On Midnight Wings

32 SHAPE-SHIFTER

SILVER 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.