On Midnight Wings

Just as Dante’s vision whited out, he caught a quicksilver flash of movement, then felt Chloe—no, Violet, ma p’tite ange—yanked from his arms. Heard her scream his name. Heard Díon cursing in furious Spanish at whoever had disobeyed him.

The world whirled and Dante went with it, a torn kite tumbling from the sky. The ground rushed up at light speed, eager to meet him. He had no idea if he’d plummeted eight stories to the Dumpster-strewn blacktop below or just to the roof. Eight stories or ten feet, he hit hard. The air exploded from his lungs. Retching, he tried to suck more in, but his shock-paralyzed lungs refused to work.

“Give me your trank gun,” Díon demanded from somewhere above him.

But breathing seemed like a small thing, really, maybe even an unnecessary thing, as the seizure devoured Dante with a voracious white-hot appetite. Tore him apart, joint by joint, tendon by tendon. Torqued each muscle and limb and wing without mercy.

Send it below or fucking use it.

But below seized the opportunity to fucking use him instead when the dart pierced his throat and threaded ice through his veins.

Below yanked Dante under.

Shoved him down.

Kicked his convulsing ass into the shattered, wasp-droning depths.

11 DARK PROPHECY DALLAS, TEXAS THE STRICKLAND DEPROGRAMMING INSTITUTE

SHE SEES DANTE, DESPITE the fact that he’s blurring up endless flights of concrete stairs, a red-haired little girl tucked against his side. Sees a determined scowl on his beautiful pale face and crimson striping the deep brown of his irises. Sees blood smeared on the skin above his heart, staining his lips, the skin beneath his nose. His black hair trails behind him, a silken slice of starless night.

For a moment, she thinks she has somehow stumbled into Dante’s memories since he’s carrying Chloe in her Winnie-the-Pooh sweater and purple cords tight against him. Thinks he’s caught in an old and heartbreaking loop—himself and Chloe at the sanitarium—but then she realizes he’s not the thirteen-year-old version of himself in jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, but the lean-muscled adult in boots, leather pants, and bondage collar.

Not the past. Not haunted memories.

Then she notices that black paper wings are taped to the back of Chloe’s sweater. Black paper wings. No plushie orca.

The little girl isn’t Chloe at all.

She’s Violet. The head-shot child Dante had transformed in the motel parking lot in Oregon. And she remembers all the SB agents that had been there. Remembers the sweating, grim-faced agent who ordered the resurrected and newly freckled Violet and her mother away from Dante and—no doubt—into their custody.

And she knows, bone deep—no dream. Not memories. Reality.

Her pulse races. She’s found him at last. Then fear knots cold in her belly. She’s found him, yes—in a desperate run for survival.

A voice with a mild European twist echoes up the stairwell, calling Dante’s name, but he never slows. Yanking open a door, he streaks out onto a rooftop.