On Midnight Wings

“It’s almost two. I don’t think the club is going to open. That’s late, even for us. I heard rumors that someone tried to burn it to the ground and, frankly, it smells like they almost succeeded.”

“I was there that night, y’know. Saints of Ruin played—so fucking awesome, then Dante got into the Cage and oh my God . . .”

“Fathered by one of the Fallen. A True Blood. Right under our noses. I hear the clock ticking away on Mauvais’s rule and influence . . .”

“DanteDanteDanteDante . . .”

His name, a prayer murmured by nightkind and in-the-know mortals alike, a chant of lust and greed and want. Silver shook his head.

They don’t even know him, not really. They only know what he is, not who. And they could care less, the shitheads.

Soon every power-hungry nightkind yearning for a new BFF with Fallen ties and a yummy, endless supply of super-charged blood would be arriving in fanged hordes and camping on the club’s scorched doorstep. Hell, some already were.

Dante had known that would happen, of course. Had been expecting it. And, according to Von, planning to kick ass.

But that had been before. Before James Wallace. Before Heather had been kidnapped. Before Dante had vanished like a sheet-draped volunteer in a magic act.

Now you see him. Now you don’t.

Hoping no one recognized or spotted him—and thus tried to stop him—Silver made his way over to where Annie was busy pacing out a short, tight figure eight along the curb in front of Von’s Harley, puffing away on another Camel.

A quick glance up the busy sidewalk confirmed no Merri. Looked like the former SB tagalong was still busy with her own Von-whereabouts reconnaissance.

If the stay-awakes knocked the man down, then I want to be there to help him back up again. And I definitely want to say, ‘told ya,’ when I do.

Stubborn-ass nomad.

Silver had the feeling that Merri Goodnight planned to give Von more than just an earful—a lot more. But, given what he’d just learned, Silver seriously doubted she’d have the opportunity any time soon.

Dammit, Von. What the hell have you done?

Annie looked like a Bourbon Street regular in jeans that Jack claimed one of his sisters had left behind, a too-big Cajun Anarchy T-shirt, and fuzzy purple slippers. All she was missing were the Mardi Gras beads, the big-ass plastic cup full of booze, and the drunken WHOO-HOOs.

But Annie’s body language dispelled the drunken partier illusion as she smoked cigarette after cigarette, her free hand flexing at her side—fisted, open, fisted, open. Restless. Driven. Prickling with fury and grief and guilt. Thin white scars ran vertically along the inside of each wrist, mute testimony to the depths she had plumbed in the past.

Depths Silver understood well.

Annie slanted him a sidelong look as he drew up alongside her and handed her a fresh pack of smokes. Even though shadows smudged the skin beneath her eyes, the blue depths of her irises glittered with feverish light. A light Silver recognized—she was manic as hell. Swept up in a bipolar tsunami, rising and rising and rising.

The fall, when it came, was going to be a motherfucker. And she wouldn’t fall alone. She’d take everyone who cared about her along for the ride.

Something else he understood well.

And that was the main reason he’d brought her along with him while he searched for Von’s Snoozing nomad ass instead of leaving her at the house with Jack and Emmett. They wouldn’t know how to deal with her. He did.

Silver understood what Annie was going through better than most. Life on the streets as a mortal teen had taught him that much. A life, in the long run, that he hadn’t survived. Or wouldn’t have, if not for the vampire who’d slapped the knife from his hand and yanked him off that Portland bridge before he could toss himself into the river’s cold, dark embrace ten years ago.

And who had become Silver’s père de sang.

Silver’s gaze rested on Von’s Harley. Street light gleamed on the Fat Boy’s handlebars and glinted darkly from the matte black gas tank. He could use Cian’s advice right about now. But he had a feeling reaching out to his père de sang at the moment would be heavily frowned upon by Lucien.