On Midnight Wings (30 page)

A slow smile curved Loki’s lips. “I mean this Dante no harm. In fact, I hope to become indispensable to him. The most intimate of friends.”

Mauvais found himself oddly unsettled by the fallen angel’s reassuring words. The tension radiating from Giovanni’s tightly strung body suggested he’d also found the words less than comforting.

Giovanni confirmed this by sending: <
He’s lying.
>

Mauvais sighed. <
Of
course
he’s lying.
>

“A noble gesture, given your animosity toward his father,” Mauvais said to Loki, with an acknowledging nod.

“Indeed,” Loki murmured, his attention now fixed on the crowd. “Interesting mix of individuals. What manner of
creaw
 . . . creature is this Dante?”

Wondering what word Loki had intended to use before changing it to
creature
, Mauvais followed the fallen angel’s line of sight. The swelling crowd was mostly composed of vampires—the majority of them out of town strangers; they glided like pale sharks amongst the mortals. Usually it was the other way around, Dante’s and Inferno’s mortal fans choking the sidewalk in leather and velvet and fishnet and musk.

“He’s a rare beauty,” Mauvais mused. “Riveting. But he’s
also a defiant prick and a true pain in the ass. Disrespectful, sarcastic, a catalyst for chaos.”

Loki chuckled. “I like him already.”

“Well, since he’s not here and no one knows where he is . . .” Mauvais began, his words stopping as he caught a peripheral flash of movement from the street, movement aimed straight for him. He deftly sidestepped the onrusher, grabbing a handful of purple hair as he did, and slammed his would-be attacker face-first into the club’s stone façade.

Breathing in the clean, sharp smells of soap and cinnamon along with the scorched and bitter reek of rage—and
garlic
?—Mauvais spun the vampire around and pinned him to the wall with a hand to his pale throat.

Purple hair, red-streaked silver eyes, a snarling and cornered panther dressed in jeans and a black Voodoo Fest T-shirt, the smooth-cheeked youth looked no older than sixteen. But Mauvais knew better. This vampire was young,
oui
, but he was no longer a teenager. He
did
look familiar, however.

Perhaps he was a member of that traitorous Vincent’s household?

“Motherfucker,” the youth spat, struggling to twist free of Mauvais’s implacable hold. “You killed her. You took her from us. And for what?”

Mauvais tilted his head, considering the accusation. “
Oui
. Most likely I did—whoever she was.”

“Simone. Her name was Simone, you jackass. She died because of you.”

“And no doubt you intend to make me pay, rue the day I was born, and/or tear out my heart and feed it me. How very tedious and melodramatic of you. And, to be honest, I don’t know which is the worse crime.”

“Tedious,” Loki said. “Without a doubt. Melodramatic is entertaining at least.”

The youth’s gaze shifted to Loki, nostrils flaring. Panic fired
in his eyes; extraordinary eyes, Mauvais reflected, eyes the color of moon-kissed silver.

“Fallen,” the young vampire breathed.

Mauvais tensed, a dark suspicion creeping into his mind. Most vampires wouldn’t know Fallen by scent alone since most had never encountered one of the immortals. Except for those, of course, in Dante’s household. A chill iced the base of Mauvais’s spine.
Mon Dieu.
Could his luck really be this bad?

“You’ve been around Elohim before,” Loki stated in a chiming purr, coming to the same conclusion as Mauvais. “Do you know the Nightbringer? Or his son?”

“I’ve seen them at the club,” the youth replied, his fury banked, but not gone, “but I don’t know them.”

“Ah, a shame. What’s your name, boy?”

“Silver.”

“He’s just angry about some girl,” Giovanni dismissed. “Simone. This is tedious, Guy. Send him on his way so we can hunt.”

Mauvais nodded, relaxing his hold on the boy’s neck. “
Oui
. Excellent idea. We’ve wasted enough—”

“You and Giovanni can go hunt,” Loki interrupted, one large hand locking around the boy’s shoulder. The boy winced as black talons sank into his flesh through the T-shirt. “Or do whatever you wish. Silver and I have a few things to discuss, including how to tell when one is lying.”

Mauvais shared a dark, despairing look with Giovanni as the fallen angel forced Silver into the narrow alley between Club Hell and DaVinci’s Pizza.

<
He’s a member of Dante’s household
,> Mauvais sent.

Giovanni bowed his head and buried his face in his hands.

S
ILVER STARED AT THE
fallen angel, cold fingers closing around his heart. For the first time since Dante had disappeared, he was grateful he didn’t know where to find him. The angel studied him with eyes as cold as winter stars, his scent crackling with ice and cold stone, the fallow earth of ancient graveyards.

“I have no desire to harm you,” the fallen angel said, pulling his talons free of Silver’s shoulder, but not releasing him. “Or Dante. But my patience has been worn thin. So I will ask you one more time, and if you lie to me again, I will be forced to gather my information in a more direct manner.”

“Ain’t lying,” Silver replied, pleased at the steadiness of his voice. “I don’t know Dante or the Nightbringer. I came to the club to see him tonight, after his announcement, y’know? But, as I’m sure you noticed, the place is fucking closed.”

Silver felt two anxious presences hovering in the alley’s narrow mouth. He had a feeling it was Mauvais and his burgundy-haired buddy, but didn’t risk a look. He kept his attention fixed on his captor’s cold and handsome face.

The angel’s lips twisted into an eager smile. “A more direct manner it is, then.”

Silver’s heart leapt up into his throat as the fallen’s tall form rippled, a shadow undulating behind a thundering waterfall,
dark and primal and as terrifying as the thing lying in wait beneath every three-year-old’s bed. Before Silver could shut his eyes or look away from the disturbing sight, the rippling stopped.

Dante stood in front of him dressed in the black latex jeans and fishnet-PVC-metal-strapped shirt he’d been wearing that night in the Cage when he’d done his coming out gig.

Fear iced Silver’s heart.

Shape-shifter
.

Dante was pressing against him, his heated lips brushing against Silver’s. Energy electrified the air, tingled along Silver’s skin, raced along his spine, into his skull. The smell of ozone filled his nostrils. Dante’s gleaming hair lifted in a blue-black corona around his head. He touched a long, taloned finger to Silver’s forehead.

Lightning strike.

Standing under a tree in a downpour.

Finishing that final lap in the pool while thunder rolled overhead.

White light exploded through Silver’s skull. His body stiffened, muscles locked and thrumming as electric energy sizzled through him.

A soft voice sounded through his thoughts, a pealing bell that he couldn’t ignore, a lover’s seductive command. <
Lower your shields,
cher
. Let me in.
>

A cold sweat beaded Silver’s forehead. Not Dante.
Not
Dante.

<
Let me in,
p’tit
. Let me in. Let me in. I need to be inside you,
mon ami.>

The pealing bell reverberated through his consciousness, ringing and echoing and vibrating, crumbling to dust all other thoughts. Shattering his focus.

Silver’s shields fell.

And a dark, complicated, and powerful presence poured in. Silver felt no pain as his memories were—not ransacked, not precisely, but clicked open like folders on a computer. Each
folder held hundreds of interconnected memories, images, sensation.

No pain, but he felt despair in spades.

As the search continued, Silver thought he heard/felt a song—wild and searing, hungry. A song that left him breathless and dizzied. A song that filled his mind with Dante’s image, his autumn scent. Then it was gone.

“Anhrefncathl,”
the fallen angel whispered in Dante’s voice.

The dark presence withdrew from Silver’s mind and the electric thrumming pinning him like a moth against the alley wall vanished. Boneless, his legs dumped him onto the alley’s rain-puddled floor.

Silver sucked in air, head throbbing, oddly soothed by the zydeco bouncing from the tavern speakers across the street. The world hadn’t ended after all. Not yet, anyway. He glanced up in time to see the fallen angel’s form ripple, shifting back to himself. Black wings unfolded from wing-slits cleverly tailored into his suit jacket.

With a single strong stroke, he took to the air, a triumphant smile on his lips. Silver’s despair deepened. He had a feeling that somehow, some way, the fallen angel had managed to lock onto Dante.

That song . . .

Silver drew his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, then rested his forehead against his denim-clad knees. “Jesus,” he whispered, his voice sounding as shaky as he felt inside.

“Are you all right?”

Silver lifted his head and looked up. Burgundy hair, concerned hazel eyes. Mauvais’s buddy—Mr.
Esquire
Euro Edition. A quick glance down the alleyway confirmed the Creole bastard’s absence.

“No, I’m pretty fucking far from all right. Where did Mauvais go?”

“He left for his riverboat some time ago,” the stranger said in a low voice flowing with European grace. He crouched down
beside Silver. “Said he needed to check on something, hoped that it still worked.” He spat on the alley floor. “
Bastardo.
”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” Silver asked. “And what are you doing here?”

“My name is Giovanni Toscanini. And I know yours, as well—Silver. Along with the fact that you’re a member of Dante Baptiste’s household.”

“You ain’t said what you’re doing here.” Silver rose to his feet. He walked from the alley to the sidewalk, knowing Giovanni Tosca-whatever was following, then turned to face him.

“I’m here to help Dante Baptiste.”

Silver snorted. “Yeah, right. Help him how?”

Giovanni glanced to his left, face wary. Silver followed his gaze to the club. The crowd had grown even larger.

“Ass-kissers and idiots,” Silver muttered. He returned his attention to Giovanni. “What makes you any different?”

Giovanni considered him for a long moment, illumination from the gaslight dancing reflected in his eyes, ghost flames. When he finally spoke, he pitched his voice low. “I believe it best we speak elsewhere. Too many potential eavesdroppers—including the SB agents who keep eyes and ears on the club at all times.”

Silver straightened, startled. “How do you know that?”

Closing the distance between them with one quick step, Giovanni whispered into Silver’s ear, “The same way I know what all those ass-kissers and idiots over there don’t—that Dante Baptiste is a
creawdwr
.”

Silver’s heart gave his ribs one hard kick.
Creawdwr
. Giovanni
knew
.

Giovanni stepped back and answered the question that Silver knew had to be burning in his own eyes, the same question knuckling his hands into fists, and pumping adrenaline into his blood. A
fatal
question for Giovanni if he didn’t answer it right:
How, motherfucker? How do you know?

“An inside source—one who is working for Dante Baptiste.”

Silver gave the buzzing, restless crowd a long look, then returned his attention to Giovanni. Was he ally or smooth-talking foe? Should he trust him or stake his ass? There was no one Silver could ask. Von was out of commission and missing and Lucien was silent in Gehenna. This time, he was on his own.

“C’mon, then,” Silver said. He started across the street for Aunt Sally’s Tavern & Heavenly BBQ without waiting for an answer.

He knew Giovanni would follow.

T
HE TANGY AROMA OF
honey-and-whiskey-barbecued pork ribs permeated the air inside Aunt Sally’s Tavern & Heavenly BBQ, thick enough to taste, alongside the buttery smells of skillet-fried corn bread and dark, foamy beer.

Annie and Merri had grabbed a booth near the rear of the tavern, probably the only one available, given the surprising late night crowd. Sliding in beside Annie, Silver made introductions as Giovanni sat beside Merri with a murmured,
“Bella.”

Merri gave him a cool, professional once-over, her dark eyes drinking in details Silver suspected he would’ve—and probably had—missed. “Look like you could use a drink,” she said, handing him her half empty bottle of Dixie Crimson Voodoo Ale. “Rough night?”

Giovanni slanted a wry glance at Silver before returning his attention to Merri. “
Sì
. But it’s starting to improve,” he said, raising the moisture-beaded bottle to his lips and taking a long, grateful swallow.

“Go on and finish it,” Merri said. She pulled a pack of Djarum Black from her jacket pocket. “I’m going outside for a smoke.”

Giovanni scooted out of the booth, denim squeaking against vinyl, and stood so Merri could slide out and leave. Once she had, he sat back down again.

“Okay. So spill—” Silver began, only to be interrupted by a cheery female voice.

“Here’s your pork special, sugar,” the waitress said, resting a heaping platter of sauce-slathered ribs, collard greens, and corn bread in front of Annie. The aroma—spicy and sweet and savory—filled the booth. “Anyone else need anything? More beer? You fellas need menus?”

“No menus, thanks,” Silver said, “Just a round of Abita Amber.”

“You got it, sugar.” With a wink, the caramel-skinned waitress sashayed away. Once their beer had been delivered in frosted mugs, Silver looked at Giovanni. “One more time,” he said. “Your inside source—the one working for Dante. Spill.”

“She’s an SB agent,” Giovanni replied, voice low. “And my sister. Caterina Cortini.”