On Midnight Wings

Apprehension sank an anchor into Heather’s belly as she realized she no longer felt the thrum of the nomad’s energy through their link.

<Von?>

Empty silence.

Heather’s hands clenched into fists on her chenille-covered thighs. If the link had finally given up the ghost before she could even give him a hint, some clue as to her whereabouts—

<Heather. Hey, the damn link is starting to go.> Von confirmed her fear. <And I have a feeling it ain’t gonna last much longer. If you can remember anything that might help me find you, now would be the time, woman. But know this>—a deep and deadly determination composed his sending, a promise mind-to-mind—<whether you remember anything or not before this goddamned link falls apart, I will find you. You and Dante. No matter what it takes.>

A smile stole across Heather’s lips. <I know.>

<Good. Now get to work, woman.>

Closing her eyes, Heather did exactly that. She shoved her way past sedative-thickened dreams and shock-hazed memories to the previous night, in search of the words that had spilled so damned cheerfully from James Wallace’s lips.

A ceiling dotted with soft, recessed lights; a fuzzy where-am-I? feeling that quickly morphs into an icy ribbon of fear as she realizes she doesn’t know; the pull of restraints at her wrists and ankles as she tries to sit up.

“Pumpkin.”

James Wallace stands in the doorway, his eyes hidden behind the reflections glimmering on the lenses of his glasses.

“What have you done to Dante?” she asks, her voice tight, simmering with bitter fury despite the drugs cocooning her mind.

“You need to focus on your own life, Heather. You need to reclaim it. And once we’ve freed you of that damned bloodsucker’s influence, once we’ve scrubbed the taint of his touch off you, you’ll be my daughter again, the brilliant FBI agent.”

Heather’s eyes opened. James Wallace didn’t realize he no longer had a daughter. Not yet. But what else had the bastard said? She rubbed her forehead as though she could summon the memory like a genie from a lamp.

A nurse in blue scrubs pads into the room carrying an IV bag, which she starts to connect to the IV stand positioned beside the bed. “You’ll feel much better once the drugs start to work,” the nurse assures Heather. “It’ll make the therapy easier, as well.”

And there they were—the magic words.

Welcome to the Strickland Deprogramming Institute.

Heather quickly sent the memory to Von with its priceless nugget of information, then realized with a hollow feeling that he was gone once again. Hoping against hope that it was just a brief glitch like last time, she continued to send the memory to him on a repeating loop.

<Von. Come in, Von . . .>

Heather opened her eyes, then rose to her feet. Maybe she could gather a little more intel for him—provided it wasn’t too late. Hurrying to the window across the room, her slippers whispering across polished tile, she looked out through glass and steel mesh into a parking lot surrounded by forested green and a high fence. Several dozen cars, SUVs, and pickups populated the blacktop, bumpers glinting in the sunshine. She narrowed her eyes trying to make out a license plate. Was that Texas?

<Doll . . .>

Heather exhaled in relief. The link was still working—for the moment, anyway. <Did you get it?>

Frustration sliced through the nomad’s sending. <Only bits and pieces . . . full of holes . . . again . . .>