On Midnight Wings

Silver opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again when Von added quietly, “They’re mortal, Silver, vulnerable. And Annie needs you. Besides, you’re the only one I trust to protect them. Our household can’t take another loss.”

Silver raked a hand through his purple anime-styled locks, spiking the air with hair-gel perfume. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Yeah, okay. But you better keep me in the loop.”

“You know I will,” Von replied, giving his taut-muscled shoulder a quick squeeze.

“You need a ride to the airport?”

“Nope. My bike’s out front. But I do need you to take our new SB friends back to Jack’s. Keep a close eye on them. And keep me posted.”

“Sure. What about your hot friend in the red dress—Holly?”

“Let me worry about her,” Von said. “Why don’t you start loading up whatever you’ve salvaged and get everyone back to Jack’s?”

Silver nodded. “Will do.” He moved, blurring down the hall to his room in a cool, cinnamon-scented breeze.

Von turned, then stumbled as the hallway suddenly dipped, then spun. Black spots flecked his vision. Electricity tingled along his spine. Jack’s sneakers and jacket thudded to the floor. Grabbing the wall for support, he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Shit, not now. Not now. Murphy and his law can sit and spin.

After a moment, Von cautiously opened his eyes. Nothing dipped or spun or twirled. Exhaling in relief, he scooped up the jacket and sneakers, then headed downstairs and into the club proper.

As he headed for the bar where Merri and her partner sat, he felt the mental tickle that was a llygad’s warning to stand by, that official information was about to be streamed from the filidh into llygaid minds. Von righted a stool and sat down at the bar.

“Hear you’re headed for the airport,” Merri said.

“Hold on.” Von tapped a fingertip against the crescent moon beneath his right eye.

Merri uttered a soft and respectful “Oh.”

Von didn’t have to wait long. As he focused his attention inward, vivid and familiar images streamed into his mind—and simultaneously into the minds of llygaid worldwide to be shared with their chosen households—and his belly sank like a fucking anchor.

The filidh had finally released Dante’s announcement, the one that Von had captured and sent to the master Bards himself almost three nights ago at Dante’s request.

Talk about lousy, fucking timing.

When the streaming memory-feed ended, Von closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead wearily with his fingertips. “Christ,” he muttered.

<Dante’s announcement,> he informed Silver.

<Fuck. Now?>

<Yup. Now. Bets on how long before nightkind start lining up outside hoping to kiss Dante’s firm, lily-white ass?>

<Shit.>

Shit indeed.

A sudden, sharp intake of breath dropped Von’s hand from his forehead and opened his eyes in time to see Merri’s dark gaze unfocus. Von knew that llygaid in their individual households were passing along the images now pouring into Merri’s mind. Knew the same thing was happening the world over, rippling across timelines, and even into the dreams of Sleeping nightkind—llygaid-sent.

Von rose to his feet and walked behind the soot-and water-stained bar, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s off the glass liquor shelf, and cracked the seal. Deciding to forgo the usual tumbler, he drank straight from the bottle.

Fuck Murphy and his stupid goddamned law.

17 BADASS AND BEAUTIFUL

MERRI FELT AN URGENT nudge at her shields—a mental touch she recognized as belonging to her mère de sang’s llygad, Juliet. Merri relaxed her shields, then closed her eyes.

<Dante Baptiste in an official announcement made at his Club Hell at approximately eleven p.m. Central Time on March 28th,> Juliet sent.

Merri frowned, wondering at the announcement’s delay. Then images flooded her mind in detail so vivid it seemed as though she viewed them through her own eyes, transported in time and place to Club Hell, to a moment almost three nights old—a moment taking place right now.

She stands in front of the Cage, breathing in air thick with musky pheromones, pungent curls of pot and tobacco smoke, patchouli, and sweat. At her back, she feels the heated, adrenaline-soaked press of the club crowd; hears the jackrabbit rush of mortal pulses mingling with the slow waltz of nightkind hearts.