Custo’s own grip tightened. “He got in? How?”
Adam didn’t look over to answer. He kept his gaze fixed on the slow slide of concrete wall as they rose. “He somehow took on the form of one of my soldiers, who is now dead. The wolf then escaped after Talia…used her voice.”
Adam’s tone was flat, but Custo could guess what roiled beneath the surface. Segue was vulnerable. The lives they were responsible for—Talia, Annabella, all the rest—vulnerable. If the wolf could shape-shift, he could probably look like Adam or Talia or even himself and have them questioning each other more than they already were.
Custo reached for Annabella’s mind again and caught the trace of a thought—something about going home. He couldn’t sense her feelings, but knew she was scared. He had to ask. “Annabella?”
“Fine. Tough.” A grudging respect.
The lift jolted to a stop. “Talia?”
“In labor.”
Two guards flanked the entrance labeled INFIRMARY, and inside each doorway another grim-faced man was posted. Stance wide, guns at their chests, they were ready for literally anything.
Adam was moving fast, but Custo caught a few details. The place was anachronistic for a Segue satellite compound, ceilings too low for comfort. Fixtures outdated, but utilitarian. There was an age spot on the wall in the entryway where a circular clock once had been, and an odd, rounded sink circa the sixties was attached to the back wall. Definitely out of date.
Custo followed Adam down a hallway, stopping at an open door labeled “15.” Talia lay on her back, slightly tilted to the side, a white sheet pulled up to her waist. Her face was chalky next to the white-gold tangle of her hair. Custo had known her in his past life—she’d been a pale, pretty thing with intelligent eyes. There was something different about her now, or rather, different about the way he saw her. The pallor of her skin had a strange sheen to it, a black-light luminescence that made the tilt of her eyes less exotic-human and more, distinctly, Other. Looking at her now, on the flip side of mortality, there was no doubt she was fae.
Dr. Gillian Powell, a longtime member of Segue’s staff, examined a strip of paper printing from a machine to the left of the bed. Gillian was good, thorough. She’d stitched him up more than once in the Jacob days. She’d save Talia and the babies if they could be saved.
Talia winced, straining her head to the side as Custo came through the doorway after Adam.
“More contractions?” Adam asked as he rushed to the bed and knelt on the floor, eye level with Talia.
“They’d stopped, and I thought I had it under control, but now…” Gillian trailed off. She frowned at another machine, her mind saying, That’s not right. A rapidly blinking heart accompanied escalating numbers, but the doctor put her stethoscope to her ears and checked Talia out for herself.
Talia groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. “Too bright.”
Adam leaned in closer. “What is, honey?”
“Custo,” she gasped.
Custo took a step back. Suddenly this didn’t seem like such a great idea. A banshee and an angel in the same room—something about the combination felt inherently wrong. Fundamentally at odds. Maybe the barrier between their worlds was there for a reason. Maybe light and darkness were exclusive by necessity. Maybe he was hurting her.
Talia whimpered. Custo gripped the doorway. He wanted to help if he could. He was a goddamn angel. He should be able to do something. Ease her. Heal her.
Adam looked over at him, confusion and alarm on his face. “What’s happening?”
Talia shuddered and Custo backed into the hall. “I don’t know.” When she next groaned, he took himself out of the infirmary altogether.
In a long, thin, windy tunnel between two rooms, the hunter collected himself. The darkness deepened here, almost to pitch, and fed the slow reformation of his body. Shadow condensed, thickened, to form a twitching ear, a sharp claw, burning eyes. Air blew through the tunnel, rippling with the shudder of his new fur. He trembled, still variable, still weak, but growing.
Smell came first: bland and acrid, and over it all, the heady scent of a mortal woman, filling his Shadow mind. Then sight: the tunnel terminated near the top of a room, where a bright square patch gleamed, reaching like flame. And sound: a woman wept with choking sobs.
Finally understanding, born of walking human steps and stroking exquisite skin: Mortal. Woman. Magic. A harsh, vicious longing twined with his new awareness, stoking his animal hunger and transmuting it into something else, something almost human, and thus unbearable.
The hunter wanted it all. Mine.
Now, how to get her?