On Midnight Wings

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.

He couldn’t believe his luck. With Heather Wallace found, there was no longer any need to go back into the searing chaos that comprised the creawdwr’s mind.

Hey, motherfucker. I don’t remember inviting you.

All he needed to do now was intercept Heather and sever the bond she shared with Dante. A bullet fired into her skull would do the trick nicely. And Teodoro knew just the person who could accomplish both.

Caterina Cortini—an assassin for the SB and, quite possibly, their very best wetwork expert, period. The attractive brunette was much more than a killer who neatly wrapped up other people’s loose ends. She was also the mortal daughter of Renata Alessa Cortini, a vampire’s child of the heart.

And a spy for Dante Baptiste.

Or so she had been, until Teodoro had captured her while she was engaged in a bit of self-assigned and extremely unsanctioned wetwork. Once he’d sunk his mental fingers deep into Caterina’s mind, Teodoro had learned—among so many other fascinating things—that the dark-haired assassin had laid her gun at Dante Baptiste’s bare feet and sworn complete loyalty to him.

A fact that Teodoro had taken advantage of immediately.

He’d carefully seeded false information into Caterina’s mind—information transforming Heather Wallace from Dante’s lover into an undercover agent for the Bureau, a coldhearted betrayer of the True Blood prince and creawdwr that Caterina had vowed to protect.

Now Caterina was also Teodoro’s deadly little puppet.

A puppet he was about to spin into motion.

Striding across the threshold into his office, Teodoro caught a faint but fragrant whiff of frankincense, anise, and paint from the angel trap he’d painted on the floor from the threshold to his desk—just in case Dante Baptiste or even one of the Elohim paid him a visit.

Though the trap with its glyphs and sigils was hidden underneath the carpet, Teodoro still felt an electric prickling along his skin. The protection sigils tattooed centuries before above his heart and solar plexus threaded cool energy throughout his body, insulating him from the spell he’d created and painted on the floor as magical insurance.

Mortals could saunter across without feeling a thing. But if one of the Fallen—or even a Fallen half-breed—should set foot inside the trap, there they would remain, powerless, until Teodoro released them.

The prickling vanished once Teodoro stepped behind his desk and beyond the trap’s reach. As he settled into his chair, the leather squeaking comfortably beneath him, he noticed the red message light pulsing on his desk phone.

Someone delivering the news Webster already gave me, no doubt.

After resting his briefcase on the desk’s neat cherrywood surface, Teodoro reached over and nabbed the handset. He punched VOICE MAIL, then LISTEN. A woman’s voice, smooth, confident and melodic, a voice he recognized as belonging to Seraphina Ivey of the Oversight Committee. A voice he knew well.

“Agent Díon, as soon as you receive this message, please meet me in the tenth-level evidence warehouse. We need to discuss tonight’s interrogation agenda.”

Teodoro erased the message. He would join Seraphina in the warehouse as soon as he had taken care of one little thing. He had no intention of wasting an opportunity like the one the SB had given him when they’d intercepted Heather Wallace.

Flipping his briefcase open, he pulled an audio jammer and the cell phone he used for his clandestine conversations with Caterina—which comprised nearly all of them—from its interior.

He deftly set up the jammer/iPod look-alike and switched it on. It burbled and chirped, effectively desensitizing all audio recording equipment—including any routine SB office bugs.

Grabbing up the cell phone, he thumbed a brief text to Caterina: Where are you?

Less than a minute later, a quiet beep announced her reply: Germantown, TN. On assignment. Finished. What do you need?

Have urgent task. Regards D. Call me.

The message had no sooner been sent than Teodoro’s cell was ringing. “I’m listening,” Caterina said when he answered. Her faint Italian accent was flat, all business.

“Bueno. I need you to keep listening.”

Teodoro filled Caterina in, but with selective bits of information, changing Heather’s kidnapping by her father to a meeting with FBI handlers instead.

“Our people grabbed her when she was on her way back to Baptiste’s club. If she’s brought into HQ, she’ll spill everything to avoid interrogation and then they’ll learn who and what Baptiste is—what they’ve really got on their hands. A Maker. Programmed to obey. To use however they choose.”

“Not if I can help it. I’ll intercept them and make sure she never says a word. Give me their route and time table.”

Teodoro did exactly that, then ended the call. He tossed the cell back into his briefcase; the audio jammer he slipped into a trouser pocket instead. With Heather Wallace’s death, the bond she shared with Dante would be severed, giving him that last hard shove into madness.

And stealing all hope from the Fallen.

Teodoro left his office, heading for the elevators.

AS HE WALKED INTO the evidence warehouse on level ten, Teodoro caught the gleam of ivory wings beyond the rows of metal shelves containing plastic evidence tubs and cartons piled with old files. Ivory wings frozen in mid-slash.

He followed the aisle leading to the warehouse’s center, breathing in the faint smells of ozone and musty cardboard and things forgotten. Or hidden, he reflected as he strode past the last set of shelves and saw what waited beyond them.

The work of one angry creawdwr, Dante Baptiste.

A Fallen Stonehenge.

One carefully reconstructed from photos taken at the Damascus, Oregon, site before the “statues” had been transported across the country to HQ.

Transformed into alabaster statues of exquisite detail and captured motion—standing, crouching, kneeling, flying, fleeing—the fallen angels ringed the concrete floor, capped by those medusaed in mid-flight, wings spread.

Wearing a plum-colored dress belted at the waist and elegant black pumps, Seraphina Ivey waited in front of one the statues. Tall and curvaceous, with dark, golden-blond tresses tumbling to her shoulders in glossy waves, winter-gray eyes, and flawless skin, she looked to be in her early thirties.

She was a good decade older. And, thanks to a nephilim ancestor, one she hadn’t even known existed until Teodoro had enlightened her, she would retain her beauty and youthful appearance for many decades more.

Teodoro drew to a stop beside her, but remained silent until he had the audio jammer set up on the concrete floor. Once it was burbling away, he said in a low voice, “Sorry about the delay.”

“S has announced that he is True Blood and Fallen,” Seraphina said. “Every vampire in the world—including those within the SB—knows by now or soon will, once they awaken and receive the feed from their household llygad.”

Teodoro stared at her, hoping he hadn’t heard right, but the sinking feeling in his belly told him that he had. “How is that even possible? He’s stashed away at Doucet-Bainbridge.”

“I know,” Seraphina replied, worry sharpening the planes of her face. “But apparently S made the announcement several nights ago. It was delayed until the filidh had verified his claims.”

Teodoro raked a hand through his hair in chagrin. It hadn’t occurred to him that Dante would give up his secrets. According to his research, Dante rarely spoke about himself, even in interviews.

Of course, he never knew much about himself until recently, now did he?

“Did he say anything about being a creawdwr?”

“No,” Seraphina answered. “But he named his father as the Nightbringer. We know him as Lucien De Noir. Do you know anything about him—as the Nightbringer, I mean?”

Teodoro felt a hot and cold shock at that revelation. “No, the Nightbringer’s a bit before my time. All I know is that he fled Gehenna after killing the last creawdwr.”

“And now he’s the father of the next,” Seraphina murmured. “Talk about karma taking an ironic twist.”

“To say the least. ¡Madre de Dios! This is a mess.”

“More than you know,” Seraphina said grimly. “S’s little announcement has the rest of the committee looking at him in a new light and reexamining certain questions.”

“Such as?”

“Everything, Teo. Everything. Why is it that wherever S goes, inexplicable events follow? The destruction of St. Louis No. 3 in New Orleans. The bizarre events in Damascus, including”—Seraphina turned and waved a hand at the stone angels—“this. Then there’s the matter of S transforming one little girl into another long dead.”

“Remind your fellow committee members that there’s no proof of that,” Teodoro said. “Those who witnessed Violet’s so-called transformation might’ve simply witnessed a bit of True Blood or Fallen illusion, a magical sleight of hand, a—”

Seraphina shook her head. “That’s not going to fly. Not now. They want to round S up and bring him in and find out exactly what they have on their hands. They also want Violet’s psychological testing ended and for her to be returned.”

“Returning Violet won’t be a problem,” Teodoro said. “I no longer need her.”

Which was a relief, truth be told. He liked Violet. Yes, he’d been willing to sacrifice her to a greater cause, but that didn’t mean he liked her any less. It would be easy enough to ensure that the girl was brought to him first upon her return to HQ, even easier to alter her memories of the sanitarium and erase those involving her time with Dante.

“And S?” Seraphina stepped closer to Teodoro. She smelled faintly of cherry vanilla perfume. “How damaged is he?”

“Beyond repair. He’s already becoming the Great Destroyer.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer to kill him before he does?”

“Safer—yes. But not nearly as satisfying as forcing the Fallen to kill him instead.”

Seraphina cupped a hand to his face, her palm warm against his skin. Sympathy gleamed in her eyes. “I know how much you want this, but how long will the Fallen merely wait and watch? How many mortals will have to die before they put an end to their maddened creawdwr?”

“As many as it takes, querida.”

Seraphina frowned. “But that’s wrong. We can’t allow it, that’s—” Teodoro tenderly brushed his fingers against her temple and her words stopped mid-sentence. Her hand fell away from his face.

Despite the natural shields provided by her nephilim bloodline—diluted as it was by generations of mortal descendants—Teodoro made his way easily into Seraphina’s mind, erased her lingering doubts and fears, then withdrew again.

Seraphina blinked, rubbed her forehead, then said, “Um . . . I’ll do my best to stall the committee where S is concerned.”

“Thank you. That’s all I ask,” Teodoro said, lowering his hand from her temple. He glanced at the jammer. “Is that everything?”

“Yes.” Swiveling around with stiletto grace to face the statues again, Seraphina rested a hand against a Fallen male’s stone chest. “I can still feel their hearts. A distant boom like when the ocean surges against a cliff.” She cast a winter-gray glance at Teodoro from over her shoulder. “Have you noticed?”

Teodoro nodded. “I’ve also noticed that the time between beats gets a little longer with each passing day.” He smoothed his hand along one cool stone limb, wondering—not for the first time—if the aingeal within was aware of his predicament, an immortal trapped in stone. Counting each and every endless second.

Teodoro certainly hoped so.