On Midnight Wings

The grin widened. “Well, shit. So far this shape has fooled no one.” The imposter rubbed his chest, a rueful expression on his face as he glanced at Dante. “Call me Loki. Yes”—he sighed, clearly anticipating the question—“that Loki.”

Heather swung one knee over Dante’s body, protectively straddling his Sleeping form, as she pulled the Glock from beneath her sweater and lifted it in one smooth motion. She knew that bullets of any caliber were practically worthless against the Fallen, even as a distraction, but still wanted the reassuring grip of the gun in her hand, no matter how illusory that reassurance might be.

Loki grinned, approval gleaming in his eyes. “What a fierce little guard dog. Loyal. Protective. A one-woman rescue team. No wonder the creawdwr bonded you.”

Heather kept her face still. He doesn’t know what Dante’s done. And I think I just discovered one of the reasons he found it necessary.

“You have no business wearing Von’s face. Afraid to show your own?”

Loki laughed, as delighted as though she were a dancing hamster in a pink tutu.

She took that as a no.

I know from my Norse mythology classes in college that Loki was a shape-shifter, but can all Fallen change shapes?

“No,” came the drawled reply. A disquieting reply in Von’s familiar voice. “Only a special few of us possess that particular talent . . . darlin’.”

Heather tightened her shields. Her lips compressed into a grim line. Bastard had read her thoughts. She needed to make sure that she kept her shields up and reinforced at all times. Her life—and Dante’s—might depend on it.

“And speaking of special talents”—Loki tilted his head and studied her with Von’s green eyes, now crow-bright—“how did you get past my spells?”

“Without a bit of difficulty,” she retorted, keeping the Glock aimed at the heart beating beneath Loki’s idly rubbing fingertips. “Others are on their way,” she lied—well, a partial lie. She had no idea when or if Lucien would show up, but fervently wished it would be sooner rather than later—“An entire army of nightkind, Fallen, and mortals. You still have time to escape. Just leave Dante and go.”

The green eyes flicked down at Dante. Mingled fear and excitement danced there for a split second, bright embers, there and gone so quickly Heather wasn’t even sure she’d seen anything at all.

“You think I want to escape?” he whispered, lifting his gaze to hers. No fear, no excitement, no bright embers.

“If you’re smart, yes.”

Loki chuckled, a sound lacking warmth or humor. “And what would one little mortal know of ‘smart’? Or of Elohim desires?” He offered her a mock sympathetic smile. “No doubt you even think you understand Dante.”

Heather’s chin lifted as she held his gaze. But she kept silent, deciding to save her breath. Nothing she said would make any difference to this shape-shifting, egotistical bastard anyway.

Despite the slaughter surrounding her, she knew who Dante was, knew his heart.

But even the strongest heart can break.

Heather’s throat constricted. Yes. Oh, yes. And that was why she needed to get him out of here and somewhere safe before that happened.

And if it already has?

Heather shoved the disquieting thought aside. Not now.

“I’m betting you think that when Dante awakens, he’s going to be the vampire—excuse me, apologies—nightkind he was when he went to Sleep, broken and haunted and full of suppressed rage, am I right?” Loki asked, a slow grin parting his lips. He continued without waiting for Heather’s reply; his knowing, arrogant words had her tightening her grip on the Glock. “If so, you’d be wrong. Very, very wrong.”

“I don’t think so, you son of a bitch,” Heather replied, her voice Arctic ice. “I know Dante.”

“And that will be the death of you,” Loki said, voice flat, his grin gone. His form rippled, like wind-stirred water, became fluid. When he spoke, his voice flowed from masculine tones to feminine and all registers in between. “It won’t be your Dante who awakens—not at all.”

I feel like I’m running out of time, catin.

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

“Bullshit,” Heather declared, her voice rough and low, unsure who she was trying to convince—Loki or herself.

Liquid, musical laughter filled the corridor, followed by words Heather suspected had been stolen from Dante’s mind. “Keep telling yourself that.”