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“Confused.” His features hardened. “What do you mean you’re confused?”
“Not about you.”
“I’m fucking confused.”
“I’ll talk to you in a few days, okay?”
“Baby, please—”
“Dare,” Jack called, his voice breaking them apart far too soon. When Darien didn’t move, Jack whistled sharply. “Time to run.” He gestured to the detectives and cops rushing into the room. Students still lingered in groups, despite the firm instructions from the headmaster to return to their dorms.
Darien wiped her tears away and kissed her one more time, a light brushing of his lips against hers that made every bone in her body beg for more. “Just in case I don’t get to do it again,” he whispered, breath fanning her mouth.
And then he let her go and walked away, Jack and Max at his sides.
Bandit threw her a backward glance that told her he missed her just as much as Darien did, his cropped tail drooping in a way that made this whole night so much worse.
Loren had never felt so alone in all her life than she did in that moment, watching Darien walk away, watching him fully accept her lousy excuse not to see him. But what hurt worse was knowing how he felt. At least she knew the full side to every story that was going on right now, but he…he was being kept in the dark about hers.
He was being kept in the dark, and because of it she could feel him slipping away, and she feared she would lose him to that darkness before she found a way to bring the light back in.
48
After what happened at Angelthene Academy, Darien had planned on going to the Pit. It was where he was heading now, blood thrumming with rage, his heart a shattered chunk of ice in his chest that hurt with every breath he drew.
But as he was nearing the unnamed street where the abandoned warehouse awaited him, and his keen hearing picked up on the faint cheers of the crowd already gathered inside, he changed course at the last second and cranked the wheel.
Tires screeched as he pulled a sharp U-turn and sped down the deserted streets, the green glow of mercury vapor streetlights blasting the leather seats as the car passed under them. Demon eyes glowed from dark alleys, and the odd vampire soared above the towering buildings, barely visible in the shadows of the night.
Both hands on his watch were pointing at the twelfth hour. The city was awash with the colors of night, shades of black and blue and gray tucked between buildings, quarrelling with the glow of the LED streetlamps, whose pools of murky light bled across graffitied sidewalks.
This was the hour of witches and demons. It was the hour of the howling wolf and creatures that thirsted for blood.
Creatures like him. Blood was calling out to him, a beckoning he needed to answer.
He drove farther south, until he could see the foggy lights of the Umbra Forum gleaming off the winding Angelthene River. Water serpents swam through its depths, ridged backs breaking the surface as they feasted on scraps in the silty riverbed.
Darien slowed the car, his movements so mechanical, it felt like his brain was disconnected from his body. Maybe it was better that way—better if he didn’t allow himself to think about what he was doing. If he thought too hard, there was a chance he would convince himself to go back home.
But there was nothing there for him now, no reason to want to go back. Funny how things had changed so quickly.
When he parked by the curb near the river, he grabbed his duffel bag out of the trunk and made his way through the Umbra Forum, ignoring the probing and wary gazes of the people selling contraband and imported items at their stalls and storefronts, ignoring the teenaged warlocks tagging walls and dumpsters in the dark alleys, cans of spray paint clanging as liquified gas and pigment were shaken together by gloved hands. The barred doors he passed stunk of Blood Potions and the tarlike reek of Venom cooked in obsidian pots.
He refused to consider the consequences of what he was doing as he reached the graffiti-marked arena. The door was guarded by a werewolf bouncer, who let him through with hardly a glance. Far less of an asshole, this one. Darien wouldn’t have minded finally settling the score with the other bouncer who’d given him such grief when he’d brought Loren and Dallas here last year. Had anything worse than catcalling happened to the girls, Darien wouldn’t have killed the wolf, but he would’ve made him spend the rest of his life wishing he was dead.
The inside of the warehouse was lit with rows of swampy bulbs that bathed the tiers of benches in a bluish-green glow. People were staggering to their seats, drunk or high or both, spilling dark liquor from overflowing red cups and shooting up in the shadowed areas of the building. The place reeked of sweat, blood, cheap cologne, and even cheaper drugs.
Casen Martel wasn’t far from the entrance. He was talking among a group of warlocks, wolves, and vampires when he caught sight of Darien heading toward him. From the sound of the ring announcer near the caged octagon platform, who shouted into a megaphone, a new match would be starting in about ten minutes.
Perfect.
With the Butcher’s attention now on Darien, the conversation the group was having faded into silence, and all eyes fell on him.
Darien paid the others no mind as he jerked his chin at Casen in greeting. “You got room for one more?”
The Butcher’s curious smile grew into a wicked grin. “Shit, Cassel. I thought you’d never ask. Suit up—you’re about to get real bloody.”
—
