On Midnight Wings

Oh, Dante, oh, cher. Looks like you made sure no one had time or voice enough to stop you through your programming—whether they knew how or not.

A few of the agents had died with fingers locked around the grips of their guns, and judging by the faint and fading scent of cordite beneath the thick smell of blood, more than one had gotten off a few shots.

She hoped none had hit their target.

They brought him here. They had to know what could happen if he slipped their leash of drugs and pain and mental torture. They brought him here against his will. They got what they deserved.

As Heather’s gaze skipped from the black-suited bodies to the crumpled and bloodied forms in green scrubs, she realized she might be wrong, that not all had deserved what they’d received. Then she spotted syringes filled with a dark reddish substance, clutched between the stiffening fingers of two of the slaughtered medical team, and her sympathy drained away.

What do you want to bet that’s the dragon’s blood tree resin Von told me about? The True Blood poison that’s keeping Dante from healing at best and slowly killing him at worst. So much for do not harm.

Doors stood open at either side of the corridor, some lying flush against the wall as though flung or ripped open. Noticing a trail of bloody footprints leading from the nearest cell to the one across from it, then to the next, the dark prints disappearing into shadows stained red by the emergency lights, Heather felt the cold tingle of fear against her spine.

I think he’s had all he can take, doll . . .

Dante’s voice, low and husky, raw with emotion he kept shoving aside, whispered through her memory, words from another time, another place of slaughter.

Run from me. Run as far as you can.

Heather’s throat tightened. Oh, cher. What have you done?

But she already knew the answer to that: whatever he’d needed to survive. Just as she’d wished and prayed he would.

Hang on, Baptiste. Please.

Stepping past and around the bodies, Heather moved with caution, Glock held in both hands, her finger resting on the trigger. In the eerie silence, the quiet tread of her shoe soles against the tiled floor sounded as loud—to her, anyway—as those of a weekend hiker lumbering through crackling, summer-dried underbrush.

Heather winced, wishing she could move nightkind-silent, but doubted it would make any difference even if she could. Whichever one of the Fallen was keeping Dante company had probably heard the rapid beat of her heart the moment she’d crawled into the sigil-etched building.

And knew precisely where she was.

So what were they waiting for—applause? What Fallen game had she stumbled into?

Which brought up even more troubling questions: Why was Dante still here in this place of nightmare and blood and torture? Why hadn’t he been scooped up by his winged “rescuer” and flown back to Gehenna already?

One possibility stopped her cold, rooted her feet to the floor.

Maybe they had. Maybe Dante was in Gehenna right now. Without the bond, she wouldn’t know. She could be searching for someone who was no longer here.

Or worse, no longer breathing.

Heather closed her eyes, pulse pounding at her temples. Despite the cold fingers closed around her heart, she knew Dante was alive. And something deep inside of her, maybe an intuitive knowing, maybe some fundamental change Dante had unintentionally made when healing her in D.C., whispered over and over: He’s here.

Heather choose to believe that whisper. Opening her eyes, she resumed her search.

When she reached the first open cell door, she saw Dante slumped on the floor at the far end of the hall, his pale skin gleaming like moonlight in the gloom. Faint red light glinted from the ring in his collar. He rested on his side, one arm half curled beneath his head.

Her breath caught in her throat, a near sob.

The next thing Heather knew, she was dropping to her knees beside him, the Glock once again tucked into her jeans beneath her sweater, her trembling hands smoothing his blood-sticky and sweat-damp hair back from his face. She had no memory of crossing the corridor, no memory of moving at all. But that didn’t matter.

She’d found Dante—her North Star, her nightkind of fire and twilight, her man.

“Baptiste,” she whispered, bending to kiss his lips, his forehead. The icy feel of his skin shocked her. “I’m here, cher. I’m here.”