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Dominic was watching him with understanding. The Angel had known Darien for so long that he was one of the few people who understood the path he’d walked to become the person he was today, and how steep that path was. He’d seen the journey, not just the destination. The hardships that had pounded him into this flawed version of himself, the dreams that had been crushed and replaced with those of his sick father’s, the innocence that had literally been beat out of him—he’d seen all of it, and he’d still stayed. Those people were the best kind—the ones who didn’t run away when shit got tough.
“You want to talk about it over that drink?”
Darien had to smirk at that. “You’re already hungover and you want a drink?”
“Always.”
Darien looked up, where six magpies were soaring through the overcast sky. “I’ve got a collection to make. But if you want to talk about it over blood instead of booze, that can be arranged.”
Dominic flashed a grin. “Hell yeah.”
Unlocking the car with the remote, Darien flicked the cigarette to the damp cement and swung open his door. “Get in.” He paused, eyeing Dominic as he made his way around the car. “And watch your wings, will you? I’m not in the mood to vacuum up a bunch of feathers today.”
The Angel scowled. “Would you quit bringing that up?”
“It looked like someone plucked a chicken in here.”
“You’re an asshole. And you really need to stop telling everyone within earshot when you’re drunk too. How would you like it?”
Darien winked. “Still want to join me?”
“Yeah, I still want to join you,” he grumbled. He got in carefully, reclined his seat, and added, “Dickhead.”
3
Loren checked her phone for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past thirty minutes, the screen lighting up her face with a ghostly glow in the rain-drenched twilight.
Had thirty minutes passed already?
Where she was standing just outside the wrought-iron gates to Angelthene Academy for Magic, Loren tapped her foot on the sidewalk, water splashing her sneakers and gray leggings. It was unusually cold tonight, even for late Januarius, her fleecy sweatshirt barely staving off the chill in the damp air. She was looking forward to her time at Hell’s Gate, where she could bundle up in a blanket with a hot cup of tea, her favorite Devil cozied up beside her.
The same Devil who wasn’t answering his phone.
Even though she knew not enough time had passed for the clock to have changed yet, she checked the time again, squinting against the bright glare of the phone screen.
Darien was late. Under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t have minded, but ever since that peace officer had interrupted their fun during her lunch hour, she had felt uneasy. He hadn’t texted or called since he’d left, not even once. Usually, she wouldn’t have minded, but again: circumstances.
Had something bad happened to him? Had he been arrested, and if so, why? Was he hurt?
She wished Dallas and Sabrine were out here, so she could vent her worries to listening ears. But they were currently holed up in the dormitory of the House of Salt until suppertime. Dallas wouldn’t be coming to Hell’s Gate until after school tomorrow; as a venefica, she had more classes to attend this semester than Loren. Sabrine had more classes as well, and then she would be spending her weekend in the Silverwood District with Logan Sands, the werewolf she denied having feelings for but was constantly unable to stay away from.
So, it was just her. Just her, Singer, and the last of the rain that had painted the evening a sleepy shade of blue.
As Loren waited for Darien, she took in her surroundings, forcing herself to focus on anything other than her phone. More specifically, the clock on the screen.
Palm trees sagged with moisture, rain dribbling off fronds. Sidewalks were flooded, every patch of grass waterlogged. The storm drains in the parking lot gurgled as streams of water swirled beneath the city, the swift currents carrying debris that would soon clog them up, an accumulation that would stink to high heaven the moment Angelthene’s hot sun came out to bake the city. In the fragrant jacaranda trees dotting the area, magpies chittered, their bodies hidden behind fat clusters of the forever-blooming flowers of Angelthene.
Loren squinted against the dark and scanned the closest jacaranda tree. It was the largest of its kind in the area, its canopy of branches stretching toward a bench near a garden of rocks and succulents. Loren recalled the day she’d collapsed onto that bench several months ago, minutes before Darien had pulled up and brought her and Dallas to Puerta de la Muerta to find answers about Sabrine’s disappearance. The stretch of sidewalk under the broad shelter of the tree was speckled with purple-blue petals, the velvety flesh of them smeared into the ground by the shoes of passers-by.
It took a while to count the magpies in the tree, the dense shadows nearly swallowing up several of the black-and-white bodies perched on the branches. Loren counted them a second time, just to be sure.
There were six of them. How did the rhyme go again?
Five for heaven
Six for hell…
Loren stared at the tree. The birds rustled their wings, their piercing cries echoing far into the coming night.
