On Midnight Wings

Heather Wallace was no longer entirely mortal, then. But Caterina was—so she should’ve returned to her car and driven away—perhaps repeatedly. Since the car was still parked where Purcell had found it, Teodoro believed Heather had traveled to Baton Rouge alone. Meaning she had somehow escaped Caterina, perhaps killed her. No wonder his texts had gone unanswered.

It seemed his imagination was sorely lacking, he reflected ruefully.

“Mortal? Instead of human?” Purcell questioned in low tones. “Interesting choice of words.”

“I think you know, or at least suspect, more than you claim to, Richard.”

“Richard now, is it?” Purcell said after a long pause. “Like we’re buddies or something?” then adding without waiting for a response, “So do you know what those symbols represent?”

“I do. Something I would have to wipe from your memory if I told you.”

“Ah. That shit again. Christ. Look, just tell me what to do so I can get back inside. Wallace managed it, so can I—if I know what I’m dealing with.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside the parking lot, but out of view. Tell me how to avoid the parking lot hypnotic trance hoodoo bullshit.”

Raking his fingers through his hair, Teodoro considered his options again. He could never make it to Baton Rouge in time to keep whoever had found Dante—Fallen or vampire—from leaving with him and his mortal bondmate. And, even if he did make it in time, killing Wallace might prove difficult, if not impossible, if she was with Fallen and/or vampires and in the company of Dante Baptiste.

But Dante could kill her. Unmake her.

With just the right word. Words Purcell knew.

Teodoro’s lips relaxed into a relieved smile. “I can get you back inside, but you need to listen closely to my instructions and follow them to the letter.”

“I’m listening.”

SLOUCHED IN THE PASSENGER seat of his Chevrolet Suburban, Purcell was making yet another visual sweep of the sanitarium with his binoculars before settling down to follow Díon’s bizarre instructions, when a figure—a winged figure—landed in the parking lot.

White wings, gleaming ivory hair, tall. A man wearing what appeared to be black plaid trousers and boots.

A man with wings. Purcell lowered the binoculars and blinked. Before he had time to process the information his eyes had delivered to his brain, two more figures kited down from the cloud-flecked early evening sky to land gracefully beside the first figure.

The male was also tall with black, waist-length hair and black wings, but wearing regular slacks instead of plaid; the silver-haired female, curves draped in what looked like a Grecian-style gown, fluttered her wings in a blur of white and lavender before folding them at her back.

Slowly, heart pounding against his ribs, Purcell raised the binoculars back to his eyes. And received yet another shock: he recognized one of the winged creatures, the black-winged male.

Lucien De Noir. S’s sugar daddy.

Sweat popped up on Purcell’s forehead as he pondered the implications of what he was seeing. Not angels, their wings weren’t feathered, but smooth. If not angels, then what—demons? Aliens? Gods from fucking Mount Olympus?

He wasn’t sure and at the moment it didn’t matter, really. They were here and he had no doubt whatsoever they were here to fetch S. He also had no doubt this was the reason that prick Díon had kept threatening to wipe his memory.

Drawing in a deep breath, Purcell studied De Noir and his winged companions. They were observing the sanitarium and looking very unhappy. And Purcell chuckled in relief as the reason why became clear.

The symbols seemed to be keeping them from entering the building.

He watched as De Noir vaulted into the sky, ink-black wings spread wide as he flew away. Looking surprised, his companions sped after him. Interesting. Maybe S’s sugar daddy wasn’t immune to the goddamned parking lot spell either or maybe he was off for a spell-busting crowbar. In any case, it was time for Purcell to get to work.

Lowering the binoculars, Purcell tossed them onto the passenger seat. He yanked open the SUV’s glove box, then pulled his pocketknife free from its cluttered depths. He flipped the blade open. Hesitated.

Díon’s instructions had been more than a little nuts, but if they got him inside the sanitarium again, then—nuts or not—okay. He’d roll with it. What other choice did he have?

All we need is a bit of blood magic to protect you from the parking lot spell.

Blood magic. Christ. Whose blood?

Your own, of course.

Shit. I had a feeling. What about the damned symbols on the building?

Not meant for you. Forget those. Concentrate on my instructions.

And Purcell had. Even now Dion’s voice ran through his mind like an irritating commercial jingle that made him groan every time he caught himself humming it.