On Midnight Wings

Dante was pressing against him, his heated lips brushing against Silver’s. Energy electrified the air, tingled along Silver’s skin, raced along his spine, into his skull. The smell of ozone filled his nostrils. Dante’s gleaming hair lifted in a blue-black corona around his head. He touched a long, taloned finger to Silver’s forehead.

Lightning strike.

Standing under a tree in a downpour.

Finishing that final lap in the pool while thunder rolled overhead.

White light exploded through Silver’s skull. His body stiffened, muscles locked and thrumming as electric energy sizzled through him.

A soft voice sounded through his thoughts, a pealing bell that he couldn’t ignore, a lover’s seductive command. <Lower your shields, cher. Let me in.>

A cold sweat beaded Silver’s forehead. Not Dante. Not

Dante.

<Let me in, p’tit. Let me in. Let me in. I need to be inside you, mon ami.>

The pealing bell reverberated through his consciousness, ringing and echoing and vibrating, crumbling to dust all other thoughts. Shattering his focus.

Silver’s shields fell.

And a dark, complicated, and powerful presence poured in. Silver felt no pain as his memories were—not ransacked, not precisely, but clicked open like folders on a computer. Each folder held hundreds of interconnected memories, images, sensation.

No pain, but he felt despair in spades.

As the search continued, Silver thought he heard/felt a song—wild and searing, hungry. A song that left him breathless and dizzied. A song that filled his mind with Dante’s image, his autumn scent. Then it was gone.

“Anhrefncathl,”

the fallen angel whispered in Dante’s voice.

The dark presence withdrew from Silver’s mind and the electric thrumming pinning him like a moth against the alley wall vanished. Boneless, his legs dumped him onto the alley’s rain-puddled floor.

Silver sucked in air, head throbbing, oddly soothed by the zydeco bouncing from the tavern speakers across the street. The world hadn’t ended after all. Not yet, anyway. He glanced up in time to see the fallen angel’s form ripple, shifting back to himself. Black wings unfolded from wing-slits cleverly tailored into his suit jacket.

With a single strong stroke, he took to the air, a triumphant smile on his lips. Silver’s despair deepened. He had a feeling that somehow, some way, the fallen angel had managed to lock onto Dante.

That song . . .

Silver drew his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, then rested his forehead against his denim-clad knees. “Jesus,” he whispered, his voice sounding as shaky as he felt inside.

“Are you all right?”

Silver lifted his head and looked up. Burgundy hair, concerned hazel eyes. Mauvais’s buddy—Mr. Esquire Euro Edition. A quick glance down the alleyway confirmed the Creole bastard’s absence.

“No, I’m pretty fucking far from all right. Where did Mauvais go?”

“He left for his riverboat some time ago,” the stranger said in a low voice flowing with European grace. He crouched down beside Silver. “Said he needed to check on something, hoped that it still worked.” He spat on the alley floor. “Bastardo.”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” Silver asked. “And what are you doing here?”

“My name is Giovanni Toscanini. And I know yours, as well—Silver. Along with the fact that you’re a member of Dante Baptiste’s household.”

“You ain’t said what you’re doing here.” Silver rose to his feet. He walked from the alley to the sidewalk, knowing Giovanni Tosca-whatever was following, then turned to face him.

“I’m here to help Dante Baptiste.”

Silver snorted. “Yeah, right. Help him how?”

Giovanni glanced to his left, face wary. Silver followed his gaze to the club. The crowd had grown even larger.

“Ass-kissers and idiots,” Silver muttered. He returned his attention to Giovanni. “What makes you any different?”

Giovanni considered him for a long moment, illumination from the gaslight dancing reflected in his eyes, ghost flames. When he finally spoke, he pitched his voice low. “I believe it best we speak elsewhere. Too many potential eavesdroppers—including the SB agents who keep eyes and ears on the club at all times.”

Silver straightened, startled. “How do you know that?”

Closing the distance between them with one quick step, Giovanni whispered into Silver’s ear, “The same way I know what all those ass-kissers and idiots over there don’t—that Dante Baptiste is a creawdwr.”

Silver’s heart gave his ribs one hard kick. Creawdwr. Giovanni knew.

Giovanni stepped back and answered the question that Silver knew had to be burning in his own eyes, the same question knuckling his hands into fists, and pumping adrenaline into his blood. A fatal question for Giovanni if he didn’t answer it right: How, motherfucker? How do you know?

“An inside source—one who is working for Dante Baptiste.”