On Midnight Wings Page 3

  Three: he’d better keep his fingers crossed and wish with everything he had that whatever she’d been doped with would wear off before their blood link unraveled.

  Grabbing the neatly folded olive-green T-shirt from the bureau, Von tugged it on, then went over to the bed to check on Silver before leaving to join the others. Dried blood darkened the right side of his midnight purple hair—thanks to goddamned James Wallace. Bastard would pay. And not just for Silver.

  I’ve come for you, pumpkin.

  He won’t be getting up again, not with those bullets inside of him.

  Hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, Von left the bedroom. When he stalked into the darkened kitchen with its blanket draped windows, AWOL Shadow Branch agent Emmett Thibodaux—long, lean, and looking like a young, ginger-haired Clint Eastwood—took one look at Von’s chest, then quirked up an amused eyebrow.

  “Sorry I missed that,” Thibodaux drawled, folding his arms along the back of the chair he straddled. His assessing blue-iris gaze grew thoughtful. “Real damned sorry.”

  Frowning, Von looked down at the borrowed T-shirt, then groaned. It read GATOR FEST WET BOXERS CONTEST CHAMPION, each letter shaped out of tiny green and brown gators. He aimed a glare at an innocent-looking Jack. “Cajun smart-ass,” he muttered. “Or maybe Cajun clairvoyant, given the title and all.”

  The drummer grinned. “More like Cajun delusional, given the title and all.”

  “I second that,” Lucien put in. He leaned against the counter in front of the sink, expression neutral, pretending to be relaxed, despite the tension cording nearly every muscle on his six-eight frame.

  “Sad how the truth can be too much for some people,” Von offered with a long-suffering shake of his head.

  Thibodaux made a sound that was halfway between a snort and a cough, then got up and went to the refrigerator for a beer. Von watched him closely as he returned to his chair, a frosty bottle of Dixie in hand. He caught a whiff of the man’s scent—fresh ice and anise, sharp and cool—which mingled uneasily with the faint odor of smoke and acrid chemicals clinging to his clothes.

  Fire extinguisher, I’m betting. Lucien said Thibodaux helped him put out the blaze at the club.

  So throw confetti and pin a medal on the fucker. Didn’t mean he could be trusted.

  “We know James Wallace took Heather,” Von said quietly, sauntering over to the table to stand opposite Thibodaux. He folded his arms over his gator-afflicted chest. “But who the hell grabbed Dante? I find it damned curious that all this shit went down right after you and your partner showed up bearing gifts for Dante.”

  Yeah, a Pandora’s flash drive of a gift, one that should probably be left unopened—Dante’s past from the moment he’d been born into Bad Seed.

  Thibodaux set the condensation-dewed beer bottle down carefully on the Formica table, then met Von’s gaze, his own wary. “Bad timing. Me and Merri had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Lucien said. “I had the same concerns, so the first thing I did when I arrived here was scan his mind. Thoroughly. He’s clean, llygad—no deception, no hidden agenda. That’s not to say that the SB wasn’t behind Dante’s abduction—just that Thibodaux and his partner had nothing to do with it.”

  Thibodaux’s expression tightened, chiseling his features into razor-sharp angles, hard planes, and narrowed blue eyes. “The bastards wiped my memory of everything I’d learned about Baptiste and Bad Seed for a reason. Could be they’re planning to use him again, trigger his programming and have him waste another FBI agent like they did in Seattle.”

  “And want to keep him invisible,” Von growled. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “If they took him,” Lucien pointed out in a deep rumble.

  “If,” Thibodaux agreed. Lifting the beer bottle, he tipped it against his lips, took a long swallow.

  “We’ll sort out the who and why after we find him,” Von said. He abandoned the table to join Lucien in front of the sink. “You got the bullets?”

  Lucien answered him by unfolding his arms from his bare chest, extending one hand, and uncurling the taloned fingers. Cradled in his cupped palm were two bits of skull-mangled brass.

  Picking up the bullets, Von took a quick sniff, even though he didn’t need to. He’d caught and recognized the woody, amberish scent the moment Lucien had opened his hand. His stomach sank—hell, it cannonballed—into uncharted depths.

  No True Blood can survive that . . .

  Von closed his eyes, then tried to reach Dante through their link. His heart constricted painfully when he felt the low and erratic pulse of Dante’s poisoned life force. At least he was still alive, but his continued survival was definitely in question.

 

  But Von’s sending hit a barrier surrounding Dante’s mind—a barrier composed of poison, pain, and drug static—then bounced away, unheard. His breath hissed out in renewed frustration between his teeth. He opened his eyes.

  “What did Wallace use?” Lucien demanded, dark brows slanted into a deep V. “What did he put in those bullets?”

  “Something very few know about,” Von replied. His hand knuckled shut around the bullets, squeezing them into his palm. “Resin from a dragon’s blood tree.”

  “Tree resin?” Thibodaux questioned incredulously. “That’s all it takes to put down a fucking powerful born vamp? Sap?”

  “Sap,” Von confirmed. “The resin from a dragon’s blood tree is medicinal for mortals, but fatal to True Bloods. Nature’s way of balancing shit out by giving born immortals an Achilles’ heel, I guess.” He scowled. “Goddamned nature.”

  Jack’s breath caught. “Fatal?”

  “Yeah, and with as many times as that bastard shot Dante, he should’ve been dead by now. The only reason he’s still alive is because of you.” Von nodded at Lucien, saw comprehension and relief flash in his eyes. “Because of his Fallen bloodline. But I don’t know if or how long it’s gonna keep him that way. This is uncharted territory.”

  “What does he need?” Lucien asked.

  “That’s the problem—I don’t know what he needs. No one does.” Raking a hand through his hair in frustration, Von fingered apart blood-matted locks, welcoming the distracting pull of pain at his scalp. “Any other True Blood would already be dead.”

  Gold light flared in Lucien’s eyes, gleaming like stars in the gloom. “Good thing, then, that he’s not any other True Blood.”

  “Doesn’t hurt that he’s also one tough, stubborn-ass sonuvabitch,” Von said. “That’s another good thing. Damned good.” He returned to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He tossed the crumpled bits of brass onto the table. “We’re gonna find him and his equally stubborn-ass woman, bring them both home.”

  “Yes, we will,” Lucien rumbled. “And the sooner, the better. I trust you’re ready to resume your attempts to contact Heather?”

  Von shook his head. “No, I’m ready to succeed in contacting Heather, not attempt to succeed. But first . . .” Reaching across the table, he grabbed up Thibodaux’s bottle of Dixie and, giving the man a quick thanks-for-your-generous-donation wink, poured the remainder of the cold, hopsy brew down his throat.

  “Please, by all means, take mine,” Thibodaux drawled, amusement glinting in his eyes. “It’s a helluva long way to the fridge and back, after all. Would probably take at least four whole seconds. Maybe even five. Who’s got that kind of time or energy?”

  Von thumped the empty down onto the table, then belched. “Exactly. Y’know, I think I’m starting to like you.”

  Thibodaux lifted one ginger eyebrow. “As a person or as lunch?”

  Von shrugged. “Don’t wanna spoil the mystery. Thanks for the beer, man.”

  Shrugging, the former SB agent started reassembling his just-cleaned gun, his long-fingered hands moving with a deft and practiced ease. “Eh. You’re welcome.”

  Von closed his eyes, then reached out to Heather again.