On Midnight Wings

49 RACING THEIR FATES

“C’MON, BAPTISTE. ON . . . YOUR . . . feet!”

With his arm looped over her shoulders, Heather surged to her feet, grunting with effort, despite her blood-renewed strength, as she supported his Sleeping weight. She felt a slight twinge from her nearly healed ankle, but that was all.

She froze as a scream cut through the air—a primal, high-pitched shriek of utter terror. And she had no idea if it’d been torn from a male or female throat. Her belly clenched.

Loki had found his mortal gift for Dante.

The scream stopped abruptly.

No time to waste. If she had to drag Dante to an exit, she goddamned would.

Shifting Dante’s weight against her, Heather tightened her hold on him, fingers locking around his wrist, his waist. Sweat popped up on her forehead. “C’mon,” she urged, before deciding to test the blood link.

please. Wake the hell up.>

He stirred against her. “Quitte-moi tranquille,” he muttered, sleepy voice thick with irritation.

Elation soared through Heather. “That’s it. That’s right. Wake up. We’ve got to get out of here before he gets back.”

Dante’s eyes snapped open. “Papa,” he growled, all sleepiness gone. He straightened and the weight against Heather disappeared, but his arm remained around her shoulders. “Is Chloe okay? Is—” His words died in his throat as he took in his surroundings. His dark eyes locked on Loki’s flesh-and-bone throne. Panic and confusion rippled across his face. “The fuck is that?”

“One of the things we’re running from.”

His face blanked. “Is it for me?” he asked, voice hollow. “Is that my next fucking test?”

Heather’s throat constricted as she thought of the boy Dante had been—and currently was—and what he must’ve endured at the hands of Wells and Moore. “No,” she promised, releasing him and turning to cup his face between her hands—his cold, cold face. “No more tests. Not now. Not ever again. You’re free, Dante. We just need to get you out of here.”

<Come back to me, Baptiste. Come back to the here-and-now.>

He searched her eyes as she held his gaze, his hands rising to rest upon hers. Blood trickled from his nose and she read pain in his dilated pupils, but also an earnest and desperate desire to connect, to remember.

<I should know you, huh?>

“It’s almost there,” he said. “Your name. But . . .” He dropped his hands and shook his head. “Gone.” He coughed, and the thick, liquid sound of it scared her.

“Let’s worry about that later, okay?” Heather said, lowering her hands from his face. “For now, let’s get out of here. We don’t have much time,” she added, throwing a glance over her shoulder. Nothing moved in the corridor. Yet.

“Okay,” Dante agreed, pushing his hair back from his face. “Save ass now and ask questions later, yeah?”

Heather grinned in genuine amusement. “Most definitely yeah.”

She started down the corridor, pausing to slip a steadying arm around Dante’s waist when he stumbled. She waited until his dizziness passed and he gave her a thumbs-up, then they resumed walking. She kept her arm around his waist and he didn’t argue—which told her volumes about his injuries, about how badly he was hurt.

“Almost there,” she encouraged as they hurried down the stairs to the first floor landing and the emergency exit at the bottom.

Dante nodded, flashing her a tilted and bloodied smile, saving his breath.

Heather shoved on the push bar and grinned in relief when the door swung open, admitting the cool night beyond along with the smells of wet grass and cooling concrete. She stepped outside, holding the door open. “Hurry,” she whispered.

Dante took a step forward, then doubled-over, arms hugging his chest, teeth gritted in pain. He fell to his knees, then curled up on his side, every muscle knotted and taut.

Panic burned through Heather. She grabbed Dante by the shoulders and tried to haul his ass over the threshold and outside, but it was like trying to pull a two-ton bull or Mount Rushmore—a groaning, agonized Mount Rushmore. He had become impossibly, inexplicably heavy. Her muscles strained. Sweat trickled between her breasts.

Then, exhausted, she reversed course and dragged him back inside. The door swung shut behind her. Dante went still and fear knifed her heart. She dropped on her knees beside him. “Baptiste?”

“It stopped,” he said, wonder and relief in his hoarse voice. “Like a motherfucking switch had been flipped. It just stopped.” Dante uncurled from the floor and sat up, leaning his back against the wall. He scowled at the door. “What the fuck was that?”

Heather sighed, sat down beside him. His earthy, autumn scent filled the landing. “The sigils. I think it was the goddamned sigils. They must work both ways. Shit.”

“Look, they don’t affect you, so go. Get out. Don’t worry about me. I’ll find another way. What’s your name, anyway?”

Heather felt a smile flicker across her lips. <Heather.> Her smile faded as she watched Dante’s face blank. She wondered if her name or the blood link had just pinwheeled his memory open, spun him back to the here-and-now.

He looked at her and Heather saw recognition ignite in his eyes. “Catin,” he breathed. “I knew severing the bond wouldn’t stop you. You found me—like I knew you would, cuz I woulda done the same. I just don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.”

Heather laughed. “It’s a good thing, you stubborn sonuvabitch.”

But Dante’s face blanked again. His hands knotted into fists. Pounded knuckled blows to his leather-clad thighs. As though he were fighting against himself.

“Dante, what is it? Talk to me, cher.”

<Stay here with me.>

“T’es sûr de ça, catin?” Dante licked blood from his lips. A dark light burned in his eyes. “Yours, yeah? Yum. Wouldn’t mind some more.”

Heather’s mouth dried as she realized she wasn’t looking at Dante, but S or maybe even the Great Destroyer.

He is becoming . . .

No and no and no.

Fear coursed through Heather, bright and cold. Dante wasn’t just shifting between the past and the here-and-now, but between the man she knew and one he’d been programmed to be.

“Fun, yeah?” His head tilted. His gaze fixed on the pulse in her throat.

“You with me, Baptiste?” she said through a mouth that felt full of ashes.

“Run,” S said.

Heather didn’t hesitate. She jumped to her feet and slammed out through the door, grateful he couldn’t follow. She had no doubt Dante was the source of the “run.” She also had no doubt that he’d just saved her life.

REALITY WHEELED. DANTE GRABBED ahold with both hands. But the here-and-now was damned slippery and he didn’t know how long he could hang on.

Stubborn-ass woman. All heart and steel, ma chèrie.

Gotta get her the fuck out of here. Gotta see her safe.

Images of sapphire flames, of plucked hearts, unmade hearts, of his finger curling around the trigger of a gun filled his aching mind.

J’su ici, catin.

Run from me. Run as far as you can.

Nothing like a good chase, yeah?

Dante drew in a ragged breath. He shivered, so cold that he expected his breath to plume the air white. He had to end this.

You ain’t gonna save her, y’know. Shit, you can’t even save yourself.

Watch me.

Planning on it, bro. Laughter. Low and amused. Happy.

Fi’ de garce.

You should know, yeah?

Voices whispered. Wasps droned and burrowed. Dante squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to silence the internal aural storm. Stomping everything down below and kicking the door shut was no longer an option.

There was no more below. No more door to kick shut.

As the din gradually quieted, Dante realized one faint whisper didn’t come from within. He opened his eyes, gaze following the sound to the ceiling. Upstairs. Someone was upstairs still alive, still breathing and talking in a low, steady murmur. A brief silence, followed by the raspy cough of a longtime smoker.

Like maybe two packs of Winstons a day, yeah?

Time to take yo’ medicine, p’tit.

A dark smile tilted Dante’s lips. He opened his eyes.

Gotcha, Papa. Time to take your own damned medicine.

Staggering up to his feet, he moved. When he hit the third floor landing and breezed through the door, he spotted something lying on the floor, a dull metallic gleam.

A gun.

Dante stared at it, winter descending upon his heart. Unaware that he’d even moved, he found himself picking it up. His fingers curled around the rubber grip as naturally as if he’d always held a gun, been born with one in his hand. He felt the cold trickle of sweat along his temples.

Put it down. Or go back and toss it out to Heather. She’s gonna—

Low murmurs from above snagged Dante’s attention. He tilted his head, tucking the gun into the back of his leather pants, then he headed back to the landing. As he raced up the stairs, he felt a little girl’s weight in his arms, heard her black paper wings rustling, caught a glimpse of red hair. Then he was blurring through a crowded club, a woman smelling of lilac and sage, of evening rain, a woman of heart and steel, hugged tight against his side, a woman who disappeared as another little girl, red-haired and freckled, took her place as they ran through a park in the rain, trying to outrace their fates.

Laughter. You kidding me? You are their fates.

Reality wheeled, reminding him of promises made.

Make them pay so I can be warm again.

Make the world burn, mon cher ami, mon ange, and set me free.

Set things to rights, cher. Make them pay in blood and fire.

Reality wheeled yet again.

His finger squeezes the trigger. Her head rocks forward with the first bullet, then snaps back with the second, tendrils of red hair whipping through the air.

That’s my boy, a woman’s voice, Johanna Moore’s voice, whispered in the unlit, broken alleys of his mind. No one can ever be used against you if you are willing to kill them first.

Don’t listen to her, Dante-angel.

Blurring past landing after landing as he raced up the stairs following Papa’s distant voice, he whispered, “I ain’t. Don’t worry.”

But deep down, he wasn’t so sure.

And that scared him to his core.

HEATHER LEANED AGAINST THE metal exit door, afraid if she didn’t her trembling legs would dump her onto the sidewalk. She sucked in cool, moist air until her hammering heart slowed its frantic pace.

“Shit,” she breathed, closing her eyes and thumping the back of her head lightly against the door. “Shit, shit, shit.”

She’d never been frightened of Dante before—for him, yes. But never of him. That had just changed.

What have those bastards done to you, cher?

He’s had as much as he can take, doll . . .

Von, she despaired. Wish you were here.

No way she was leaving Dante alone with Loki. No way she was leaving him, period. Maybe she could find some tranks inside or a heavy dose of morphine, something that would knock him out. Maybe the sigils wouldn’t affect him if he were unconscious. Maybe—

“Heather?” A deep, incredulous rumble. A familiar and oh-so welcome voice.

Heather opened her eyes and confirmed the information her ears had just given her. Relief almost dropped her on the sidewalk despite the door’s support. “Lucien!”

Two other Fallen stood with him—the Morningstar and his daughter.

Heather frowned. Was Lucien holding a bucket? Filled with dark paint or—

A thick, coppery odor curled into her nostrils. Her throat constricted.

—blood.

“Do you have a plan,” Heather asked, nodding at the bucket in Lucien’s hand. “Or are you making it up as you go?”

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Lucien’s mouth. “I believe it’s the latter.”

Heather pushed away from the sigil-marked door. “That’s good,” she said, voice rough. “And here’s why: Dante has severed our bond and he’s falling hard and fast. We don’t have time for plans.”