“That’s being taken care of. Right now, you’re her first priority. Anything you know about what happened to her daughter matters most.” LED panels on the ceiling framed the varcolai in bright white light. He leaned closer, still wearing the dark shades. “How are you not dead? Your wounds would have killed most mortals.”
Creek ignored the question. Judging from the black sky visible through the blinds, it was either a few hours later or the next night. “How did I end up in the hospital?”
He pushed to a sitting position, testing the muscles in his ruined shoulder. Fresh pain cramped his body, and his bones felt on the verge of shattering. Nothos poison was a Swedish massage compared to the bite of the Castus Sanguis. Not that he really knew. Like all KM, he’d been sealed against Nothos venom.
A second later, a headrush nearly laid him down again. He rubbed the back of his head to buy some time. How much blood had he lost? Speaking of lost… he scanned the room as the dizziness abated. No sign of his halm. Argent wasn’t going to be happy about a second lost weapon in less than two weeks, but then, his sector chief was rarely happy about anything.
“I secured the mayor in her vehicle, then followed you. By the time I found you in the alley, you were a bloody, pulpy mess. I figured you’d be out more than just a few hours.”
So it wasn’t the next night. “You should have seen the other guy.”
The joke was lost on the varcolai. “I didn’t. What was it?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Creek pulled the tape off the IV in his hand and slid the needle out. Time to go before he had to explain to a doctor why his blood was a few degrees off normal and his body regenerated at a nonhuman rate.
The varcolai’s beefy paw came down on his wrist. “I don’t think you’re showing the proper appreciation. If not for me, you’d have bled out in that alley.”
“Not a chance.” Creek squinted and stared into the shifter’s dark shades. If eyes were the windows to the soul, this guy’s soul must really need hiding. “I would have been fine. Been through worse.” Like getting staked 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.”