On Midnight Wings

Crouching down, Heather kept an eye on the newcomer, a man wearing what looked like scrubs, as he parked the Lexus in an empty slot.

Looks like I was wrong about that shift change.

The man climbed out of the Lexus and Heather saw that she was right about the scrubs—his were mint-green, the short sleeves revealing forearms thick with black hair. He locked the car with a tap of his smart key, then started across the parking lot. He stopped abruptly, frowning, his gaze on the sanitarium. He stared, his expression shifting from a puzzled frown to a blank slate. All expression vanished from his face. Swiveling around, he returned to his car in quick strides, unlocked it, slid inside, and drove off.

The hair prickled on the back of Heather’s neck. What the hell was that?

Heather watched as another car glided into the lot—a standard black government-issue SUV this time, driven by a man in a black suit—and the same exact events unfolded. Park, head across parking lot, freeze, go blank, then turn and leave.

Another car, then another, as staff members and agents pulled into the lot, then left again after gazing at the Fallen-marked building.

Why not me? Heather rose from her crouch. She regarded the building for a long moment, knowing a Fallen spell had to be the reason for the day shift’s about-face, but why hadn’t it affected her too?

Whatever the reason, maybe the caster wouldn’t be expecting anyone to saunter past the spell, and had his or her guard down. Heather could only hope.

Adrenaline flooding her system, she finished her slow-motion race across the parking lot and trotted up the long concrete steps to the entrance.

41 UNCOILING FROM THE ASHES

THE VOICE, LOW AND urgent and as familiar as his own, encircled Dante’s awareness like a fisherman’s net and hoisted him up from the whispering depths and his haunted dreams, a gathering of the lost—Simone, Gina, Jay. Their bodies like ice, their hearts dead and empty.

He looked back as he ascended and saw their upturned faces, moon pale and expressionless, disappear one by one into the darkness like stones beneath black water. Grief coiled around his heart.

I’m so cold, sugar, Gina called, her words like knives, each one piercing deeper than the one before. I need you to make it right. Make them pay so I can be warm again. Torch the goddamned world, sugar. Make it burn for me.

Simone nodded as her face winked from Dante’s sight. Make the world burn, mon cher ami, mon ange, and set me free.

Set things to rights, cher, Jay urged, sinking into those black waters still clad in his blood-soaked straitjacket. Make them pay in blood and fire.

“They’ll burn,” Dante promised in a rough whisper.

“What was that, little brother?”

Dante opened his eyes to a red-lit gloom. The overheads were out and emergency lights had winked on, giving the silent corridor an apocalyptic feel. He blinked. Someone leaned over him, someone with nut-brown hair tied back in a ponytail, someone who smelled of leather and gun oil and frost.

Someone whose voice hadn’t been a dream.

“Von . . .”

Or Papa in a Von-suit. Fucker won’t stay dead, remember?

“Right here, man.”

Dante forced himself up onto his elbows—or tried to, anyway. The seizure had left him drained, every muscle wrung dry despite all the blood—gallons and gallons, fucking buckets—he and/or S had sucked down. He felt hollowed out, like he had nothing left. He fell back onto the tiled floor, bathed in a cold sweat. Black pinpricks poked holes in his vision. He swallowed hard.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “More fucking awesomeness.”

“Here. Hold on.” Leather creaked as an arm slipped around Dante’s shoulders and gently helped ease him into a sitting position. “Better?”

“Yeah. Merci, beaucoup.” Blinking away more black pinpricks, Dante found himself looking into Von’s gleaming green eyes and felt an intense surge of relief. Something flickered at the back of his memory—a tall, winged figure. “Is Lucien here too? I thought . . .”

“Nah, just me, man.”

Dante reached up and cupped Von’s face between hands that seemed a little less than steady, dammit—be honest, a lot less—and pulled him in for a quick, grateful kiss. “Fuck, am I happy to see you, mon ami,” he said, releasing him. “Did you find Heather too? How the hell did you find—”

Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson.

Reality began to wheel. The corridor started to drop away. Dante squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated with everything he had on remaining in the here-and-now, fought to grab onto it with both hands. But the here-and-now was fucking slippery as hell.