On Midnight Wings

He’d briefly considered flying to New Orleans and St. Louis No. 3, to the gate Dante had punched into the wall of a white marble tomb, hammering a hole between worlds with just his flame-swallowed fist and a son’s determination to bring his father home again. Lucien’s throat tightened.

He went to Gehenna for me, I can do no less for him.

All out of options, yes. Nearly out of time, true. But he would be careful, all the same. If the Elohim in general learned that their creawdwr was not only injured but stolen, most likely by ill-intentioned mortals who planned to use him, the Fallen would declare war on the human race.

And if that seat-warming pretender to the throne, Gabriel, or any member of what remained of the Celestial Seven, should learn the truth, they would lead the winged and righteous brigade into mortal skies, setting it ablaze with their wrath.

Once Dante had been found, and the human world reduced to ruin and pockets of trembling survivors, he would be returned to Gehenna and never be allowed to leave again.

And whoever freed Dante during this holy war and kicked the most mortal ass would be bonded to him.

Lucien thought of the lie Astarte had told Dante.

No one can bind you against your will, nor would anyone wish to.

Anyone strong enough could bind him against his will, and each would slaughter the other for the chance to do so. Gabriel especially, given his precarious perch upon the black-starred throne because of Dante’s violent rejection of him and of his authority. Binding the creawdwr would guarantee his continued rule.

Not to mention being a sweet bit of revenge on both father and son.

Lucien absolutely couldn’t allow any of them to know what had happened to Dante or Heather. He needed to pretend that everything was fine, that Dante would return to Gehenna as pledged when the time came. As symbolized by the sigil on his chest.

And that very sigil was the only option left. Lucien winged through the night until he caught a glimmer of color in the frozen dark. Where once a golden gate had spun, visible only to Elohim eyes, now there was only an untethered rip in reality. One awaiting Dante’s restorative touch.

Voicing his wybrcathl as he winged through the rip and past the guards on the other side, Lucien flew into the shimmering colors of the faded aurora borealis undulating across Gehenna’s pale night sky. He breathed in the smells of jasmine and smoky myrrh and salt air. The scent of home, yes. For thousands of years. But no longer.

Wings cutting through the air in sure, strong strokes, Lucien aimed himself toward the Royal Aerie. Landing on the marble terrace, he warbled a call to the healer with hyacinth eyes and hair the color of a blue-frosted winter moon—the Morningstar’s beautiful daughter.

Hekate’s musical response came almost immediately.

22

AS MANY AS IT TAKES

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

SHADOW BRANCH HQ

WALKING INTO THE FIFTH-FLOOR cafeteria for a cup of hopefully fresh coffee, Teodoro wasn’t surprised to see only a handful of people scattered amongst its white Formica tables, given that it was nearly midnight.

What did surprise him was seeing his supervisor sitting at one, methodically eating what looked like a gravy-slathered turkey sandwich paired with a cherry tomato–topped side salad.

“I thought you’d be home in bed by now,” Teodoro commented as he stopped beside Webster’s table. “Long gone by the time I got here.”

With his salt-and-pepper hair; short, wiry build; and fierce dark eyes, Webster always reminded Teodoro of a banty rooster. At the moment, though, all he saw in the other man’s eyes as he met his gaze was a muddied, disgruntled weariness.

“That’s what I thought too,” Webster grunted, resting his fork on his plate, leaving his sandwich with its savory-smelling brown gravy—roast beef, not turkey—unfinished. “But here I am. And it seems that the interruption to my sleep and your vacation just got a little longer.”

Frowning, Teodoro pulled out the chair across from Webster and sat, resting his briefcase on the floor beside him. “Why is that?”

“We’ve picked up Heather Wallace,” Webster replied. “Stole her right out from under the feds. She’s on her way to HQ even as we speak. And the OC wants you to delve into her mind. Could be a while, though. We’re moving her by car to avoid any potential difficulties with the airlines.”

Excitement pulsed through Teodoro’s veins at this unexpected bit of news.

“Which route are they taking and when do we expect them?”

Webster told him, then added, “With food and sleep stops, we’re figuring on two days. Sorry about your vacation.” He shook his head, expression almost sympathetic.

Teodoro left Webster to finish his hot—well, lukewarm perhaps—roast beef sandwich, fetching himself a cup of coffee, before heading for his office on the eighth floor.