On Midnight Wings

48 BECOMING BATON ROUGE DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM

HEATHER BLINKED UNTIL THE ceiling came into focus again. She felt like she’d taken a shotgun blast to the head, her brain full of holes, her memory Swiss-cheesed. She wiped blood away from beneath her nose with a shaking hand. Tasted it bright and coppery on her tongue.

Let me in, chère.

Her stomach clenched. No, make that she wished—desperately and hard—that her memory had been Swiss-cheesed. She remembered Loki’s mental assault all too well.

Where is your bond? What has that beautiful, insane little half-breed done? I told him to close it, not sever it. If he’s damaged himself—

Heather knew what Dante would’ve said to that and repeated it now in a barely audible whisper: “Blow me.”

Pain pounded a red-hot spike through the center of her forehead when she tried to turn her head to see Dante. She swallowed back a groan and held utterly still until the pain eased. She could feel Dante on the floor beside her, felt her arm against his, the iciness of his skin chilling her own.

How much poison have the sons of bitches pumped into him?

Carefully and oh-so-slowly, Heather turned her head. Dante still Slept even though she was pretty sure the sun had set. His pale, blood-streaked face seemed troubled, uneasy. The skin beneath his eyes was smudged blue with exhaustion. He was Sleeping, yes, but he sure as hell wasn’t resting. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs when she noticed the blood pooled inside his ear.

He’d knocked her on her ass when he’d severed the bond. Maybe he’d knocked himself on his ass too—and when he could least afford it. As much as she hated to admit it, maybe Loki had been right to be concerned.

The fallen bastard.

“Baptiste,” she said, gingerly sitting up. “Hey, cher.” Her vision grayed and she lowered her head until she no longer felt faint. She watched as little blood flowers blossomed on her jeans. Nose is still bleeding, dammit.

Something small and hard, like a pebble, pinged off Heather’s shoulder.

“Hey there, pumpkin.”

Not possible. Maybe I’m not awake.

But she was.

Heather followed the voice to her right, hand automatically sliding to the small of her back and the backup she hoped was still there, tucked into her jeans; then froze, heart in her throat, when her gaze locked onto the trench-coated speaker. Gray-threaded blond hair, hazel eyes hidden behind glasses, a fatherly smile, the sharp scent of Brut.

James Wallace.

But what was he sitting on? A chair—no, a goddamned throne—made out of . . . Heather’s mouth dried, unable to believe what she was seeing. James Wallace lounged upon a throne composed of the contorted and broken bodies of the dead, colorful scrubs alternating with black suits. She swallowed back her nausea.

Dear God.

James Wallace lifted a hand and tossed another pebble at her. It landed near her hip, skittering away on the tile and her stomach clenched again as she realized it wasn’t a pebble, but a small piece of bone. “Oh, I hope I didn’t awaken you,” he said.

“I was stunned, not unconscious—as you well know,” Heather replied. Her nausea melted away beneath a surge of surprised relief when she felt the comforting weight of the SIG still tucked into her jeans at the small of her back.

Either Loki missed it or the arrogant SOB simply doesn’t care because, for him, a bullet is only an annoyance at worst. I unloaded ten goddamned rounds in his chest and all he said was “ow.”

“I believe the traditional greeting is hello.”

“Nice try, Loki,” Heather said. “But I know you’re not my father.”

“Loki?” Her father tsked chidingly, shook his head. “Is it so hard to believe that I had a tracking device implanted when you were first admitted to Strickland? That I had help waiting in the wings when you so unceremoniously dumped me on that highway?”

“No, I can believe all that,” Heather replied. “It’s the part about getting past a Fallen spell and cooperating with a fallen angel that I have a hard time believing.”

The fatherly smile stretched into a feral grin. “Maybe you don’t know me the way you think you do, pumpkin. Maybe you don’t know any of us the way you think you do—or the things we’ve had to do.”

Most likely true.

And that realization hollowed Heather’s heart. “I know you’re a coldhearted lying bastard—no matter who you are. I don’t need to know anything else.”

Sliding his glasses off, James Wallace retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket of his trench. “What about your mother?” he asked, using the handkerchief to wipe smudges from his glasses. “I know you think I either had her killed or did the deed myself, but no matter whether I’m a cold-blooded killer or a devoted father or both, you can’t deny the relief you felt or how much better your life became the moment you learned she was dead.”

Heather stared at him, her certainty slipping away. Words spoken twenty years ago returned to haunt her.

It’s just us now, pumpkin. You, me, Kevin, and Annie.

Daddy, that’s all it’s ever been.

Not relief, no. Just the sad and simple truth. Isolated by her bipolar disorder, Shannon Wallace had never been a part of the family—her mother had always been alone, even when her children held her hands; a fate Heather wished with all her heart to spare Annie.

“Nothing to say, pumpkin?”

Heather shook her head, throat too tight for speech. Doubt chiseled away at her certainty. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe her father had not only tracked her to Doucet-Bainbridge, but was about to make a confession that she badly wanted—needed—to hear.

Maybe. But not likely. James Wallace would’ve killed Dante the moment he spotted him Sleeping in the blood-splattered corridor. He never would’ve left him alive.

Loki had other plans.

“You’re not my father. So drop it.”

James Wallace slid his glasses back onto his nose and re-pocketed the handkerchief. “Ah. Looks like the proverbial jig is up. You’re a hard woman to fool.” He grinned. “But I so enjoy trying.”

“That makes one of us,” Heather muttered, pushing her hands through her hair. Her injured ankle throbbed and ached even though she was sitting; she doubted she’d be able to put much, if any, weight on it.

Some rescue this turned out to be.

Swiveling to face Dante, she leaned over and gently patted his cold cheek. She cast an anxious glance at his chest to make sure he was still breathing, before saying, “C’mon, Baptiste. Time to rise and shine.”

“He’s becoming,” Loki said in her father’s voice, his tone hushed, expectant. Excited. “He needs to keep Sleeping until his transformation is complete. His throne”—he patted one hand against the hideous flesh-chair he sat upon—“awaits him.”

Loki’s brass-knuckled words seemed to knock the air out of Heather’s lungs, left her struggling for breath.

The night burns, the sky on fire from horizon to horizon.

The never-ending Road.

The Great Destroyer.

One or both or neither.

“He’ll never sit there,” Heather scoffed, a quiet denial. As she looked at Dante’s pale face, the blood staining his lips, an idea presented itself. One she quickly buried. She glanced over her shoulder. A smug smile twisted Loki-as-James’s lips. “And you’re wrong. He’ll never be what you want him to be.”

Loki opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, his head tilting to one side. “Seems like we have a guest—a mortal one. How lovely. A gift for the creawdwr. He’ll be wanting to bathe in blood by the time he awakens.”

Heather felt a moment’s panic until she realized that there was no way it could be Annie, that she would’ve reached Memphis only a short time ago and couldn’t possibly be in Baton Rouge.

Loki rose to his feet, his form and voice rippling, shifting. “Given your condition and his”—he indicated Dante with a nod—“I expect you’ll stay right here while I’m gone. So be a good little guard dog and keep our creawdwr safe.”

Then he was gone, leaving the fading scent of Brut in his wake.

“Christ,” Heather muttered. “What an arrogant prick.”

Not knowing when he’d be back, she didn’t waste any time. She scanned the floor around her for anything sharp. She picked up the bone-pebble Loki had tossed at her, then dropped it in disappointment.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then her gaze landed on Dante’s hands with their black-painted nails. His sharp, sharp nails. The fact that they were caked in dried blood spoke volumes about their effectiveness. A muscle flexed in Heather’s jaw. No other choice. No time.

“Sorry, cher,” she whispered as she sliced a small cut into Dante’s wrist with a finger from his opposite hand. Crimson blood welled up on his white skin. Healing blood. A temporary link. Heather lowered her face to the wound and drank.

PURCELL CLIMBED THE STAIRS, his furious heart a drum guiding each careful step. They were all dead, near as he could tell. At least they were downstairs—agents, medics, patients—the air thick with the reek of thickening blood. Who knew what blood-drenched horrors awaited on the upper floors?

How many times did I fucking warn them? How many times did I urge them to kill the little fuck? How many goddamned times?

Question is: why the hell is he still here? What’s he waiting for?

But Purcell knew the answer to that question. S’s threat—no, a promise—spoken in a low, coiled voice sounded through his memory.

I’ll be coming for you too.

Looked like he’d simply decided to wait instead.

Another school of tiny blue fish, their jeweled scales glittering in the light from his helmet-cam, swam past him, also on their way up and just as happy as fucking punch.

And again, all Purcell could think was: Sure. Why not? The world’s clearly turned itself upside down. So why not have motherfucking air fish?

Reaching the second floor landing, Purcell revised Díon’s plan one more time—more of a reversion to the original, actually. Not to bash S’s sanity to bits, but to make him suffer—just on the off chance the son of a bitch felt something, anything for Heather Wallace.

He’d make sure S took his time killing her.

Then, when that was done, S would join her.

“We’ll see, yeah?” Low and amused, Cajun-spiced.

S was on Purcell before he could even swing his Glock up for a shot. His breath whoofed from his lungs as he was slammed up against the wall. The light from his helmet-cam hit the ceiling at a skewed angle. S pressed against him, all heated skin and taut muscle. Adrenaline raged through Purcell. His heart rate kicked into high, fight-or-flight gear. The words he needed to say to keep himself alive poured out of his mouth without conscious effort.

“Wake up, Rip Van Winkle. It’s time to quit sleeping and go to work. The Brothers Grimm have a job for you. Once it’s done, you can dream again.”

S pulled back, although his hands remained locked around Purcell’s biceps. He tilted his head, a curious light in his now-golden eyes. “Now, why did you think that would stop me from killing you?”

Fear iced Purcell’s spine. S’s programming should’ve been triggered. He should be standing still, an empty vessel awaiting instructions, not asking questions.

And his eyes—gold like S’s winged sugar daddy outside.

“Maybe you should drop the sugar and just make that daddy.”

Purcell stared at him feeling like he’d just taken a punch to the gut. Might be true, probably was, but that didn’t concern him at the moment. What did was the fact that S’s programming hadn’t responded to the words coded to awaken it.

“Rip Van Winkle,” he began through a mouth gone dry. “Wake up—”

S laughed. “Oh, I’m awake. But I can’t wait to find out why you thought fairy tale references would make me as docile as Mary’s little lamb.” Purcell broke into a cold sweat when S touched a taloned finger to his forehead, then said, “Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

Lightning strike.

Purcell screamed.