On Midnight Wings

“I’m glad I could help,” Mauvais replied with an elegant half-shrug, knowing the gesture would suggest a careless modesty and an altruistic nature that he didn’t possess. “We’re fortunate that my people stumbled across you while chasing down a rude marmot in desperate need of a lesson in manners. How did you end up as a stone statue guarding a tomb, anyway?”

“The usual way. Treachery. Betrayal by a brother.” A smile—dark and somehow eager—curved the fallen angel’s lips, revealing sharp white teeth. “But I intend to pay back in kind.”

“I am willing to help in any way possible,” Mauvais said, then took a sip of the brandy, savoring its smooth oak-and-rose flavor.

“Wonderful.” The angel pulled several more petals from the rose and ate them, chewing thoughtfully. Swallowing, he said, “Perhaps you can help me find the guilty party since I believe he resides in the area—or did, before he tricked me with lies and a blood spell.”

“Of course. What’s his name?”

“He’s known as the Nightbringer, but it’s his son I’m most interested in.”

“Son?” Mauvais stared at the fallen angel, startled. “Lucien De Noir—the Nightbringer—doesn’t have a son. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

But even as the words left his mouth, a dark suspicion snaked through Mauvais’s mind as he remembered how De Noir had always guarded Dante Baptiste, remembered how he used to wonder why one of the Fallen had chosen to stand beside the beautiful and dangerous True Blood—or any vampire for that matter. He’d often wondered if Dante had pulled a thorn from the lion’s paw.

Mon Dieu. Is it possible?

“Oh, but he does,” the fallen angel said. “A very special child, he called this son. Unique. And one I’m most eager to meet.” His smile darkened even more, became an abyss. “I have plans for the boy.”

Apprehension iced Mauvais’s blood. He had a feeling neither Lucien De Noir nor his son would enjoy that meeting very much. But he reminded himself that he owed nothing to either De Noir or—if his suspicion proved correct—Dante. Their fates were their own. Still. . . .

“As I said,” Mauvais murmured. “I know nothing about a son, but I can tell you where to find De Noir.”

“Lucien De Noir,” the fallen angel mused, shaking his head. “Where does he come up with these names?”

“And your name, m’sieu?” Mauvais prodded gently. “What shall I call you?”

“Loki,” the immortal replied. “Call me Loki.”

Mauvais drained his brandy in one swallow.

14 FUCK MURPHY AND HIS STUPID GODDAMNED LAW NEW ORLEANS CLUB HELL

VON STOOD OFF TO one side of the club’s kicked-in door, Silver’s coiled presence right behind him, and listened to the chaotic and brutal sounds issuing from the darkened and grafittied entrance hall—shouts, the fleshy thud of fists against flesh, pained grunts, the spatter of blood hitting the floor—a free-for-all battle.

“The fuck?” Silver muttered under his breath. “What now?”

Von heartily agreed. The fuck, indeed. It sounded as though a posse of idiots—nightkind idiots, given the lack of mortal heartbeats—had broken in, drunk all the booze, then decided the fire-scorched club was the perfect place for a UFC bout.

But he was pretty damned sure that something else very different was going on.

Someone was fighting for his or her life.

Von slipped a hand inside his leather jacket for one of his holstered Brownings—a gesture as natural and automatic as breathing—and felt a cold shock when his fingers brushed against only the jacket’s soft lining.

No guns. No holster.

Hell, it wasn’t even his jacket, but a brown bomber borrowed from Jack—one smelling of stale beer and spearmint gum and thankfully missing any pithy declarations or tiny gators.

Standing across from him on the other side of the boot-battered door, her Glock held in both hands, Merri Goodnight arched one eyebrow, her expression asking: Missing something or just feeling your bad self up?

With a let’s-keep-her-guessing wink, Von pulled his hand free of the jacket. Maybe his Brownings were inside, upstairs in his sprinkler-drenched room along with his double shoulder holster, leather jacket, and non-gator-infested clothing, but he sure as hell wasn’t weaponless. Neither was Silver.

But he couldn’t say the same for Thibodaux, despite the gun in the man’s hand. Merri’s partner towered behind her, his attention focused on the darkness beyond the battered doors, his Colt held down at his side in a one-handed grip.

A nightkind rumble was no place for a mortal. No matter how good a shot.

Von suddenly regretted his decision to bring the former SB agents along in the hope that their investigative skills might turn up a clue as to who had snatched Dante. And where he might’ve been taken.

“On three?” Merri whispered.