On Midnight Wings

fall to the floor, the paper wrapper holding the broken halves together.

Bad-guy handcuffs for the angel who’d reeled her in like a lost kite from among the blazing stars when she’d floated away from her body.

Mommy turns on the TV in the motel in Oregon—the motel with the picture of a winking beaver chewing on a twig, outlined in glowing color—and is searching for the Cartoon Network when Violet hears firecrackers pop-pop-popping outside in the parking lot. Hears the sound of breaking glass. Then her mommy’s scream, jagged and raw.

“My baby!”

Violet tries to tell Mommy that she’s okay, but she can’t. She just drifts up and away, leaving her body, with its wide, staring eyes and the new dark and bleeding hole above them; leaving behind her wailing mother, and wishing she could stay.

Then Dante catches her.

“Don’t kick him!” Violet raced across the room, her paper wings rustling at her back. Crouching beside Dante, she glared up at the orderlies. “Stop being so mean! Mr. Purcell and the doctors promised that they’d make him happy, promised that they’d take care—”

“Hush, sweetie, don’t you worry none,” one orderly, a man with curly brown hair and a name tag reading Joe, said. “He’s tough. He can take it, trust me.”

“It’s still mean,” Violet insisted. “And he isn’t even awake.”

“Not yet, but he will be soon,” the other orderly—blond ponytail and a name tag that read Tyler—said. His eyes darted toward the thick, heavy door like he wished he stood on the other side. “Almost sunset.”

Violet nodded. “He’s a nighttime angel.”

She’d never actually seen his wings, but she knew deep down that they were there because she’d caught a glimpse of them—like black shadows outlined in Fire Engine Red at his back and arching above his head—when he’d lassoed her down from the sky and tucked her back into the body he’d held in his arms.

She’d known that it was her body, even though it was different now, her black hair, golden skin, and jade green eyes (a color her mommy always said she loved) angel-magicked into red hair, freckles, and blue eyes.

“Wake up, princess,” Dante had whispered.

Blood had streaked the skin beneath his nose that night too.

And his hands had glowed with pretty blue fire.

Joe and Tyler exchanged a look, one bristling with secrets—grown-up secrets—then Tyler swallowed hard and looked away. “Do it already and let’s get out of here.”

Kneeling on the concrete floor, Joe jabbed a needle full of red stuff into Dante’s shoulder. He pushed the plungie thing until the needle was empty, then jumped to his feet. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

“Was that medicine?” Violet asked hopefully, her gaze still on her angel.

“Sure. Why not?” Joe’s voice sounded like a shrug.

“Will it make him better?” She touched one of Dante’s hands. His skin felt like ice beneath her fingers, nothing like the heat she remembered, his arms embracing her tight. Ice, when he should be fire. When he suddenly shivered as though he was lying in a snowbank without a coat or mittens instead of on a concrete floor, before going still again, she wasn’t surprised. Unhappy, but not surprised. “He’s cold. He needs a blanket.”

“A stake through the heart more like,” Joe muttered under his breath. “Shit. I didn’t sign up for this—locking little girls into rooms with starving bloodsuckers. It isn’t right.”

Violet looked up, frowning, trying to puzzle out the meaning of Joe’s words and the reason why he sounded so nervous. The orderly’s gaze was on Dante. She remembered the flash of fangs she’d seen when her angel had smiled at her just the day before when she’d finally been allowed to see him. But only for a little bit since he was so sick.

Hungry, Dante’d whispered.

I didn’t know angels had pointy teeth.

Ain’t no angel, chere. I’m nightkind, he’d replied. Then, rubbing his forehead, face pained, he’d added, I think.

His low voice had made Violet think of sweet tea and couche-couche and the grizzled man in the baseball cap at the alligator tour place from the trip she and her mommy had gone on last year. Cajun, Mommy had said.

Do you bite? she’d asked Dante out of curiosity, touching a sharp fang tip.

Yup. All the time. A smile had slanted across his lips. That I do know.

Will you bite me?

His smile had vanished and his voice had turned fierce. Never, princess. Jamais. I’d never bite you. That I know too.

She’d believed him. But Violet had a feeling he might bite the orderlies.

The gleaming hook captured her gaze again and the moths in her tummy turned to pebbles. “Is that for him? In case he bites?” She forced herself to look away, to look at the orderlies instead, but their blank faces didn’t make her feel any better. “But what if he promises not to bite? What if he promises to be good?”

Joe shook his head. “It’s not right, leaving her in here with him.”

“Shut the hell up,” Tyler growled. He tossed a look at the camera poking out from a corner in the ceiling. “You trying to get us fired? Or worse?”

“Let me add another choice to those options, gentlemen,” someone drawled. Violet looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Purcell standing in the threshold—the man who had brought her here while her mommy got better at the underground hospital.

So she can rest and get well and so you can spend time with your . . . angel . . . while she does. Pretty soon, you’ll all go home.

His words had been smooth and slick and full of poisoned-apple smiles.

Just like now. A shiver creepy-crawled down Violet’s spine.

He’s a bad man, her little voice warned.

Bad enough to hurt angels?

Bad enough to kill angels.

“Tell me what you think,” Mr. Purcell continued, “I leave you in the room to keep our little Violet company. You could even color while you wait for her angel”—his lips puckered as though the word angel tasted as sour as a pickle—“to awaken. I’m sure Violet would be happy to share her crayons. How does that option grab you?”

Shaking his head, Tyler hurried from the room and past Mr. Purcell without a backward glance. Mr. Purcell smiled.

“You don’t need to be scared of Dante,” Violet insisted, looking at Joe. “He’s not mean. And I’ll share my crayons if you want to stay and see.”

Mr. Purcell chuckled. “Helluva offer. Do you want to stay and see, Joe?”

A muscle bunched in Joe’s jaw, then he glanced away, his face looking like he had a tummyache. “Sorry, kid,” he whispered, his shoulders slumping. “Keep as far away from him as you can. Keep yourself out of reach and—”

“Joe,” Mr. Purcell said. Just the one word, and almost a whisper. A whisper once more full of poisoned apples and thick thorns. Then, just as quietly, “Give her the key.”

The orderly’s face turned white. The smell of sweat wafted into the air. He pulled a key from his pants pocket and handed it to Violet. Swallowing hard, he left the room without another word.

Violet studied the key the orderly had given her. Little and light, it looked like a toy key. She looked at the bad-guy handcuffs gleaming around Dante’s wrists. “Is it for those?” she asked.

“I knew you’d figure it out,” Mr. Purcell said. He reached for the big, thick door’s metal latch and started to pull it shut. “He’ll be awake soon, so you won’t be lonely for long.”

“Okay,” Violet said, “but he needs a doctor.” She brushed Dante’s hair back from his pale cheek. Blood glistened beneath his nose, on his lips. “He’s still hurt. See?”

“He’ll be fine,” Mr. Purcell said, his gaze flicking to the hook above. “Trust me. The only thing that’ll happen