On Midnight Wings

Loki rose to his feet, his form and voice rippling, shifting. “Given your condition and his”—he indicated Dante with a nod—“I expect you’ll stay right here while I’m gone. So be a good little guard dog and keep our creawdwr safe.”

Then he was gone, leaving the fading scent of Brut in his wake.

“Christ,” Heather muttered. “What an arrogant prick.”

Not knowing when he’d be back, she didn’t waste any time. She scanned the floor around her for anything sharp. She picked up the bone-pebble Loki had tossed at her, then dropped it in disappointment.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then her gaze landed on Dante’s hands with their black-painted nails. His sharp, sharp nails. The fact that they were caked in dried blood spoke volumes about their effectiveness. A muscle flexed in Heather’s jaw. No other choice. No time.

“Sorry, cher,” she whispered as she sliced a small cut into Dante’s wrist with a finger from his opposite hand. Crimson blood welled up on his white skin. Healing blood. A temporary link. Heather lowered her face to the wound and drank.

PURCELL CLIMBED THE STAIRS, his furious heart a drum guiding each careful step. They were all dead, near as he could tell. At least they were downstairs—agents, medics, patients—the air thick with the reek of thickening blood. Who knew what blood-drenched horrors awaited on the upper floors?

How many times did I fucking warn them? How many times did I urge them to kill the little fuck? How many goddamned times?

Question is: why the hell is he still here? What’s he waiting for?

But Purcell knew the answer to that question. S’s threat—no, a promise—spoken in a low, coiled voice sounded through his memory.

I’ll be coming for you too.

Looked like he’d simply decided to wait instead.

Another school of tiny blue fish, their jeweled scales glittering in the light from his helmet-cam, swam past him, also on their way up and just as happy as fucking punch.

And again, all Purcell could think was: Sure. Why not? The world’s clearly turned itself upside down. So why not have motherfucking air fish?

Reaching the second floor landing, Purcell revised Díon’s plan one more time—more of a reversion to the original, actually. Not to bash S’s sanity to bits, but to make him suffer—just on the off chance the son of a bitch felt something, anything for Heather Wallace.

He’d make sure S took his time killing her.

Then, when that was done, S would join her.

“We’ll see, yeah?” Low and amused, Cajun-spiced.

S was on Purcell before he could even swing his Glock up for a shot. His breath whoofed from his lungs as he was slammed up against the wall. The light from his helmet-cam hit the ceiling at a skewed angle. S pressed against him, all heated skin and taut muscle. Adrenaline raged through Purcell. His heart rate kicked into high, fight-or-flight gear. The words he needed to say to keep himself alive poured out of his mouth without conscious effort.

“Wake up, Rip Van Winkle. It’s time to quit sleeping and go to work. The Brothers Grimm have a job for you. Once it’s done, you can dream again.”

S pulled back, although his hands remained locked around Purcell’s biceps. He tilted his head, a curious light in his now-golden eyes. “Now, why did you think that would stop me from killing you?”

Fear iced Purcell’s spine. S’s programming should’ve been triggered. He should be standing still, an empty vessel awaiting instructions, not asking questions.

And his eyes—gold like S’s winged sugar daddy outside.

“Maybe you should drop the sugar and just make that daddy.”

Purcell stared at him feeling like he’d just taken a punch to the gut. Might be true, probably was, but that didn’t concern him at the moment. What did was the fact that S’s programming hadn’t responded to the words coded to awaken it.

“Rip Van Winkle,” he began through a mouth gone dry. “Wake up—”

S laughed. “Oh, I’m awake. But I can’t wait to find out why you thought fairy tale references would make me as docile as Mary’s little lamb.” Purcell broke into a cold sweat when S touched a taloned finger to his forehead, then said, “Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

Lightning strike.

Purcell screamed.

49 RACING THEIR FATES

“C’MON, BAPTISTE. ON . . . YOUR . . . feet!”

With his arm looped over her shoulders, Heather surged to her feet, grunting with effort, despite her blood-renewed strength, as she supported his Sleeping weight. She felt a slight twinge from her nearly healed ankle, but that was all.

She froze as a scream cut through the air—a primal, high-pitched shriek of utter terror. And she had no idea if it’d been torn from a male or female throat. Her belly clenched.

Loki had found his mortal gift for Dante.