On Midnight Wings

by Adrian Phoenix

  Either Loki missed it or the arrogant SOB simply doesn’t care because, for him, a bullet is only an annoyance at worst. I unloaded ten goddamned rounds in his chest and all he said was “ow.”

  “I believe the traditional greeting is hello.”

  “Nice try, Loki,” Heather said. “But I know you’re not my father.”

  “Loki?” Her father tsked chidingly, shook his head. “Is it so hard to believe that I had a tracking device implanted when you were first admitted to Strickland? That I had help waiting in the wings when you so unceremoniously dumped me on that highway?”

  “No, I can believe all that,” Heather replied. “It’s the part about getting past a Fallen spell and cooperating with a fallen angel that I have a hard time believing.”

  The fatherly smile stretched into a feral grin. “Maybe you don’t know me the way you think you do, pumpkin. Maybe you don’t know any of us the way you think you do—or the things we’ve had to do.”

  Most likely true.

  And that realization hollowed Heather’s heart. “I know you’re a coldhearted lying bastard—no matter who you are. I don’t need to know anything else.”

  Sliding his glasses off, James Wallace retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket of his trench. “What about your mother?” he asked, using the handkerchief to wipe smudges from his glasses. “I know you think I either had her killed or did the deed myself, but no matter whether I’m a cold-blooded killer or a devoted father or both, you can’t deny the relief you felt or how much better your life became the moment you learned she was dead.”

  Heather stared at him, her certainty slipping away. Words spoken twenty years ago returned to haunt her.

  It’s just us now, pumpkin. You, me, Kevin, and Annie.

  Daddy, that’s all it’s ever been.

  Not relief, no. Just the sad and simple truth. Isolated by her bipolar disorder, Shannon Wallace had never been a part of the family—her mother had always been alone, even when her children held her hands; a fate Heather wished with all her heart to spare Annie.

  “Nothing to say, pumpkin?”

  Heather shook her head, throat too tight for speech. Doubt chiseled away at her certainty. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe her father had not only tracked her to Doucet-Bainbridge, but was about to make a confession that she badly wanted—needed—to hear.

  Maybe. But not likely. James Wallace would’ve killed Dante the moment he spotted him Sleeping in the blood-splattered corridor. He never would’ve left him alive.

  Loki had other plans.

  “You’re not my father. So drop it.”

  James Wallace slid his glasses back onto his nose and re-pocketed the handkerchief. “Ah. Looks like the proverbial jig is up. You’re a hard woman to fool.” He grinned. “But I so enjoy trying.”

  “That makes one of us,” Heather muttered, pushing her hands through her hair. Her injured ankle throbbed and ached even though she was sitting; she doubted she’d be able to put much, if any, weight on it.

  Some rescue this turned out to be.

  Swiveling to face Dante, she leaned over and gently patted his cold cheek. She cast an anxious glance at his chest to make sure he was still breathing, before saying, “C’mon, Baptiste. Time to rise and shine.”

  “He’s becoming,” Loki said in her father’s voice, his tone hushed, expectant. Excited. “He needs to keep Sleeping until his transformation is complete. His throne”—he patted one hand against the hideous flesh-chair he sat upon—“awaits him.”

  Loki’s brass-knuckled words seemed to knock the air out of Heather’s lungs, left her struggling for breath.

  The night burns, the sky on fire from horizon to horizon.

  The never-ending Road.

  The Great Destroyer.

  One or both or neither.

  “He’ll never sit there,” Heather scoffed, a quiet denial. As she looked at Dante’s pale face, the blood staining his lips, an idea presented itself. One she quickly buried. She glanced over her shoulder. A smug smile twisted Loki-as-James’s lips. “And you’re wrong. He’ll never be what you want him to be.”

  Loki opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, his head tilting to one side. “Seems like we have a guest—a mortal one. How lovely. A gift for the creawdwr. He’ll be wanting to bathe in blood by the time he awakens.”

  Heather felt a moment’s panic until she realized that there was no way it could be Annie, that she would’ve reached Memphis only a short time ago and couldn’t possibly be in Baton Rouge.

  Loki rose to his feet, his form and voice rippling, shifting. “Given your condition and his”—he indicated Dante with a nod—“I expect you’ll stay right here while I’m gone. So be a good little guard dog and keep our creawdwr safe.”

  Then he was gone, leaving the fading scent of Brut in his wake.

  “Christ,” Heather muttered. “What an arrogant prick.”

  Not knowing when he’d be back, she didn’t waste any time. She scanned the floor around her for anything sharp. She picked up the bone-pebble Loki had tossed at her, then dropped it in disappointment.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Then her gaze landed on Dante’s hands with their black-painted nails. His sharp, sharp nails. The fact that they were caked in dried blood spoke volumes about their effectiveness. A muscle flexed in Heather’s jaw. No other choice. No time.

  “Sorry, cher,” she whispered as she sliced a small cut into Dante’s wrist with a finger from his opposite hand. Crimson blood welled up on his white skin. Healing blood. A temporary link. Heather lowered her face to the wound and drank.

  PURCELL CLIMBED THE STAIRS, his furious heart a drum guiding each careful step. They were all dead, near as he could tell. At least they were downstairs—agents, medics, patients—the air thick with the reek of thickening blood. Who knew what blood-drenched horrors awaited on the upper floors?

  How many times did I fucking warn them? How many times did I urge them to kill the little fuck? How many goddamned times?

  Question is: why the hell is he still here? What’s he waiting for?

  But Purcell knew the answer to that question. S’s threat—no, a promise—spoken in a low, coiled voice sounded through his memory.

  I’ll be coming for you too.

  Looked like he’d simply decided to wait instead.

  Another school of tiny blue fish, their jeweled scales glittering in the light from his helmet-cam, swam past him, also on their way up and just as happy as fucking punch.

  And again, all Purcell could think was: Sure. Why not? The world’s clearly turned itself upside down. So why not have motherfucking air fish?

  Reaching the second floor landing, Purcell revised Díon’s plan one more time—more of a reversion to the original, actually. Not to bash S’s sanity to bits, but to make him suffer—just on the off chance the son of a bitch felt something, anything for Heather Wallace.

  He’d make sure S took his time killing her.

  Then, when that was done, S would join her.

  “We’ll see, yeah?” Low and amused, Cajun-spiced.

  S was on Purcell before he could even swing his Glock up for a shot. His breath whoofed from his lungs as he was slammed up against the wall. The light from his helmet-cam hit the ceiling at a skewed angle. S pressed against him, all heated skin and taut muscle. Adrenaline raged through Purcell. His heart rate kicked into high, fight-or-flight gear. The words he needed to say to keep himself alive poured out of his mouth without conscious effort.

  “Wake up, Rip Van Winkle. It’s time to quit sleeping and go to work. The Brothers Grimm have a job for you. Once it’s done, you can dream again.”

  S pulled back, although his hands remained locked around Purcell’s biceps. He tilted his head, a curious light in his now-golden eyes. “Now, why did you think that would stop me from killing you?”

  Fear iced Purcell’s spine. S’s programming should’ve been triggered. He should be standing still, an empty vessel awaiting instructions,
not asking questions.

  And his eyes—gold like S’s winged sugar daddy outside.

  “Maybe you should drop the sugar and just make that daddy.”

  Purcell stared at him feeling like he’d just taken a punch to the gut. Might be true, probably was, but that didn’t concern him at the moment. What did was the fact that S’s programming hadn’t responded to the words coded to awaken it.

  “Rip Van Winkle,” he began through a mouth gone dry. “Wake up—”

  S laughed. “Oh, I’m awake. But I can’t wait to find out why you thought fairy tale references would make me as docile as Mary’s little lamb.” Purcell broke into a cold sweat when S touched a taloned finger to his forehead, then said, “Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

  Lightning strike.

  Purcell screamed.

  49

  RACING THEIR FATES

  “C’MON, BAPTISTE. ON . . . YOUR . . . feet!”

  With his arm looped over her shoulders, Heather surged to her feet, grunting with effort, despite her blood-renewed strength, as she supported his Sleeping weight. She felt a slight twinge from her nearly healed ankle, but that was all.

  She froze as a scream cut through the air—a primal, high-pitched shriek of utter terror. And she had no idea if it’d been torn from a male or female throat. Her belly clenched.

  Loki had found his mortal gift for Dante.

  The scream stopped abruptly.

  No time to waste. If she had to drag Dante to an exit, she goddamned would.

  Shifting Dante’s weight against her, Heather tightened her hold on him, fingers locking around his wrist, his waist. Sweat popped up on her forehead. “C’mon,” she urged, before deciding to test the blood link.

 

  He stirred against her. “Quitte-moi tranquille,” he muttered, sleepy voice thick with irritation.

  Elation soared through Heather. “That’s it. That’s right. Wake up. We’ve got to get out of here before he gets back.”

  Dante’s eyes snapped open. “Papa,” he growled, all sleepiness gone. He straightened and the weight against Heather disappeared, but his arm remained around her shoulders. “Is Chloe okay? Is—” His words died in his throat as he took in his surroundings. His dark eyes locked on Loki’s flesh-and-bone throne. Panic and confusion rippled across his face. “The fuck is that?”

  “One of the things we’re running from.”

  His face blanked. “Is it for me?” he asked, voice hollow. “Is that my next fucking test?”

  Heather’s throat constricted as she thought of the boy Dante had been—and currently was—and what he must’ve endured at the hands of Wells and Moore. “No,” she promised, releasing him and turning to cup his face between her hands—his cold, cold face. “No more tests. Not now. Not ever again. You’re free, Dante. We just need to get you out of here.”

 

  He searched her eyes as she held his gaze, his hands rising to rest upon hers. Blood trickled from his nose and she read pain in his dilated pupils, but also an earnest and desperate desire to connect, to remember.

 

  “It’s almost there,” he said. “Your name. But . . .” He dropped his hands and shook his head. “Gone.” He coughed, and the thick, liquid sound of it scared her.

  “Let’s worry about that later, okay?” Heather said, lowering her hands from his face. “For now, let’s get out of here. We don’t have much time,” she added, throwing a glance over her shoulder. Nothing moved in the corridor. Yet.

  “Okay,” Dante agreed, pushing his hair back from his face. “Save ass now and ask questions later, yeah?”

  Heather grinned in genuine amusement. “Most definitely yeah.”

  She started down the corridor, pausing to slip a steadying arm around Dante’s waist when he stumbled. She waited until his dizziness passed and he gave her a thumbs-up, then they resumed walking. She kept her arm around his waist and he didn’t argue—which told her volumes about his injuries, about how badly he was hurt.

  “Almost there,” she encouraged as they hurried down the stairs to the first floor landing and the emergency exit at the bottom.

  Dante nodded, flashing her a tilted and bloodied smile, saving his breath.

  Heather shoved on the push bar and grinned in relief when the door swung open, admitting the cool night beyond along with the smells of wet grass and cooling concrete. She stepped outside, holding the door open. “Hurry,” she whispered.

  Dante took a step forward, then doubled-over, arms hugging his chest, teeth gritted in pain. He fell to his knees, then curled up on his side, every muscle knotted and taut.

  Panic burned through Heather. She grabbed Dante by the shoulders and tried to haul his ass over the threshold and outside, but it was like trying to pull a two-ton bull or Mount Rushmore—a groaning, agonized Mount Rushmore. He had become impossibly, inexplicably heavy. Her muscles strained. Sweat trickled between her breasts.

  Then, exhausted, she reversed course and dragged him back inside. The door swung shut behind her. Dante went still and fear knifed her heart. She dropped on her knees beside him. “Baptiste?”

  “It stopped,” he said, wonder and relief in his hoarse voice. “Like a motherfucking switch had been flipped. It just stopped.” Dante uncurled from the floor and sat up, leaning his back against the wall. He scowled at the door. “What the fuck was that?”

  Heather sighed, sat down beside him. His earthy, autumn scent filled the landing. “The sigils. I think it was the goddamned sigils. They must work both ways. Shit.”

  “Look, they don’t affect you, so go. Get out. Don’t worry about me. I’ll find another way. What’s your name, anyway?”

  Heather felt a smile flicker across her lips. Her smile faded as she watched Dante’s face blank. She wondered if her name or the blood link had just pinwheeled his memory open, spun him back to the here-and-now.

  He looked at her and Heather saw recognition ignite in his eyes. “Catin,” he breathed. “I knew severing the bond wouldn’t stop you. You found me—like I knew you would, cuz I woulda done the same. I just don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.”

  Heather laughed. “It’s a good thing, you stubborn sonuvabitch.”

  But Dante’s face blanked again. His hands knotted into fists. Pounded knuckled blows to his leather-clad thighs. As though he were fighting against himself.

  “Dante, what is it? Talk to me, cher.”

 

  “T’es sûr de ça, catin?” Dante licked blood from his lips. A dark light burned in his eyes. “Yours, yeah? Yum. Wouldn’t mind some more.”

  Heather’s mouth dried as she realized she wasn’t looking at Dante, but S or maybe even the Great Destroyer.

  He is becoming . . .

  No and no and no.

  Fear coursed through Heather, bright and cold. Dante wasn’t just shifting between the past and the here-and-now, but between the man she knew and one he’d been programmed to be.

  “Fun, yeah?” His head tilted. His gaze fixed on the pulse in her throat.

  “You with me, Baptiste?” she said through a mouth that felt full of ashes.

  “Run,” S said.

  Heather didn’t hesitate. She jumped to her feet and slammed out through the door, grateful he couldn’t follow. She had no doubt Dante was the source of the “run.” She also had no doubt that he’d just saved her life.

  REALITY WHEELED. DANTE GRABBED ahold with both hands. But the here-and-now was damned slippery and he didn’t know how long he could hang on.

  Stubborn-ass woman. All heart and steel, ma chèrie.

  Gotta get her the fuck out of here. Gotta see her safe.

  Images of sapphire flames, of plucked hearts, unmade hearts, of his finger curling around the trigger of a gun filled his aching mind.

  J’su ici, catin.

  Run from me. Run as far a
s you can.

  Nothing like a good chase, yeah?

  Dante drew in a ragged breath. He shivered, so cold that he expected his breath to plume the air white. He had to end this.

  You ain’t gonna save her, y’know. Shit, you can’t even save yourself.

  Watch me.

  Planning on it, bro. Laughter. Low and amused. Happy.

  Fi’ de garce.

  You should know, yeah?

  Voices whispered. Wasps droned and burrowed. Dante squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to silence the internal aural storm. Stomping everything down below and kicking the door shut was no longer an option.

  There was no more below. No more door to kick shut.

  As the din gradually quieted, Dante realized one faint whisper didn’t come from within. He opened his eyes, gaze following the sound to the ceiling. Upstairs. Someone was upstairs still alive, still breathing and talking in a low, steady murmur. A brief silence, followed by the raspy cough of a longtime smoker.

  Like maybe two packs of Winstons a day, yeah?

  Time to take yo’ medicine, p’tit.

  A dark smile tilted Dante’s lips. He opened his eyes.

  Gotcha, Papa. Time to take your own damned medicine.

  Staggering up to his feet, he moved. When he hit the third floor landing and breezed through the door, he spotted something lying on the floor, a dull metallic gleam.

  A gun.

  Dante stared at it, winter descending upon his heart. Unaware that he’d even moved, he found himself picking it up. His fingers curled around the rubber grip as naturally as if he’d always held a gun, been born with one in his hand. He felt the cold trickle of sweat along his temples.

  Put it down. Or go back and toss it out to Heather. She’s gonna—

  Low murmurs from above snagged Dante’s attention. He tilted his head, tucking the gun into the back of his leather pants, then he headed back to the landing. As he raced up the stairs, he felt a little girl’s weight in his arms, heard her black paper wings rustling, caught a glimpse of red hair. Then he was blurring through a crowded club, a woman smelling of lilac and sage, of evening rain, a woman of heart and steel, hugged tight against his side, a woman who disappeared as another little girl, red-haired and freckled, took her place as they ran through a park in the rain, trying to outrace their fates.