Across the space, near the opposite wall, Aric sent balls of fire at the remaining beasts, helping to turn the tide, Jax hoped. But the fire was spreading, the boxes and palettes going up like the dry tinder they were.

First the beasts. Kill them, get his team out.

One of them had Zan pinned, ready to tear into his throat. Jax launched himself the few feet to them and barreled into the thing, taking him to the floor. This one met the same end as his first one, and Jax felt a small satisfaction.

“The others,” Zan croaked, coughing.

They looked around, and saw the remaining creatures were dead. Some must’ve flown, frightened off by the fire. Others had been dispatched by their friends.

Somehow, he and Zan dragged their teammates, one by one, from the hungry flames. Some weren’t moving. When Zan tried to use his healing powers to work on his mangled leg, Jax stopped him.

“I’ll be okay. Get the worst ones.”

Zan’s mouth tightened into a grim line, but he nodded and moved off. And proceeded to almost kill himself by doing the impossible.

He couldn’t save them all.

Jax drifted, wishing he were in Beryl’s arms. That all of this was over, or had never happened at all. He imagined being buried between her thighs, giving them what they both wanted. He could almost hear her laughter.

After a few moments, he realized the sound was real, not his imagination. He opened his eyes to see Beryl standing over him, a wicked smile on her lovely face. Except the cruelty transformed her face into something ugly, mocking.

“Beryl? My team, how are they?”

She laughed again. “Dead. How else?”

“What?” He stared at her, uncomprehending.

Crouching next to him, she ran a bloodred nail down his cheek. “Haven’t you figured it out? Terry’s contact was actually working for me.”

She wouldn’t have. The Beryl he knew was loving, fun. Insatiable.

He’d thought . . .

“Why? Why did you do this?” Agony lanced his chest. The pain of betrayal and loss.

“Don’t you wish you knew? Someone really important has big plans, and that’s all you need to know. Thanks for the good times, lover.”

Agony became rage. Sitting up, he ignored the pain, pushed to his feet. Grabbed the front of her blouse and shook her. “Who are you working for? Tell me!”

“Fuck you,” she spat.

A red haze came down, obliterating all reason. Limping, half-dragging his injured leg, he pulled her toward the burning building. She’d murdered his team. The men he loved like brothers.

“Burn in hell, whore.”

With the last of his strength, he threw the traitorous bitch into the fire. Fell to his knees.

Her scream of outrage, promising vengeance, and the moans of his dying teammates chased him into the darkness.

Six months later . . .

Kira Locke had thirty seconds to lift the samples and get the hell out. Every second counted.

And then, technically, she’d be a thief. A criminal. The police wouldn’t know quite what to do with the items she’d stolen should she be caught, any more than she knew what to do with them if she wasn’t. Her brilliant plan had included getting them out of here, not where to go afterward. Or who to give them to. Who did she dare to trust when she offered little more than some dead tissue and a couple of wild accusations? Who would believe her?

A metallic scraping noise from somewhere down the hallway caused her to jump, her hands trembling so hard she nearly dropped the precious containers. Scratch that thirty seconds. Shit. Quickly, she checked the lids once more to make sure the formaldehyde didn’t leak out, and then slipped the small film-sized canisters into her purse.

There. Let’s see what Dr. Jekyll and the ghouls are up to.

The scraping sound came again, louder this time. Closer. The steady, heavy tread of boot heels on concrete, the systematic opening and closing of screeching metal doors announced that one of the night guards was making his rounds. Checking all of the labs and other rooms in this restricted area of her place of employment that she had no clearance to breach.

Make that former place of employment, if she got caught.

The footsteps came nearer, another door squealed open, and she silently cursed the bad luck that A.J. had called in sick tonight. The young guard would’ve covered for her, considering that he harbored the same suspicions Kira did about something being hidden in this place. Something terrible. Then again, it was probably good that her friend hadn’t known what she’d planned to do tonight because now he couldn’t be accused of helping her.

Heart in her throat, she considered her options—find a spot to hide and hope the guard moved on, or stroll nonchalantly from the room and try to fool him into thinking she had every right to be here. Play it cool, and then get lost.

A sinking feeling in her gut told her the second choice was out of the question, and that the cops were the least of her worries. Glancing around the lab, she zeroed in on the long worktable built on a solid base, the only object large enough to shield her from view. After switching off the light, she skirted the edge, moved to put the table between herself and the door, and crouched. Just in time.

The door swung open, the light flipping on again. The guard paused and she could picture him eyeing the area, trying to decide if anything appeared out of place. His boots scraped the floor as he moved inside a bit farther, and she huddled like a frightened rabbit in a hole, certain that any moment he’d decide to step around the table. Catch her there and call her boss, Dr. Gene Bowman. And if the pompous prick knew she was snooping, what was in her possession, and what she suspected . . .

Go away, please. Please. Her pulse hammered at the hollow of her throat and she was certain he could sense her fear. Smell it, sour and thick in the dank air.

Gradually, his steps retreated after he flipped the lights off again, and closed the door. Only when his tread faded down the corridor did she slump in relief, dragging a hand through her hair. Taking a few deep breaths, she stood, the temporary reprieve at an end. She still had to get out of the damned building unseen, though at almost midnight with nothing but a skeleton crew, the odds were slightly better.

Right. Keep telling yourself that.

Clutching her purse straps in a death grip, she eased toward the door. Turned the knob and slowly inched the weighty metal door open. A bit at a time, just enough to slip out and close it again. Her patience was rewarded with the tiniest squeak of hinges, but even that small noise sounded like a trumpet blast to her ears.

The corridor was clear. Of course it couldn’t be dimly lit with lots of inky shadows to hide in, like in the movies. The tunnel-like space was as brightly lit as a football field at halftime, and if the guard came back, she was toast. At least the lack of cover meant no one could sneak up on her, either.

Walking fast, she forced herself not to break into a run. Just a few more yards and—

“Nooooo!”

She froze, heart thundering, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

Straining her ears, she listened. Nothing. The faint wail of despair might’ve been her imagination—the product of nerves and too little sleep. For a crazy second, she felt compelled to turn around and search for the source. To find out once and for all whether the spirit that constantly begged for help at all hours of the day and night was real, or if she was out of her mind.

A door opened at the end of the corridor and a burly guard stepped into view. “Hey! What’re you doing down here? I need to see some ID.”

Kira turned and ran, ignoring the man’s angry shout. Fast as her feet could carry her, scrambling to think of another way out, she hit the door at the far end and kept going. A service elevator loomed ahead, which she assumed was for deliveries, being located at the back of the building and away from the general staff.