On Midnight Wings

“Shit,” Dante whispered, easing his eyes open again.

And once again fluorescent light from the overheads spiked straight through them and into his aching brain like luminescent ice picks. Squinting, eyes tearing, he lifted a hand to shield his face—or tried to, anyway. But his arms, crossed over his chest, wouldn’t move.

Canvas rustled. Leather creaked. His mouth dried.

Dante didn’t have to look to know that he was strapped into a fucking straitjacket, but he lifted his head anyway and, blinking away fluorescent dazzles, took a gander and confirmed what he already suspected. Panic settled into his belly and buckled itself in for the ride.

Shit. Fuck. Sonuvabitch.

The straitjacket seemed weathered, flecked with old blood, a patch of fresh blood glistening on the left side, above his heart. And as if that wasn’t enough, steel bands restrained him at his chest and thighs, and his ankles were cuffed—no, make that double-cuffed—to the table.

Dante strained against the bands holding him to the table, muscles cording in his arms and chest and thighs. The heavy steel biting into his bunched biceps and pecs and thighs refused to budge. He refused to give up. Maybe he couldn’t get out of the straitjacket, but he could sure as hell do whatever possible to get his ass off the goddamned table. He fought and battered himself against the steel, not stopping until sweat beaded his forehead and a wet heaviness filled his lungs. He sucked in a breath, the air burning his throat. Pain pulsed deep in his chest.

Shit. Fuck. Sonuvabitch.

What now?

Coughing, Dante closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. At the back of his throat, he tasted blood and the bitter residue of drugs. His head felt full of broken glass and hissing sea-tide whispers, his thoughts punched full of holes.

He was in a room with padded walls, a concrete floor, and a camera snugged into a ceiling corner—and didn’t that feel fucking familiar as hell? The door stood open. Beyond, the hall was empty, a teasing temptation out of reach.

Where am I this time?

As much as Dante hated that particular question, what he hated even more was knowing that the answer was most likely hidden away inside his own skull.

Ragged pain wheeled through his mind as he struggled to think back to the last thing he remembered, fought to remember where, when. He pushed against the blankness. Shoved. Then—

Memory ratcheted into place. Images flickered, running backward—a Halloween strobe light show.

That’s Mr. Díon. He’s been taking care of my mommy. . . .

A tall, black-suited prick with tawny hair and an immortal’s slow pulse.

Tearing into warm, whiskered flesh. Running. The roof.

A hook, slick with light. Handcuffs.

The white padded room. Chloe—no, wait, Violet—with her black paper wings.

Blue eyes wide with panic. C’mon, it’s me. Annie. Heather’s in trouble.

Heather, warm and drowsy in his arms, smelling of lilacs and sage, and with a desperate hope, whispering: Sleep tight, cher.

Heather. Heather. Heather.

Dante shoved through the pain and drug-woven fuzziness encasing his mind and reached for her—or tried to, anyway. Pain shredded his sending and, for one graying, alarming moment, his consciousness. He blinked black spots from his vision as the pain gradually eased off the pedal.

Shit. Fuck. Sonuvabitch.

Beneath the pain, Dante felt the steady flame of Heather’s presence through their bond, a flame currently hidden behind miles of thick, dark glass. Relief flooded through him. Heather was alive. And, as near as he could tell, not here, but somewhere north of him. Maybe hundreds of miles away, maybe just across the street.

But just because Heather wasn’t sharing his particular hellhole, didn’t mean she wasn’t in danger. Didn’t mean she wasn’t straitjacketed into a hellhole of her own or running for her life. Whatever had happened, whatever had landed him on this table, strapped into a motherfucking straitjacket, could’ve swallowed up not only Heather, but Von and Silver and Annie, as well.

Shit. Fuck. Sonuvabitch.

Dante hoped to hell he was wrong—that they were all safe, unharmed—as desperation pushed him up against the steel bands again and again. A wet cough tasting of blood bubbled up from his lungs. He finally stopped, slicked in cold sweat, hoping to catch his breath, hoping to breathe, period.

What about Lucien? Searching, he’d be searching. And sending. Over and over and over. Which meant—I can’t fucking receive either. No sending. No receiving. This party keeps getting better and better.