On Midnight Wings

14 FUCK MURPHY AND HIS STUPID GODDAMNED LAW NEW ORLEANS CLUB HELL

VON STOOD OFF TO one side of the club’s kicked-in door, Silver’s coiled presence right behind him, and listened to the chaotic and brutal sounds issuing from the darkened and grafittied entrance hall—shouts, the fleshy thud of fists against flesh, pained grunts, the spatter of blood hitting the floor—a free-for-all battle.

“The fuck?” Silver muttered under his breath. “What now?”

Von heartily agreed. The fuck, indeed. It sounded as though a posse of idiots—nightkind idiots, given the lack of mortal heartbeats—had broken in, drunk all the booze, then decided the fire-scorched club was the perfect place for a UFC bout.

But he was pretty damned sure that something else very different was going on.

Someone was fighting for his or her life.

Von slipped a hand inside his leather jacket for one of his holstered Brownings—a gesture as natural and automatic as breathing—and felt a cold shock when his fingers brushed against only the jacket’s soft lining.

No guns. No holster.

Hell, it wasn’t even his jacket, but a brown bomber borrowed from Jack—one smelling of stale beer and spearmint gum and thankfully missing any pithy declarations or tiny gators.

Standing across from him on the other side of the boot-battered door, her Glock held in both hands, Merri Goodnight arched one eyebrow, her expression asking: Missing something or just feeling your bad self up?

With a let’s-keep-her-guessing wink, Von pulled his hand free of the jacket. Maybe his Brownings were inside, upstairs in his sprinkler-drenched room along with his double shoulder holster, leather jacket, and non-gator-infested clothing, but he sure as hell wasn’t weaponless. Neither was Silver.

But he couldn’t say the same for Thibodaux, despite the gun in the man’s hand. Merri’s partner towered behind her, his attention focused on the darkness beyond the battered doors, his Colt held down at his side in a one-handed grip.

A nightkind rumble was no place for a mortal. No matter how good a shot.

Von suddenly regretted his decision to bring the former SB agents along in the hope that their investigative skills might turn up a clue as to who had snatched Dante. And where he might’ve been taken.

“On three?” Merri whispered.

Von nodded, then glanced over his shoulder at Silver. Clothed in more of Jack’s generous donations—a black Voodoo Fest tee, jeans, and classic Converse high-tops, all suspiciously gator-free—his purple hair smudged nearly black in the moonlight, Silver met his regard with gleaming eyes.

<Ready?>

Silver flashed fangs for reply.

“One,” Von said, low.

“Two,” Merri picked up.

“Three,” from Silver.

Von moved, Merri and Silver right on his sneakered heels—sneakers, for chrissakes—the entrance hall blurring past in a smoke-reeking streak of black walls, fluorescent paint, and red flickering light.

BURNBURNBURNBURN

Even as he sped into the club, Von heard only a few low, pained moans—the hard-knuckled combat had ended. As he came to an abrupt halt in the center of the soot-streaked dance floor, he also realized that only one vampire remained standing.

One he recognized. Murphy and his stupid law had struck again.

Holly Miková pushed silky tendrils of hair the color of honey butter back from her face. Red light from the buzzing neon BURN sign jittered along the crescent moon tattoo beneath her right eye.

“Ah, there you are, McGuinn,” she said, a faint Russian accent flavoring her words. She wore a curve-hugging rose-red lace mini over black tights and wedge-heeled black boots, looking for all the world like a pop diva during a video shoot break instead of what she was—deadly. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“Well, you found me, darlin’,” Von drawled, despite the tight knot forming in his belly.

Holly’s return to New Orleans so soon after her last visit could only mean bad news given the summons she’d delivered less than a week ago—and a lifetime of shit had passed since then—and the promise he’d made in response.

You are to report to the filidh in Memphis in one night’s time to explain why they’ve learned of a True Blood through outside sources and not from the llygad serving this alleged True Blood’s household.

Why’d they send you? Because they thought you’d enjoy breaking the news?

No, they thought you’d listen to me—because of what we once had. Is Dante Baptiste a True Blood?

Ain’t my place to say. You need to ask him.

Of course it’s your place! It’s your duty to observe, compose, and report. This is information vital to vampire society and you’ve kept mum. Abandoned your duty, your impartiality. Oh, Vonushka. You’ve got a lot to answer for.

Tell the filidh I’ll be there. And have a safe trip back, darlin’.

A promise made to buy time. But a promise he’d intended to keep—after he’d kept his promise to Dante, a promise never voiced, but held deep in his heart: I will see you free and whole and walking the path you choose.

And in Holly’s deep blue eyes, Von read the truth.

That time you bought with a few easy words? All used up, man. Every last second.

Von nodded at the half dozen nightkind sprawled or crumpled on the floor, like plucked and discarded petals from an unwanted rose. A couple had even tucked themselves into fetal balls of pain. One unlucky bastard who happened to be more mobile than his buddies was busy trying to crawl away. He dragged himself across the floor, blood glistening in his wake like a snail’s moist trail.

Von shook his head. “Still making friends, I see. Didn’t your mama ever teach you to play nice?”

“Da, she did. But only if they played nice first.”

Von chuckled. “Woman after my own heart. Sure you ain’t nomad?”

“Absolutely positive. Good thing I stopped by to take out the trash for you, yes?”

“Well, that remains to be seen, darlin’.”

Frowning, Holly stepped forward, bent, then twisted the unlucky bastard’s head to the left. His neck broke with a sharp snap. He went limp, down for the count until his body healed.

Silver, now standing at Von’s left, whistled, low and impressed. “Can all llygaid kick ass like she does?”

“Aside from me, you mean?” Von said, dryly. Folding his arms over his chest, he added, “Miková there used to be llafnau before she came to her senses and joined the llygaid ranks.”

Silver whistled low again. “No shit?”

“No shit, indeed.”

Von caught a peripheral flash of movement from his right and looked in time to see Merri push her partner’s gun hand down. He felt a sudden pang, missing Heather and her quiet confidence, her inner strength.

You hold tight, woman. We’re coming for you too.

“See the crescent moon?” Merri murmured to her partner.

“Yeah, okay. Got it. But what the fuck is . . . lav-nigh?” Thibodaux asked, brow furrowed.

“Llafnau are the nightkind version of Navy SEALs,” Merri replied, sparing Von the necessity. “The special forces branch of the llygaid.”

“Roger that.” The wariness in Thibodaux’s sharp blue eyes throttled down a notch, but he didn’t holster his gun. He kept the Colt ready at his side and glanced at Von. “I also get that this is vampire business. Think I’ll go upstairs and take a look around. Make sure our Navy SEAL there didn’t miss someone.”

Crossing the floor in a long-legged stride, the former SB agent headed for the staircase.

Von watched him go, amused. Double-checking our hearing and our noses. Man doesn’t take anything for granted—including supersonic nightkind senses. Gotta admit, I like that.

The reek of smoke, scorched wood, and freshly spilled blood hung thick in Von’s nostrils, at the back of his throat, as he got his first good look at the damage to the club, courtesy of James Wallace.

The fire-blackened bars of the Cage, the fetishes nothing but ash.

The flame-gutted stairs leading up to Dante’s cheesetacular bat-winged throne. Or the twisted and fused thing that used to be his cheesetacular bat-winged throne, anyway.

Water damage.

Fire extinguisher foam—thick and petrified and reeking of chemicals—on walls and floors and furniture.

The stink of scorched wood and plastic and metal.

It hit Von again—the cold, furious feeling that had struck him like a brass-knuckled fist to the gut when he’d learned from Lucien what had happened while he’d Slept. His jaw tightened, pulse throbbing at his temples.

An image stolen from Annie’s memory flashed behind his eyes.

Dante half slides, half falls to his knees in the bedroom doorway, his black-painted nails scraping furrows along the threshold on his way down. Head bowed, black hair veiling his face, he whispers, “J’su ici, catin. Je t’entends.”

I’m here, doll. I hear you.

Those words alone told Von that Heather had managed to summon Dante up from Sleep—through their bond, no doubt—and most likely saved his life in the process.

J’su ici.

But that was the problem. He wasn’t here.

Worse, they still had no idea where to find him.

Everything could be repaired, rebuilt, bought anew. Tougher security installed. Guards hired. But without Dante, none of it mattered.

“I don’t know who they are,” Holly was saying. “But I followed them in.”

“Thanks for that, Miková,” Von said.

Holly shrugged. “I needed the workout. Sadly”—she glanced down in disdain at the nearest unconscious idiot—“they didn’t give me much of one.”

Von tilted his head, studied the groaning nightkind on the floor. “Might’ve seen a few of these bastards aboard the Winter Rose.”

“Figures,” Silver growled. <We should stake them and send their ashes back to Mauvais. For Simone.>

Von met and held Silver’s seething gaze. needs to pay for Simone, no one else. And once we have Dante and Heather home again, trust me—the motherfucker will pay.>

Silver nodded, then looked away, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

Shifting his attention back to Holly, Von said, “Did anyone happen to say why the fuck they were in here?”

“Da. They mentioned looking for some poor bastard named Vincent. Seems they wish to tear him a new one.”

“Well, they can stand at the back of the line.” Von looked at Silver, perplexed. “Wanting to tear Vincent a new one I get. But why look for him here?”

Silver shook his head. “Beats the hell outta me.”

“Who’s Vincent?” Merri asked.

“Magazine Street lord,” Von replied. “British. Seventies glam. Looks like Ewan McGregor in that movie Velvet Goldmine. Full of himself. Annoying. Generally harmless. Until recently.”

“And what happened recently?”

“None of your business,” Von said, looking at Merri pointedly from beneath his lashes.

Comprehension glimmered in her eyes. To her credit, she didn’t even look in Holly’s direction. “Fine. Be that way.”

Holly said softly, “We need to talk, McGuinn.”

Von nodded. “I figured as much.”

“Alone,” Holly suggested.

“Okay. But before we talk, I wanna haul the rest of this trash out to the curb.”

“Fine. Haul away.” Holly sauntered across the nightkind-littered floor to the bar, stepping on anyone in her path and leaving a renewed trail of pained grunts and groans in her wake. “There’s a restaurant across the street. Meet me there when you’ve finished.”

“I’ll do that,” Von said.

For a split second, as she passed him, Von caught a whiff of her homey, warm-kitchen-in-a-snowstorm scent—honeyed black tea and vanilla—before it was swallowed up by the stink of charred wood and melted plastic.

“Still like your style, darlin’.”

Heading for the exit, Holly shrugged. “I know.”