On Midnight Wings

Double loops of steel gleamed at Dante Baptiste’s socked ankles, a pair of handcuffs on each. Each cuff’s twin and linking chain had been pulled down through a slot in the table and pulled taut from underneath, before being looped back over the table’s edge to snap the second cuff shut around the same wrist or ankle.

Handcuffs double-looped. Slots that couldn’t be wrenched free like welded-on door handles, since they were part of the table. Metal bands across Dante’s chest and thighs.

All made of reinforced vampire-proof steel.

But creawdwr-proof was another matter entirely, Teodoro knew.

When Purcell had called yesterday to tell him that Dante wasn’t healing from the bullet wounds, that he was, in fact, bleeding out, Teodoro had instantly known what James Wallace had put in his bullets, because he’d once used sap from the dragon’s blood tree himself for a very similar purpose centuries ago.

Fatal to True Bloods, yes, but Dante’s Fallen heritage had saved his life—barely. And because of that, Teodoro had believed—no, be honest, had hoped—that the resin, in combination with the damage James Wallace had wreaked with his oh-so-well-placed bullets, would short-circuit Dante’s use of the creu tân.

And it had. Until Dante had managed to make a snack out of Bronson.

Until that awful moment on the rooftop.

On midnight wings, Dante rises from the sanitarium’s roof.

Fury shadows his pale, blood-streaked face. His eyes blaze with gold light. Blue flames flicker to life around his fingers as his anhrefncathl slashes a dark and savage melody into the night.

Teodoro stares, dread and awe pulsing through his veins in equal measure. He’s never seen a creawdwr in action before, never seen a living creawdwr—until now. And he has a gut-knotting suspicion that it might be the last thing he ever sees.

But a split second later, Dante’s eyes roll back into his head. The seizure’s sucker punch breaks his song, snuffs the flames, and slams him back down to the roof.

While the seizure had been a welcome surprise, the wings had been both unexpected and problematic. Teodoro had never imagined that Dante would have wings. No half-blood did. At least not those born of Fallen and mortal unions. Perhaps it was different with vampire-Fallen offspring, although he didn’t know of any. More likely the reason rested in who and what Dante was—creawdwr.

In any case, Teodoro had carefully erased the memory of Dante’s wings from the minds of each agent on the roof. No one else needed to know what Dante was.

Not yet.

Not even Purcell. Although Teodoro could just imagine the man’s reaction.

You’re telling me that this bloodsucking son of a bitch not only has wings and a fallen angel daddy, but he’s also a fucking god? What goddamned bullshit.

A fucking god, yes. Bullshit, no.

“So do I get your stamp of approval?” Purcell asked from the foot of the table.

Back in the moment once more, Teodoro nodded, then murmured, “Nice work. This should actually hold him.”

“Personally, I think shooting him full of resin and hoisting him onto the hook would hold him even better,” Purcell grumbled. “But, yeah, this’ll work. Lucky for you he had that seizure. Why the hell couldn’t he have had the damned thing before he slaughtered two of my men?”

“Their error,” Teodoro pointed out with a shrug. “You did tell them to make sure Baptiste was secured before doing anything else and they failed to do so.”

Purcell blew out an exasperated breath in agreement.

“His file doesn’t mention seizures,” Teodoro commented, slanting a glance at Purcell. “I take it that’s something new?”

Purcell raked a hand through his gray-flecked sandy hair, then nodded. “Definitely. And he had one yesterday following surgery, but I have no idea what’s causing them and—to be honest—I really don’t give a rat’s ass. For all I know maybe it’s an indication that his sanity is about to take that plunge you’ve got such a hard-on for.”

“Perhaps,” Teodoro agreed, straightening in his chair. He thought of the elaborate scar on the creawdwr’s left pectoral, near his heart. A sigil. One Teodoro had recognized—as any nephilim would. His jaw tightened.

“And the mark on his chest?” He jerked his chin at Dante. “Is that new too?”