“I could simply induce a localized coma,” François suggests, his voice dripping with helpful condescension. “It is remarkably efficient, entirely painless, and requires zero physical exertion on my part.”
Her eyes widen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t want no magic voodoo shit,” she snaps, pointing a rigid finger at his chest.
“One of you just do it,” Aurora mutters, her eyes darting toward the corridor behind us. “None of us are getting any younger.”
As Peek grimaces, I plant my feet and throw a short, perfectly controlled hook, managing to keep Imran securely balanced on my back. She hits the floor with a satisfying, limp thud.
François stares down at her unconscious form, his lip curling in disgust as he looks at my reddening knuckles. “I suppose I should be impressed you didn’t use a club like a complete Neanderthal.”
Aurora gives him a deserved eye roll, as I put Peek’s keycard in my pocket. “Let’s move, isolation is down here, next door on the right.”
We move through the final security door and I instantly feel the hum of the Null-magic getting stronger. The wards are vibrating in my teeth—a high-frequency pressure that makes my stomach do a slow, nauseating roll. François doesn’t seem to care; he just glides through the suppression field like he’s walking through a summer breeze.
“Voilà. Qui cherche, trouve.”
“Seek and you shall find,” I mutter.
But just who are we going to find?
The dead-end landing has three doors off it, each with a narrow slot for food to be delivered. There are no windows. Just the gloom of the amber safety lights.
“Coming to play, are we?”
A creepy, sing-song voice rasps from behind the metal of the middle door. It’s dry, cracked, and far too cheerful for a man in a hole. “That soft-shoe shuffle makes me think this is going to be fun!”
My hand goes to my shiv. François stills beside me, his eyes narrowing.
“Now let’s see,” the voice giggles. “From the sound of your footsteps, we’ve got a clodhopper, a secret shadow, and then, wait…”
For three beats, the only sound is the heavy thrum of the wards.
“Oh! Fe, fi, fo, fum… I smell the blood of… Kitten?”
“London!” Rory pushes forward, pulling out of my grasp. “Get the door unlocked, assholes.”
Juggling Imran, I shove past her, putting myself between her and the door as Frank swipes the card.
The lock clicks open.
Inside, a wild-looking creature stands on one leg, effortlessly juggling bundles of torn and knotted orange cloth. He blinks at the light, grimaces, then catches all five fabric balls with one hand.
Rory elbows past me and runs in to hug the strange dude. His head tilts back and he lets out a joyful chuckle. “Wow, Kitten. Let me look atcha!”
I put an arm out to drag Aurora back.
This man is a loose cannon, and I’ve seen enough of those explode in Ashgrave to know the blast radius. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see bright green, feral eyes scowling at me.
A low, rumbling growl starts in his chest—a sound more animal than human.
Rory doesn’t flinch; she just strokes his shoulder. “It’s OK, London, they’re with me. But we have to get going. We’re breaking out—sound good?”
He pauses, considering. “Well, I don’t have any engagements planned. So guess what, Kitten? I’ll join you to tiptoe through the tulips!”
He grabs Aurora by the waist and whirls her, with manic energy, in a dizzying circle. “So, what grand adventure do you have for me, darling?”
François’s hand snaps out, his fingers clamping around London’s wrist. I see the flicker of cold power in de Vaux’s gaze. “Put her down.”
London stops and turns, staring at the Frenchman with an intensity that borders on clinical. “Mate! You’ve got a touch of the oldyikesabout you.” He cocks his head. “Dunno what, but bloody interesting. I’m going to call you Shivery Shane.”
