On Midnight Wings

will be history repeating itself.”

The door swung shut with a heavy thunk before Violet could insist on the doctor again. Red lights lit up on the little panel beside the door. LOCKED.

Her angel shivered on the cold concrete floor for a moment, then lay still again. She had a feeling the orderlies wouldn’t be coming back with a blanket. Feeling the weight of the hook hanging above her, above her sleeping angel, Violet unlocked the handcuffs with the little silver key. Pulled them free from around his wrists and placed them on the floor. The skin of his wrists looked rubbed raw, bruised.

She thought about the lies—just little white ones, sweetie—Mr. Purcell had instructed her to tell Dante to make him happy. Answer to the name Chloe. Call him Dante-angel and let him believe he gifted you with that Winnie-the-Pooh sweater. Poisoned apples.

Why? Why are they hurting him? Why are they asking me to hurt him too? They promised to take care of him. Don’t they know he saved me from Heaven?

Maybe that’s what scares them, her little voice suggested.

“Then they’re being stupid,” Violet muttered, but not disagreeing, not really.

She grabbed Dante’s shoulder and, grunting, pulled him over onto his back. He smelled of Halloween underneath all the blood and he was wearing clothes like the ones she’d first seen him in—leather rock-star pants, a black T-shirt, but without the sleeves with all the little holes this time, and boots with lots of buckles. And, just like before, a collar was strapped around his throat, a black collar with a steel hoop.

He looked like he belonged in the Underworld movies her mommy had Netflixed and Violet had watched in secret, hidden behind the couch, when she was supposed to be in bed. And those movies had been full of scary stuff, dark stuff, dangerous stuff.

The hook in the ceiling told Violet that Mr. Purcell’s promises, every word from his mouth, were only juicy, red poisoned lies. Told her that scary, dark, and dangerous stuff was on its way, scampering on fast little spider legs. And her angel needed to be awake so he could face it. So he wouldn’t have to take another kick in the ribs that he couldn’t even roll away from.

Paper wings rustling behind her, Violet patted Dante’s cold cheek and, calling his name, urged him up from his dreams. Relief spread through her tummy like hot cocoa when Dante drew in a deep breath.

Her nighttime angel was waking up.

5 TRUE NORTH DALLAS, TEXAS THE STRICKLAND DEPROGRAMMING INSTITUTE

“YOU NEVER REALIZE THAT you’re under the influence until you no longer are, but I’m finally thinking clearly—I mean crystal, y’know?—for the first time since I met . . . him.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe the difference.”

Pacing the sand-colored carpet in her slippers, Heather Wallace was busy lying through her teeth, lying for all she was worth, an Oscar-caliber, rose bouquet–throwing, standing-ovation performance—or so she hoped, since she desperately wanted to remain free of sedatives and restraints—when an unexpected mental touch put an abrupt stop to her flow of words. Halted her in her tracks.

Llygad. Nightkind. Nomad. Friend.

Heather’s breath caught in her throat as Von’s image suddenly flooded her mind, saturating her senses with his masculine scent—old leather, frost, and gun oil—warm and reassuring. His sending, pearled with intense relief, threaded like silk through her mind.

<Damn, woman. There you are. You okay, doll? >

<I sure as hell am now, road rider. But hold on, all right? I’m not alone.>

<Ain’t going nowhere.>

Boneless with relief of her own, Heather plopped down on the edge of the brown leather sofa, the cushions creaking beneath her. She exhaled, then carefully drew in another breath, in an attempt to calm her racing heart.

Von had caught her completely off-guard—but in one helluva good way.

Between the thick cotton fog of the drugs IV-fed into her veins and the ferocious tsunami of awakening emotions once the drugs had been stopped—a white-knuckled fury at the man she would never call her father again, and a deep, icy fear for Dante—Heather hadn’t realized that her blood link with Von was still intact. Had believed it long gone.

“Heather? You seem very distant. Are you all right?”

Looking up, she met the gaze of the dark-haired therapist—Allan Wade, but please call me Allan—sitting across from her in a polished mahogany leather chair. Dressed casually in white shirt, sage-green tie, and khaki trousers, he studied her, head tilted slightly to one side.

“You look pale,” he added, frowning. “Are you feeling ill?”

“A little nauseous,” she said in a low, reluctant voice as though he were forcing the admission from her. She allowed her fingers to pluck at her hideous peach chenille bathrobe. “I think I’d like to go back to my room and lie down. This has all been so . . .” She paused as though searching for a word.

“Overwhelming?” Allan suggested.

“Exactly. Overwhelming.”

Allan rested his notepad and pen on the small end table beside his chair, then leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “How do you feel about your father’s decision to bring you here?” He regarded her with a penetrating walnut-brown gaze. Analyzing every word, every hesitation, every glance and gesture.

Heather wondered just how strong, how accurate, his bullshit meter ran.

“One problem at a time,” she replied, meeting that gaze with steel of her own. “You’re touching on an issue that goes way back.”

“All right, then,” Allan agreed easily. “We’ll come back to that at another session. For now, let’s get you back to your room so you can rest.” He rose from his chair and Heather caught a strong citrusy whiff of his too liberally applied cologne. “Those sedatives can really take it out of a person.”

Heather stood as well. “I don’t think I need any more sedatives,” she said. “I might not be happy with my dad, but I understand now that I need to be here.”

“You are much calmer and more clear than you were last night. Less volatile. I think we can forgo them for now.”

Relief surged through Heather, weakening her knees with its intensity. “Thanks,” she said, then added a heartfelt lie. “You won’t regret it.”

“No, I won’t,” Allan said quietly. “But you will if you abuse my trust.”

“Don’t worry,” Heather replied as he walked her across the room to the door. “I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid restraints and drugs.” Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the carpet from the two steel-meshed windows behind them, gleamed from the door’s bronzed lever.

It hit her then. Daylight.

Daylight and Von should be Sleeping. De Noir must’ve pulled the nomad up from Sleep like he had with Dante the morning she’d served her search warrant—weeks ago.

A lifetime ago.

“Get some rest,” Allan said, pulling open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Not if I can help it. But Heather kept that thought to herself and gave Allan a quick smile instead, then stepped into the hall, where her assigned security escort, a trim blonde in a charcoal-gray suit with a name tag reading Riggins, waited for her.

Riggins started walking in a long-legged, easy stride and Heather fell into step beside her, slippers soundless against the plush carpet, eager to get back to her room and resume her conversation with Von.