On Midnight Wings

Leviathan pulls away, recedes, and returns to the seething sea, leaving Lucien untouched. Physically, at least.

After he’d discovered Dante’s existence, Lucien had often wondered at Leviathan’s silence, eventually coming to believe that, with her long search for her son’s killer finally over, Leviathan slept in lightless ocean depths, hibernating beneath tons of watery pressure, and beyond the reach—so far—of Dante’s anhrefncathl. Or so Lucien hoped with each beat of his heart.

A wind-chilled hand touched his shoulder, the fingers nearly cold as ice against his skin. He shivered.

“Lucien, tell me the story from the beginning.”

Turning his head to look at her, Lucien wrapped Hekate’s icy fingers in his, then lifted them to his lips. Kissed them. “It’s a long story, one for another time.”

“I like long stories,” she murmured, stepping closer. The wind molded her moss-green gown against her curves, coaxed rosy color from her cheeks.

“So do I,” a voice said from above them. “And I hear you have a good one.”

Lucien looked up to see the Morningstar kiting down from the night sky, moonlight gleaming along his alabaster wings as they slashed through the brine-laden air. Giving Hekate’s fingers one more kiss, Lucien released her hand. He swiveled to face her father.

“Good isn’t the word I’d use,” Lucien said. “Bad, with the potential for worse.”

The Morningstar landed with ease, despite the wind. He folded his wings behind him with a graceful flutter. He was dressed for the sea weather in black plaid trousers over sturdy black boots. Regarding Lucien with golden eyes, he said, “Let’s hear it, then.”

In a voice prickly with his own swallowed pride, Lucien obliged him.

37 NO LONGER THE ANCIENT WORLD

FINISHED WITH HIS GRIM recitation, Lucien watched as the Morningstar paced along the cliff’s rocky edge in long, furious strides, pebbles gritting beneath his boots. The wind—heavy with the smell of impending rain—whipped through his short white hair and plucked at his trousers. Anger radiated from him in dry ice waves, scorching his bitter orange scent.

“I knew Dante should’ve remained here,” the Morningstar growled.

“He didn’t want to,” Lucien reminded. “And no one could’ve forced him without suddenly needing to adapt to additional or perhaps fewer body parts.”

“Will you help or not?” Hekate asked. “You sealed the blood pledge, therefore you can use it to track Dante.”

“Yes, I can,” the Morningstar agreed. He ceased his pacing and turned around to face them both, winter frost in his eyes. “But once I do, what shape will his sanity be in?”

“What makes you question his sanity?” Hekate asked.

The Morningstar waved a negligent hand. “We’ve all witnessed his seizures, his odd tumbles into a past he doesn’t seem to remember. He was already standing at the crumbling edge of the abyss. He might’ve already fallen.”

Lucien shook his head. “You have no idea what Dante’s endured.”

“I know more than you think. Much more. Mortal minds are so easy to read.”

Lucien stared at the Morningstar, chilled to the bone.

Mortal minds.

Heather. Annie.

If the Elohim should learn about Dante’s past, about Bad Seed, about what had been done to him—the programming implanted within their creawdwr, they would kill him before allowing a mortal agency to control him.

“Dante’s stronger than you think,” Lucien said.

“Dante may be strong, but he’s also exhausted. Even I could see that.”

“So, are you saying it’s too late?” Hekate asked her father. “That you won’t even try? We can’t just give up, we need—” Her words trailed away, her gaze turning inward as she received a sending. She blinked, frowning.

Lucien glanced at the Morningstar and saw that he shared his daughter’s introspective expression and was most likely the source of the sending.

Hekate blew out an exasperated breath. “Fine. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“For what?” Lucien asked.

“A bit of privacy,” the Morningstar answered. “So we can discuss arrangements.”

“Ah. Arrangements,” Lucien murmured. “Of course.”

Lucien watched as Hekate stepped away to unfurl her creamy white wings. They glimmered ghost-pale in the darkness, their undersides the iridescent lavender of seashells. She rose into the night, then quickly flew out of sight.

“Wise,” Lucien said. “Can’t have your daughter seeing you for who you really are.”

The Morningstar laughed, genuine amusement in his voice. “The child is five centuries old. Trust me, she has no illusions on that score.”

“No. I suppose not,” Lucien agreed, turning to face the Morningstar. “Let’s have it, then. How much is your help going to cost me?”

“Now, now,” the Morningstar chided, his lips curving into a mocking smile. “My help is freely given.” He stepped forward until he’d narrowed the distance between them to a mere handspan. “It’s your failure—as a guardian, as a father—that will cost you.”