On Midnight Wings

Lucien had arrived at the institute shortly after midnight and, using a bit of power, persuasion, and suggestion—FBI Special Agent Lucas Black checking on Heather Wallace’s progress—he had learned from the night nurse that Heather had been unexpectedly checked out by her father hours earlier.

He seemed real unhappy that y’all were going to transfer her to a different facility in the morning. I tried to reason with him, but he refused to be reasoned with. Legally, we couldn’t stop him. I’m sorry no one contacted you about this yet but, to be honest, we thought it was the responsibility of Strickland’s director, not ours . . .

That verified what Lucien had suspected—James Wallace hadn’t known the Bureau had used him to get to Heather. Had let him do all the work and face all the danger, just so they could swoop in and seize the prize—his daughter.

And quietly end her life.

Of course, it would be impossible for the Bureau to know that by ending Heather’s life, they would most likely trigger the world’s end as well when Dante laid waste to it transforming what remained into a funeral pyre for Heather.

Unless I stop him. Lucien’s hands knotted into fists at his sides. Like I stopped Yahweh. Unbidden and unwelcome, a memory thousands of years old played behind his eyes.

Lucien cradles Yahweh’s body against his chest. Light no longer blazes from the creawdwr’s face. Tiny drops of scarlet blossom on his skin, blood from Lucien’s nose.

Outside, the ground ripples and quakes and it feels as though Gehenna will tear itself apart. With Yahweh dead, it just might.

“What have you DONE?” Lilith screams the last word. She drops to the floor beside Lucien, hands at her temples. She grabs at Yahweh’s shoulder.

Lucien smacks her hand away and looks at her. Her hand freezes in midair. She stares at him with stunned purple eyes. “You’ll never use him again,” he says. He returns his gaze to Yahweh’s pale, lifeless face. “He’s free . . .”

Headlights shafted through the darkness as a car approached from the opposite lane. It started to slow, a potential Good Samaritan, until Lucien spared it a single molten glance. Taking in the glowing golden gaze, the dragon-winged silhouette, the driver’s eyes widened. The car sped away.

Darkness rolled in once more across the road—and across Lucien’s heart.

If it gets that far. If it comes to that. I will find Dante before it does.

A breeze fragrant with the smells of sagebrush and winter-dried scrub fluttered through the length of Lucien’s hair, whispered cool against his wings. He walked over to the Lexus’s open door, gravel gritting beneath the soles of his shoes.

He knew the car was empty even before he ducked his head inside for a peek. No heartbeats. No faint odor of death. Even so, a keen disappointment knifed through him as he searched the Lexus for any clue as to what had happened to Heather.

An open glove box, an empty gun holster, rental-car paperwork.

A blood-smeared fork on the floorboards.

Severed flex-cuffs.

A few small drops of blood flecking both front seats.

Car keys still in the ignition.

Lucien could read the story easily enough. Heather had used a secreted fork to get the drop on her father, one or both had been slightly injured; she’d managed to get her flex-cuffs off; and someone had grabbed the gun. But nothing—except the flung-open door—hinted at what had happened to Heather or her father after the car had stopped.

They got out, yes, but where did they go?

A chilling possibility occurred to Lucien—maybe it was a mistake to assume that Heather had left the Lexus voluntarily. What if the car had been intercepted, its occupants seized?