On Midnight Wings

Violet studied the key the orderly had given her. Little and light, it looked like a toy key. She looked at the bad-guy handcuffs gleaming around Dante’s wrists. “Is it for those?” she asked.

“I knew you’d figure it out,” Mr. Purcell said. He reached for the big, thick door’s metal latch and started to pull it shut. “He’ll be awake soon, so you won’t be lonely for long.”

“Okay,” Violet said, “but he needs a doctor.” She brushed Dante’s hair back from his pale cheek. Blood glistened beneath his nose, on his lips. “He’s still hurt. See?”

“He’ll be fine,” Mr. Purcell said, his gaze flicking to the hook above. “Trust me. The only thing that’ll happen will be history repeating itself.”

The door swung shut with a heavy thunk before Violet could insist on the doctor again. Red lights lit up on the little panel beside the door. LOCKED.

Her angel shivered on the cold concrete floor for a moment, then lay still again. She had a feeling the orderlies wouldn’t be coming back with a blanket. Feeling the weight of the hook hanging above her, above her sleeping angel, Violet unlocked the handcuffs with the little silver key. Pulled them free from around his wrists and placed them on the floor. The skin of his wrists looked rubbed raw, bruised.

She thought about the lies—just little white ones, sweetie—Mr. Purcell had instructed her to tell Dante to make him happy. Answer to the name Chloe. Call him Dante-angel and let him believe he gifted you with that Winnie-the-Pooh sweater. Poisoned apples.

Why? Why are they hurting him? Why are they asking me to hurt him too? They promised to take care of him. Don’t they know he saved me from Heaven?

Maybe that’s what scares them, her little voice suggested.

“Then they’re being stupid,” Violet muttered, but not disagreeing, not really.

She grabbed Dante’s shoulder and, grunting, pulled him over onto his back. He smelled of Halloween underneath all the blood and he was wearing clothes like the ones she’d first seen him in—leather rock-star pants, a black T-shirt, but without the sleeves with all the little holes this time, and boots with lots of buckles. And, just like before, a collar was strapped around his throat, a black collar with a steel hoop.

He looked like he belonged in the Underworld movies her mommy had Netflixed and Violet had watched in secret, hidden behind the couch, when she was supposed to be in bed. And those movies had been full of scary stuff, dark stuff, dangerous stuff.

The hook in the ceiling told Violet that Mr. Purcell’s promises, every word from his mouth, were only juicy, red poisoned lies. Told her that scary, dark, and dangerous stuff was on its way, scampering on fast little spider legs. And her angel needed to be awake so he could face it. So he wouldn’t have to take another kick in the ribs that he couldn’t even roll away from.

Paper wings rustling behind her, Violet patted Dante’s cold cheek and, calling his name, urged him up from his dreams. Relief spread through her tummy like hot cocoa when Dante drew in a deep breath.

Her nighttime angel was waking up.

5 TRUE NORTH DALLAS, TEXAS THE STRICKLAND DEPROGRAMMING INSTITUTE

“YOU NEVER REALIZE THAT you’re under the influence until you no longer are, but I’m finally thinking clearly—I mean crystal, y’know?—for the first time since I met . . . him.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe the difference.”

Pacing the sand-colored carpet in her slippers, Heather Wallace was busy lying through her teeth, lying for all she was worth, an Oscar-caliber, rose bouquet–throwing, standing-ovation performance—or so she hoped, since she desperately wanted to remain free of sedatives and restraints—when an unexpected mental touch put an abrupt stop to her flow of words. Halted her in her tracks.

Llygad. Nightkind. Nomad. Friend.

Heather’s breath caught in her throat as Von’s image suddenly flooded her mind, saturating her senses with his masculine scent—old leather, frost, and gun oil—warm and reassuring. His sending, pearled with intense relief, threaded like silk through her mind.

<Damn, woman. There you are. You okay, doll?>

<I sure as hell am now, road rider. But hold on, all right? I’m not alone.>

<Ain’t going nowhere.>

Boneless with relief of her own, Heather plopped down on the edge of the brown leather sofa, the cushions creaking beneath her. She exhaled, then carefully drew in another breath, in an attempt to calm her racing heart.

Von had caught her completely off-guard—but in one helluva good way.