Adrian Phoenix - On Midnight Wings

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.

“YOU NEVER REALIZE THAT you’re under the influence until you no longer are, but I’m finally thinking clearly—I mean crystal, y’know?—for the first time since I met . . . him .” She shook her head. “I can’t believe the difference.”

Pacing the sand-colored carpet in her slippers, Heather Wallace was busy lying through her teeth, lying for all she was worth, an Oscar-caliber, rose bouquet–throwing, standing-ovation performance—or so she hoped, since she desperately wanted to remain free of sedatives and restraints—when an unexpected mental touch put an abrupt stop to her flow of words. Halted her in her tracks.

Llygad. Nightkind. Nomad. Friend.

Heather’s breath caught in her throat as Von’s image suddenly flooded her mind, saturating her senses with his masculine scent—old leather, frost, and gun oil—warm and reassuring. His sending, pearled with intense relief, threaded like silk through her mind.

< Damn, woman. There you are. You okay, doll? >

< I sure as hell am now, road rider. But hold on, all right? I’m not alone. >

< Ain’t going nowhere .>

Boneless with relief of her own, Heather plopped down on the edge of the brown leather sofa, the cushions creaking beneath her. She exhaled, then carefully drew in another breath, in an attempt to calm her racing heart.

Von had caught her completely off-guard—but in one helluva good way.

Between the thick cotton fog of the drugs IV-fed into her veins and the ferocious tsunami of awakening emotions once the drugs had been stopped—a white-knuckled fury at the man she would never call her father again, and a deep, icy fear for Dante—Heather hadn’t realized that her blood link with Von was still intact. Had believed it long gone.

“Heather? You seem very distant. Are you all right?”

Looking up, she met the gaze of the dark-haired therapist— Allan Wade, but please call me Allan —sitting across from her in a polished mahogany leather chair. Dressed casually in white shirt, sage-green tie, and khaki trousers, he studied her, head tilted slightly to one side.

“You look pale,” he added, frowning. “Are you feeling ill?”

“A little nauseous,” she said in a low, reluctant voice as though he were forcing the admission from her. She allowed her fingers to pluck at her hideous peach chenille bathrobe. “I think I’d like to go back to my room and lie down. This has all been so . . .” She paused as though searching for a word.

“Overwhelming?” Allan suggested.

“Exactly. Overwhelming .”

Allan rested his notepad and pen on the small end table beside his chair, then leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “How do you feel about your father’s decision to bring you here?” He regarded her with a penetrating walnut-brown gaze. Analyzing every word, every hesitation, every glance and gesture.

Heather wondered just how strong, how accurate, his bullshit meter ran.

“One problem at a time,” she replied, meeting that gaze with steel of her own. “You’re touching on an issue that goes way back.”

“All right, then,” Allan agreed easily. “We’ll come back to that at another session. For now, let’s get you back to your room so you can rest.” He rose from his chair and Heather caught a strong citrusy whiff of his too liberally applied cologne. “Those sedatives can really take it out of a person.”

Heather stood as well. “I don’t think I need any more sedatives,” she said. “I might not be happy with my dad, but I understand now that I need to be here.”

“You are much calmer and more clear than you were last night. Less volatile. I think we can forgo them for now.”

Relief surged through Heather, weakening her knees with its intensity. “Thanks,” she said, then added a heartfelt lie. “You won’t regret it.”

“No, I won’t,” Allan said quietly. “But you will if you abuse my trust.”

“Don’t worry,” Heather replied as he walked her across the room to the door. “I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid restraints and drugs.” Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the carpet from the two steel-meshed windows behind them, gleamed from the door’s bronzed lever.

It hit her then. Daylight.

Daylight and Von should be Sleeping. De Noir must’ve pulled the nomad up from Sleep like he had with Dante the morning she’d served her search warrant—weeks ago.

A lifetime ago.

“Get some rest,” Allan said, pulling open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Not if I can help it. But Heather kept that thought to herself and gave Allan a quick smile instead, then stepped into the hall, where her assigned security escort, a trim blonde in a charcoal-gray suit with a name tag reading Riggins , waited for her.

Riggins started walking in a long-legged, easy stride and Heather fell into step beside her, slippers soundless against the plush carpet, eager to get back to her room and resume her conversation with Von.

Riggins didn’t pack a gun as far as Heather could tell; instead she carried a Taser in a slim black holder clipped to her belt underneath her suit jacket. Heather judged her to be in her mid-thirties, noted her air of athletic confidence, and wondered how hard it would be to take her down when the time came to make a break for it.

If I tried now, with the drugs still lingering in my system, she’d have me on the floor, arm twisted up behind my back and screaming Uncle! before I could even unholster her Taser.

But now that she had Von online . . .

“Here we go,” Riggins said, stopping at an open doorway. “If you need anything, just use the call button.”

“Will do.”

Once Heather had stepped inside, she heard the click and buzz as the door was shut behind her and the locks activated.

Heather went to the bed and perched on the edge of the mattress. It was a hospital bed despite the resort flair to everything else in the place, from bathrobe to designer accessories in the bathroom to the minifridge stocked with high-end bottled water. A resort minus TVs, phones, and Internet in the guest rooms. But maybe the addition of restraints, burly orderlies, and forced sedatives made up for that lack, she mused darkly.

The air was conditioned and cool, and smelled faintly of ozone. And since it looked like the steel mesh–screened windows couldn’t be opened—at least not from the inside—the air-conditioning was a good thing.

She reached out for Von. Felt him respond, brushing like a cat against her awareness.

< Right here, doll. Tell me where you are so we can come get you. >

< That’s the problem. I don’t know. It’s a mental health facility of some kind—a rehab apparently for the brainwashed victims of religious cults, deep-cover operations, and apparently, in my case, nightkind. >

< Brainwashed? Shee-it. You? Your old man really doesn’t know you at all, does he, doll? >

< No. No he doesn’t. I know I was told the name of the place last night, but I don’t remember. My goddamned memory’s been drug-bombed. I haven’t seen anything naming the place. Not on stationery, or on the walls, on uniforms—nothing. >