On Midnight Wings (25 page)

Shit. Fuck. Sonuvabitch.

Beneath the pain, Dante felt the steady flame of Heather’s presence through their bond, a flame currently hidden behind miles of thick, dark glass. Relief flooded through him. Heather was alive. And, as near as he could tell, not here, but somewhere north of him. Maybe hundreds of miles away, maybe just across the street.

But just because Heather wasn’t sharing his particular hellhole, didn’t mean she wasn’t in danger. Didn’t mean she wasn’t straitjacketed into a hellhole of her own or running for her life. Whatever had happened, whatever had landed him on
this table, strapped into a motherfucking straitjacket, could’ve swallowed up not only Heather, but Von and Silver and Annie, as well.

Shit. Fuck. Sonuvabitch.

Dante hoped to hell he was wrong—that they were all safe, unharmed—as desperation pushed him up against the steel bands again and again. A wet cough tasting of blood bubbled up from his lungs. He finally stopped, slicked in cold sweat, hoping to catch his breath, hoping to breathe, period.

What about Lucien? Searching, he’d be searching. And sending. Over and over and over. Which meant—
I can’t fucking receive either. No sending. No receiving. This party keeps getting better and better
.

“Guard your ass,
catin
,” Dante whispered, hoping his words would somehow find a way to her. “Do whatever it takes to keep yourself safe. Don’t waste energy on me. You and Von watch out for each other. I’ll find you again. I won’t stop until I do.”

Find her again? Yeah? Think that’s a good idea
?

Fuck you. Absolutely
.

An image flashed unbidden behind Dante’s eyes, blowing a hole in his certainty like a shotgun blast to the chest.

Her head rocks forward with the first bullet, then snaps back with the second, tendrils of red hair whipping through the air. She drops like an air-gunned steer. The thick, heady smells of blood and cordite saturate the air. Hunger pulses through him.

Dante’s breath caught ragged in his throat. The unwavering flame of Heather’s presence in his mind reminded him that she was alive, yet he still felt his finger pulling the trigger. Still felt hunger coursing through him as he breathed in the copper and adrenaline scent of her blood.

Still heard his own laughter, silk and 100-proof whiskey, low and satisfied. Now
you’ll never hafta worry about her again, yeah?
Now
she’s safe. And so are we
.

We?
Fear scraped a hollow in Dante’s heart.

Movement in the doorway drew his gaze. A middle-aged
guy wearing an official gray suit and an unofficial smirk stood there studying him, one shoulder resting casually against the threshold.

A steady, hypnotic drumming filled Dante’s ears, the succulent sound of the man’s heart pumping blood in a high-pressure hiss through his veins. Hunger twisted, a circling shark.

“You don’t remember, do you?” the man asked. “Where you are, who I am?”

“But you’re gonna tell me, yeah?”

“That I am—again. But, hey, all good things bear repeating. So here it is: Welcome home, S. Welcome back to Doucet-Bainbridge. Welcome to your final destination. And, trust me, it
is
your final destination.”

Welcome
home
? Welcome
back
? Memory flickered, then vanished, a finger-pinched flame. Pain pounded at Dante’s temples with sledgehammer intensity. He felt the hot trickle of blood from his nose, sniffed it back.

“Name’s Purcell, by the way.”

His voice. That’s fucking familiar as hell too.

It was like a jackhammer drilling against a dam’s massive concrete face, gouging a path toward a series of cracks created by the dark, restless waters on the dam’s other side—Dante’s fucked-up memory.

“Ain’t S,” Dante replied flatly. “And I ain’t staying.”

Ain’t S? Liar, liar, latex pants on fire.
Now
who’s the big, fat
menteur?

Tais-toi.
Shut the
fuck
up. Ain’t listening
.

Oh, yeah, you are. Even when you think you ain’t, you are
.

The impatient sound of snapping fingers drew Dante’s gaze back to the doorway and the man lounging against it. Lowering his hand, Purcell questioned softly, “You still with me?”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Dante admitted reluctantly. “Need to change that, though.”

Purcell laughed, low and very amused. “You just don’t get
it, do you? You’re not going anywhere. You’re not killing any more of my men. You’re done.”

Purcell’s voice triggered more jackhammer action against the dam. He was an unfamiliar asshole, yeah, but one with an oddly familiar and dangerous voice. The cold smell of deep water and friction-scorched concrete filled Dante’s nostrils, a pungent
future
odor that knotted him up with dread.

That jackhammer’s gonna break through
.

Quiet and level, those words; a stated fact.

Peut-être que oui, peut-être que non.
But before it does, I might still have an ace up my sleeve
.

He hoped.

On the roof, his power had finally flared to life. Sure it had been pale blue and watery, a thin reflection of itself, and had vanished a split second later, but a split second would be all he needed.

Closing his eyes, Dante drew in a wet, shallow breath and summoned his song. Nothing. No electric tingle as flames swallowed his hands. No blue glow, no song, no transforming fire. Nada. He only felt/heard an inner silence, as though some essential thing had been disconnected or blocked or corralled.

Dante opened his eyes in frustration.
Shit. Fuck. Sonuvabitch
.

“What, nothing? No smart-ass comments?” Purcell said. “No threats to rip out my heart or tear off my head?” He shook his head. “You must still be doped up to the gills.”

“Blow me. Given the conversation, I don’t think I’m doped up
enough
.”

“There we go. That’s more like it. That’s the S I know and despise.” A cold, contemptuous smile curved Purcell’s lips. “And given the multiple times James Wallace shot you before torching your club and disappearing with his wayward daughter, I’d say he must feel the same way about you.”

Dante blinked. Heather’s
father
? He didn’t want to believe it, but if Purcell was telling the truth, and he had a feeling that
this time the fucker was—at least mostly, then James Wallace had managed to blindside them all.

“Sonuva
bitch
.” Dante stared at the white-tiled ceiling, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Did the bastard take Annie too?”

“Couldn’t say. What do you care, anyway? You’ve got more pressing concerns.”

“
Oui
. Like finding Heather. Like killing you.”

“Nice trick for someone who’s never leaving that table. Not alive, anyway.”

Dante shifted his gaze from the ceiling to Purcell. “We’ll see, yeah?”

“That we will,” Purcell agreed, his eyes dark green flint. He sauntered into the room, stopping at the foot of the table. “But for now, Violet wants to tell you good-bye before we head out to the airport. And the only way I’m ever going to get her to shut up about it—short of pumping her full of tranks, that is—is to let her.”

“She okay?” Dante asked, remembering someone yanking her from his arms—against orders—as the seizure knocked him from the night sky.

“She’s fine. Of course, I don’t know how long that’ll be the case.”

“Where are you taking her?” Dante asked warily.

“To HQ,” Purcell replied. “Our science and medical geeks are salivating over what you did to her—not to mention the mystery of
how
you did it. They can’t wait to get their latex-gloved hands on her and begin their tests and experiments. Kind of like they used to do with you.” A mocking grin stretched his lips. “Not that you remember, of course.”

“Smug
fi’ de garce
,” Dante said, his voice low and coiled and full of blood, a venomed promise. “Enjoy it. It ain’t gonna last.”

Purcell chuckled. “Really? You keep forgetting I’m not the one in a crazy jacket strapped to a table.” Touching a finger to the com set curving around his right ear, he murmured, “Bring in the kid.”

A
NOTHER SUIT ESCORTED
V
IOLET
into the room, box of crayons clutched in her hands. As the little girl walked over to the table, her freckled face somber, her black paper wings rustling behind her, Dante’s reality wobbled. The box of crayons shifted into a plushie orca, the paper wings became shadows.

Pain pulsed at Dante’s temples, behind his eyes.

Stay here. Stay now. Stay
 . . .

Reality wheeled.

“Looks like you found Orem, princess,” he heard himself saying. “Did one of these bastards give him ba—” His words cut off as a soft voice, one stitched into the very fabric of his heart, whispered from within.

That’s not me, Dante-angel. She’s not me. I’m where I’ve always been.

And that would be dead on the floor in a pool of blood, yeah?

Cold shivved Dante’s heart, sheeted his soul in black ice. As bad as those words were, the voice speaking them—Cajun-spiced and whiskey smooth—was worse; it was his own.

You won’t save her, you know. You’ll fail.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispered, the words hoarse, barely audible. “
Tais-toi, tais-toi, tais-toi, tais-toi
—”

“Dante-angel. Who are you talking to?”

He smelled soap and strawberries and coppery blood pulsing beneath freckled skin. Heard the hummingbird patter of a little girl’s worried heart. Hunger sat up and took notice. Turning his head, he looked into sky-blue eyes—concerned, curious, trusting. His whispered and furious chant slowed, then trailed away.

Reality wheeled.

Shadows sharpened into paper wings. Plushie fur sloughed away to reveal a bright box of crayons.

“Who are you talking to?” she repeated. “And what does
tay-twah
mean?”

“
Tais-toi
means shut up. And I’m just talking to myself—hence all the
tais-toi
s.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“
Ça va,
Violet? You okay?”

Mingled happiness and relief lit Violet’s face. “I’m okay and you remembered!”

“Happens once in a while.” A smile tilted Dante’s lips, then quickly faded as the girl bent to hug him. “I’m hungry, so it ain’t safe to touch me right now,
p’tite
. Okay? I can’t move, but I could still bite.”

Violet straightened, hugging her box of Crayolas to her chest. “Oh. Even if you didn’t want to, huh?” Her gaze zeroed in on the glistening patch of blood on the straitjacket. “Mr. Purcell promised me that he’d take care of you.” Her voice took on an accusatory, indignant tone as she swiveled to glare at the man in question. “He
promised
.”

Dante shifted his gaze to Purcell. Purcell lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, I’m sure he plans to do just that.”

Swiveling back around, Violet studied him for a long moment through ginger-colored lashes, a fierce, desperate light in her eyes. “I don’t want to leave you behind. You need someone to remind you what’s real and what isn’t, cuz you’re hurt and you don’t always remember stuff.”

Dante thought of Heather, of twilight-blue eyes, of cool white silence infused with her scent. He felt a dark-side-of-the-moon tug to the north—or what his aching head told him was north—a tug as true and as inevitable as sunset or moonrise.

“Don’t worry about me,
p’tite ange
,” Dante said, holding her blue gaze. “Let me do that, yeah?”

“All righty, then, Violet, that’s enough chit chat,” Purcell said. “Time to get you to the airport and on the way to your mom. Mr. Díon said she misses you very much.”

“Can’t Dante come with us? Please?
Pretty
please?”

Purcell shook his head, a sympathetic and utterly false
smile on his lips. “He’s too sick to travel; his owies, remember? He needs to get better first.”

“It’s okay,
p’tite
,” Dante said, drawing Violet’s attention back to him. “I can take care of myself. You just take care of yourself and your mom, yeah?”

“Okay,” Violet grumbled.

Dante wished he could plant a
see-you-later
kiss on Violet’s forehead, but knew he couldn’t risk it. Not with his control cocooned by drugs and his hunger gliding like a shark just beneath the surface, powerful and unpredictable and savage.

Maybe
he
couldn’t; Violet had other ideas.

Violet’s crayon box thunked to the table as she threw her arms around Dante’s neck and pressed her freckled cheek against his, her soft skin like red-glowing embers against his iciness. “I
hate
them,” she said in a furious, tear-choked whisper, “for making me go, for hurting you. Mommy says hating is a bad thing, but I don’t care. I
don’t
.”

“It’s okay,
chère
, it’s all right. I hate them too.” Sweat beaded Dante’s forehead as he struggled to ignore the
shush-shush
of the blood rushing through Violet’s veins.

“I don’t wanna go.”

“I ain’t leaving you there in that place,
ma p’tite ange
,” Dante whispered into her hair, throat so tight it ached. “I
will
come for you.”

Violet released him reluctantly, then picked up her crayons. “I’ll be waiting,” she replied, her face solemn.

“Take her to the car,” Purcell instructed Violet’s escort. “I’ll be along soon.”

With an acknowledging nod, the suit walked the little girl in her purple Winnie-the-Pooh sweater and tangled red tresses out of the room. Looking at Dante, Violet opened and closed her hand in a resigned farewell as the suit ushered her down the hall and out of sight.

Dante shifted his attention to Purcell. “I’ll be coming for you too.”

Purcell shook his head. “No, you won’t. Because I plan to disregard my orders and put you down permanently. Díon wants you alive so he can smash your sanity to bits. To be honest, I think he’s a little nuts. And he has no fucking clue how dangerous you are.”