On Midnight Wings by Adrian Phoenix

mommy. You changed me with blue fire—made me look like this.
    Creawdwr. Fallen. Nightkind.
    Not a punk-ass twelve-or thirteen-year old fighting to protect his princess, but a grown-ass monster who’d killed her instead.
    The truth is never what you hope it will be.
    Yeah, and it usually carries a motherfucking shiv.
    And at the moment, truth and the here-and-now were busy cutting the heart right out of him. It didn’t matter one fucking bit that he hadn’t meant to kill Chloe. It only mattered that he had.
    Dante struggled for air, for balance, finding neither—until the rooftop door creaked open behind him. Survival instinct and the need to keep his promise— I won’t let them hurt you —lent him all the balance he needed. Shoving Violet behind him, Dante swiveled, hissing, to face their pursuer. His warning, razor-sharp and primal, cut through the still air.
    It was a warning their pursuer, tall and tawny-haired and wearing the prerequisite black suit, seemed to take to heart. The stranger came to an abrupt halt in front of the door. A com set was hooked around one of his ears.
    Awesome. No doubt the bastard’s already spread the word.
    Dante couldn’t catch said bastard’s scent beneath the thick smell of his own blood. But he didn’t need the bastard’s scent to know that he wasn’t human; the slow pendulum swing of an immortal heart and the pale green sheen of lambent eyes gave that much away.
    “There’s nowhere to go—unless you’re planning on jumping,” their pursuer said matter-of-factly. His voice carried a faint accent, one that reminded Dante of Quarter-slumming European tourists. “You’d survive, of course, but Violet might not, if your grip should slip or you landed wrong or even passed out on the way down—not unless you choose to remake her yet again”—he inclined his head respectfully—“ Creawdwr. ”
    So the motherfucker knew. Even about Violet. Not good.
    “You must be the trouble that showed up at the club,” Dante said, voice low and tight. “You take Heather too? My friends?”
    “That’s Mr. Díon,” Violet volunteered, peeking out from behind Dante, one hand gripping his leather-clad hip. “He’s been taking care of my mommy and he gave me my crayons and he sent me here so I could see you again. It was my second time on an airplane.”
    “Yeah? Second time, huh?” Dante questioned, keeping his gaze on crayon-gifting Mr. Díon. Molten anger bubbled in his chest, chasing away the chill that was starting to creep back into his bones.
    Bastard had intended for Violet to die beneath his fangs.
    Had put her on an airplane for that reason alone.
    And if he truly held Heather, his intentions for her would be equally fucked.
    “As far as I know, your friends are still in New Orleans. But Heather”—Díon’s lips quirked up at the corners, a tiny smile of regret—“died defending you.”
    Dante tensed at the cold, brass-knuckled words, then flexed them away. He felt Heather’s presence at the back of his mind, a blue-white star—but distant now, galaxies away. Incommunicado. Whether it was due to drugs, pain, or whatever was preventing him from healing completely, or a mixture of all three, he didn’t know.
    But she was alive. That he did know.
    Díon’s little lie was a stalling tactic, yeah, a carnival barker’ssideshow lure, but it also suggested that he didn’t have Heather, otherwise the prick would’ve just said so, would’ve dangled her in front of Dante like the ultimate carnival prize— hand yourself over and WIN !
    “Menteur,” Dante said, offering a smile of his own—one dark and full of fangs and tasting of blood. “And you just told me everything I need to know.”
    The mocking amusement leaked from Díon’s face. His expression became still, thoughtful. “And that would be?”
    “You don’t have Heather.”
    “You’re wrong. She might not be dead—yet. But that can always change.”
    Just more lies. More carnival barker lure. More