On Midnight Wings

Swiveling back around, Violet studied him for a long moment through ginger-colored lashes, a fierce, desperate light in her eyes. “I don’t want to leave you behind. You need someone to remind you what’s real and what isn’t, cuz you’re hurt and you don’t always remember stuff.”

Dante thought of Heather, of twilight-blue eyes, of cool white silence infused with her scent. He felt a dark-side-of-the-moon tug to the north—or what his aching head told him was north—a tug as true and as inevitable as sunset or moonrise.

“Don’t worry about me, p’tite ange,” Dante said, holding her blue gaze. “Let me do that, yeah?”

“All righty, then, Violet, that’s enough chit chat,” Purcell said. “Time to get you to the airport and on the way to your mom. Mr. Díon said she misses you very much.”

“Can’t Dante come with us? Please? Pretty please?”

Purcell shook his head, a sympathetic and utterly false smile on his lips. “He’s too sick to travel; his owies, remember? He needs to get better first.”

“It’s okay, p’tite,” Dante said, drawing Violet’s attention back to him. “I can take care of myself. You just take care of yourself and your mom, yeah?”

“Okay,” Violet grumbled.

Dante wished he could plant a see-you-later kiss on Violet’s forehead, but knew he couldn’t risk it. Not with his control cocooned by drugs and his hunger gliding like a shark just beneath the surface, powerful and unpredictable and savage.

Maybe he couldn’t; Violet had other ideas.

Violet’s crayon box thunked to the table as she threw her arms around Dante’s neck and pressed her freckled cheek against his, her soft skin like red-glowing embers against his iciness. “I hate them,” she said in a furious, tear-choked whisper, “for making me go, for hurting you. Mommy says hating is a bad thing, but I don’t care. I don’t.”

“It’s okay, chère, it’s all right. I hate them too.” Sweat beaded Dante’s forehead as he struggled to ignore the shush-shush of the blood rushing through Violet’s veins.

“I don’t wanna go.”

“I ain’t leaving you there in that place, ma p’tite ange,” Dante whispered into her hair, throat so tight it ached. “I will come for you.”

Violet released him reluctantly, then picked up her crayons. “I’ll be waiting,” she replied, her face solemn.

“Take her to the car,” Purcell instructed Violet’s escort. “I’ll be along soon.”

With an acknowledging nod, the suit walked the little girl in her purple Winnie-the-Pooh sweater and tangled red tresses out of the room. Looking at Dante, Violet opened and closed her hand in a resigned farewell as the suit ushered her down the hall and out of sight.

Dante shifted his attention to Purcell. “I’ll be coming for you too.”

Purcell shook his head. “No, you won’t. Because I plan to disregard my orders and put you down permanently. Díon wants you alive so he can smash your sanity to bits. To be honest, I think he’s a little nuts. And he has no fucking clue how dangerous you are.”

“But you do?”

“Oh, yes,” Purcell said. “When I get back, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to take you apart and burn each piece until nothing but ash remains. And then I’ll flush those ashes down the goddamned toilet.”

“You’re gonna try, anyway.”

“Still a cocky bastard. Good.”

Purcell moved up from the foot of the table to stand beside Dante and, reaching inside his suit jacket, withdrew a syringe containing a thick, reddish substance. “Just a little something whipped up by Mother Nature to keep born bloodsuckers in permanent check,” he murmured as he bent and jabbed the needle into Dante’s neck. “But this is only a half dose. I want you weak, but I don’t want you to bleed out. Not yet anyway.”

“Ain’t you a thoughtful asshole?” Dante said as cold flowed through his veins, chilling him from the inside out. Devouring his strength. He tasted something woody and thick and bitter at the back of his throat. Cold sweat iced his skin.

Purcell dropped the emptied syringe onto the floor. It hit with a hard plastic tick. “When it comes to you, yeah. I’m extremely thoughtful.”

Dante’s heartbeat stuttered, paused, then resumed an uneasy rhythm. He coughed, and pain ripped through his lungs. He tasted blood, warm and coppery. Felt its hot trickle from his nose down across his lips. His vision grayed. The world wheeled.

Stay awake. Don’t you dare fucking pass out.

Dante bit down, his fangs slicing into his lower lip. The sudden, sharp pain cleared his vision as more blood seeped into his mouth. The wheeling world slowed.

“Y’know, that whole bit of yours with Violet was pretty damned convincing,” Purcell said, folding his arms casually over his chest, just two old drinking buddies shooting the shit. Never mind that one was in a straitjacket. Details.

“Bit?” Dante questioned.