On Midnight Wings

With a disgusted sigh, Von opened his eyes. His headache intensified, the nearly translucent slivers of moonlight creating and stuffing another enthusiastic taiko drummer into his already crowded skull.

Von winced and resumed rubbing his forehead. He remembered his conversation—decades ago, it felt like—about the pill and its consequences with pretty little Conseil du Sang spy Merri Goodnight.

No wonder she’d given him that amused smile. She’d known exactly what he was in for and knew he wouldn’t need anyone to remind him of his consequences-we-don’t-need-no-stinking-consequences bravado or to say “I told you so.” Nope. Not when she knew he’d be kicking his own ass repeatedly and hard.

Besides, his own personal drummers were oh so busy, busy, busy pounding those consequences into his skull. Literally. Motherfuckers.

Taking the damned stay-awakes had been worth it since they’d allowed him to contact Heather before their temporary link dissolved, but he had no intention of ever downing another.

Von shut his eyes again and waited for the pain to dial down a notch or five. How the fuck did Dante do it? Deal with, live with, his monster migraines?

A quicksilver thought flowed into his mind and Von’s eyes opened in surprise. <Von, your ride is here. Wake your tattooed nomad ass up.>

<My tattooed nomad ass is wide awake, along with the rest of me, and regretting the fact, big-time. And what the hell do you mean by ‘my ride is here’? You saying you’re in Memphis?>

<Wow. Sharp as ever. Seriously. No one would ever suspect that you took a bullet to the head. Yes, we’re in Memphis. Just a few blocks west of the compound. And we’ve got a plan to spring you.>

Von frowned. <How the hell did you find the compound and who’s we?>

<Me and Annie, Jack, Merri, and her partner. And as for how, Merri’s mère de sang gave us the location.>

<And what about Heather? Dante? Did Lucien . . . >

<Heather found Dante, and Lucien’s there now too, but—>

<But? Christ, I hate that damned word. Go ahead, give me the bad news.>

And Silver did just that, filling Von’s mind with images as he brought him up to speed on everything that had happened since the stay-awakes had dropped him on the sidewalk at Holly’s booted feet.

Mauvais and his companions outside the club.

The shape-shifting fallen angel.

Giovanni and his offer of help from the High Priestess of the Cercle de Druide.

Heather’s escape; her call.

The decision to drive to Memphis on nomad rescue detail.

Lucien’s return with the Morningstar and his daughter in tow.

The magic-grafittied sanitarium.

Heather inside with Dante. Lucien outside and unable to get in.

One image in particular chilled Von.

Dante’s heated hands cup Silver’s face and he leans in close, a dark and wicked light glittering in his kohl-rimmed eyes. He brushes fevered lips against Silver’s. “Let me in,” he whispers. “Let me in, mon ami.”

Chilled, yes. But not for long. Fury surged molten through Von’s veins. The pain in his head lessened. Shape-shifting motherfucker. But at least they now knew what they were up against. The whole forewarned, yada, yada thing.

<Wasn’t your fault, Silver,> Von sent. <Remember that. Coulda—woulda—happened to any of us. Now, you mentioned something about a plan?>

<Yeah, man.>

It was a good plan, simple, and just might work because of those two facts.

Von knew he had to face the music where the filidh were concerned, and under normal circumstances, would do just that. Under normal circumstances he would simply thank Silver but remind him that this was llygaid business and llygaid business only. He would stand and take his lumps.

He was guilty of breaking his oath, after all.