On Midnight Wings

“North,” Mauvais mused, studying the moving blip on the green-lit GPS and the ever-shifting topography surrounding it. So many mysteries contained in one simple action—a fallen angel’s sudden and swift flight through the waning night.

So many mysteries.

Loki and his deadly feud with the Nightbringer.

Dante’s disappearance on the heels of his stunning revelation.

The shootout and fire at Club Hell.

Someone who didn’t know Dante would think he’d simply gone into hiding following the violence at the club, but Mauvais had never known the irritating and stubborn marmot to run from a fight.

No. And he would never leave members of his small household behind if—for whatever unimaginable reason—he had decided to hightail it from New Orleans.

Silver had played it smart by playing dumb. And it might’ve worked too, but for his reaction to Loki’s presence.

Mauvais had no doubt that Loki had plucked Dante’s location from Silver’s mind, along with anything else he desired to know. The young, purple-maned vampire’s defenses would’ve amounted to no more than an apple’s easily peeled skin beneath the sharp blade of the fallen angel’s power.

No, Silver had never stood a chance.

Not once Loki had shifted, his body shimmering, rippling, transforming, into Dante’s pale and lean-muscled form. Silver had been lost the moment Loki-as-Dante’s white hands had cupped his face and brushed heated lips against his mouth.

Let me in, mon ami. Let me in.

Shape-shifter.

Mauvais was more than a little grateful that he’d witnessed that seductive bit of metamorphosis; he’d had no idea Loki possessed that particular talent. Forewarned is forearmed. Such clichès, though trite, were nonetheless true and worth more than a tanker load of hot, fresh blood.

“Are we to follow, my lord?” Phaedra asked.

Just as Mauvais opened his mouth to reply in the affirmative, blue light danced from one navigation screen to the next in a shower of sparks, leaving each screen dark in its wake. The sharp scent of ozone filled the air as the dim overheads winked out.

“Here we go again, goddammit,” Phaedra muttered, scowling, and slapping cut-off switches. “Looks like we ain’t following shit tonight. Almost enough to make me think there really is an angry loa on board.”

“If by angry loa you mean ancient wiring, then yes,” Mauvais said, voice level despite the frustration curdling his belly, “I believe you might be right. In which case, an electrician should be able to ameliorate it.”

“True that, my lord. I’ll make it happen—if Edmond hasn’t already done so. In the meantime, you can track Loki from your car with this.” Phaedra handed Mauvais a small smartphone-size tracker. “Just plug it in, synch it, and go.”

“Ah, très bien,” Mauvais said, offering his navigator a genuine smile, relieved that he wouldn’t be delayed after all. Slipping the portable receiver into a pocket of his frock coat, he turned and exited the wheelhouse.

The pungent odor of kerosene mingled with the cool, fishy aroma of the Mississippi as Edmond and a young male apprenti relit the lanterns along the deck, moving with smooth and silent efficiency from one to the next.

Standing in a pool of light spilling out across the deck from one of the hissing lanterns, Mauvais tugged at the lacy cuffs of his sleeves, saying, “Edmond, have the driver bring my car around at once. I’ll wait on the wharf.”

“Oui, my lord.”

“Oh, and Edmond?”

“My lord?”

“Rafe and Nikolai will be accompanying me.”

“Very good, my lord. I shall so inform them.”

Edmond motioned for the apprenti to continue with the lanterns, then swiveled around with a smooth, precise, almost military grace and headed for the stairs leading belowdecks.

As Mauvais started for the gangplank leading down to the wharf, he remembered the guest he’d abandoned in the French Quarter in his eagerness to return to the Winter Rose to see if his James Bond efforts had paid off or not.

A high-ranking and hot-tempered guest.

Mauvais came to an abrupt halt. “Merde,” he said with a soft groan. Half turning, he called to his majordomo once more.

The soft sound of Edmond’s descending footsteps stopped. “Oui, my lord?”

“If Signor Toscanini should return, please offer him every courtesy, including the finest from my wine cellar and the choicest mortals from my personal menagerie. Inform him that I have gone to rescue that defiant prick Dante Baptiste from the Fallen and shall return shortly.”

The slightest pause, then, “Of course, my lord. I shall so inform Signor Toscanini.”

Mauvais frowned, considering. “Perhaps we should leave out ‘defiant prick,’ oui?”

“Oui. Wise decision, my lord.” Edmond’s quiet footfalls resumed.

Mauvais’s heart slammed into his throat as he swiveled around to find himself facing an inexplicable figure, a flickering, shifting male shape composed of blue neon ones and zeroes.