the man who’d attacked Amanda Grant and returned to finish the job.
* * *
Gryph’s eyes fluttered open. It took him a few moments to comprehend that the puffs of clouds and blue skies were nothing more than a mural painted on the ceiling of the room he found himself in. Stars were tacked amongst the clouds in an odd day-night combination. The soft bed and sweet-scented air contrasted sharply to the musty dampness of the underground he’d grown up in. He sat up, wincing at the soreness in his shoulder.
He must have dozed off or passed out after Selene left. Over an hour had passed, his shoulder already felt better, and his vision had cleared. One of the benefits of being a shifter was that once the injuries had been addressed his body regenerated quickly. He rose, wrapping one of the sheets around his middle, and paced the interior of the tiny two-room apartment, his strength returning with every step, even as the walls closed in around him.
Light, colorful fabrics draped the windows. The furniture, a scattered array of mix-and-match items, most likely found at yard sales, appeared lovingly restored with new fabric and accessorized with bright throw pillows and blankets. Every color in the rainbow was represented, none appearing out of place, as if they all worked to get along in the close confines of the interior.
In the living area, a rich red overstuffed sofa took up most of the space. On a coffee table in front of the sofa stood a candleholder in the shape of a pentagram, each point holding a small tea candle whose wicks had been burned at some point in time. Facing the sofa was an old-fashioned gas fireplace set against one wall and surrounded by a bright mosaic of tiles, adding even more color to the room. Over the fireplace hung a large filigreed pentagram, encased in a circle. Fine images inscribed in the design of each point of the pentagram represented spirit, air, fire, earth and water.
On the wooden mantel stood a photograph of five women, one of whom was Selene with her rich brown hair. Another was the red-haired woman he vaguely remembered, who’d helped get him into the basement apartment. The women held hands as they faced the camera and smiled. Clearly they cared about each other. Sisters, if not biologically, then by their strong connection to each other.
Despite being at the bottom of the stairs and in the basement of an older building with only a couple of windows filtering sunlight into the room, the space breathed of warmth and comfort—what Gryph had always thought a home should be. The atmosphere filled Gryph with a sense of longing he hadn’t experienced since he’d been a small child, and was led to the surface at nightfall to experience a sunset so grand and beautiful he’d cried.
Gryph shook off the feeling of home and spied a small television settled on a corner of the breakfast bar between the kitchen and the living area. He switched it to the local news station and rolled his sore shoulder, gritting his teeth at the pain.
A newswoman stood in front of the Chicago trauma-and-critical-care hospital, the wind whipping her hair into her face as she gave her late-breaking report of an attack on the streets of Chicago.
“A young woman was brought to the hospital late last night after being brutally attacked and left to die when leaving the theater in downtown Chicago. Admitted to the trauma center, she only had minutes to speak to the police before she was taken into surgery. A forensic artist was able to compile a rough sketch of her attacker before the surgeon arrived. Just to let you know, the woman made it through surgery and is now in recovery, expected to live. Whether she’ll walk again remains in question.
“Folks, as crazy as it appears, were posting the image of her attacker. The police department isn’t quite sure what to make of it, and neither am I, but if you see anything like it, call 911 and report the location and time of the sighting. If such an animal is loose in the city, the sooner we capture or kill it, the safer we all will be.”
A drawing replaced the images of the reporter and the hospital.
Gryph’s heart thudded against his ribs as he stared at a crude drawing of a lion’s head with a man’s face. It was him.
Gryph continued to watch the television newscast. The sketched image of him was replaced by the reporter. “This just in—the victim was in ICU after surgery when she was attacked again and smothered to death before anyone could get to her.” Police units, lights flashing, rolled in beside the newswoman. Officers leaped out of their squad cars and raced into the building.
His blood freezing in his veins, Gryph realized what saving the woman had cost him and the rest of the outcasts who lived their lives beneath the city streets. With an animal like him identified as the beast who’d ravaged a woman on the streets, every police officer would be searching all the nooks and crannies in the city. If they dug too deeply, they would locate the Lair.
He’d put them all at risk of discovery. And whomever had attacked the woman outside the theater in the first place was still running free and had gone back to finish the job.
He had to get out of Selene’s apartment. She’d seen him in his half-changed form. She’d know the drawing was of him, and she might return with the police to haul him in for murder. Or if she didn’t turn him in, and the police found him there, he’d bring her down with him. The evidence was stacked against him by an eyewitness, who was dead. If Selene chose not to hand him over to the authorities, she could be arrested for aiding and abetting a suspected murderer.
With purposeful strides, he entered the kitchen and pulled open the compact clothes dryer, removing his cloak and the tattered remains of his trousers. He stepped into the ripped pants. The shirt was beyond repair. Rather than leave it there as evidence against Selene, he shoved it into a pocket, slung his cape over his shoulder and hurried toward the door.
Gryph paused by the small window beside the door, pushed aside the frothy mauve curtain and lifted the edge of the blinds to peer out at street level. It wouldn’t be long before people ventured out onto the early morning city streets. The sidewalks would fill with workers headed to their jobs.
He unlocked the door and eased it open. The sun had yet to top the horizon and spill over the crowns of the skyscrapers. For the moment, nothing stirred, nothing moved in front of Selene’s apartment. Lights remained off in the buildings surrounding the little dress shop and its basement apartment. One by one the streetlights blinked off.
Still weak, but getting stronger, Gryph slipped out the door, up the stairs and eased into the gloom. Years of blending into obscurity had refined his skills at disappearing.
Rounding the corner of the building, he paused and listened. The rumble of an engine grew louder until a dark motorcycle turned onto the street and slowed in front of the dress shop. Two people got off.
He risked being seen or caught, but he had to know if the rider or the passenger was Selene.
Both riders pulled off their helmets. The driver’s long, inky-black hair slipped free and fell to her shoulders, the streetlight shining down on it, giving it a blue glow. The second rider struggled with the strap beneath her chin.
Gryph held his breath as she finally loosened the strap and lifted the helmet up and over her head. Long, chocolate-brown hair slipped free and fell in a dark cloud, tumbling down her back. Selene, with her brown hair and deep, brown-black eyes, stood beside the motorcycle.
The driver pulled a gun from a holster beneath her black leather jacket, released the clip, checked her ammunition and then slammed it back into the handle.
Selene
