On Midnight Wings Read online

  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.

  ��mon, doll. Talk to me.>

  All he heard/felt was drug-thick static. But that didn’t stop him. He could be one stubborn motherfucker too, especially when it came to family—and whether Heather knew it or not, she was definitely that.

  So was Dante. Maybe they hadn’t been born brothers, but they were brothers under the skin, their fates tied together. Von had known that inexplicable truth the moment he’d first seen Dante standing onstage with his band in a smoky N’awlins dive. And Von had made himself a promise that night.

  Wherever his path takes him, he ain’t gonna be walking it alone. I’ll be right beside him. Each step of the way. I’ll always have his back.

  Really? Sure about that?

  Right now Dante was very much alone, his back unguarded.

  Jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, Von leaned forward in his chair, elbows to knees, and rested his head in his hands. Drawing in a deep breath, he reached for Heather again.

 

  Only static.

  Von kept at it.

  When he felt Silver awaken through their link, felt his confusion at his unexpected whereabouts, he realized that the sun had slipped beneath the horizon. He shifted his focus from Heather to Dante, hoping against hope that his friend had awakened as well.

 

  But once again, his sending bounced back from the barricade of resin, drugs, and pain that still surrounded Dante’s mind, leaving him unable to determine if Dante was conscious or not. But gut instinct whispered, He’s out cold, poison racing through his veins, pulsing through his heart; a whisper that left him cold.

  Knowing he needed to get back to Heather before time ran out, Von reluctantly withdrew from his link with Dante, but not before arrowing a message at the barricade:

  Drawing in another deep breath, Von caught a whiff of cinnamon and dried blood and knew that Silver had walked into the kitchen even before he heard his voice, low and tense, asking Lucien what the hell had happened. Heard Silver’s breath catch rough in his throat as the fallen angel answered him mind to mind.

  “Jesus Christ,” Silver whispered.

  “It’s my fault.” Annie’s small and desolate voice disrupted Von’s concentration. “I never should’ve fucking called Dad. I just wanted to rub his face in it . . . I wish I’d killed the bastard when I stabbed him in the throat with that goddamned dart.”

  So do I, Von thought, tuning everyone out and focusing every bit of attention on the fading link and the red-haired woman at the other end. As the hours unwound, he realized that Sleep might claim him before he could make contact with Heather. If that happened, the link would be well and truly gone by the time he woke up again.

  He couldn’t let that happen. He redoubled his efforts, feeling the cold prickle of sweat along his scalp. He didn’t know how much time had passed when he caught a fragrant whiff of cloves and spice and rich tobacco. He felt a cool-fingered touch on his arm. Opening his eyes, Von looked up into long-lashed velvet brown eyes—a detective’s penetrating gaze.

  Thibodaux’s nightkind partner, Merri Goodnight.

  She wore black slacks and a white blouse beneath a black suede jacket and stood a slim but curvy five-foot-nothing. Apparently someone—Thibodaux and Jack, most likely—had left the house at some point to pick her up at the French Quarter hotel where the two former SB agents were staying.

  “Llygad.” Merri Goodnight’s face, espresso-dark and ageless and framed by sleek black hair, was respectful as she eyed him curiously, her gaze sliding over the tattoos on his arms. “Never met a nomad llygad before.”

  “Now you have,” Von growled, not even bothering to keep the irritation from his voice. “So be sure to note the occasion in your diary with a smiley face and a kiss. I’m a little busy here, darlin’. What the hell do you want?”

  Looking completely unfazed by his surliness, she replied, “To help you keep busy. It’ll be dawn in a few hours, but I have a way to keep you from Sleeping.” She offered him a small purple pill. “A stay-awake,” she informed him. “Created for vamp agents in law enforcement divisions.”

  “How well does it work?” Von asked, studying the pill pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Perfectly. You’ll be awake all day. But there’re consequences.”

  “Ain’t there always?” Von plucked the pill from her grasp, tossed it into his mouth, and washed it down with a warm swallow of a beer someone had kindly left idling on the table.

  Merri folded her arms over her chest, then slung her weight onto one rounded hip. She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you even want to know what those consequences are?”

  Von shrugged. “Not really. I’ll take my chances. You’ve used them, right? And you’re still upright and breathing. That’s good enough for me, darlin’.”

  “I hope you remember that when you’re twitching on the floor.”

  “If I don’t, I trust you to remind me,” Von drawled. Merri’s quick smile told him that he’d pegged the situation right—she would rub his face in those repudiated consequences for all she was worth.

  “Not to be rude, but . . .” Von closed his eyes again and directed his attention inward. A moment later he heard the soft whisper of suede, the deliberate tap of boot heels against oak as Merri turned and walked away.

  “By the way, Emmett isn’t the only one who’s sorry to have missed that wet boxers contest, Mr. Champion,” she purred, her voice all silk and amusement, as she walked out of the kitchen.

  “Holy hell,” Von muttered.

  Jack was going to eat the goddamned shirt, one tiny gator at a time.

  With Merri’s scent still spicing the air, Von returned his focus to Heather.

  Minutes multiplied into hours. And, for the first time since he’d been turned, Von was awake to witness the sunrise he’d willingly sacrificed forty years ago. Or could’ve, if he’d opened his eyes, hauled his ass out of the chair, and twitched the curtain aside for a peek.

  But he didn’t.

  Dawn came and went unlamented, then noon slipped past. The strength of his link to Heather was beginning to thin and weaken, when the static suddenly dissipated like smoke in the rain.

  And Heather reached back.

  4

  POISONED APPLES

  BATON ROUGE

  DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM

  MARCH 31

  THEY DUMPED HER BLACK-HAIRED angel on the concrete floor, as if he were a piece of curbside junk, a banged-up gift for the donation truck. Dumped him right underneath the big metal hook hanging like a sharp and scary question mark from the ceiling of chalk-white squares.

  Meat hook, the little voice in Violet’s tummy had told her when the smiling orderlies in their white ice-cream-man uniforms had ushered her—black paper wings taped (after a bunch of pretty-pretty-pleases) to the back of her Winnie-the-Pooh sweater—into the empty room with its soft padded walls.

  “Go ahead and color, sweetie. We’ll be back in just a little bit.”

  Violet had stared at the hook, her fingers clenched around the box of crayons in her hand, her gaze fluttering like a hummingbird along the glittering curve of metal.

  What’s it for? she’d asked uneasily, her tummy suddenly full of fluttering moths.

  But her little voice had become silent.

  Violet was busy coloring the pictures she’d drawn on the soft padded wall when the orderlies had come back, minus smiles and nice words this time as they dumped Dante onto the cold floor.

  He hit the concrete with a soft thud, his long black hair fanning across his snow-white face, hiding his closed eyes and the faint blue smudges beneath them. He almost looked like he was sleeping. But Violet knew better. The metallic smell of pennies folded into the air as blood trickled from his nose. From his ears. Smeared his lips. Again.

  Violet sucked in a breath. “I think he needs to go back to th
e doctor. He’s still hurt. His owies are still bleeding.” She couldn’t believe she needed to point that out. They were grown-ups. Couldn’t they see the blood glistening on his white skin?

  Yes, the little voice in her tummy said. They could and they do.

  Then why don’t they help him?

  They aren’t supposed to. But someone else can.

  “Me,” Violet whispered. “That’s why I’m wearing wings.”

  One of the orderlies kicked Dante from his side and onto his tummy, revealing the pale, pale hands twisted behind him at the small of his back. Metal gleamed around his wrists.

  Bad-guy handcuffs. For her angel.

  Violet felt the crayon she was holding—Fire Engine Red—snap in two against her palm. She let the crayon 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.”