On Midnight Wings

Heather shook her head, throat too tight for speech. Doubt chiseled away at her certainty. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe her father had not only tracked her to Doucet-Bainbridge, but was about to make a confession that she badly wanted—needed—to hear.

Maybe. But not likely. James Wallace would’ve killed Dante the moment he spotted him Sleeping in the blood-splattered corridor. He never would’ve left him alive.

Loki had other plans.

“You’re not my father. So drop it.”

James Wallace slid his glasses back onto his nose and re-pocketed the handkerchief. “Ah. Looks like the proverbial jig is up. You’re a hard woman to fool.” He grinned. “But I so enjoy trying.”

“That makes one of us,” Heather muttered, pushing her hands through her hair. Her injured ankle throbbed and ached even though she was sitting; she doubted she’d be able to put much, if any, weight on it.

Some rescue this turned out to be.

Swiveling to face Dante, she leaned over and gently patted his cold cheek. She cast an anxious glance at his chest to make sure he was still breathing, before saying, “C’mon, Baptiste. Time to rise and shine.”

“He’s becoming,” Loki said in her father’s voice, his tone hushed, expectant. Excited. “He needs to keep Sleeping until his transformation is complete. His throne”—he patted one hand against the hideous flesh-chair he sat upon—“awaits him.”

Loki’s brass-knuckled words seemed to knock the air out of Heather’s lungs, left her struggling for breath.

The night burns, the sky on fire from horizon to horizon.

The never-ending Road.

The Great Destroyer.

One or both or neither.

“He’ll never sit there,” Heather scoffed, a quiet denial. As she looked at Dante’s pale face, the blood staining his lips, an idea presented itself. One she quickly buried. She glanced over her shoulder. A smug smile twisted Loki-as-James’s lips. “And you’re wrong. He’ll never be what you want him to be.”

Loki opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, his head tilting to one side. “Seems like we have a guest—a mortal one. How lovely. A gift for the creawdwr. He’ll be wanting to bathe in blood by the time he awakens.”

Heather felt a moment’s panic until she realized that there was no way it could be Annie, that she would’ve reached Memphis only a short time ago and couldn’t possibly be in Baton Rouge.

Loki rose to his feet, his form and voice rippling, shifting. “Given your condition and his”—he indicated Dante with a nod—“I expect you’ll stay right here while I’m gone. So be a good little guard dog and keep our creawdwr safe.”

Then he was gone, leaving the fading scent of Brut in his wake.

“Christ,” Heather muttered. “What an arrogant prick.”

Not knowing when he’d be back, she didn’t waste any time. She scanned the floor around her for anything sharp. She picked up the bone-pebble Loki had tossed at her, then dropped it in disappointment.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then her gaze landed on Dante’s hands with their black-painted nails. His sharp, sharp nails. The fact that they were caked in dried blood spoke volumes about their effectiveness. A muscle flexed in Heather’s jaw. No other choice. No time.

“Sorry, cher,” she whispered as she sliced a small cut into Dante’s wrist with a finger from his opposite hand. Crimson blood welled up on his white skin. Healing blood. A temporary link. Heather lowered her face to the wound and drank.

PURCELL CLIMBED THE STAIRS, his furious heart a drum guiding each careful step. They were all dead, near as he could tell. At least they were downstairs—agents, medics, patients—the air thick with the reek of thickening blood. Who knew what blood-drenched horrors awaited on the upper floors?

How many times did I fucking warn them? How many times did I urge them to kill the little fuck? How many goddamned times?

Question is: why the hell is he still here? What’s he waiting for?

But Purcell knew the answer to that question. S’s threat—no, a promise—spoken in a low, coiled voice sounded through his memory.

I’ll be coming for you too.

Looked like he’d simply decided to wait instead.

Another school of tiny blue fish, their jeweled scales glittering in the light from his helmet-cam, swam past him, also on their way up and just as happy as fucking punch.

And again, all Purcell could think was: Sure. Why not? The world’s clearly turned itself upside down. So why not have motherfucking air fish?

Reaching the second floor landing, Purcell revised Dion’s plan one more time—more of a reversion to the original, actually. Not to bash S’s sanity to bits, but to make him suffer—just on the off chance the son of a bitch felt something, anything for Heather Wallace.

He’d make sure S took his time killing her.

Then, when that was done, S would join her.

“We’ll see, yeah?” Low and amused, Cajun-spiced.

S was on Purcell before he could even swing his Glock up for a shot. His breath whoofed from his lungs as he was slammed up against the wall. The light from his helmet-cam hit the ceiling at a skewed angle. S pressed against him, all heated skin and taut muscle. Adrenaline raged through Purcell. His heart rate kicked into high, fight-or-flight gear. The words he needed to say to keep himself alive poured out of his mouth without conscious effort.

“Wake up, Rip Van Winkle. It’s time to quit sleeping and go to work. The Brothers Grimm have a job for you. Once it’s done, you can dream again.”

S pulled back, although his hands remained locked around Purcell’s biceps. He tilted his head, a curious light in his now-golden eyes. “Now, why did you think that would stop me from killing you?”

Fear iced Purcell’s spine. S’s programming should’ve been triggered. He should be standing still, an empty vessel awaiting instructions, not asking questions.

And his eyes—gold like S’s winged sugar daddy outside.

“Maybe you should drop the sugar and just make that daddy.”

Purcell stared at him feeling like he’d just taken a punch to the gut. Might be true, probably was, but that didn’t concern him at the moment. What did was the fact that S’s programming hadn’t responded to the words coded to awaken it.

“Rip Van Winkle,” he began through a mouth gone dry. “Wake up—”

S laughed. “Oh, I’m awake. But I can’t wait to find out why you thought fairy tale references would make me as docile as Mary’s little lamb.” Purcell broke into a cold sweat when S touched a taloned finger to his forehead, then said, “Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

Lightning strike.

Purcell screamed.

49 RACING THEIR FATES

“C’MON, BAPTISTE. ON . . . YOUR . . . feet!”

With his arm looped over her shoulders, Heather surged to her feet, grunting with effort, despite her blood- renewed strength, as she supported his Sleeping weight. She felt a slight twinge from her nearly healed ankle, but that was all.