed from masculine tones to feminine and all registers in between. “It won’t be your Dante who awakens—not at all.”

I feel like I’m running out of time, catin.

I think he’s had all he can take, doll.

“Bullshit,” Heather declared, her voice rough and low, unsure who she was trying to convince—Loki or herself.

Liquid, musical laughter filled the corridor, followed by words Heather suspected had been stolen from Dante’s mind. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Bastard.” She glanced down, unsettled by the sudden fluidity of Loki’s shape. After a moment, she risked a look up and her heart lodged in her throat at who Loki had become. Dark brown eyes full of mischief, milk-white face framed by silken black hair, cupid’s-bow lips curved into a wicked and knowing grin. His frost and burning leaves scent perfumed the air.

Dante—but minus his heart, his warmth.

“Hey, catin.”

“You need to work on your Cajun accent. You sound nothing like him,” Heather lied, chilled by just how much he did sound like Dante.

The grin widened, revealed fangs. “I believe he would say ‘bullshit’ to that.”

“I believe he’d tear your heart out again, play a little kickball with it.”

“Not quite twilight, cherie. Looks like we have a little time. Whaddaya say we get to know each other a little better?”

Heather’s hands tightened around the Glock, desperation and despair pouring through her in equal measure. How the hell do I keep a fallen angel away? “You’re not going to win any points with Dante—”

Heather’s words died in her throat as Loki dissolved into a blur of motion that ended with him bending over her, his face—Dante’s face—three inches from her own.

“I think he’s going to be too busy unraveling the world to worry about me,” he whispered. A golden fire lit his eyes. “Besides, I’m not exactly interested in winning points.”

Heather squeezed the Glock’s trigger and kept squeezing, emptying the magazine of its ten remaining rounds. The gunshots boomed and roared in the close confines, echoing like cannon fire down the corridor, and leaving her ears ringing. Dark blood bloomed in a tightly spaced circle of wounds just beneath Loki-as-Dante’s pale sternum. Wounds already healing.

The dark brows slanted down. “Ow,” he growled, wrenching the Glock from Heather’s grip and tossing it down the corridor to clatter against the floor tiles. “That actually hurt.”

“Good. It’ll hurt even more when Dante—”

Loki-as-Dante pressed taloned fingertips against Heather’s temples. The lightning storm scent of ozone crackled into the air. The hair lifted on her arms, the back of her neck. Her skin tingled beneath his talons. Fear iced her spine, stole her breath. A smile tilted the oh-so familiar lips.

“I like a good fight, catin. So keep it going,” Loki murmured in Dante’s voice. “I hope you’re telling the truth about others being on their way—especially the Elohim. I feel in a mood for a little chat with my brethren. But first, let’s learn all about you.”

Let me in, chere. Let me in.

Electricity surged through Heather’s mind, a mushroom cloud of devastating white light. Her shields blew apart, Tinker-toys caught in a nuclear wind, and darkness—eager and gleeful—rushed inside. She felt her body convulse, no longer under her control. She couldn’t even scream.

But she tried. Again and again.

45 FALLEN MAGIC

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” the Morningstar called from behind Lucien. “Dante is behind us.”