On Midnight Wings

“Sap,” Von confirmed. “The resin from a dragon’s blood tree is medicinal for mortals, but fatal to True Bloods. Nature’s way of balancing shit out by giving born immortals an Achilles’ heel, I guess.” He scowled. “Goddamned nature.”

Jack’s breath caught. “Fatal?”

“Yeah, and with as many times as that bastard shot Dante, he should’ve been dead by now. The only reason he’s still alive is because of you.” Von nodded at Lucien, saw comprehension and relief flash in his eyes. “Because of his Fallen bloodline. But I don’t know if or how long it’s gonna keep him that way. This is uncharted territory.”

“What does he need?” Lucien asked.

“That’s the problem—I don’t know what he needs. No one does.” Raking a hand through his hair in frustration, Von fingered apart blood-matted locks, welcoming the distracting pull of pain at his scalp. “Any other True Blood would already be dead.”

Gold light flared in Lucien’s eyes, gleaming like stars in the gloom. “Good thing, then, that he’s not any other True Blood.”

“Doesn’t hurt that he’s also one tough, stubborn-ass sonuvabitch,” Von said. “That’s another good thing. Damned good.” He returned to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He tossed the crumpled bits of brass onto the table. “We’re gonna find him and his equally stubborn-ass woman, bring them both home.”

“Yes, we will,” Lucien rumbled. “And the sooner, the better. I trust you’re ready to resume your attempts to contact Heather?”

Von shook his head. “No, I’m ready to succeed in contacting Heather, not attempt to succeed. But first . . .” Reaching across the table, he grabbed up Thibodaux’s bottle of Dixie and, giving the man a quick thanks-for-your-generous-donation wink, poured the remainder of the cold, hopsy brew down his throat.

“Please, by all means, take mine,” Thibodaux drawled, amusement glinting in his eyes. “It’s a helluva long way to the fridge and back, after all. Would probably take at least four whole seconds. Maybe even five. Who’s got that kind of time or energy?”

Von thumped the empty down onto the table, then belched. “Exactly. Y’know, I think I’m starting to like you.”

Thibodaux lifted one ginger eyebrow. “As a person or as lunch?”

Von shrugged. “Don’t wanna spoil the mystery. Thanks for the beer, man.”

Shrugging, the former SB agent started reassembling his just-cleaned gun, his long-fingered hands moving with a deft and practiced ease. “Eh. You’re welcome.”

Von closed his eyes, then reached out to Heather again.

<C’mon, doll. Talk to me.>

All he heard/felt was drug-thick static. But that didn’t stop him. He could be one stubborn motherfucker too, especially when it came to family—and whether Heather knew it or not, she was definitely that.

So was Dante. Maybe they hadn’t been born brothers, but they were brothers under the skin, their fates tied together. Von had known that inexplicable truth the moment he’d first seen Dante standing onstage with his band in a smoky N’awlins dive. And Von had made himself a promise that night.

Wherever his path takes him, he ain’t gonna be walking it alone. I’ll be right beside him. Each step of the way. I’ll always have his back.

Really? Sure about that?

Right now Dante was very much alone, his back unguarded.

Jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, Von leaned forward in his chair, elbows to knees, and rested his head in his hands. Drawing in a deep breath, he reached for Heather again.

<C’mon, doll. I need you. And I mean that in a totally platonic way.>

Only static.

Von kept at it.

When he felt Silver awaken through their link, felt his confusion at his unexpected whereabouts, he realized that the sun had slipped beneath the horizon. He shifted his focus from Heather to Dante, hoping against hope that his friend had awakened as well.

<Little brother . . .>

But once again, his sending bounced back from the barricade of resin, drugs, and pain that still surrounded Dante’s mind, leaving him unable to determine if Dante was conscious or not. But gut instinct whispered, He’s out cold, poison racing through his veins, pulsing through his heart; a whisper that left him cold.

Knowing he needed to get back to Heather before time ran out, Von reluctantly withdrew from his link with Dante, but not before arrowing a message at the barricade: <We’re coming for you, little brother. Just hold the hell on.>