On Midnight Wings

by Adrian Phoenix

His partner paused, the drill poised a breath above S’s straitjacket and the taut flesh beneath it. He regarded Graham from beneath his blond brows, snapped, “What’s what?”

  “That,” Graham said, nodding at S’s prone form. Faint bluish light rippled along the straitjacket’s arms, spreading into its midsection. “See it?”

  A frown furrowed Morgan’s forehead as his gaze shifted back to his drill and S. His frown deepened. “Dunno,” he said, taking a wary step back. “Never seen anything like that before. You?”

  “No. Maybe it’s a born vamp thing.”

  “Maybe.” Uncertainty shadowed Morgan’s eyes.

  S turned his blood-smeared face toward Graham and studied him from beneath coal black lashes with eyes gone golden.

  Pulse picking up speed, Graham tightened his grip on the bat’s blood-slick aluminum handle. Freaky gold eyes. Mysterious blue glow. WTF? Purcell hadn’t mentioned anything unusual about S. Only the obvious—make sure the prick doesn’t get loose.

  “I hear your heart,” S said, his straitjacket awash in blue light, his voice soft and low and hungry. “I’m gonna drink it dry. Savor every drop.”

  Graham managed a derisive chuckle despite the chill touching the base of his spine. He stepped closer and swung his bat up—c’mon, batter-batter-batter—winding up for a blow that would knock the bloodsucker’s ass into the future faster than a 1.21-gigawatt-fueled DeLorean. “How about you drink this instead?”

  At the apex of Graham’s swing, S’s straitjacket dissolved into hundreds of small, blue-scaled fish and spilled away. Graham froze, heart vaulting into his throat, his mind unable to process what he was seeing. In fact, his mind was pretty damned busy screaming: What! The! Fuck! Which was soon followed by (but not quickly enough): Run!

  The tiny sapphire fish tumbled to the floor, slapping moistly against the concrete before swimming into the air with strokes of jeweled fins.

  “Dear God,” Morgan breathed.

  A heavy metallic thunk behind him told Graham that his partner had just lost his grip on his drill. Graham felt that he was about to lose his grip on a whole lot more.

  Sweat beading his forehead, S rested his palms against the table. Thin blue flames licked across its gleaming, wavering surface. Table and restraints splashed to the floor, a sudden blue waterfall, delighting the fish who hadn’t yet taken to the air.

  And S . . .

  S stood barefoot in a puddle of burning water, a dark, tilted smile on his bloodied lips, blue flames flickering unsteadily around his pale hands. Blood and bruises streaked his white torso from bondage collar to the top of his leather pants. Semi-healed bullet wounds. Drill insults. Bat injuries.

  Not possible. Not possible. Not possible, Graham’s mind insisted. But Graham was unable to move his gaze from those burning hands.

  S flexed his shoulders. Graham heard the soft whisper of velvet against skin, then smooth, black wings unfolded behind S, arching above his head and snapping the smoky scent of burning leaves into the air.

  Graham’s heart tried to kick its way free of his chest. His brain had already left the building—but not before babbling, Wings like a dragon. Or a demon. Yes! A demon. A beautiful and deadly bloodsucking prince of darkness.

  Graham crossed himself automatically, a habit that required no thought, despite the decades that had passed since he’d last stepped inside a church.

  S snorted. “You kidding me?”

  Graham caught a sudden, sharp whiff of piss. I just peed myself, he mourned. But a corresponding lack of wetness told him otherwise. Relief swirled through him as he realized the guilty party had to be Morgan.

  S sucked in a pained breath, wincing. He stumbled, the flames vanishing from his hands. “Merde,” he whispered.

  Hope launched Graham’s pulse and mind into hyperdrive. Demon or bloodsucker or Prince of Fucking Darkness, S was still in bad shape, thanks to the drugs.

  It’s now or never. Make your move.

  Graham considered the Glock holstered beneath his jacket, doubting he could be fast enough or steady enough to get a bullet into S’s head or heart before the bloodsucking bastard took him down. But the unlocked door—no need to lock it when a securely restrained bloodsucker was never getting off the table alive (Graham felt an urge to giggle here, an urge he quickly throttled)—was another matter.

  Glancing at the thick, steel door, Graham measured the distance. Run. Grab handle. Yank. Bolt through. His muscles bunched, thrumming with adrenaline, the desperate need for flight. But what about Morgan? Could they both make it?

  Shifting his attention to his partner, Graham nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized that the bloodsucker had moved without a sound and in the blink of an eye and now stood right in front of him. And his eyes were no longer gold, but red-streaked brown.

  S’s smile deepened, revealing his fangs. “Run,” he said.

  Graham tossed the bat and whirled.

  S TOSSED THE MORTAL’S emptied heart aside, then rose to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d feasted on both men, and the intoxicating taste of their blood—copper and wild berries and adrenaline—lingered on his tongue.

  “Black Steve and White Steve were both delicious.”

  Pushing his hair back from his face, he stepped over Black Steve’s cooling body and went to the door. Renewed, blood-fed energy thrummed through his veins, slowing his own blood loss, but doing little as far as healing his wounds.

  S touched a hand to the half-healed wound above his heart. Winced. At least the wet heaviness had lifted from his lungs and he could breathe a little easier.

  Grasping the door handle, S listened. He heard the faint sound of distant heartbeats, the low murmur of voices, the steady beep-beep-beep of medical monitors and, fainter still, someone screaming with the regularity and rhythm of a metronome.

  Someone ain’t happy. Can’t say as I blame ’em.

  S pulled the door open, then slipped out into the hallway, easing the door shut behind him. He paused for a moment, wondering which way led out, right or left? Right looked to be a dead end, the corridor ending in a concrete wall, while from the left he heard soft voices as two people—a man and a woman—discussed modifying med levels for a couple of difficult patients.

  Right it was.

  Tucking his wings away, S moved, blurring down the hall, past the medic station and the source of those soft voices, leaving startled gasps and a trail of bloody footprints behind him. Ahead were stairs leading up, a possible exit. Just as he reached them, bits of his conversation—Dante’s conversation, whatever—with Purcell replayed through his mind.

  When I get back, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to take you apart and burn each piece until nothing but ash remains. And then I’ll flush those ashes down the goddamned toilet.

  S slowed to a stop at the base of the stairs. He heard footsteps above. Laughter.

  We’ll see, yeah?

  That we will.

  “For fucking true,” S whispered, swiveling around.

  He moved again, heading back the way he’d come, aimed for the medic station, a runaway train, a missile arcing down from the sky, good old-fashioned death on the hoof or, in his case, death on socked feet.

  A smile iced his lips. Purcell was in for one helluva surprise.

  S unleashed his hunger.

  30

  CARNIVAL

  NEW ORLEANS

  THE FRENCH QUARTER

  SILVER THANKED THE COUNTERMAN, then walked out of the pepperoni-and-garlic-fragrant DaVinci’s Pizza, fisting his hand shut around the key ring he’d fished earlier from a puddle in the gutter out front. He’d recognized it as Von’s the instant he’d seen the winged Harley logo stamped into its water-soaked leather fob.

  The keys bit into his palm and the undersides of his fingers with dull metal teeth, speaking a truth Silver didn’t like. Not one damned bit.

  Von wasn’t just Sleeping, he was missing. Like Dante. Like Heather. And, thanks to his pill-induced
Sleep-coma, just as unreachable. As was Lucien, gone to Gehenna on some mysterious mission and beyond the range of Silver’s sendings.

  Silver wove through the ever-growing crowd of nightkind and mortals gathering in front of the closed club. The air prickled with a carnival atmosphere of mystery, spine-tingling anticipation, and dark possibilities. Voices buzzed into the night like sugar-drunk flies.

  “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.

  Secrets. So many goddamned secrets.

  “So,” Annie said, ending her latest figure eight and fuzzy-slippering to a halt beside him. “Didja learn anything?”

  “You mean, aside from the fact that I’ll never get the stink of garlic out of these clothes?” Silver plucked at his T-shirt, nose wrinkling. “Yeah, I did. But I don’t want to repeat myself, so let’s wait until Merri gets back.”

  Annie nodded, cigarette smoke streaming from both nostrils. “Good thing the clothes belong to Jack, huh? Looks like garlic is just another fucking myth as far as keeping nightkind away goes.”

  “Pretty much—aside from the smell.”

  “Hah. I knew there had to be a drawback to those supersenses.”

  She eyed the twenty-four-hour tavern on the other side of St. Peter—Aunt Sally’s Tavern & Heavenly BBQ—her expression that of a bear who’d just stumbled across a salmon-stuffed ice chest. Exuberant zydeco music bounced from the tavern’s outside speakers in a nonstop, move-your-ass-and-come-on-in, blazing accordion rhythm.

  “If you’re still hungry, we could grab a bite when Merri gets back,” Silver said.

  “I ate less than an hour ago. I don’t know why I’m so freaking hungry.”

  “Yeah, you do. Annie, you don’t hafta pretend with me. I know you’re pregnant.”

  Annie stared at him. “Fuck.”

  “Lucien found out when he peeked inside your head to see what had happened.”

  “Fuck,” Annie groaned. “Mind-raping bastard.”

  “More of a mental B and E.”

  “Whatever. I know why he did it. I get that. But it doesn’t mean I have to fucking like it.”

  “No,” Silver agreed softly. “It doesn’t.”

  Annie puffed away on her cigarette in silence, expression guarded. Pale blue smoke jetted from her nostrils. Silver had no idea how far along Annie was, but he figured she couldn’t be too far gone. During the times they’d been together over the last couple of weeks, her belly had remained flat and firm beneath his skimming fingers.

  When did chicks start to show, anyway? Three months? Five?

  “Do you know who the baby-daddy is?”

  “No clue. I hooked up with a couple of guys after I skipped out of the treatment center and got wasted—as usual. Who knows? Maybe I got knocked up at the treatment center.” At Silver’s arched eyebrow, she added, “Hey, I was bored. And I wasn’t the only one. Fucking seemed like a good way to pass the time.”

  “Hey, no argument here. So what do you think you’re gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it right now.”

  “Does Heather know?”

  Annie sighed, nodded. “I told her that morning, the same morning that my asshole father stormed the place.” She spat into the gutter. “Prick.”

  “My old man was a prick too. A boozed-up bullying loser who used his family for punching bags.”

  “I hope you made the bastard pay.”

  Silver shrugged. “I had more important things on my mind—like surviving. The Portland streets made my old man look like Mary Poppins.”

  “How about after you were turned? Did you make him pay then?”

  “Nah. I forgave him then.”

  Annie stared at him. “The fuck? Forgave him? Why the hell would you do that?”

  “I dunno. Maybe so I could live again. Maybe so I could leave the past and my old, u
nhappy life behind. Maybe because I had a new father—one who actually wanted me.”

  “Huh,” Annie said, nonplussed. “Sounds like you missed one hell of an opportunity to me. I don’t think my dad deserves forgiveness for what he’s done. And he’s sure as hell not going to get it.”

  “Hey, again, no argument here. I’m with you on this one. Some things you can’t forgive.”

  “Exactly.” Annie sparked up a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old.

  Watching her, Silver shook his head. “Smokes and booze ain’t exactly good for baby, y’know.”

  “Neither’s having a bipolar fuckup of a mom,” Annie retorted. Old pain flared in her eyes, vanished. “I should know. I had one. And who says I’m even keeping it?”

  “No one,” Silver replied. “That’s your decision, and I’m not trying to influence you one way or another on that point. But until you decide, maybe you should keep the booze and nicotine to a minimum. Just saying.”

  “What’s it to you, anyway? It’s not like it’s yours. Dante told me that turned-nightkind shoot blanks.”

  Silver rolled his eyes. “I know it isn’t mine. That’s not what this is about.” He dropped his gaze to the weathered sidewalk underneath his sneakers as he gathered his thoughts. Whenever he looked at Annie, he saw himself again on the Portland streets, desperate and alone, stubbornly shoving away what few friends he had because being alone was all he thought he deserved.

  “What is it about, then?”

  “Being your friend.”

  Annie snorted. “Oh, don’t worry. My getting knocked up hasn’t changed your ‘with benefits’ status.”

  Silver raked an exasperated hand through his hair. “Fuck, Annie, stop being a dick. Just for five minutes, okay?” He closed the distance between them. “I’m just saying you can talk to me. I’m here. You’re not alone. That’s all. Christ.”

  Annie studied him from beneath her lashes, her hands knotting into fists, then unknotting again, then she stretched up on her slippered toes and planted a warm kiss tasting of nicotine smoke and ashes on his lips; a kiss that he returned and deepened.

  “So garlic doesn’t work, huh?” Annie said, ending the kiss.