On Midnight Wings

Lusty catcalls scrape into the air at the sight of Dante’s bared torso—all lean, defined muscle and ivory skin. A ridged white scar forms an odd blend of pyramids and loops on one pec. “Don’t stop there!” someone teasingly pleads. “Keep going!”

Dante turns around, giving the crowd his back. He flexes his shoulder and deltoid muscles, then smooth black wings edged in deepest crimson slide out from beneath his skin in a rush and unfurl, snapping the scent of burning leaves and musk into the air.

Silence swallows the crowd whole, mortal and nightkind alike.

Dante swivels back around with an unconscious and sexy grace and displays the undersides of his wings—streaked in fire patterns of brilliant blue and purple—before folding them shut behind him. He grasps the microphone again, the rings on his fingers and thumb clinking against the metal, yanking it close to the wicked, knowing smile tilting his lips.

“Does that answer the bullshit question? Anyone? Anyone?”

THE IMAGE THAT MERRI was receiving of Dante in the Cage, black dragon wings folded at his back and arching above his head, suddenly wrinkled like the surface of a wind-kissed pond, then smoothed away into nothingness as Juliet withdrew the feed from Merri’s mind.

Merri’s heart drummed a stuttering cadence against her ribs. Fallen. Not only True Blood, but Fallen. Her racing thoughts hurried back to Damascus and the white stone angels rimming the mysterious cave—where a home had once stood, where a rogue FBI agent and his family had died.

Blue sparks flicker like fireflies over the white stone, skip along the butter-smooth wings. From within the white stone a heart flutters, the sound slowing. Not statues, no. Merri senses power in each stone figure, power that tingles against her gloved fingertips. She remembers tales of Fallen magic, whispers of angelic battles.

Merri couldn’t help but wonder how Dante Baptiste—given what she now knew about him—had managed to avoid sharing their fate, especially since he’d been there too, he and Heather Wallace both.

She also couldn’t help but wonder why Von, that long cool drink of a nomad, had neglected to mention the fact that Dante was Lucien De Noir’s son. Nightbringer. A vision of raven-black wings, their edges sharp as a scythe, flaring above bone-white tombs, flashed behind her closed eyes, leaving her both chilled and uneasy.

An aroma of sweet oranges and almonds washed over Merri’s senses—Galiana’s scent—and then she felt her mère de sang’s soothing, mental touch.

<See, child? What did I tell you?>

<‘I have a suspicion that events beyond the scope of mortals or even vampires might be unfolding,’> Merri quoted. <Do you think Dante’s a part of those events?>

But Galiana ignored her question, asking one of her own instead. <Did you notice the sigil on Dante Baptiste’s chest?>

<Sigil? The weird scar?>