On Midnight Wings

“A new kind of spell,” Hekate said, frowning as she studied the sanitarium. A light breeze, smelling of distant lightning and impending rain, swept a silver ringlet across her forehead. “Our protection is working against the repulsion spell, but not this one. This isn’t a typical banishing spell. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before,” she admitted reluctantly, shifting her violet gaze to Lucien. “I didn’t notice the difference until now.”

“Neither did I,” Lucien replied, shaking his head.

Hekate touched his cheek, her fingers soft against his skin. “Are you all right?”

Lucien offered her a smile. “Aside from feeling foolish, yes.”

A melodic wybrcathl shivered into the air in response to his earlier one, a defiant manifesto that both shocked and chilled Lucien—especially given its source.

“Loki,” Lucien breathed, stunned. “Here and flesh again. How? He should still be stone and guarding a tomb in St. Louis No. 3.”

“So that’s what happened to the sly bastard,” the Morningstar mused. “I’d wondered.”

Lucien gave him a sidelong glance. “No doubt. Given that he was here doing your bidding.”

The Morningstar sighed. “So he must’ve claimed. And everyone knows each word Loki utters is purest truth. But whose bidding Loki was or wasn’t doing doesn’t matter at the moment. If you didn’t free him, then who?”

Lucien remembered standing in St. Louis No. 3 several weeks ago and watching his son disappear into the night on the back of Von’s Harley. Remembered the fading feel of Dante’s power skipping along Loki’s stone shape, remembered the faint smell of his unique blood. Remembered the paper prayer folded at Loki’s stone feet.

Keep her safe, ma mère. Even from me. S’il te plâit.

Lucien rubbed his face with his hands, exasperated. In seeking truth, Dante had somehow managed to unravel the spell binding Loki.

Ah, child, what have you done?

He lowered his hands as the wybrcathl continued, each information-drenched trill deepening the chill he felt inside. Loki held not only Dante, but Heather as well. Detecting her scent in the parking lot hadn’t been wishful thinking, after all. Lucien stared at the bespelled building, wondering how Heather had managed to get past whatever spell Loki had spun into motion to keep mortals out and realizing she might not be completely mortal anymore. And as for Loki—

“He plans to help Dante become the Great Destroyer,” Hekate whispered in shocked tones, “then guide him in the world’s destruction.”

“If Loki succeeds, then your son must die,” the Morningstar said, his grim gaze piercing Lucien to his very core.“Even if it means Gehenna dies along with him.”

“Then we need to make certain Loki doesn’t succeed,” Lucien growled.

“What would you suggest we do?” Hekate asked, frustration shadowing her face.

“That you both get out of the way.”

Lucien wheeled around to face the blood-glyphed building. He took a deep breath, centering himself, gathering power, then closed his eyes. He smelled ozone, pungent and thick, felt his hair lift into the air, like midnight lengths of seaweed carried on the electric tide of his power. His hands knotted into fists at his sides. He sensed the Morningstar and Hekate backing away from him, heading for the parking lot’s gates.

Lucien opened his eyes. And voiced his wybrcathl, unleashing his pooled power through his vocal cords in a sledgehammer of sound. Car windows exploded in each vehicle, one after another, a shower of glass tinkling against the pavement while car alarms blared and beeped in cacophonous accompaniment.

The sanitarium’s windows blew out simultaneously, shards of glass raining to the well-manicured grounds and parking lot in a gleaming, deadly shower. As though rapped by a giant fist, the front door buckled inward at the same time.

Lucien ended his song, hushed his power. He bolted for the nearest shattered window, but when he grabbed hold of the windowsill to haul himself inside, he was hit by another pipe bomb of devastating pain. Releasing his hold, Lucien fell to the ground, glass crunching beneath his knees.

Hekate rushed over to join him. “What happened?”

Something very close to despair tightened Lucien’s throat. “The bastard didn’t just paint the blood sigils on the windows and doors.” He looked up into Hekate’s concerned eyes. “He painted them on the windowsills as well.”

Hekate offered him a hand and Lucien accepted it. Her grasp was cool and strong as she pulled him up to his feet. “Then we shall look for another way in,” she said.

But as the minutes melted away and the sun began to sink into the horizon in a blaze of furious color, Lucien’s heart sank as well.

Time had just run out.

“Since we’ve failed to get inside,” the Morningstar said, “we need to convince Dante to come out to us. Lure him away from Loki’s influence.”

But a dark suspicion had rooted itself in Lucien’s heart, a suspicion he now voiced. “He’s my son and half Fallen. The sigils will keep him inside, just as they keep us out.”