“And you’re mine to protect,” I counter. “This works both ways. I’m not just going to let you throw your life away for me.”
“Then we protect each other.” He pulls me close, pressing a kiss to my temple that makes my breath catch.
We leave the storage room side by side, moving into corridors that grow progressively colder and darker. The emergency lighting becomes sporadic, leaving patches of deep shadow that could hide anything. Magnus’s ice magic spreads out around us, reading heat signatures, searching for threats.
The smell intensifies—chemical wrongness mixed with decay and despair. I can hear it now, what Jace warned us about: the screaming. Not constant, but sporadic. A shriek of agony, ahowl of rage, a whimper of pain. The sounds of beings trapped between forms, unable to find peace in either shape.
My healer’s instincts scream at me to run toward that suffering, to help immediately. But I force myself to move cautiously, to let Magnus take point when the corridors narrow, to trust his predator’s senses.
We’re one level from the main laboratory when Magnus freezes.
“Heat signatures,” he whispers. “Multiple. Ahead in the main corridor, but also...” His eyes unfocus as he reads the ice patterns. “Behind us. We’re being herded.”
My precognitive sense flares. I see the ambush forming, the trap closing. But I also see the opening—a window of maybe thirty seconds where if we move fast enough, decisively enough, we can break through before the trap snaps shut.
“Forward,” I breathe. “Fast and hard. Break through before they’re in position.”
Magnus doesn’t question, just shifts—and this time I watch the transformation with new understanding. This is my mate taking his most powerful form, trusting me enough to be vulnerable during those seconds of change.
His snow leopard form flows into being, and then we’re running.
The guards ahead—more Broken, these ones more functional than the stairwell pack—turn at our approach. Magnus hits them like an avalanche, all ice-enhanced claws and brutal efficiency. I follow in his wake, my hands glowing, ready to defend or heal as needed.
One of the Broken—human torso with bear arms and what looks like raptor talons for feet—lunges at me. I don’t try to fight it physically. Instead, I do what I did before: flood it with healing energy, so much that its warring biological systems can’t process the influx.
We burst through into a wider corridor, and suddenly we can see it: the laboratory doors ahead, pristine white against the industrial grey, with observation windows showing the horror within.
And standing in front of those doors, watching our approach with fevered eyes, is Dr. Hal Crane.
He’s worse than my visions showed. His body is patchwork—human skin marked with scales here, fur there, one arm elongated and tipped with claws while the other remains mostly human. His face is gaunt, eyes too bright with pain and madness, and when he smiles, I see too many teeth.
“Lyra Starling,” he says, and his voice is wrong too—layered, like multiple vocal cords producing sound simultaneously. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Magnus shifts back to human form beside me, positioning himself slightly in front. His message is clear: you’ll go through me first.
“Dr. Crane,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “It’s over. We have your research, your methods, everything. The council knows what you’ve done. Surrender now and?—”
“Surrender?” His laugh is terrible—human and animal and something else mixed together. “Why would I surrender when I’m so close to perfection? I just need one more piece. One more brilliant mind to help stabilize what I’ve created.”
He gestures to his ruined body. “You see what Haven’s Heart’s methods created? What Voss wanted? What Elena Ashford refused to help perfect?” His expression twists with rage and pain. “But you—you understand integration. You’ve worked with the hybrid techniques. You can help me stabilize the pathways, make the transformations permanent without the degradation.”
“I’m a healer,” I say firmly. “I help people. I don’t create monsters.”
“Monster?” He looks genuinely offended. “I’m evolution. I’m the next step. Multi-form shifters with abilities from every species—imagine the possibilities!”
“I’ve seen the possibilities,” I snap, anger overriding caution. “Twenty-seven people tortured. Broken. Trapped in agony because you forced transformations their bodies can’t support. That’s not evolution. That’s torture.”
His face hardens. “They were necessary sacrifices. Volunteers for the greater good.”
“They were kidnapped traders,” Magnus growls. “You’re nothing but a mad scientist playing god with stolen lives.”
Crane’s attention shifts to Magnus, and something changes in his expression—calculation mixed with cruel amusement. “The Mountain Cat tracker. The files mentioned you. Strong, capable, protective of your assigned healer.” His smile widens. “Perfect.”
He raises one malformed hand, and the laboratory doors behind him slam open.
Broken pour out—not three or four, but dozens. More than the files indicated. All of them moving with that same coordinated purpose, all of them focused on one target:
Magnus.
