A Rush of Wings by Adrian Phoenix

had a reputation for not lying.
    Heather patted her face dry with a plush blue towel, then looked into the mirror again. All that meant was that Dante believed he was a vampire. If his friends, hell, even his enemies encouraged his delusional thinking, then to him, he spoke the truth.
    Reaching behind her head, Heather unpinned and unwound her French braid. Her hair, frizzy with humidity, tumbled past her shoulders.
    What if he was a vampire? What if everyone in this house were exactly what they pretended to be—sun-shunning vampires? What was the word Dante had used? Nightkind .
    Heather fumbled her brush and makeup bag out of her purse and onto the counter.
    But she’d picked Dante up shortly after dawn.
    It was overcast. He wore sunscreen and shades and gloves. He hid his face within a hood.
    His mind-dazzling speed. Jackson pulled the trigger. No way that bullet could’ve missed Dante. But it had.
    The need on his face. The blood, still dripping, the air reeking with it.
    Then why had he allowed himself to be arrested? Weren’t vampires strong enough to snap handcuffs?
    Heather tugged the brush through her hair. She didn’t like the path her thoughts were taking, but it was a path she needed to walk. She’d learned over the years to examine every angle, no matter how absurd.
    What about the scene at the club? Étienne and his dark promises?
    Leaning against the counter, Heather touched up her lipstick. She conceded it could’ve all been a game. Some live-action roleplayers took their games very seriously, especially the vampire and werewolf groups. She’d seen it in Seattle more than once.
    But what if it hadn’t been a game?
    What had Étienne said to De Noir?
    This doesn’t concern the Fallen .
    Suddenly cold, Heather tucked her lipstick back into her makeup bag, then dropped it back into her purse. She stared into the mirror; her reflection stared back, eyes dilated and nearly black in the low light, rimmed with cornflower blue.
    She dropped her gaze to her hands. They trembled once again. Fallen. As in angels? Nightbringer . Everything about De Noir seemed unearthly: his powerful presence, the gleam of gold in his black eyes, his speed as he rushed toward Étienne.
    Heather shrugged out of her trench, then draped it over her arm so that she had easy access to her .38. She smoothed her sweater. Opening the door, she stepped out into the empty hall. The front door opened as she walked into the front room. De Noir stepped through, closing the door behind him.
    Apprehension iced her spine. “Where’s Dante?” she asked.
    ***
    SAC CRAIG STEARNS SIPPED at his coffee, his zillionth of the day, as he looked out his office window into the rainy Seattle night. He’d been trying to reach Wallace since morning, without luck. She hadn’t responded to his e-mail messages or to his calls.
    Wallace had never gone this long without checking in. Her last message had stated that she was checking leads and would contact him today.
    Returning to his desk, he sank into his chair. He flipped through some of the field reports stacked on his desk. He’d already read each several times.
    If anything had… happened …to Wallace, he would’ve heard by now. Unless it was the kind of happened no one knew about yet.
    Stearns swallowed the last of his coffee. He’d call that detective Wallace was consulting with in New Orleans—Collins. As he reached for the phone, it rang and he jerked his hand back, heart pounding. Chagrined, he switched on the speaker and tabbed on the vid-mon. Maybe he should cut down on the caffeine.
    But the face that took shape on the monitor reassured him that his instincts were as sharp as ever: Blonde hair stylishly razor-cut, almond-shaped blue eyes, and a deceptively warm smile. He knew from experience that if a heart beat within her curvaceous chest, it’d been carved from glacial ice.
    “I knew I’d find you at the office, Craig,” ADIC Johanna Moore said.
    “What’s shaking,