to the floor with his own crossbow bolts. The memory caused a new twinge of pain through his shoulder.
The shifter’s hand lifted. “I get it. Self-proclaimed superhero, huh?” He snorted. “You think what’s happening in Paradise City is some kind of phase the city’s going through? You have no idea what’s happening, buddy. None.”
“Look…” Creek hesitated. “You have a name?”
“Havoc.”
Beautiful. Must have picked that one out himself. “Look, Havoc, you’re the one who has no idea what’s happening.” He swung his legs out of the bed. “Where are my clothes?”
“Trashed. You want out of here, I’m your best bet.” The shifter smiled, an altogether unpleasant expression. “Actually, I’m your only bet.”
“I said I’d talk to the mayor and I will, but first I need to go home and get things together.” Like alerting Chrysabelle someone had just taken out a fake comarré. The possibility existed that the killer had been after the original, not a copy. Creek stood. The draft from the AC sent a chill into the open back of the hospital gown. They couldn’t have left his boxers on? This was going to be a fun day.
“You’re going now.”
“Already agreed to eight a.m. tomorrow. I’ll be there.”
Havoc shook his head. “Can’t take the chance you’ll go vigilante on me again and get yourself killed.” He gestured toward the door. “Time is now. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
Harder? Damn shifter had no idea who he was talking to. Creek really wasn’t in the mood for this, but luckily for Havoc Creek wasn’t in any shape to brawl with a guy who outweighed and outreached him. “Does the mayor ever ask why you need the night off when there’s a full moon?”
Havoc leaned forward, the smell of wet dog wafting off him at close range. “I’m sure that wouldn’t interest her nearly as much as the words branded on your back.” He jerked his thumb toward the wheelchair in the corner of the room. “Get in. I’ve got a car waiting.”
Chapter Five
Mal hated being this far down into the bowels of Seven. It was like being in the ruins where Tatiana had imprisoned him. Where his curse had first manifested. Where you should still be. Gave him that hopeless, buried feeling. Like he wanted to claw through the concrete and—At last, Mortalis slowed. The twists and turns they’d taken had led them through thick metal doors and simple concrete corridors with no signs of the opulence visible in the general living quarters occupied by Dominic and his staff and those reserved for guests. Only the glow of the phosphorescent ceiling lit the way. If Dominic kept the signumist down here, chances were good the man was being held against his will.
“We’re here,” Mortalis said, turning to Chrysabelle. The curve of his horns cast sharp shadows on his cheeks. “You’ll be coming in alone?”
“No,” Mal answered. “I’ll be with her.” This signumist could see Chrysabelle as a chance to exact his anger at Dominic, especially with her still weak and recovering. If he knew Chrysabelle wasn’t alone in this venture, he might not act out.
Chrysabelle’s mouth bent downward and both hands gripped the cane’s handle. “If you come in, you have to behave. No comments about what a stupid idea you think this is or how the guy better be careful or you’ll kill him or any of that.”
“Done.” But the man better watch himself or death would be a merciful dream compared to what Mal would do to him. Yesss, the voices hissed. Blood blood blood.
Mortalis pressed his hand to a panel of concrete. A blue-green glow emerged on the wall, outlining the shape of a door. He stuck a finger into the middle of the space and began to draw. The light followed his finger and runes appeared in the air.
“Those are signum,” Chrysabelle whispered. “This is comarré magic.”
Mal nodded. “Like the portals at Tatiana’s.”
“Yes,” Mortalis answered. The last rune drawn, he pressed the door once again. This time it opened. He walked through. “Quickly.”
Chrysabelle went next, Mal behind her. When he was through, the door slid shut again. “Just like the portals at Tatiana’s.” He looked at Mortalis. “Are we stuck here for a certain length of time, or can this door be opened at will?”
“At will. Follow me.”
Here, carpet lined the corridor’s floor, and the walls were drywalled and painted. A minimal number of antiqued sconces lit the way. Less like a prison cell but still not close to the same richness