On Midnight Wings

“There we go. That’s more like it. That’s the S I know and despise.” A cold, contemptuous smile curved Purcell’s lips. “And given the multiple times James Wallace shot you before torching your club and disappearing with his wayward daughter, I’d say he must feel the same way about you.”

Dante blinked. Heather’s father? He didn’t want to believe it, but if Purcell was telling the truth, and he had a feeling that this time the fucker was—at least mostly, then James Wallace had managed to blindside them all.

“Sonuvabitch.” Dante stared at the white-tiled ceiling, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Did the bastard take Annie too?”

“Couldn’t say. What do you care, anyway? You’ve got more pressing concerns.”

“Oui. Like finding Heather. Like killing you.”

“Nice trick for someone who’s never leaving that table. Not alive, anyway.”

Dante shifted his gaze from the ceiling to Purcell. “We’ll see, yeah?”

“That we will,” Purcell agreed, his eyes dark green flint. He sauntered into the room, stopping at the foot of the table. “But for now, Violet wants to tell you good-bye before we head out to the airport. And the only way I’m ever going to get her to shut up about it—short of pumping her full of tranks, that is—is to let her.”

“She okay?” Dante asked, remembering someone yanking her from his arms—against orders—as the seizure knocked him from the night sky.

“She’s fine. Of course, I don’t know how long that’ll be the case.”

“Where are you taking her?” Dante asked warily.

“To HQ,” Purcell replied. “Our science and medical geeks are salivating over what you did to her—not to mention the mystery of how you did it. They can’t wait to get their latex-gloved hands on her and begin their tests and experiments. Kind of like they used to do with you.” A mocking grin stretched his lips. “Not that you remember, of course.”

“Smug fi’ de garce,” Dante said, his voice low and coiled and full of blood, a venomed promise. “Enjoy it. It ain’t gonna last.”

Purcell chuckled. “Really? You keep forgetting I’m not the one in a crazy jacket strapped to a table.” Touching a finger to the com set curving around his right ear, he murmured, “Bring in the kid.”

ANOTHER SUIT ESCORTED VIOLET into the room, box of crayons clutched in her hands. As the little girl walked over to the table, her freckled face somber, her black paper wings rustling behind her, Dante’s reality wobbled. The box of crayons shifted into a plushie orca, the paper wings became shadows.

Pain pulsed at Dante’s temples, behind his eyes.

Stay here. Stay now. Stay . . .

Reality wheeled.

“Looks like you found Orem, princess,” he heard himself saying. “Did one of these bastards give him ba—” His words cut off as a soft voice, one stitched into the very fabric of his heart, whispered from within.

That’s not me, Dante-angel. She’s not me. I’m where I’ve always been.

And that would be dead on the floor in a pool of blood, yeah?

Cold shivved Dante’s heart, sheeted his soul in black ice. As bad as those words were, the voice speaking them—Cajun-spiced and whiskey smooth—was worse; it was his own.

You won’t save her, you know. You’ll fail.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispered, the words hoarse, barely audible. “Tais-toi, tais-toi, tais-toi, tais-toi—”

“Dante-angel. Who are you talking to?”

He smelled soap and strawberries and coppery blood pulsing beneath freckled skin. Heard the hummingbird patter of a little girl’s worried heart. Hunger sat up and took notice. Turning his head, he looked into sky-blue eyes—concerned, curious, trusting. His whispered and furious chant slowed, then trailed away.

Reality wheeled.

Shadows sharpened into paper wings. Plushie fur sloughed away to reveal a bright box of crayons.

“Who are you talking to?” she repeated. “And what does tay-twah mean?”

“Tais-toi means shut up. And I’m just talking to myself—hence all the tais-tois.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Ça va, Violet? You okay?”

Mingled happiness and relief lit Violet’s face. “I’m okay and you remembered!”

“Happens once in a while.” A smile tilted Dante’s lips, then quickly faded as the girl bent to hug him. “I’m hungry, so it ain’t safe to touch me right now, p’tite. Okay? I can’t move, but I could still bite.”

Violet straightened, hugging her box of Crayolas to her chest. “Oh. Even if you didn’t want to, huh?” Her gaze zeroed in on the glistening patch of blood on the straitjacket. “Mr. Purcell promised me that he’d take care of you.” Her voice took on an accusatory, indignant tone as she swiveled to glare at the man in question. “He promised.”

Dante shifted his gaze to Purcell. Purcell lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, I’m sure he plans to do just that.”