On Midnight Wings

“Break time’s over, you murdering bastard,” Morgan informed S cheerfully. His drill whined back to life. “Hope you enjoyed it.”

S coughed, then turned his head and spat blood onto the floor. “I’m a little disappointed by the lack of an in-flight snack,” he said hoarsely, “but you’ll do. Hell, you’re a big boy. More of a seven-course banquet than a snack, yeah?”

The cheerfulness vanished from Morgan’s hazel eyes as his expression darkened. “Asshole,” he gritted, bringing the drill down, its whirling bit aimed for the bloodsucker’s canvas-covered belly.

Graham narrowed his eyes. Was that light shimmering on the table from underneath S? Maybe a reflected glare from the overheads? “Wait,” he called. “What the hell’s that?”

His partner paused, the drill poised a breath above S’s straitjacket and the taut flesh beneath it. He regarded Graham from beneath his blond brows, snapped, “What’s what?”

“That,” Graham said, nodding at S’s prone form. Faint bluish light rippled along the straitjacket’s arms, spreading into its midsection. “See it?”

A frown furrowed Morgan’s forehead as his gaze shifted back to his drill and S. His frown deepened. “Dunno,” he said, taking a wary step back. “Never seen anything like that before. You?”

“No. Maybe it’s a born vamp thing.”

“Maybe.” Uncertainty shadowed Morgan’s eyes.

S turned his blood-smeared face toward Graham and studied him from beneath coal black lashes with eyes gone golden.

Pulse picking up speed, Graham tightened his grip on the bat’s blood-slick aluminum handle. Freaky gold eyes. Mysterious blue glow. WTF? Purcell hadn’t mentioned anything unusual about S. Only the obvious—make sure the prick doesn’t get loose.

“I hear your heart,” S said, his straitjacket awash in blue light, his voice soft and low and hungry. “I’m gonna drink it dry. Savor every drop.”

Graham managed a derisive chuckle despite the chill touching the base of his spine. He stepped closer and swung his bat up—c’mon, batter-batter-batter—winding up for a blow that would knock the bloodsucker’s ass into the future faster than a 1.21-gigawatt-fueled DeLorean. “How about you drink this instead?”

At the apex of Graham’s swing, S’s straitjacket dissolved into hundreds of small, blue-scaled fish and spilled away. Graham froze, heart vaulting into his throat, his mind unable to process what he was seeing. In fact, his mind was pretty damned busy screaming: What! The! Fuck! Which was soon followed by (but not quickly enough): Run!

The tiny sapphire fish tumbled to the floor, slapping moistly against the concrete before swimming into the air with strokes of jeweled fins.

“Dear God,” Morgan breathed.

A heavy metallic thunk behind him told Graham that his partner had just lost his grip on his drill. Graham felt that he was about to lose his grip on a whole lot more.

Sweat beading his forehead, S rested his palms against the table. Thin blue flames licked across its gleaming, wavering surface. Table and restraints splashed to the floor, a sudden blue waterfall, delighting the fish who hadn’t yet taken to the air.

And S . . .

S stood barefoot in a puddle of burning water, a dark, tilted smile on his bloodied lips, blue flames flickering unsteadily around his pale hands. Blood and bruises streaked his white torso from bondage collar to the top of his leather pants. Semi-healed bullet wounds. Drill insults. Bat injuries.

Not possible. Not possible. Not possible, Graham’s mind insisted. But Graham was unable to move his gaze from those burning hands.

S flexed his shoulders. Graham heard the soft whisper of velvet against skin, then smooth, black wings unfolded behind S, arching above his head and snapping the smoky scent of burning leaves into the air.

Graham’s heart tried to kick its way free of his chest. His brain had already left the building—but not before babbling, Wings like a dragon. Or a demon. Yes! A demon. A beautiful and deadly bloodsucking prince of darkness.

Graham crossed himself automatically, a habit that required no thought, despite the decades that had passed since he’d last stepped inside a church.

S snorted. “You kidding me?”

Graham caught a sudden, sharp whiff of piss. I just peed myself, he mourned. But a corresponding lack of wetness told him otherwise. Relief swirled through him as he realized the guilty party had to be Morgan.

S sucked in a pained breath, wincing. He stumbled, the flames vanishing from his hands. “Merde,” he whispered.

Hope launched Graham’s pulse and mind into hyperdrive. Demon or bloodsucker or Prince of Fucking Darkness, S was still in bad shape, thanks to the drugs.

It’s now or never. Make your move.