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“My advice remains the same,” Kyle said. “Time and space.”
“Yeah, two things I feel like I can’t do without dying.” He lifted his fist off his face and looked at the clock on the wall. “What does that say?”
Kyle peeked over his shoulder at the rose-shaped timepiece. “One o’clock.” He tsked, shaking his head. “Lying rat bastard. I just changed the damn batteries.” He rolled up the sleeve of his plaid shirt and checked his watch. “It’s almost two.”
Shit, he was going to be late. “I need to roll.”
Kyle powered down the tattoo machine and rolled his stool back, giving Darien space to swing his legs over the side of the table and stand up. “Try not to wreck my beautiful work this time, will you?”
“I make no promises.” Darien reached for the black long-sleeve he’d discarded on a stool.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Kyle snatched a tube of ointment and a roll of waterproof bandages off the rolling tray beside the table.
Standing still as a statue, Darien watched the motionless hands on the clock as Kyle applied a thin layer of the ointment to his tattoo. When he was done, he dressed the area with bandages, the plastic making Darien’s skin itch worse than the tattoo.
“One hour,” Kyle said. “And then you can take these off.”
As soon as Kyle stepped away, Darien put his shirt on and felt around in the pockets of his jeans until he found his car keys.
“Where you off to?” Kyle asked as he moved his tools aside and misted the work table and tray with disinfectant.
“I need to pick up Malakai.”
“Friends again?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Well, if I suddenly see your name in the obituary,” Kyle said, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist, “I’ll know who did it.”
Darien made for the door. “Make sure you avenge me. If it’s that asshole who puts me in the ground, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your existence if you don’t.”
“Noted.”
“Later,” Darien called as he pushed through the door and walked into an overcast afternoon, bells chiming with his departure.
“Later.”
—
Darien pulled a gray hoodie over his head and shoved his hands through the sleeves, purposely smacking Malakai, who was in the passenger seat of his car, in the face with an open palm.
A fist thudded against Darien’s temple, the attack so hard and swift that his head bumped into his window, the blow barely softened by the cotton covering his face. He finished yanking the collar down so he could see, and he was met with the face of the Reaper, red with anger, as he adjusted his own hoodie.
Darien scowled back. “Can’t take a joke, can you?”
They were in an industrial zone in the district of Oldtown, an eyesore of an area consisting of storage facilities, chemical plants, steel mills, wrecking yards, and a handful of empty buildings, all of them rotting with age and neglect. A coat of smog hung over the city, the pollution and the soupy temperature made worse by the oppressive weather.
“Not when it’s you,” Malakai said with a grinding of his teeth, jaw flexing under his beard. “Besides, I owed you one for scratching my bike.” He opened the compartment in the center console and started digging around like he owned the car.
“What the hell are you doing?” Darien snapped.
The Reaper pulled out a resealable bag of Stygian salts and shook it in his face. “I’m taking some of these.”
Darien ripped it out of his grip, plastic nearly tearing. “These are mine, you don’t get any.” When Malakai lunged for the bag, Darien moved it out of his reach. “Why do you want these?” he demanded, moving it again as Malakai swiped for the bag.
Unable to reach it, he resorted to punching Darien in the shoulder instead. “Why the fuck do you think I want them? In case it’s a goddamn ambush!”
“It’s not an ambush, we can trust this guy.”
