On Midnight Wings

Von watched, heart hammering, as Annie popped out of the back of the van, shrieking, claiming that the men inside had kidnapped her, were going to force her to marry one of them since she was pregnant, but wouldn’t name the baby-daddy.

Jack and Thibodaux exited the van with their hands up, surrounded by stone-faced llafnau, both alternating between apologies for the gate and berating the hysterical Annie for grabbing at the wheel and causing the accident in the first place.

“I’ve seen that van before,” Holly said softly. “Friends of yours, Vonushka?”

“If they are, they deserve a reality TV show of their own—Redneck Shotgun Weddings, maybe. Could be a hit.”

“That’s not an answ—” A blur of cinnamon-scented movement, then Holly’s head twisted sharply to the right. The gun slid away from Von’s temple as she collapsed, neck broken, to the ground. Merri scooped up Holly’s gun and tucked it into a pocket of her suede jacket.

“Cutting it close,” Von growled, peeling off the blocker from his wrist.

Silver flashed him a quick, fanged grin just as Von caught another streak of motion, then another. His stomach dropped to his socks. Too late. Too fucking late.

“Run,” he yelled, hoping the llafnau would be content with just him.

But they weren’t.

Before Silver could even turn or before Merri could swing up her gun, both of them crumpled to the dewed grass beside Holly, necks equally broken.

One strong, cool, implacable hand braced against the back of Von’s skull while the other grasped his chin. He heard, “Looks like now we get to carry you, asshole.” The hands twisted his head to the right.

One sharp pain.

Then nothing.

48 BECOMING BATON ROUGE DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM

HEATHER BLINKED UNTIL THE ceiling came into focus again. She felt like she’d taken a shotgun blast to the head, her brain full of holes, her memory Swiss-cheesed. She wiped blood away from beneath her nose with a shaking hand. Tasted it bright and coppery on her tongue.

Let me in, chère.

Her stomach clenched. No, make that she wished—desperately and hard—that her memory had been Swiss-cheesed. She remembered Loki’s mental assault all too well.

Where is your bond? What has that beautiful, insane little half-breed done? I told him to close it, not sever it. If he’s damaged himself—

Heather knew what Dante would’ve said to that and repeated it now in a barely audible whisper: “Blow me.”

Pain pounded a red-hot spike through the center of her forehead when she tried to turn her head to see Dante. She swallowed back a groan and held utterly still until the pain eased. She could feel Dante on the floor beside her, felt her arm against his, the iciness of his skin chilling her own.

How much poison have the sons of bitches pumped into him?

Carefully and oh-so-slowly, Heather turned her head. Dante still Slept even though she was pretty sure the sun had set. His pale, blood-streaked face seemed troubled, uneasy. The skin beneath his eyes was smudged blue with exhaustion. He was Sleeping, yes, but he sure as hell wasn’t resting. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs when she noticed the blood pooled inside his ear.

He’d knocked her on her ass when he’d severed the bond. Maybe he’d knocked himself on his ass too—and when he could least afford it. As much as she hated to admit it, maybe Loki had been right to be concerned.

The fallen bastard.

“Baptiste,” she said, gingerly sitting up. “Hey, cher.” Her vision grayed and she lowered her head until she no longer felt faint. She watched as little blood flowers blossomed on her jeans. Nose is still bleeding, dammit.

Something small and hard, like a pebble, pinged off Heather’s shoulder.

“Hey there, pumpkin.”

Not possible. Maybe I’m not awake.

But she was.

Heather followed the voice to her right, hand automatically sliding to the small of her back and the backup she hoped was still there, tucked into her jeans; then froze, heart in her throat, when her gaze locked onto the trench-coated speaker. Gray-threaded blond hair, hazel eyes hidden behind glasses, a fatherly smile, the sharp scent of Brut.

James Wallace.

But what was he sitting on? A chair—no, a goddamned throne—made out of . . . Heather’s mouth dried, unable to believe what she was seeing. James Wallace lounged upon a throne composed of the contorted and broken bodies of the dead, colorful scrubs alternating with black suits. She swallowed back her nausea.

Dear God.

James Wallace lifted a hand and tossed another pebble at her. It landed near her hip, skittering away on the tile and her stomach clenched again as she realized it wasn’t a pebble, but a small piece of bone. “Oh, I hope I didn’t awaken you,” he said.