Grabbing up the cell phone, he thumbed a brief text to Caterina: Where are you?
Less than a minute later, a quiet beep announced her reply: Germantown, TN. On assignment. Finished. What do you need?
Have urgent task. Regards D. Call me.
The message had no sooner been sent than Teodoro’s cell was ringing. “I’m listening,” Caterina said when he answered. Her faint Italian accent was flat, all business.
“Bueno. I need you to keep listening.”
Teodoro filled Caterina in, but with selective bits of information, changing Heather’s kidnapping by her father to a meeting with FBI handlers instead.
“Our people grabbed her when she was on her way back to Baptiste’s club. If she’s brought into HQ, she’ll spill everything to avoid interrogation and then they’ll learn who and what Baptiste is—what they’ve really got on their hands. A Maker. Programmed to obey. To use however they choose.”
“Not if I can help it. I’ll intercept them and make sure she never says a word. Give me their route and time table.”
Teodoro did exactly that, then ended the call. He tossed the cell back into his briefcase; the audio jammer he slipped into a trouser pocket instead. With Heather Wallace’s death, the bond she shared with Dante would be severed, giving him that last hard shove into madness.
And stealing all hope from the Fallen.
Teodoro left his office, heading for the elevators.
AS HE WALKED INTO the evidence warehouse on level ten, Teodoro caught the gleam of ivory wings beyond the rows of metal shelves containing plastic evidence tubs and cartons piled with old files. Ivory wings frozen in mid-slash.
He followed the aisle leading to the warehouse’s center, breathing in the faint smells of ozone and musty cardboard and things forgotten. Or hidden, he reflected as he strode past the last set of shelves and saw what waited beyond them.
The work of one angry creawdwr, Dante Baptiste.
A Fallen Stonehenge.
One carefully reconstructed from photos taken at the Damascus, Oregon, site before the “statues” had been transported across the country to HQ.
Transformed into alabaster statues of exquisite detail and captured motion—standing, crouching, kneeling, flying, fleeing—the fallen angels ringed the concrete floor, capped by those medusaed in mid-flight, wings spread.
Wearing a plum-colored dress belted at the waist and elegant black pumps, Seraphina Ivey waited in front of one the statues. Tall and curvaceous, with dark, golden-blond tresses tumbling to her shoulders in glossy waves, winter-gray eyes, and flawless skin, she looked to be in her early thirties.
She was a good decade older. And, thanks to a nephilim ancestor, one she hadn’t even known existed until Teodoro had enlightened her, she would retain her beauty and youthful appearance for many decades more.
Teodoro drew to a stop beside her, but remained silent until he had the audio jammer set up on the concrete floor. Once it was burbling away, he said in a low voice, “Sorry about the delay.”
“S has announced that he is True Blood and Fallen,” Seraphina said. “Every vampire in the world—including those within the SB—knows by now or soon will, once they awaken and receive the feed from their household llygad.”
Teodoro stared at her, hoping he hadn’t heard right, but the sinking feeling in his belly told him that he had. “How is that even possible? He’s stashed away at Doucet-Bainbridge.”
“I know,” Seraphina replied, worry sharpening the planes of her face. “But apparently S made the announcement several nights ago. It was delayed until the filidh had verified his claims.”
Teodoro raked a hand through his hair in chagrin. It hadn’t occurred to him that Dante would give up his secrets. According to his research, Dante rarely spoke about himself, even in interviews.
Of course, he never knew much about himself until recently, now did he?
“Did he say anything about being a creawdwr?”
“No,” Seraphina answered. “But he named his father as the Nightbringer. We know him as Lucien De Noir. Do you know anything about him—as the Nightbringer, I mean?”
Teodoro felt a hot and cold shock at that revelation. “No, the Nightbringer’s a bit before my time. All I know is that he fled Gehenna after killing the last creawdwr.”
“And now he’s the father of the next,” Seraphina murmured. “Talk about karma taking an ironic twist.”
“To say the least. ¡Madre de Dios! This is a mess.”
“More than you know,” Seraphina said grimly. “S’s little announcement has the rest of the committee looking at him in a new light and reexamining certain questions.”
“Such as?”
“Everything, Teo. Everything. Why is it that wherever S goes, inexplicable events follow? The destruction of St. Louis No. 3 in New Orleans. The bizarre events in Damascus, including”—Seraphina turned and waved a hand at the stone angels—“this. Then there’s the matter of S transforming one little girl into another long dead.”
“Remind your fellow committee members that there’s no proof of that,” Teodoro said. “Those who witnessed Violet’s so-called transformation might’ve simply witnessed a bit of True Blood or Fallen illusion, a magical sleight of hand, a—”
Seraphina shook her head. “That’s not going to fly. Not now. They want to round S up and bring him in and find out exactly what they have on their hands. They also want Violet’s psychological testing ended and for her to be returned.”
“Returning Violet won’t be a problem,” Teodoro said. “I no longer need her.”
Which was a relief, truth be told. He liked Violet. Yes, he’d been willing to sacrifice her to a greater cause, but that didn’t mean he liked her any less. It would be easy enough to ensure that the girl was brought to him first upon her return to HQ, even easier to alter her memories of the sanitarium and erase those involving her time with Dante.
“And S?” Seraphina stepped closer to Teodoro. She smelled faintly of cherry vanilla perfume. “How damaged is he?”
“Beyond repair. He’s already becoming the Great Destroyer.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer to kill him before he does?”
“Safer—yes. But not nearly as satisfying as forcing the Fallen to kill him instead.”
Seraphina cupped a hand to his face, her palm warm against his skin. Sympathy gleamed in her eyes. “I know how much you want this, but how long will the Fallen merely wait and watch? How many mortals will have to die before they put an end to their maddened creawdwr?”
“As many as it takes, querida.”
Seraphina frowned. “But that’s wrong. We can’t allow it, that’s—” Teodoro tenderly brushed his fingers against her temple and her words stopped mid-sentence. Her hand fell away from his face.
Despite the natural shields provided by her nephilim bloodline—diluted as it was by generations of mortal descendants—Teodoro made his way easily into Seraphina’s mind, erased her lingering doubts and fears, then withdrew again.
Seraphina blinked, rubbed her forehead, then said, “Um . . . I’ll do my best to stall the committee where S is concerned.”
“Thank you. That’s all I ask,” Teodoro said, lowering his hand from her temple. He glanced at the jammer. “Is that everything?”
“Yes.” Swiveling around with stiletto grace to face the statues again, Seraphina rested a hand against a Fallen male’s stone chest. “I can still feel their hearts. A distant boom like when the ocean surges against a cliff.” She cast a winter-gray glance at Teodoro from over her shoulder. “Have you noticed?”
Teodoro nodded. “I’ve also noticed that the time between beats gets a little longer with each passing day.” He smoothed his hand along one cool stone limb, wondering—not for the first time—if the aingeal within was aware of his predicament, an immortal trapped in stone. Counting each and every endless second.
Teodoro certainly hoped so.
23
DEADLY LITTLE PUPPET
GERMANTOWN, TENNESSEE
THE BLUE MAGNOLIA INN
CATERINA CORTINI STRAPPED ON her shoulder rig, then tucked her SIG Sauer P220 into the holster before pulling on her black blazer. After zipping up her overnight bag, she took one final glance around the motel room with its blue magnolia wallpaper to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
Doing this was normally second nature. Done without thought.
But, given the distracting nature of the headaches she’d been enduring off and on over the last week, she made herself look again, more slowly. There. On the nightstand. Her black leather gloves.
Shaking her head in disgust, Caterina grabbed the butter-soft leather gloves and stuffed them into a pocket of her blazer. That never would’ve happened a week ago. Something was wrong—very wrong. She could feel it.
The headaches. Her difficulty sleeping, concentrating.
Her mind felt full of writhing worms.
Could be a brain tumor, a budding aneurysm. I should see a doctor.
She should, yes. And she would. But it would have to wait until after she’d finished her assignment and Heather Wallace was no longer capable of betraying anyone—let alone Dante Baptiste—ever again.
Díon had said that the intercept team was scheduled to stop in Little Rock, but he hadn’t known where they’d be staying with their unwilling guest. Caterina knew from experience that only certain motels were SB authorized and approved—by the accounting department, anyway. And in Little Rock, there wouldn’t be more than four or five authorized motels. She would simply check each one.
That would be the easy part. Getting to Heather without killing fellow SB agents would be harder. Of course, if she had no other choice, then she wouldn’t hesitate to end their lives as well. But she hoped it wouldn’t come to that this time.
Words once given to her by her mentor in black ops—a man recently killed in a vicious home invasion—were words she believed in and lived by.
With each life we end, we alter the future, end possibilities. We become agents of destiny. Severing some, fulfilling others. A hard and honorable duty.
Yet sometimes, it simply felt hard.
Grabbing up her bag, Caterina left her room, checked out of the motel, then went to her rented Nissan Sentra. Unlocking it, she tossed her bag into the backseat, then slid in behind the wheel. She sat there for a moment, motionless, one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand on the door, questions and doubts prickling like thorns at the back of her mind.
I’ve seen Heather Wallace fight at Dante’s side, seen her risk her life for him. Seen him risk life and sanity for her. I truly believed that she loved him, would always stand beside him.
How could she fool all of us—me, the llygad, Dante himself? It doesn’t seem possible.
(it isn’t)
Pain throbbed at Caterina’s temples. She stared out the windshield and into the silent parking lot, troubled in a way she had never been before.
I don’t know if I can trust my own thoughts.
(you can’t)
Her stomach clenched at the smells wafting into the car—car exhaust from the nearby highway and spicy fried chicken from the Popeye’s next door—which seemed to intensify the pain drilling into her skull. She shut the Nissan’s door.
Rubbing her forehead, Caterina tried to summon up particulars from the transcripts and photos Díon had shown her of Heather meeting with the FBI in various locations, but her mind blanked and the details eluded her, the images blurred.
“Dannazione,” she muttered. She was wasting time.
Unbidden, an image of Renata—slim and small and graceful, dark eyes and pale skin, her chestnut brown hair a cap of Roman ringlets and curls that swept against her white shoulders—popped into her mind and something deep inside of Caterina unknotted in inexplicable relief.
“Sing to me, Mama,” she whispered, as though she were once again a child who played at night and slept at dawn, a mortal child adapting to the nocturnal rhythms of a vampire household. “Sing to me.”
Still rubbing her forehead, Caterina imagined her mother doing just that, crooning a familiar bedtime lullaby in a voice as comforting as flannel and hot cocoa on a winter night.
Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol / Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol . . .
Pain needled Caterina’s temples, behind her eyes. Burned white hot as each imagined and melodic note hooked bits of memory and knitted them together. Wincing, Caterina squeezed her eyes shut. An image took shape.
“Relax,” Díon murmurs. “Submit.”
Caterina tries to move, but her body refuses to cooperate. Díon’s mental fingers are still planted in her brain.
“You’re going to be my sleeper spy, my link to Baptiste and his household . . .”
“I won’t help you. You might as well just snap my neck now.”
Díon laughs, the sound low and amused. “You say that as if you actually have a choice in the matter, mia bella assassina . . .”
Caterina’s eyes flew open. Her heart kicked against her ribs as a stark and furious realization poured through her aching mind. Díon—the bastard had used her, had . . .
Worms wriggled, writhed. And the realization dropped away like a child into an uncapped well. The pain in her head faded, vanished. Caterina blinked. What had she been thinking? Something about Díon . . . something about . . .
Little Rock. Heather Wallace. Backstabbing puttana.
But not for much longer.
The redhead’s remaining time could be counted in hours. Only two and a half stretched between Germantown and Little Rock. Less, if Caterina goosed the speed limit.
Caterina started the Nissan and drove out of the parking lot.
24
APRIL FOOL’S DAY
LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS
THE GOLDEN CROWN INN
HEATHER SCANNED THE MOTEL room, looking for potential weapons or escape routes. One barred window framed by worn gold curtains, two queen-sized beds with matching gold comforters, a nightstand and lamp between them. Bathroom doorway. A TV. Dresser. Closet. Small desk.
Her gaze lingered on the bedside lamp. Potential weapon. Check.
“I need to use the bathroom,” she said.
“Nobody’s stopping you,” Roberts said. “Just leave the door open.”
Heather heard a solid click behind her, followed by the thunk of the security latch as either Roberts or his partner, DeAgostino, locked the place up. The room smelled like a thrift store—musty, used, and steeped in Pine-Sol and old cigarette smoke—despite the brief infusion of fresh air from outside.
“I need you to take these off so I can,” Heather said, turning and lifting her cuffed hands. Arched her eyebrows. “C’mon, guys. Just while I’m in the bathroom. I’m tired, I’m sore, and I have absolutely zero desire to be tased again. Give me a break.”
Roberts shook his head. “You can do your business with them on.”
“Look, I want to wash up a little too, plus take care of the wounds on my back. I can’t do that with these.” Heather swiveled her wrists. Light glinted from the steel braceleted around them. “I give you my word—I’m not going anywhere. All I want is to wash up, get something to eat, then crash.”
“Food sounds pretty damned good, actually,” DeAgostino grunted.
Roberts glanced at his watch. “It’s after two. Not much will be open.”
“I noticed a Denny’s when we hit town. Can always get food to go.”
“Works for me,” Roberts agreed. “But first . . .” He studied Heather with penetrating blue eyes, his expression dubious. “Let’s see these so-called wounds.”
“Okay,” Heather said, offering him her back. “But you’ll have to do the honors.”
Cool air brushed her skin as Roberts lifted the hem of her sweater. The puncture wounds had stopped bleeding hours ago, but they still throbbed, as did her ankle.
He whistled low. “What do you think, partner? A tiny vampire with four fangs?”
“Or someone check
ing to see if she was ready to come out of the oven yet.”
Heather rolled her eyes. “Comedians.”
Gently lowering her sweater, Roberts asked, “So what happened?”
Heather looked at him from over her shoulder. She knew she walked a thin line. A little bit of resigned cooperation might lower their guard, but too much would make them suspicious. “Does it matter?” she asked, voice flat.
Roberts shrugged. “Not really. Just curious.”
Without another word, he strode past her and into the bathroom. Heather heard the plastic rustle of the shower curtain being pushed aside, the porcelain clunk of the toilet lid. After a moment, Roberts came back out, carrying an iron. He waggled it at her, a smirk on his lips.
“Aw, damn,” Heather murmured. “A shame you found that. I had something I needed to press.”
“I can just imagine,” he retorted, opening the door and setting the iron outside on the sidewalk. After closing and relocking the door, he walked over to Heather and unlatched the cuff from her right wrist. The other he left untouched. He tucked the key back into a pocket of his dark brown fleece jacket.
“Thanks.” Heather rubbed her freed wrist, feeling genuine relief as she limped, ankle throbbing, into the bathroom. Her need hadn’t been just an excuse—well, not entirely.
“Leave the door open,” Roberts reminded. “And don’t worry, no one’s going to peek while you tinkle.”
Once inside, Heather could see why Roberts had no problem sending her in uncuffed. The window was not only barred, but too small to slither through even if it hadn’t been, unless you were, say, three. Plus there was nothing she could use as a weapon, unless—
She studied the small coffeemaker on the counter surrounded by plastic-wrapped mugs, premeasured packets of coffee, tea, and sweeteners. Possibility tingled against her spine. The carafe looked solid—this could work. When the time came. At the moment, a glass coffee carafe and a can-do attitude wasn’t enough to face down two SB agents armed with guns and Tasers. But one SB agent? Just the right number. She kept her fingers crossed that one of the men would head out in a quest for food.
On Midnight Wings Page 17