Dark Secrets - Linsey Hall Page 0,30

think there was magic in that hit?” I asked Neve.

“I don’t think so. They tend not to use that type of spell.”

I nodded, looking back at Grey.

“Stop worrying,” he said. “It’s fine.”

“We’re here,” the driver called as the streetcar pulled to a stop.

Thank God. I gazed at the large open courtyard and spinning water wheel, grateful to see our exit. Neve helped me get Grey to the portal. He was able to walk on his own, but he was unusually weak.

The ether sucked us in and spit us out at the Haunted Hound. We stood in the dark corridor to catch our breath.

Quinn appeared at the entrance. Concern was etched across his strong features. “Carrow? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I trusted Quinn, but the Devil didn’t. He was inexplicably feeling low, and I didn’t want to draw attention to that fact.

All the same, the vampire’s shoulders straightened. “We’re fine.”

There wasn’t the slightest hint in his voice that he was hurt.

“All right. Let me know if you need anything.” Quinn melted into the shadows of the bar, leaving me alone.

I turned to Grey, worry twisting inside me. “You really aren’t okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine is a weak word.”

“I’m not healing as well as I normally might, but we’ll get to the bottom of it.” His expression was bland and calm, reassuring.

I didn’t buy it for a minute.

I tilted my head to reveal my neck. “Drink my blood. It worked last time.”

“No.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Absolutely not.”

“Just a little. It will help. It always does.”

“You know what might happen if I drink your blood.”

A vision of my dream flickered in front of my mind. Cursed Mates.

“We’ll do it at your place. You have the self-control, I know it. And it’ll heal you.”

“Not even there. I want it too badly, and once I start…”

He wouldn’t be able to stop.

He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. I could read the fear in him clearly.

“It will never happen,” he said. “Thank you, but forget it.”

“Fine, then we’re getting a healer.” I prayed it would help.

“Excellent plan.”

I nodded and took his arm. “Let’s go.”

We switched to the other abandoned hallway and took the portal back to Guild City, staggering through the streets to his place. It was after midnight, and the pavement bustled with people going from bar to bar, shouting and laughing. Shops glittered with life and magic, but I had no interest in them.

By the time we reached the Devil’s tower, even I was feeling drained. The two security guards at the front hopped to attention, their movements gracefully powerful in the way of all shifters. They swung open the doors, and we entered, finding Miranda at her station.

Concern creased her brow. “Devil? What’s wrong?”

“Everything is fine, Miranda.” His voice sounded normal, but his face was so pale. “Don’t concern yourself.”

“Could you get the healer?” I asked.

She nodded, her gaze moving between us. “He’s having a drink in the bar, in fact.”

I frowned. “How many drinks?”

“He hasn’t been here long enough to lose his head. I’ll send him to your quarters, Devil.”

Grey nodded, and we headed in that direction. Fortunately, there was no one in the halls between the lobby and his flat. The healer was already there, waiting for us. He was slightly red in the face, as if he’d run the whole way, and I wondered what Miranda had told him.

“Thank you for coming, Doratio,” Grey said.

The old healer nodded, his pale green eyes glinting with concern. “But of course.”

Grey unlocked the charm that protected his flat and let us in.

The healer’s white cloak swept around him as he entered. “What happened?” he asked.

“We were fighting some Marsh Men in Magic Side, Chicago,” I said. “They shot Grey with a jet of water. I think it was enchanted because he hasn’t been able to heal like normal.”

The healer frowned. “That is strange, indeed.” He gestured to a chair by the window that looked out on the beach. “Sit, please.”

Grey sat. His face was impassive, though his shoulder slowly seeped blood. It had to hurt, but other than the faint paleness of his features, he showed no sign of pain.

I paced anxiously as Doratio knelt by his chair to inspect the gash. He hovered his hand over the shoulder wound, then the arm wound, his magic flaring. In the reflection of the glass, I could see his brow crease with concern.

“I feel no magic here,” he said. “These wounds are clean, made only by water moving fast enough to cut.”

Shit. Something really