On Midnight Wings tms-5

by Adrian Phoenix

  Molte grazie for not killing her. Where can I find her?

  At an abandoned rest stop on I-530 South, near Pine Bluff.

  The night blurred past in a streamer of oncoming headlights and red taillights, of soft light glittering from windows in faraway homes, of white lines disappearing beneath the bulleting Nissan. Heather’s hands white-knuckled against the steering wheel.

  I feel like I’m running out of time, catin.

  No, cher, no. I refuse to lose you.

  Too late. Too late. Too late. The clock has run out.

  Heather shoved aside the despairing and traitorous thought, refused to examine yet again what she had felt through the bond nearly an hour ago—a shattering desperation, a crumbling resolve, an overwhelming sense of loss.

  She hadn’t lied to Silver just to protect him from bad news; she’d lied because she hadn’t been able to say the words, hadn’t been able to force them from her throat.

  I think what we’ve all feared, what we all fought to prevent, has happened—

  . . . I think he’s had all he can take, doll. Heart and mind . . .

  —and Dante has finally broken.

  Eyes burning, Heather pressed harder on the gas pedal, following the bond, following her heart, to Baton Rouge.

  I feel like I’m running out of time, catin.

  No, cher, no. I refuse to lose you.

  That was a promise she intended to keep.

  ANNIE TUCKED HER CELL phone back into her jeans pocket, watching as Silver rubbed his face in frustration. The relief—hell, be honest, the fucking joy—she’d felt at hearing her sister’s voice, a voice she’d feared she’d never hear again, dimmed a little at Silver’s expression. “Since I seem to be lacking nightkind eavesdropping power, what did she say?”

  Silver sighed. He looked at Annie from beneath his dark lashes. “She’s okay, she’s going after Dante and ain’t about to wait for us to catch up.”

  Merri scooted out of the booth so that tall, dark, and snobby Giovanni with his sexy Italian purr of a voice could slide out. He pulled a handful of twenties from the pocket of his designer jeans and tossed them on the table. “My treat,” he said with a sexy half-shrug. Looking at Silver, he added, “And thanks for taking me into your confidence.”

  “Remember, you gave me your word.”

  Giovanni nodded. “I won’t say anything, not even to Renata until after Dante is safe.” He headed for the tavern’s entrance. “I’ll be in touch after I’ve taken care of Caterina,” he called over his shoulder as he pulled the door open. “Ciao, belli.”

  Silver shook his head. “Hope I didn’t make a mistake there.”

  “If it’s any comfort, I don’t think you did,” Merri said. “But if his mère de sang suspects he is hiding something from her, believe me, she’ll pry it out of him.”

  “Then let’s hope he’s good at hiding shit. Ready to quit sitting on your ass and twiddling your thumbs?”

  “What do you think, Zero-boy?” Merri snorted, rising to her feet. “But we should feed before we go. Looks like there’s any number of willing volunteers across the street.”

  Silver looked up at the ceiling, regret on his face. Annie figured he was thinking about the tasty SB agents upstairs. “Okay,” he said, lowering his gaze to look at Annie. “Wait here, all right? We won’t be long.”

  “I’ll order another beer, so take your time.” Annie lifted her mug and polished off her Abita, ignoring Silver’s frown.

  Silver and Merri moved across the room in double streaks of pale skin and black clothing, of purple and black hair.

  Neither Aunt Sally’s red-checker-aproned staff or the scattered handful of people chowing down on late night/early morning platters of pork ribs and grilled shrimp noticed their passage across the room and out the door—except maybe as a cool breeze or ghostly chill.

  Still, Silver and Merri’s nightkind speed had nothing on Dante’s. And if he’d been truly awake the day her coldhearted bastard of a father appeared in the hall, James Wallace would never have stood a chance.

  But Dante hadn’t been truly awake, he’d been fighting Sleep, struggling to keep from nodding off again, to keep his eyes open, but aware enough to shove her out of harm’s way at the last moment.

  His blood, spattering hot upon her cheek, her lips.

  Glistening so dark on his white skin.

  Annie’s belly squeezed tight, killing her appetite. The yummy, comforting taste of beer and tangy barbecue sauce soured on her tongue. She pushed the plate away without even looking at it, her restless thoughts roiling, bubbling up and down, up and down, up and fucking down.

  Steeping her in guilt.

  Dante. Heather. Blood. Trank guns. The sharp smell of gasoline. You’ve reached the voice mail of James William Wallace, please leave a message. Dante. Heather falling, the gun skittering from her hand. The sound of a gunshot shattering the air—

  Stop! Slow the fuck down and concentrate on what’s happening right now.

  Sucking in a harsh breath, Annie tried to do just that, but her thoughts immediately slipped back to Heather and Dante and James Wallace. The coldhearted prick rat-bastard could be a fucking double agent working for the FBI and the SB for all Annie knew.

  And he just dumped me on the sidewalk.

  Something wheeled open inside of Annie, something as cold and empty and black as the belly of a plundered coal mine. Something endless.

  She’d called the rat-bastard over and over in hopes of finding out where he’d taken Heather, in hopes of luring him back to New Orleans as she played the tearful, contrite, don’t-leave-me-all-alone-with-the-bloodsuckers-daddy-please daughter, but his phone had gone straight to voice mail each and every time.

  He’s written you off. He’s got the daughter he cares about. Nothing new, right?

  Right, and look where that got her—tranked, cuffed, and dragged away.

  Maybe I’m the lucky one.

  Percolating, her thoughts, bubbling hot and cold, up and down, loud enough to hear the perk-perk-perk echoing from the inside of her skull.

  Needing another beer, a drink to drown out the goddamned bubbling noise, Annie waved at the waitress, then pointed at her empty mug once she’d captured the caramel-skinned woman’s attention. With a nod, the waitress beelined for the bar, returning a moment later with a freshly filled mug.

  Annie swiveled around in the booth so she could rest her back against the wall and keep an easy eye on the tavern’s door. She rested a hand against her T-shirted belly and as she did, Silver’s words blossomed in her memory as bright and shining as his silver eyes.

  I know it isn’t mine, that’s not what this is about . . .

  Look, I can’t say I know what you’re going through—I don’t. But I do know that you don’t hafta face this alone.

  She rubbed her belly reflectively. Maybe, just maybe, that would be enough. With Silver’s help and Heather’s, maybe she could do this, could be a good mom.

  The only question was: did she want to do this?

  Maybe it was time to find out. Silver stepped back into the tavern. His silver eyes seemed luminescent, brimming with moonlight. He curled a let’s go finger at her.

  My very own vampire knight.

  Annie rose to her feet, leaving her beer untouched.

  35

  ANGRY LOA

  NEW ORLEANS

  THE WINTER ROSE

  “WELL? IS THE DAMNED device working?” Mauvais demanded as he strode into the dimly lit wheelhouse. “Do you have Loki’s location?”

  Phaedra looked up from her instruments, her beautiful and ageless cafè au lait face awash in the pale green light emanating from the navigation instruments, her lambent eyes glowing in the gloom.

  Before she could reply, Mauvais observed with more than a little relief as he drew to a stop beside her, “The power is working again.”

  Phaedra nodded. “For now.” She rapped her knuckles for luck against the cedar-planked wall before returning her attention to
the GPS screen. “Looks like your Fallen guest is headed north. Maybe Baton Rouge. Maybe not. Too early to know.”

  “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.

  “You ain’t going nowhere, you.” The figure’s voice sounded utterly human, dancing with Cajun rhythm. Waist-length dreads of gleaming and twisted bundles of wire undulated in the air, electric snakes curling around a neon Medusa.

  Mauvais sucked in a shocked breath. The hoodoo conjurer had been right, after all.

  You got an angry loa on dis here boat . . .

  And exactly how does one placate an angry loa? Mauvais wondered, mouth dry. Had it been sent, a nasty trick set into motion by a rival or enemy? Or had it chosen him because of something he’d inadvertently done—or not done?

  Mauvais lifted his hands slowly, palms out. Took one prudent step back. “If I have offended you, it was unintentional, and I apologize. What would you have me do to free myself and my boat?”

  The figure stared at Mauvais with eyes like endless black ice. “I want you to burn like she did, motherfucker. She screamed in agony until the flames she breathed in burned away her larynx and ashed her lungs. My sister, my mère de sang, my Simone.”

  Mauvais froze, remembering words Silver had spat at him in the Quarter not even an hour ago: Simone. Her name was Simone, you jackass. She died because of you.

  Not a curse, no. Revenge.

  Mauvais caught a blur of flickering blue-edged movement, then felt something shatter against him. He smelled kerosene—and much worse. Flames swept over him eagerly, devouring his clothing, the flesh beneath. The stench of burning hair filled his nostrils.

  “Burn, you motherfucking fi’ de garce.”

  A high-pitched wailing pierced the night, a siren of agony vibrating from his own throat. Choking on the acrid reek of his own roasting flesh, Mauvais raced, flailing, across the deck to the railing and hurtled overboard

  He plummeted, blazing, an April bonfire, into the cold, night-black waters of the Mississippi.

  36

  A MOTHER’S GRIEF

  GEHENNA

  A MOIST, BRINE-SCENTED WIND whipped through Lucien’s hair, pushed at his folded wings. He studied the night-darkened sea crashing around the weathered rocks far below, ghostly spume spraying into the air. Beneath his feet, he felt the booming vibration as the sea crashed into a cave hollowed below into the cliff face.

  “How much longer?” he asked.

  “He’ll be here soon,” Hekate’s soft voice answered from beside him.

  Lucien said nothing, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Leave it to the Morningstar to take his own sweet time even while the trumpets blew and the stars fell from the skies.

  Enough time had already been wasted presenting himself to Gabriel and assuring the royal pretender that everything was fine with Dante, that his visit to Gehenna had been prompted merely by a desire to see, once more, a certain silver-haired enchantress.

  But engrossed in directing the cleaning of the creawdwr’s receiving chamber, a
room unused since Yahweh’s death more than two thousand years, Gabriel had barely paid any attention to Lucien’s presence, let alone the reason for his visit.

  Finally waving Lucien away like an annoying summer fly, Gabriel had said only, “Why should I care? She’s no longer my hostage. She may do as she pleases. And if that includes becoming entangled with her mother’s former lover, the murderer of our previous creawdwr, then so be it. I have better things to worry about.”

  Hekate’s silver bell of a voice pulled Lucien away from his thoughts. He looked at her, certain she’d asked him a question, one he hadn’t heard. Pale moonlight rippled along her looped and coiled—and now salt-spray-beaded—tresses. Night hollowed her cheeks, pooled deep in her hyacinth eyes. Drew him in.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I didn’t—”

  Hekate shook her head. “Nothing to forgive. I know you have a lot on your mind—including whether you can trust my father to do the right thing.”

  “There is that. But I believe he will. It’s in his own best interests.”

  “For now.”

  “What did you ask me while I was woolgathering?”

  Hekate hesitated, then turned her gaze to the restless sea. “If you knew why Dante refused to restore my mother. She was helping you, after all. Trying to protect him from the others. It makes no sense.”

  Lucien shook his head regretfully. “I don’t know the answer to that. I haven’t had time or opportunity to discuss the matter with Dante. But I will, I promise, once he’s home and safe.”

  “Thank you.” Hekate flashed Lucien a quick, grateful smile before giving her attention back to the sea. “So restless,” she murmured. “When I was a child, my mother told me that Yahweh’s mother, Leviathan, lived in the ocean and that when it stormed and the sea was wild and restless, it was just Leviathan grieving her only child.”

  Leviathan. A chill touched the base of Lucien’s spine. “Do you still believe that?”

  “When I was young, yes. But now, of course not. For the longest time though, storms like this made me think of death and loss and a mother’s tears.”