On Midnight Wings

And inside the Cage . . .

A lean-muscled form in a shirt of PVC and fishnet and metal straps; low-slung black latex jeans and boots. A metal studded leather collar encircles his milk-white throat. Light glints from the steel ring at its center, from the rings on his fingers and thumbs, but not from the hoops she knows trace the curves of his ears—hidden behind the nightfall of his black hair.

He steps forward, a sinuous and natural panther prowl. Merri’s breath catches rough in her throat. She’s only seen him frozen in photos or at a distance in grainy or static-freckled video feed, never like this—right in front of her, pulsing heat through her veins with just a simple movement.

Badass and beautiful Dante Baptiste curls one pale hand around the microphone, leaning in just a little, his cupid’s-bow lips nearly grazing the mic cover. “This is an official announcement for all you nightkind out there . . .”

Merri had planned to approach Dante—when they finally met—with an open-minded neutrality in order to assess the damage done to him by Bad Seed. She had studied his photos, memorizing every contour of his ivory-pale face, each line of his tight-muscled body, in an effort to inoculate herself against his thought-scorching beauty.

And she believed she had succeeded. Believed herself ready and more than capable of doing what her mère de sang had requested of her.

The Conseil du Sang want you to be their emissary to Dante Baptiste. They want you to assess his condition, to determine whether he can be salvaged. As rare and powerful as True Bloods are, no one wants to just throw this boy away. But if he’s too damaged, then he’s much too dangerous to remain free . . .

Now, watching him in the Cage, Merri knew herself for a fool.

“I’M GONNA SHARE A few things I’ve learned recently and end the rumors tonight.” Dante’s kohl-rimmed, deep brown eyes skim the crowd for a moment before he continues. “I’m the Nightbringer’s son and I was born nightkind.”

Stunned silence from the crowd. Lucien De Noir stands beside the Cage door, his chin lifted, his face nearly luminous with pride.

“Just so there’s no confusion,” Dante continues into the silence, his Cajun-accented voice shifting into a warning drawl, “no, I won’t turn you. No, you ain’t getting a taste. No, I ain’t interested in claiming power, your fucking household, or your girlfriend.”

“Bullshit! You’re lying through your fangs!” someone shouts. “You’re just trying to win support against Guy!”

“Yeah, that’d be my thought too, in your place,” Dante says, unstrapping his latex shirt and peeling it off.