At last she raised her chin and opened her eyes. From the pouch, she removed the gold pipette, its small end tapered to a needle-thin point.

With a deep breath and a final thought to the holy mother, she lifted the pipette, the pointed end facing her. She inhaled, already dreading this new pain. It would all be over soon. Everything she had endured would finally be worthwhile. She wrapped her left hand over her right and plunged the pipette into her chest.

Hot, stabbing pain sucked the air from her lungs, but she held still, allowing only the slightest tremor to shake her. Index finger over the pipette’s open end, she slid it from her chest. Blood trickled from the wound and trailed over the curve of her breast.

She picked up the chanting again, using its persuasive rhythm to stay focused on the task and not the pain. Lux sancta matris intus me fulget. Lux sancta matris intus me fulget… Using the pipette like a fountain pen and her blood for ink, she traced a perfect circle on the marble. At the top of the circle, she drew the phoebus, the sun symbol that was every comarré’s first signum. It made her smile to think that the brother she would soon find also had that mark.

Circle completed, she leaned forward and continued with the pipette, this time copying the signum from the paper into the circle’s interior. She whispered the name of each one as she finished.

With the last one done, she set the pipette aside and stood, pulling her robe back over her body. She lifted her arms, holding her palms up over the circle. Within it, the signum she’d traced began to expand. Atticus’s signum were working. Blood filled in the blank spaces within the circle, expanding until a solid pool of red shimmered before her.

The blood rippled like water and a flash of golden light gleamed across the surface. The gateway to the Aurelian was open. There was no turning back now. Not that she wanted to.

With a final calming breath, Chrysabelle stepped into the portal.

Blood, the voices whispered. It took Mal a second to realize that the scent of blood wasn’t in his dream. It was real. And strong enough to wake him from daysleep. The next second, his mind went to Chrysabelle. Something was wrong. She hadn’t been bleeding at all by the time he’d gotten her into bed, a task Velimai couldn’t do because her sandpaper-like skin would have only injured Chrysabelle further.

He leaped off the fold-out couch in the small interior room that otherwise served as a hurricane shelter, blinking as he stumbled into the hall and a bright shaft of sun. Before his skin could crisp, he hugged the wall, staying in the shadows until he made it upstairs. After he’d gotten her into the house, he’d closed all the curtains on this floor so that nothing would disturb her ability to rest and recover. It was also the reason he’d yet to explain his suspicions about what had happened at the signumist’s. There’d be plenty of time for that when she was healed.

He went to open her door quietly, but the knob wouldn’t turn. He had no idea what went into recovering from such a procedure. Maybe Velimai was in there, washing Chrysabelle’s back. That might explain the smell of fresh blood. Or if Velimai had accidently touched her. He tipped his head toward the door and listened. Running water. Maybe that was exactly what was—

Velimai appeared at the end of the hall. She held her hands up as if asking what was wrong.

Hell. “A lot if you’re not in there. Door’s locked.”

Her eyes widened and she sped to where he was. She made shoving motions with her hands like she wanted to push the door in.

“Knock it down? Don’t you have a key?”

Yes and no, she signed. She thrust her hands at the door a second time as if telling him to hurry.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed the door handle again and wrenched it, tearing the metal free from the wood. Velimai pushed past him. Her elbow brushed the top of his hand, leaving a line of raw skin behind. Ignoring the already closing wound, he followed.

The room was empty, the bed disheveled. Blood scent hung humid in the air. The door to the bathroom—the location of the running water—was shut. “If she’s taking a shower—”

With the coldest expression, Velimai held up a hand, shook her head, and pointed back to the bed.

Mal scanned it again. “What?”

Night something, Velimai signed.

“Night? Night what?” His gaze caught on the nightstand. Nothing out of place, nothing missing. He went deadly still. Nothing missing but the red leather pouch Atticus had given her. He’d seen that pouch before. He knew what it contained. “Son of a priest,” he whispered. “She’s trying to open the portal.”

He flashed past Velimai. Chrysabelle was way too weak to attempt something like this now. Stubborn, stubborn woman. His fist hit the door. “Chrysabelle, I know you’re in there and I know what you’re doing. Let me in or I swear to hades, I will knock this door down.”

No answer, just the shush of the water.

Velimai motioned for him to break in. He heaved his shoulder into the door, cracking the door frame and flinging it wide.

Nothing in the bathroom, except for the gold pipette and circle of blood on the floor. Blood blood blood… Chrysabelle was already gone. Mal slumped to his knees beside the puddle. The beast within him strained its bonds at so much blood, but the weight of helplessness pressed Mal into a dark place where ignoring the voices became a very easy thing. He slammed his fist onto the marble tile, leaving a small crack. The rage building in him tested his power of control. It was the kind of rage that fed the beast. “We’re too late.”