On Midnight Wings

40 NORTH STAR BATON ROUGE DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM

AS THE NIGHT BLED away, fading to gray as predawn stretched rosy fingers along the horizon, Heather slowed the Nissan to a stop, parking on the quiet, somewhat secluded street in front of a tall building—a quick count tallied eight stories—glowering with institutional grimness. The inward North Star pull she’d been feeling and following since Dallas now pulsed with an urgent, feverish intensity.

Hereherehereherehere . . .

Locking her fingers around the steering wheel in order to keep herself from just bolting from the car and dashing into God-knows-what, Heather forced herself to sit still and study the building and its surroundings. She knew her bond with Dante had guided her true when she read the sign posted in the modest green swath of lawn between the front doors.

Doucet-Bainbridge Sanitarium

Medical Research & Treatment

PRIVATE

Heather’s knuckles blanched white against the steering wheel. She had no doubt this was another FBI/SB run facility like the one in D.C., another circle of hell masquerading as psychological research for the public good.

And Dante was here.

Again, something deep inside her whispered and cold fingers closed around her heart. Heather tucked Cortini’s confiscated SIG Sauer into her jeans at the small of her back, then regarded her borrowed Glock and Taser.

Seems I have a regular arsenal, she mused. An arsenal I’m definitely going to need against a building full of security and who the hell knows how many random SB, maybe even FBI, agents, research techs, and medical staff.

Heather’s pulse drummed a little faster. Sweat dampened her palms. Despite the odds, she knew she wouldn’t wait. She would go inside and she would stop at nothing to bring Dante back out again. The trick would be managing to do so without triggering every alarm in the building or winding up as another involuntary resident in a padded room.

At least Dante’s Sleeping now—or soon will be. The bastards can’t hurt him while he’s Sleeping.

Can they?

She hoped the answer was no, but the cold knot in her belly suggested otherwise.

How the hell do you plan to carry him if you do find him? Into the morning light? Wrapped in what? You need to wait for nightfall.

Sighing, Heather trailed her fingers wearily through her hair. Exhaustion was nibbling away at the adrenaline that was keeping her on her feet. Siphoning her clarity of mind.

Hereherehereherehere . . .

The internal tether linking Heather to Dante continued to pull and tug and pulse. Dante’s presence burned at the back of her mind, blazed in her heart, a blue-white star.

She’d thought the bond-GPS would switch off once she’d found him, but maybe she needed to touch him before that could happen. Maybe she needed to make her way past the thorns and kiss his lips, a reversal of roles, the Princess breaking the spell enchanting the pale, black-haired Sleeping Beauty.

No waiting. She was going inside.

But first, I need to let the others know where I ended up.

When Annie answered her phone, Heather filled her in, wishing her sister was safe in New Orleans, not driving a van of Sleeping nightkind (and a pair of awake mortal males) to Memphis, but short of requesting that Jack and Thibodaux stuff her kicking and screaming onto a NOLA-bound Greyhound, Annie was in for the long haul.

But the alternative, Annie alone with her grief and her guilt, wasn’t an option either. Maybe finding Von and hauling his tattooed bacon out of the fire might help Annie focus, channel her frantic energy.

A pang cut Heather heart-deep. Von. Small comfort that Silver and Merri believed the nomad wasn’t in danger of losing his life, just his status as llygad.

They might kick him out. Maybe even wipe out his memory. I don’t think they’d execute him for being an oath breaker, but I don’t know that for sure. Llygaid are real fucking secretive, Red. Wish I knew more.

Red, huh? That’s new.

Yeah, well, obvious nicknames are better than none, right?