On Midnight Wings

17 BADASS AND BEAUTIFUL

MERRI FELT AN URGENT nudge at her shields—a mental touch she recognized as belonging to her mère de sang’s llygad, Juliet. Merri relaxed her shields, then closed her eyes.

<Dante Baptiste in an official announcement made at his Club Hell at approximately eleven p.m. Central Time on March 28th,> Juliet sent.

Merri frowned, wondering at the announcement’s delay. Then images flooded her mind in detail so vivid it seemed as though she viewed them through her own eyes, transported in time and place to Club Hell, to a moment almost three nights old—a moment taking place right now.

She stands in front of the Cage, breathing in air thick with musky pheromones, pungent curls of pot and tobacco smoke, patchouli, and sweat. At her back, she feels the heated, adrenaline-soaked press of the club crowd; hears the jackrabbit rush of mortal pulses mingling with the slow waltz of nightkind hearts.

And inside the Cage . . .

A lean-muscled form in a shirt of PVC and fishnet and metal straps; low-slung black latex jeans and boots. A metal studded leather collar encircles his milk-white throat. Light glints from the steel ring at its center, from the rings on his fingers and thumbs, but not from the hoops she knows trace the curves of his ears—hidden behind the nightfall of his black hair.

He steps forward, a sinuous and natural panther prowl. Merri’s breath catches rough in her throat. She’s only seen him frozen in photos or at a distance in grainy or static-freckled video feed, never like this—right in front of her, pulsing heat through her veins with just a simple movement.

Badass and beautiful Dante Baptiste curls one pale hand around the microphone, leaning in just a little, his cupid’s-bow lips nearly grazing the mic cover. “This is an official announcement for all you nightkind out there . . .”

Merri had planned to approach Dante—when they finally met—with an open-minded neutrality in order to assess the damage done to him by Bad Seed. She had studied his photos, memorizing every contour of his ivory-pale face, each line of his tight-muscled body, in an effort to inoculate herself against his thought-scorching beauty.

And she believed she had succeeded. Believed herself ready and more than capable of doing what her mère de sang had requested of her.

The Conseil du Sang want you to be their emissary to Dante Baptiste. They want you to assess his condition, to determine whether he can be salvaged. As rare and powerful as True Bloods are, no one wants to just throw this boy away. But if he’s too damaged, then he’s much too dangerous to remain free . . .

Now, watching him in the Cage, Merri knew herself for a fool.

“I’M GONNA SHARE A few things I’ve learned recently and end the rumors tonight.” Dante’s kohl-rimmed, deep brown eyes skim the crowd for a moment before he continues. “I’m the Nightbringer’s son and I was born nightkind.”

Stunned silence from the crowd. Lucien De Noir stands beside the Cage door, his chin lifted, his face nearly luminous with pride.

“Just so there’s no confusion,” Dante continues into the silence, his Cajun-accented voice shifting into a warning drawl, “no, I won’t turn you. No, you ain’t getting a taste. No, I ain’t interested in claiming power, your fucking household, or your girlfriend.”

“Bullshit! You’re lying through your fangs!” someone shouts. “You’re just trying to win support against Guy!”

“Yeah, that’d be my thought too, in your place,” Dante says, unstrapping his latex shirt and peeling it off.

Lusty catcalls scrape into the air at the sight of Dante’s bared torso—all lean, defined muscle and ivory skin. A ridged white scar forms an odd blend of pyramids and loops on one pec. “Don’t stop there!” someone teasingly pleads. “Keep going!”

Dante turns around, giving the crowd his back. He flexes his shoulder and deltoid muscles, then smooth black wings edged in deepest crimson slide out from beneath his skin in a rush and unfurl, snapping the scent of burning leaves and musk into the air.

Silence swallows the crowd whole, mortal and nightkind alike.

Dante swivels back around with an unconscious and sexy grace and displays the undersides of his wings—streaked in fire patterns of brilliant blue and purple—before folding them shut behind him. He grasps the microphone again, the rings on his fingers and thumb clinking against the metal, yanking it close to the wicked, knowing smile tilting his lips.

“Does that answer the bullshit question? Anyone? Anyone?”

THE IMAGE THAT MERRI was receiving of Dante in the Cage, black dragon wings folded at his back and arching above his head, suddenly wrinkled like the surface of a wind-kissed pond, then smoothed away into nothingness as Juliet withdrew the feed from Merri’s mind.

Merri’s heart drummed a stuttering cadence against her ribs. Fallen. Not only True Blood, but Fallen. Her racing thoughts hurried back to Damascus and the white stone angels rimming the mysterious cave—where a home had once stood, where a rogue FBI agent and his family had died.

Blue sparks flicker like fireflies over the white stone, skip along the butter-smooth wings. From within the white stone a heart flutters, the sound slowing. Not statues, no. Merri senses power in each stone figure, power that tingles against her gloved fingertips. She remembers tales of Fallen magic, whispers of angelic battles.

Merri couldn’t help but wonder how Dante Baptiste—given what she now knew about him—had managed to avoid sharing their fate, especially since he’d been there too, he and Heather Wallace both.

She also couldn’t help but wonder why Von, that long cool drink of a nomad, had neglected to mention the fact that Dante was Lucien De Noir’s son. Nightbringer. A vision of raven-black wings, their edges sharp as a scythe, flaring above bone-white tombs, flashed behind her closed eyes, leaving her both chilled and uneasy.

An aroma of sweet oranges and almonds washed over Merri’s senses—Galiana’s scent—and then she felt her mère de sang’s soothing, mental touch.

<See, child? What did I tell you?>

<‘I have a suspicion that events beyond the scope of mortals or even vampires might be unfolding,’> Merri quoted. <Do you think Dante’s a part of those events?>

But Galiana ignored her question, asking one of her own instead. <Did you notice the sigil on Dante Baptiste’s chest?>

<Sigil? The weird scar?>

<The weird scar, sí.> Amusement buoyed Galiana’s sending, an amusement that vanished as quickly as soap bubbles. <It’s the Morningstar’s mark. Which tells me that our damaged True Blood plays a very big part in what is to come among the Elohim>—finally answering Merri’s question—<I don’t know what or how or why. Not yet. But whatever it is, every living being in the mortal world will be touched by it as well.>

<So what now?> Merri sent. <Do I still try to assess how damaged he is? With the Fallen involved, does it even matter anymore? I don’t think they’re going to let us waltz away with him, no matter what I learn. I know his father certainly won’t—>

<Dante’s mother was vampire,> Galiana interrupted. <He belongs to us, child, and we need him. The Bloodline needs him. Without him . . . We’ll find a way to negotiate with the Fallen, so stay on course. Have you met him yet?>

<Not yet,> Merri admitted. For reasons she didn’t fully understand, she decided to leave it at that and save the details—Dante’s disappearance and the frantic search to find him—for another time. <But I’ll let you know when I do.>

<This announcement has the Conseil eager to get him somewhere safe>—a wry note twisted through Galiana’s sending—<meaning, away from the Cercle de Druide and that damned Renata Cortini in particular.>

<Meaning, the Conseil’s collective panties are in a twist.>

Galiana’s amusement poured like sunshine through Merri’s mind, warm and full of golden light. <That they are. Keep safe, Merri-girl.>

<You too, Galiana.>

As her mère de sang’s presence withdrew from her mind, Merri became aware of the strained silence surrounding her. She opened her eyes and looked up into eyes as cold and hard as emeralds in a glacier. It hit her then and she uttered a soft groan of disbelief. The announcement, the scene at the club, Dante in the Cage, herself so caught up, so damned rapt. . . .

“You dropped your shields, darlin’,” Von said in a low, tight voice. “I think we need to talk.”