On Midnight Wings

From the moment Renata had first carried Caterina into their home, the toddler’s chubby arms wrapped around her graceful neck—Look, Vanni mio, we have been given a gift—he’d quickly grown to understand Caterina’s mind, comprehending how she thought and dreamed and schemed, this little mortal, our little mortal, dancing among vampires.

She’d been an annoying nuisance, at first, sì, one he’d resented—no denying it. But over time, and almost without his knowing when or how, Caterina had transformed from nuisance to family, his soeur de coeur—a true sister of the heart.

And whoever had tampered with her had damaged her, perhaps permanently.

Giovanni’s jaw tightened, his gaze never wavering from his sister’s pale, vulnerable face.

“Qualcuno pagherà, Caterina mia,” he vowed. “Qualcuno pagherà a cara prezzo.”

Someone would most definitely pay.

Questions remained: Who? Why? Could the damage be healed, the tampering undone? He wished he could contact Renata, but given that it was early afternoon in Rome, his mère de sang still Slept, safe and secure behind cool marble walls.

Sleep surged through his veins, narcotic and inescapable. His eyelids drooped. A hand lightly touched his arm.

“This way, signor,” Sondra urged, slacks whispering as she stepped into the doorway.

Giovanni allowed the redhead with a matronly shelf of bosom to lead him to the room next to Caterina’s, then thanked her for her hospitality. Once she’d left the room, shutting the door behind her, he stripped down to his boxer briefs before collapsing drunkenly onto the pale rose silk sheets.

He sank into the fathomless waters of Sleep like an iceberg-gouged ship, chased into the dark by a single, chilling thought: Where had Loki flown off to in such a rush?

THE FRENCH QUARTER

IN A SMALL POWER boat on the Mississippi, Edmond gently swaddled his master’s burned body in fresh water-soaked blankets, covering him from now-bald head to blackened and curled toes.

Swallowing hard against the meaty stench of seared flesh, Edmond sat down beside Mauvais, then uttered one terse word: “Go.”

Phaedra opened the throttle and steered the boat away from the flame-engulfed Winter Rose. With a hollow heart, Edmond watched as the fire department geysered water on the blazing riverboat from several high-powered hoses.

With a sharp, splintering crack that boomed into the night like ancient cannon fire, the Winter Rose snapped in half. One half, still burning, slipped—foot by foot—into the inky waters. Distant voices shouted. Blue and red and white lights strobed through the graying night.

The majordomo blinked stinging eyes. The smoke, of course. The gritty ashes.

He didn’t know how the fire had started—not for certain, but given its swiftness, the reek of kerosene, and the death of the apprenti he’d left in charge of refueling and relighting the lanterns, he believed an accident with one of the lanterns must’ve occurred.

But hadn’t he also caught a faint whiff of ozone as he’d pelted up from belowdecks at his master’s agonized screams?

You got an angry loa on dis here boat . . .

Edmond had no idea how long it would take his master to heal from his devastating injuries or how much blood would be required during the process, but Mauvais would have all he needed and more.

The Winter Rose may be gone, but the majority of my master’s household has survived the fire. At least I can give him that good news.

Pale tendrils of peach and hyacinth curled across the brightening horizon. Gaze still on the burning, foundering Winter Rose, Edmond said, “Faster.”

“No shit,” Phaedra muttered, pushing the speedboat as hard as it could go.

Racing the dawn.

DALLAS, TEXAS

JAMES WALLACE WATCHED AS the big rig and its friendly driver pulled away from the curb with a deep, concrete-vibrating rumble, exhaust belching black smoke stinking of scorched oil into the air.

The driver had talked nonstop all the way into Dallas, but James had thought the one-sided conversation a very small price to pay, considering he could still be standing on the highway with his thumb out.

Once the truck had merged—more like bulldozed—into traffic, disappearing from sight, James turned around and studied the building across the sidewalk from him, his requested stop.

VISION CONSULTING

International Accounting & Financial Planning

James had no doubt that talented accountants did indeed work at Vision Consulting. An effective front needed to be a functioning one. But, thanks to interagency contacts carefully cultivated throughout his long career with the FBI, he knew Vision Consulting for what it truly was—a hidden division of the Shadow Branch.