On Midnight Wings

The air was conditioned and cool, and smelled faintly of ozone. And since it looked like the steel mesh–screened windows couldn’t be opened—at least not from the inside—the air-conditioning was a good thing.

She reached out for Von. Felt him respond, brushing like a cat against her awareness.

<Right here, doll. Tell me where you are so we can come get you.>

<That’s the problem. I don’t know. It’s a mental health facility of some kind—a rehab apparently for the brainwashed victims of religious cults, deep-cover operations, and apparently, in my case, nightkind.>

<Brainwashed? Shee-it. You? Your old man really doesn’t know you at all, does he, doll?>

<No. No he doesn’t. I know I was told the name of the place last night, but I don’t remember. My goddamned memory’s been drug-bombed. I haven’t seen anything naming the place. Not on stationery, or on the walls, on uniforms—nothing.>

<Relax, and it’ll come back to you. Keep looking. Maybe you’ll spot something.>

<Dante—what did my father do to him? The things I felt . . .>

Last night, before the honey-talking nurse had released a flood of sedatives into her IV with a single button push, Heather had been convinced Dante was dying, that she was losing him.

In anticipation of her session with Wade, the drugs had been stopped in the morning, and once the fog had cleared from her mind, Heather had reached for Dante through their bond. Their bond still held, the flame that was Dante’s presence burning deep within her, reassuring her that he was still alive. Last night that flame had been guttering, now it was steady again, but subdued—a candle beneath a dark mirror.

She’d tried to connect with him, to fill his dreams—or, much more likely, his nightmares—with white silence and calm, to let him know that he wasn’t alone, that she was with him even in the darkness.

But he’d been beyond her reach, swallowed whole by pain and whispers and the acrid bite of drugs. She’d kept trying though, again and again, until her security escort in the form of Riggins had come to walk her to Wade’s office.

Dante’s silence scared her—without question. But Von’s sudden silence was scaring the holy loving hell out of her.

<Von? Nothing you can say will be worse than the things I’ve imagined.>

But Von proved her dead wrong on that point.

He answered her with a controlled stream of images—images gleaned from her sister’s memory. Heather had never imagined any of this. Dante shot in cold blood with bullets designed to kill a True Blood. Von and Silver gunned down in their Sleep as well. The club torched. Her pregnant sister tranked and slung like a deer carcass over their father’s shoulder—no, dammit, he would only be James Wallace from now on, nothing more.

But the worst of all—the one thing she hadn’t imagined: Dante missing. Stolen from the burning club by parties unknown, for reasons unknown, destination unknown.

Heather swallowed hard, feeling hollow and sick.

All because James Wallace didn’t approve of her relationship choice or career decisions. No. It was even simpler than that. Control. It was all about control. He’d felt like he’d lost control over his daughters and he’d decided to rectify the situation.

Jesus Christ. Bitter acid burned at the back of Heather’s throat.

<I hate breaking it to you like that, doll. I’m truly sorry.> Regret curled thick through Von’s sending, as did a brass-knuckled resolve. <But we can find Dante—through your bond. You’re like a living, breathing GPS where Dante is concerned. We’ll find him. We just need to find you first. So keep working that memory.>

<I am,> Heather assured him. <Annie? Is she okay?>

<She’s worried sick about you . . . but, yeah, she’s safe.>

<Safe is good. But is she okay?>