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The Terran Imperator has me under a spell, she tried to say, but her tongue turned numb in her mouth, and the words stuck to her throat, choking her. He wants me to go into Spirit Terra and find the Arcanum Well. He wants me to lie to you, or he will kill you.
Please help me.
The words were a lump in her throat, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t spit them out. Not one.
Fresh tears burned her eyes, turning Darien’s handsome face into a blur that reminded her of watercolor paints bleeding together.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, seeing the pain etched into her face, and the shine in her eyes. “It’s fine, baby. I said I’d give you time, and I will. But I need you to promise me something.” He closed the distance between them, every step hesitant and slow. Carefully, he took her hands out of her pocket and laced her fingers with his. While hers were trembling and cold, his were steady and warm. “If you need anything, if you find yourself in even the smallest amount of trouble, I need you to come to me, okay? I might be broken, but I am good at fixing things, and I will fix anything that tries to hurt you, do you understand me?”
“Yes.” The word was a sob—because she would go to him if she could, if she could form the words. But no matter how hard she tried, that spell would not relent, and she was forced to keep a horrible secret she feared would drive them apart.
Darien dipped his chin, those remarkably intense eyes, the color as stormy as the weather, boring into hers. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Alright.” There was more he wanted to say, she knew, his strong jaw flexing with restraint. But whatever it was, he didn’t say it. “Then let’s start with a week.” He looked as ripped apart by this suggestion as she felt. “How does that sound?”
A week wasn’t so bad. Maybe it would even be long enough for her to figure out how to fix all of this and return to normal. But the more she thought about it, the more a week felt like a year, and the more her plan to take down the imperator seemed impossible.
Loren’s head nodded of its own doing, the feeling robotic and jumpy, another effect of that gods-awful spell. “Okay.” The word was out before she could stop it, and it made her want to bite her tongue off.
He made to kiss her, but paused at the last second, instead lifting her left hand to his mouth so he could brush his lips across the back of it. Now that he was standing this close to her, she selfishly breathed in the smell of him—that masculine cologne, the cool bite of the aftershave on his skin, the hint of tobacco in his clothes. The feel of his skin on hers sent a burst of heat through her body.
The next words that left his mouth turned that heat into ice. “I’ll let your dad take you home.”
When he let go of her, it felt like half of her had been ripped away, leaving behind an empty, bloody shell. She teetered in place, watching as he walked through the wreckage of the townhouse without a backward glance. The rain swallowed up the sound of his footfall as he descended the front steps.
And then he was gone.
29
Darien couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Moisture pooled in his eyes, and he hated it for being there, hated himself for being so weak, as he sped through the city, pushing the car as fast as it could go. The peace officers he blew past didn’t even try coming after him, blue-and-red lights shutting off as soon as they’d flickered on. The officers were smart enough to know it would be impossible to catch him at this speed.
It was all fine and well for him. If he were to get arrested right now, it wasn’t just a speeding ticket and an impounded vehicle that would be slapped onto his record, but also a handful of homicides. Peace officer homicides, no less.
But did it even matter anymore? Did any of this matter? These pathetic new morals he’d scrounged up, practically out of thin air, in effort to better his life were all for Loren. But if he didn’t have her—
He forced himself to draw a breath, to get a grip before he completely lost the last of his sanity.
Knuckling the stinging moisture out of his eyes, he dipped his head low enough to read the nearest street sign, the numbers blurred by all the rain. Zinnia Street, it said.
He swerved the car down the quiet side road in the Flower District, speeding past parked cars and tiny shops, heading for Witchlight Alchemy and Archives a couple blocks away.
There was a demon standing in the middle of the road. A gray-skinned thing that had to be over seven feet tall. Stringy black hair dripped off a misshapen head. The face vaguely resembled a fawn’s, complete with horns that curved into wicked points.
Another one he’d never hunted before. Never seen in any book.
Darien stopped the car.
The thing assessed him with all-white eyes, as if it could see through the spells coating the windshield. Its feet were cloven, and a long tail lined with spikes lashed in the air behind it, charging with the lightning forking through the bruised sky. There was a mark on the creature’s forehead, like a jewel pushed into its skin. An amethyst.
“You see me, you ugly fuck?” Darien muttered, pulling a pistol out of the concealed holster near his hip. “I see you, too.” He was about to crack open his door when a horn blared.
There was a car behind him. The driver was shouting through the glass, waving angrily for Darien to get out of the way.
Darien stepped out into the rain just as the guy was laying on the horn again. The sound tapered off into thick silence when the driver took in the Devil storming toward his vehicle.
When Darien reached the door, he pounded on the guy’s window, wet glass shuddering under his fist. “Are you fucking blind?” he bellowed, raindrops flying off his lips. The man threw up his hands and cowered in his seat, whole body trembling. “Unroll your window,” Darien snapped.
