On Midnight Wings by Adrian Phoenix

to ash.
    The plan had been for Purcell to quietly see it done.
    But then SOD Underwood’s socialite daughter-in-law had been acquitted of the murder-for-hire death of Underwood’s only son, Stephen. Not unusual when the bastard charged with the actual killing conveniently hangs himself in his jail cell (with shoelaces he wasn’t supposed to have), leaving an equally convenient note behind proclaiming he’d acted alone and the death was the result of a robbery gone wrong, that no one had hired him to murder Stephen Underwood, let alone his wife, Valerie.
    So the plan had changed slightly. Underwood decided to employ S one last time, a fanged vehicle for much-delayed justice. Purcell’s job had been to travel to New Orleans, activate S’s programming, and sic him on the daughter-in-law.
    Then permanently retire S afterward.
    It was the least Purcell could do for the woman who’d mentored his career from the very beginning and who’d always entrusted him with her secrets.
    But all that had changed four days ago when Díon called him in New Orleans to inform him of SOD Underwood’s sudden and unexpected death by stroke.
    So how come you’re breaking the news?
    So we could discuss mutual concerns.
    Those being . . .?
    Terminating Prejean and fulfilling Underwood’s last request. She told me about the gift for her daughter-in-law you were set to deliver.
    Prejean—the name given to S by his final set of foster parents. He’d thanked them by making sure they were deader than doornails before torching their house.
    Dante Baptiste—S’s true full name, according to Díon.
    S—the Bad Seed designation that Purcell preferred, areminder of what the bloodsucker truly was, a programmed True Blood sociopath that had been allowed to slip his leash.
    Keep talking.
    We’re not going to kill S, we’re going to break him .
    Díon believed Heather Wallace to be an intrinsic component of that goal and had built his plan around her. A simple plan, really. Since he was already in New Orleans on Underwood’s behalf, Purcell was supposed to grab the redhead at the first opportunity, transport her to the SB-operated sanitarium/study lab—S’s old training grounds as a kid—and then make sure the bloodsucking psycho knew right where to find her.
    So he could watch her die. Hard and ugly.
    But then James Wallace and his ill-timed paternal outrage had showed up . . .
    Purcell nodded at the T-shirt-blanked monitor. “Heather Wallace, my ass. Maybe if the bastard could’ve focused on his hunger instead of his next goddamned breath, he might’ve drained the kid like he was supposed to.”
    “The resin keeps him from healing,” Díon explained patiently. “Slows him down, and the continued blood loss keeps his hunger sharp. Hopefully it short-circuits his telepathy as well. Perhaps even his other gifts.”
    Purcell frowned. “Other gifts?” He swiveled his chair around so he could see Díon. “What other gifts?”
    The SB interrogator regarded Purcell with amused purple eyes from where he leaned against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. Toffee-colored hair and short, stylish sideburns framed his face, making him look younger than the forty-two or forty-three Purcell pegged him at, as did his tall, athletic build.
    “He’s a True Blood and it varies, but you can bet he’s full of surprises,” Díon said, shrugging one shoulder.
    “Surprises like what?”
    “Flying. Fire. Shape-shifting. Telekinesis.”
    “How about making little girls look like someone else?”
    Another very European shrug—from a man Purcell suspected wasn’t even completely human. “With True Bloods, you never know.”
    Whatever Díon was, it wasn’t vamp. Not with his tanned olive skin and regular daytime hours. But given his ability to alter and wipe memories, to extract information from even the most reluctant mind with a soft word and a deft touch, he couldn’t be human either.
    “But you seem to be in the know,”