On Midnight Wings

4 POISONED APPLES BATON ROUGE DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM MARCH 31

THEY DUMPED HER BLACK-HAIRED angel on the concrete floor, as if he were a piece of curbside junk, a banged-up gift for the donation truck. Dumped him right underneath the big metal hook hanging like a sharp and scary question mark from the ceiling of chalk-white squares.

Meat hook, the little voice in Violet’s tummy had told her when the smiling orderlies in their white ice-cream-man uniforms had ushered her—black paper wings taped (after a bunch of pretty-pretty-pleases) to the back of her Winnie-the-Pooh sweater—into the empty room with its soft padded walls.

“Go ahead and color, sweetie. We’ll be back in just a little bit.”

Violet had stared at the hook, her fingers clenched around the box of crayons in her hand, her gaze fluttering like a hummingbird along the glittering curve of metal.

What’s it for? she’d asked uneasily, her tummy suddenly full of fluttering moths.

But her little voice had become silent.

Violet was busy coloring the pictures she’d drawn on the soft padded wall when the orderlies had come back, minus smiles and nice words this time as they dumped Dante onto the cold floor.

He hit the concrete with a soft thud, his long black hair fanning across his snow-white face, hiding his closed eyes and the faint blue smudges beneath them. He almost looked like he was sleeping. But Violet knew better. The metallic smell of pennies folded into the air as blood trickled from his nose. From his ears. Smeared his lips. Again.

Violet sucked in a breath. “I think he needs to go back to the doctor. He’s still hurt. His owies are still bleeding.” She couldn’t believe she needed to point that out. They were grown-ups. Couldn’t they see the blood glistening on his white skin?

Yes, the little voice in her tummy said. They could and they do.

Then why don’t they help him?

They aren’t supposed to. But someone else can.

“Me,” Violet whispered. “That’s why I’m wearing wings.”

One of the orderlies kicked Dante from his side and onto his tummy, revealing the pale, pale hands twisted behind him at the small of his back. Metal gleamed around his wrists.

Bad-guy handcuffs. For her angel.

Violet felt the crayon she was holding—Fire Engine Red—snap in two against her palm. She let the crayon fall to the floor, the paper wrapper holding the broken halves together.

Bad-guy handcuffs for the angel who’d reeled her in like a lost kite from among the blazing stars when she’d floated away from her body.

Mommy turns on the TV in the motel in Oregon—the motel with the picture of a winking beaver chewing on a twig, outlined in glowing color—and is searching for the Cartoon Network when Violet hears firecrackers pop-pop-popping outside in the parking lot. Hears the sound of breaking glass. Then her mommy’s scream, jagged and raw.

“My baby!”

Violet tries to tell Mommy that she’s okay, but she can’t. She just drifts up and away, leaving her body, with its wide, staring eyes and the new dark and bleeding hole above them; leaving behind her wailing mother, and wishing she could stay.

Then Dante catches her.

“Don’t kick him!” Violet raced across the room, her paper wings rustling at her back. Crouching beside Dante, she glared up at the orderlies. “Stop being so mean! Mr. Purcell and the doctors promised that they’d make him happy, promised that they’d take care—”

“Hush, sweetie, don’t you worry none,” one orderly, a man with curly brown hair and a name tag reading Joe, said. “He’s tough. He can take it, trust me.”

“It’s still mean,” Violet insisted. “And he isn’t even awake.”

“Not yet, but he will be soon,” the other orderly—blond ponytail and a name tag that read Tyler—said. His eyes darted toward the thick, heavy door like he wished he stood on the other side. “Almost sunset.”

Violet nodded. “He’s a nighttime angel.”

She’d never actually seen his wings, but she knew deep down that they were there because she’d caught a glimpse of them—like black shadows outlined in Fire Engine Red at his back and arching above his head—when he’d lassoed her down from the sky and tucked her back into the body he’d held in his arms.

She’d known that it was her body, even though it was different now, her black hair, golden skin, and jade green eyes (a color her mommy always said she loved) angel-magicked into red hair, freckles, and blue eyes.

“Wake up, princess,” Dante had whispered.

Blood had streaked the skin beneath his nose that night too.

And his hands had glowed with pretty blue fire.

Joe and Tyler exchanged a look, one bristling with secrets—grown-up secrets—then Tyler swallowed hard and looked away. “Do it already and let’s get out of here.”

Kneeling on the concrete floor, Joe jabbed a needle full of red stuff into Dante’s shoulder. He pushed the plungie thing until the needle was empty, then jumped to his feet. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

“Was that medicine?” Violet asked hopefully, her gaze still on her angel.

“Sure. Why not?” Joe’s voice sounded like a shrug.

“Will it make him better?” She touched one of Dante’s hands. His skin felt like ice beneath her fingers, nothing like the heat she remembered, his arms embracing her tight. Ice, when he should be fire. When he suddenly shivered as though he was lying in a snowbank without a coat or mittens instead of on a concrete floor, before going still again, she wasn’t surprised. Unhappy, but not surprised. “He’s cold. He needs a blanket.”

“A stake through the heart more like,” Joe muttered under his breath. “Shit. I didn’t sign up for this—locking little girls into rooms with starving bloodsuckers. It isn’t right.”

Violet looked up, frowning, trying to puzzle out the meaning of Joe’s words and the reason why he sounded so nervous. The orderly’s gaze was on Dante. She remembered the flash of fangs she’d seen when her angel had smiled at her just the day before when she’d finally been allowed to see him. But only for a little bit since he was so sick.

Hungry, Dante’d whispered.

I didn’t know angels had pointy teeth.

Ain’t no angel, chère. I’m nightkind, he’d replied. Then, rubbing his forehead, face pained, he’d added, I think.

His low voice had made Violet think of sweet tea and couche-couche and the grizzled man in the baseball cap at the alligator tour place from the trip she and her mommy had gone on last year. Cajun, Mommy had said.

Do you bite? she’d asked Dante out of curiosity, touching a sharp fang tip.

Yup. All the time. A smile had slanted across his lips. That I do know.

Will you bite me?

His smile had vanished and his voice had turned fierce. Never, princess. Jamais. I’d never bite you. That I know too.

She’d believed him. But Violet had a feeling he might bite the orderlies.

The gleaming hook captured her gaze again and the moths in her tummy turned to pebbles. “Is that for him? In case he bites?” She forced herself to look away, to look at the orderlies instead, but their blank faces didn’t make her feel any better. “But what if he promises not to bite? What if he promises to be good?”

Joe shook his head. “It’s not right, leaving her in here with him.”

“Shut the hell up,” Tyler growled. He tossed a look at the camera poking out from a corner in the ceiling. “You trying to get us fired? Or worse?”

“Let me add another choice to those options, gentlemen,” someone drawled. Violet looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Purcell standing in the threshold—the man who had brought her here while her mommy got better at the underground hospital.

So she can rest and get well and so you can spend time with your . . . angel . . . while she does. Pretty soon, you’ll all go home.

His words had been smooth and slick and full of poisoned-apple smiles.

Just like now. A shiver creepy-crawled down Violet’s spine.

He’s a bad man, her little voice warned.

Bad enough to hurt angels?

Bad enough to kill angels.

“Tell me what you think,” Mr. Purcell continued, “I leave you in the room to keep our little Violet company. You could even color while you wait for her angel”—his lips puckered as though the word angel tasted as sour as a pickle—“to awaken. I’m sure Violet would be happy to share her crayons. How does that option grab you?”

Shaking his head, Tyler hurried from the room and past Mr. Purcell without a backward glance. Mr. Purcell smiled.

“You don’t need to be scared of Dante,” Violet insisted, looking at Joe. “He’s not mean. And I’ll share my crayons if you want to stay and see.”

Mr. Purcell chuckled. “Helluva offer. Do you want to stay and see, Joe?”

A muscle bunched in Joe’s jaw, then he glanced away, his face looking like he had a tummyache. “Sorry, kid,” he whispered, his shoulders slumping. “Keep as far away from him as you can. Keep yourself out of reach and—”

“Joe,” Mr. Purcell said. Just the one word, and almost a whisper. A whisper once more full of poisoned apples and thick thorns. Then, just as quietly, “Give her the key.”

The orderly’s face turned white. The smell of sweat wafted into the air. He pulled a key from his pants pocket and handed it to Violet. Swallowing hard, he left the room without another word.

Violet studied the key the orderly had given her. Little and light, it looked like a toy key. She looked at the bad-guy handcuffs gleaming around Dante’s wrists. “Is it for those?” she asked.

“I knew you’d figure it out,” Mr. Purcell said. He reached for the big, thick door’s metal latch and started to pull it shut. “He’ll be awake soon, so you won’t be lonely for long.”

“Okay,” Violet said, “but he needs a doctor.” She brushed Dante’s hair back from his pale cheek. Blood glistened beneath his nose, on his lips. “He’s still hurt. See?”

“He’ll be fine,” Mr. Purcell said, his gaze flicking to the hook above. “Trust me. The only thing that’ll happen will be history repeating itself.”

The door swung shut with a heavy thunk before Violet could insist on the doctor again. Red lights lit up on the little panel beside the door. LOCKED.

Her angel shivered on the cold concrete floor for a moment, then lay still again. She had a feeling the orderlies wouldn’t be coming back with a blanket. Feeling the weight of the hook hanging above her, above her sleeping angel, Violet unlocked the handcuffs with the little silver key. Pulled them free from around his wrists and placed them on the floor. The skin of his wrists looked rubbed raw, bruised.

She thought about the lies—just little white ones, sweetie—Mr. Purcell had instructed her to tell Dante to make him happy. Answer to the name Chloe. Call him Dante-angel and let him believe he gifted you with that Winnie-the-Pooh sweater. Poisoned apples.

Why? Why are they hurting him? Why are they asking me to hurt him too? They promised to take care of him. Don’t they know he saved me from Heaven?

Maybe that’s what scares them, her little voice suggested.

“Then they’re being stupid,” Violet muttered, but not disagreeing, not really.

She grabbed Dante’s shoulder and, grunting, pulled him over onto his back. He smelled of Halloween underneath all the blood and he was wearing clothes like the ones she’d first seen him in—leather rock-star pants, a black T-shirt, but without the sleeves with all the little holes this time, and boots with lots of buckles. And, just like before, a collar was strapped around his throat, a black collar with a steel hoop.

He looked like he belonged in the Underworld movies her mommy had Netflixed and Violet had watched in secret, hidden behind the couch, when she was supposed to be in bed. And those movies had been full of scary stuff, dark stuff, dangerous stuff.

The hook in the ceiling told Violet that Mr. Purcell’s promises, every word from his mouth, were only juicy, red poisoned lies. Told her that scary, dark, and dangerous stuff was on its way, scampering on fast little spider legs. And her angel needed to be awake so he could face it. So he wouldn’t have to take another kick in the ribs that he couldn’t even roll away from.

Paper wings rustling behind her, Violet patted Dante’s cold cheek and, calling his name, urged him up from his dreams. Relief spread through her tummy like hot cocoa when Dante drew in a deep breath.

Her nighttime angel was waking up.