On Midnight Wings

He let out his breath in a low, frustrated exhalation. No point in sending another text. He would simply have to wait for Caterina to make contact. Slipping his cell phone back into his trouser pocket, Teodoro stepped from the elevator and headed down the corridor, the sharp smell of antiseptic prickling his nostrils.

Aside from Caterina’s extended silence, things had been going very well. Seraphina had convinced the rest of the Oversight Committee not to bring Dante Baptiste in until the majority of the attention generated by his unexpected and unprecedented announcement had faded. The young True Blood was too hot to grab.

A smile flickered across Teodoro’s lips.

By the time they realized Dante was no longer at his club in New Orleans, Heather Wallace would be dead, their bond severed, and Dante’s sanity shattered. At that point, it wouldn’t be Dante Baptiste they needed to deal with, but the Great Destroyer.

“Back so soon?”

The cheerful voice startled Teodoro from his dark reflections.

A nurse in lavender scrubs, her shining chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail, was standing on the threshold of room 416, a clipboard in her hand and a smile on her lips. Her name tag declared her to be Robin Graham LPN.

Slowing to a stop, Teodoro returned Robin’s courteous smile. “I just wanted to look in on Violet before I clocked out for a nap.”

Robin stepped out of the doorway and into the corridor. “She’s finally asleep and”—she arched one warning eyebrow—“I hope to keep her that way. She’s been shuttled back and forth like a suitcase, poor little thing.”

“I’ll whisper my wishes for sweet dreams.”

“See that you do,” Robin said, softening her words with a quick smile. She walked away, headed for the nurses’ station, her shoes squeaking against the floor.

Once she was gone, Teodoro took her place in the doorway and rested one shoulder against it. Violet slept on her side in the darkened room, her freckled face peaceful. Her black paper wings, crumpled and crinkled and a bit tattered after the flight from Baton Rouge and the drive from Dulles, poked up from the back of her nightie.

Looks like she talked the nurses into letting her wear them, Teodoro mused, folding his arms over his chest.

Intercepting Violet once she’d arrived at HQ had been easy and wiping her memory clean of the time she’d spent with Dante at the sanitarium, along with any memory of Dante—not to mention himself—being at Doucet-Bainbridge, had been even easier.

You’re still hoping to see your angel. It’s been a long time.

It has an’ I miss him. When will I see my mommy?

Tomorrow. I promise. She’s asleep right now, honey.

Okay. Thanks, Mr. Díon.

Whether or not Violet’s sedated mother would ever accept her transformed daughter was another matter. For Violet’s sake, Teodoro hoped so.

“Sleep well, sweetie,” Teodoro whispered. “Keep safe.”

As he turned to go, he heard a sleep-thick voice whisper, “He’ll come for me, you know. He promised.”

The hair on the back of Teodoro’s neck prickled. Slowly, he turned around. Violet watched him drowsily, her eyelids weighted by thick, brown lashes.

“What did you say?” he asked slowly.

But Violet’s eyes shuttered closed again and her breathing slid back into the easy rhythm of sleep.

Teodoro stood there a moment, staring at the sleeping child. He knew he hadn’t imagined what she’d said, but also knew what she’d said was impossible.

He’ll come for me, you know. He promised.

Teodoro had erased anything Dante might’ve said to Violet at Doucet-Bainbridge from her memory. She couldn’t remember. Not even in her dreams. He backed away from the doorway, uncertain and chilled to the bone.

Maybe it’s a promise Dante made back in Oregon when she’d been hit by a bullet intended for someone else; a promise given after he’d remade her in Chloe’s image. Those memories are still intact, after all.

A wave of relief swept over Teodoro. Yes. Of course.

Turning, he headed for the elevator in brisk strides, his confidence restored. He shook his head, chagrined. Spooked by a dreaming child’s utterances like a peasant quivering in an oracle’s dank cave.

He needed sleep. He hadn’t rested in days. And while his Fallen half didn’t need sleep, his human half had its limits—and he was near the end of those limits now. He would allow himself a short nap only. Anything longer would have to wait until after he’d witnessed the Elohim forced to kill the creawdwr they’d awaited for eons.

Then he’d sleep the sleep of the righteous, long and deep and untroubled.