On Midnight Wings

“Guard your ass, catin,” Dante whispered, hoping his words would somehow find a way to her. “Do whatever it takes to keep yourself safe. Don’t waste energy on me. You and Von watch out for each other. I’ll find you again. I won’t stop until I do.”

Find her again? Yeah? Think that’s a good idea?

Fuck you. Absolutely.

An image flashed unbidden behind Dante’s eyes, blowing a hole in his certainty like a shotgun blast to the chest.

Her head rocks forward with the first bullet, then snaps back with the second, tendrils of red hair whipping through the air. She drops like an air-gunned steer. The thick, heady smells of blood and cordite saturate the air. Hunger pulses through him.

Dante’s breath caught ragged in his throat. The unwavering flame of Heather’s presence in his mind reminded him that she was alive, yet he still felt his finger pulling the trigger. Still felt hunger coursing through him as he breathed in the copper and adrenaline scent of her blood.

Still heard his own laughter, silk and 100-proof whiskey, low and satisfied. Now you’ll never hafta worry about her again, yeah? Now

she’s safe. And so are we.

We? Fear scraped a hollow in Dante’s heart.

Movement in the doorway drew his gaze. A middle-aged guy wearing an official gray suit and an unofficial smirk stood there studying him, one shoulder resting casually against the threshold.

A steady, hypnotic drumming filled Dante’s ears, the succulent sound of the man’s heart pumping blood in a high-pressure hiss through his veins. Hunger twisted, a circling shark.

“You don’t remember, do you?” the man asked. “Where you are, who I am?”

“But you’re gonna tell me, yeah?”

“That I am—again. But, hey, all good things bear repeating. So here it is: Welcome home, S. Welcome back to Doucet-Bainbridge. Welcome to your final destination. And, trust me, it is your final destination.”

Welcome home

? Welcome back? Memory flickered, then vanished, a finger-pinched flame. Pain pounded at Dante’s temples with sledgehammer intensity. He felt the hot trickle of blood from his nose, sniffed it back.

“Name’s Purcell, by the way.”

His voice. That’s fucking familiar as hell too.

It was like a jackhammer drilling against a dam’s massive concrete face, gouging a path toward a series of cracks created by the dark, restless waters on the dam’s other side—Dante’s fucked-up memory.

“Ain’t S,” Dante replied flatly. “And I ain’t staying.”

Ain’t S? Liar, liar, latex pants on fire. Now who’s the big, fat menteur?

Tais-toi. Shut the fuck up. Ain’t listening.

Oh, yeah, you are. Even when you think you ain’t, you are.

The impatient sound of snapping fingers drew Dante’s gaze back to the doorway and the man lounging against it. Lowering his hand, Purcell questioned softly, “You still with me?”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Dante admitted reluctantly. “Need to change that, though.”

Purcell laughed, low and very amused. “You just don’t get it, do you? You’re not going anywhere. You’re not killing any more of my men. You’re done.”

Purcell’s voice triggered more jackhammer action against the dam. He was an unfamiliar asshole, yeah, but one with an oddly familiar and dangerous voice. The cold smell of deep water and friction-scorched concrete filled Dante’s nostrils, a pungent future odor that knotted him up with dread.

That jackhammer’s gonna break through

.

Quiet and level, those words; a stated fact.

Peut-être que oui, peut-être que non. But before it does, I might still have an ace up my sleeve.

He hoped.

On the roof, his power had finally flared to life. Sure it had been pale blue and watery, a thin reflection of itself, and had vanished a split second later, but a split second would be all he needed.

Closing his eyes, Dante drew in a wet, shallow breath and summoned his song. Nothing. No electric tingle as flames swallowed his hands. No blue glow, no song, no transforming fire. Nada. He only felt/heard an inner silence, as though some essential thing had been disconnected or blocked or corralled.

Dante opened his eyes in frustration. Shit. Fuck. Sonuvabitch.

“What, nothing? No smart-ass comments?” Purcell said. “No threats to rip out my heart or tear off my head?” He shook his head. “You must still be doped up to the gills.”

“Blow me. Given the conversation, I don’t think I’m doped up enough.”