On Midnight Wings

How could she fool all of us—me, the llygad, Dante himself? It doesn’t seem possible.

(it isn’t)

Pain throbbed at Caterina’s temples. She stared out the windshield and into the silent parking lot, troubled in a way she had never been before.

I don’t know if I can trust my own thoughts.

(you can’t)

Her stomach clenched at the smells wafting into the car—car exhaust from the nearby highway and spicy fried chicken from the Popeye’s next door—which seemed to intensify the pain drilling into her skull. She shut the Nissan’s door.

Rubbing her forehead, Caterina tried to summon up particulars from the transcripts and photos Díon had shown her of Heather meeting with the FBI in various locations, but her mind blanked and the details eluded her, the images blurred.

“Dannazione,” she muttered. She was wasting time.

Unbidden, an image of Renata—slim and small and graceful, dark eyes and pale skin, her chestnut brown hair a cap of Roman ringlets and curls that swept against her white shoulders—popped into her mind and something deep inside of Caterina unknotted in inexplicable relief.

“Sing to me, Mama,” she whispered, as though she were once again a child who played at night and slept at dawn, a mortal child adapting to the nocturnal rhythms of a vampire household. “Sing to me.”

Still rubbing her forehead, Caterina imagined her mother doing just that, crooning a familiar bedtime lullaby in a voice as comforting as flannel and hot cocoa on a winter night.

Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol / Fi la nana, e mi bel fiol . . .

Pain needled Caterina’s temples, behind her eyes. Burned white hot as each imagined and melodic note hooked bits of memory and knitted them together. Wincing, Caterina squeezed her eyes shut. An image took shape.

“Relax,” Díon murmurs. “Submit.”

Caterina tries to move, but her body refuses to cooperate. Díon’s mental fingers are still planted in her brain.

“You’re going to be my sleeper spy, my link to Baptiste and his household . . .”

“I won’t help you. You might as well just snap my neck now.”

Díon laughs, the sound low and amused. “You say that as if you actually have a choice in the matter, mia bella assassina . . .”

Caterina’s eyes flew open. Her heart kicked against her ribs as a stark and furious realization poured through her aching mind. Díon—the bastard had used her, had . . .

Worms wriggled, writhed. And the realization dropped away like a child into an uncapped well. The pain in her head faded, vanished. Caterina blinked. What had she been thinking? Something about Díon . . . something about . . .

Little Rock. Heather Wallace. Backstabbing puttana.

But not for much longer.

The redhead’s remaining time could be counted in hours. Only two and a half stretched between Germantown and Little Rock. Less, if Caterina goosed the speed limit.

Caterina started the Nissan and drove out of the parking lot.

24

APRIL FOOL’S DAY

LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS

THE GOLDEN CROWN INN

HEATHER SCANNED THE MOTEL room, looking for potential weapons or escape routes. One barred window framed by worn gold curtains, two queen-sized beds with matching gold comforters, a nightstand and lamp between them. Bathroom doorway. A TV. Dresser. Closet. Small desk.

Her gaze lingered on the bedside lamp. Potential weapon. Check.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she said.

“Nobody’s stopping you,” Roberts said. “Just leave the door open.”

Heather heard a solid click behind her, followed by the thunk of the security latch as either Roberts or his partner, DeAgostino, locked the place up. The room smelled like a thrift store—musty, used, and steeped in Pine-Sol and old cigarette smoke—despite the brief infusion of fresh air from outside.

“I need you to take these off so I can,” Heather said, turning and lifting her cuffed hands. Arched her eyebrows. “C’mon, guys. Just while I’m in the bathroom. I’m tired, I’m sore, and I have absolutely zero desire to be tased again. Give me a break.”

Roberts shook his head. “You can do your business with them on.”

“Look, I want to wash up a little too, plus take care of the wounds on my back. I can’t do that with these.” Heather swiveled her wrists. Light glinted from the steel braceleted around them. “I give you my word—I’m not going anywhere. All I want is to wash up, get something to eat, then crash.”

“Food sounds pretty damned good, actually,” DeAgostino grunted.