On Midnight Wings

No tire marks were scorched black on the highway, no broken bits of red plastic from the taillights or paint scrapes on the bumpers. No flat tires. Nothing to indicate that the Lexus had been forced from the road.

Nothing and more nothing.

Frustration burned through Lucien, strung his muscles wire-tight. He climbed back out of the Lexus and studied the scrub and the woods beyond the road. Closing his eyes, he listened. He heard the small, rapid pulse of animal hearts, of birds, but nothing that indicated a mortal sheltered amongst the trees, hiding in the darkness.

Heather had disappeared. His only link to Dante, gone.

And Lucien no longer knew where to look for her. He felt something deep inside of him crack, then sheer away, like tons of ice sliding from a glacier into the sea.

The truth is never what you hope it will be.

Hearing a metallic double whomp, Lucien opened his eyes and watched impassively as both fists slammed again into the Lexus’s roof, crumpling it inward. The windshield exploded, spraying shards of glittering glass into the gravel.

Even while a part of himself insisted that this wasn’t productive behavior, his fists kept pounding into the car, over and over, until the roof finally merged with the seats. Metal groaned, then shrieked as he wrenched the door off its hinges and tossed it toward the woods. He heard a distant whump as it landed.

Lucien stared at the remains of the shattered, pummeled car, his taloned hands flexing. Aching to destroy something else. Anything else. It was better than admitting he’d been defeated. And with that realization, his savage fury and despair drained away like radioactive water from a broken core, leaving behind a simple, unavoidable truth.

He needed to ask for help.

I’m running out of options, out of time, and I can no longer afford to keep Dante’s and Heather’s disappearances secret. Not when every world, every life, is at stake.

Especially my son’s.

Lucien’s wings flared, sweeping through the cool air, and he rose into the night. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to take deep, even breaths. Forced his pulse to slow, his heart to calm.

he sent, <Heather and her father have vanished. I’m afraid I can’t meet you. Have you arrived in Dallas yet?>

Silence.

Frowning, Lucien sent again, a psionic ping to check Von’s state of consciousness. He felt the submerged and dreaming rhythm of Sleep—albeit an unusual Sleep given that it wasn’t even close to dawn. Yet Von’s Sleep seemed to be natural, no drug static blurred his consciousness. How was that possible?

And then he remembered the stay-awake pill Von had taken back at the house while trying to reach Heather. He suspected that the consequences Merri Goodnight had warned about had caught up with the nomad.

“By all that’s holy, not now,” Lucien muttered.

Contacting Silver, Lucien learned that he’d left Von at the club, preparing to head to Louis Armstrong International to catch a flight to Dallas. Silver hadn’t heard from Von since, and when he tried at Lucien’s insistence, met with the same result. And came to the same conclusion: stay-awake pill consequences.

<I’ll go look for him,> Silver sent. <Make sure he’s Snoozing someplace where he won’t be crispy-crittered when dawn comes.>

<Good. Thank you.>

<You pick up Heather yet?> Silver asked.

Lucien drew in a deep breath of sage-sharp air and folded up his own fears, quietly putting them away. <Not yet,> he admitted. <Things haven’t worked out the way I’d hoped. But I have another plan, one that involves a trip to Gehenna.>

<Gehenna?> Uncertainty shadowed Silver’s sending. <Is that smart? If they find out—>

<Don’t worry, I don’t plan on spreading the word.>

Lucien ended the conversation with a promise to keep Silver informed, now that Von was down for the count.

Abandoning the now-ruined Lexus as a lost cause, Lucien unfurled his wings and took to the air. As he soared higher and higher in the star-pierced sky, frost iced his hair into translucent tendrils, glittered on his wings, burned cold in his lungs. He flew through the night, arrowing himself toward the gate high above the Gulf of Mexico, the smell of brine and deep water in his nostrils.