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All this for the prospect of living forever; for reaching levels of magic never before reached. The dream of one fucking lunatic by the name of Erasmus Sophronia had led to the deaths of hundreds of people, maybe even thousands, Darien didn’t know. Erasmus’s history was a dark one that bled back thousands of years, and they hadn’t even reached the tip of it. Nor did Darien wish to.
They were nearing the precinct now. He would have to spend the rest of this gods-awful night behind bars, while the girl he loved lay unconscious in that cold hospital. Alone.
“You know what the most fucked up thing about this is, Finn?”
Finn wouldn’t meet his eyes in the rear-view mirror.
Darien leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, the chains on his handcuffs jingling.
“The most fucked up thing,” Darien said, “is that I would’ve done it for you anyway. If you had just told me what happened to your boy, I would’ve done it. I would’ve jumped at the chance to help you, Finn. You did it for your family, but you didn’t think twice about mine.” He sat back again. Flexed his thighs as he readjusted on the hard seat. Stared at Finn in the mirror. Finn, who still wouldn’t meet his eyes. Goddamn coward. “Putting my family in danger is a guaranteed way to turn me into your enemy. Congratulations.”
Darien didn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. He stared out the window as that crackling rage inside him died out, leaving nothing behind but an empty pit that threatened to consume him.
76
In the precinct, Darien sat on the bench that was mounted to the far wall of the holding cell. His head was bowed, and his hands were clasped between his knees. He could feel the other prisoners who were all crammed behind the same bars watching him with prying eyes, all of them giving him a wide berth, but he paid them no mind.
It had taken nearly ten officers to get him in here. In the end, they had only succeeded because he had let them. He was tired of fighting useless battles.
He would fight the one that mattered when the time arrived.
A low whistle had Darien’s head slowly turning to the left. Several men were watching him, clustered together in a tight group like flies feeding off the same piece of shit. It was the werewolf with the tattoos on his face who’d whistled—the piece of shit the others fed off of.
“You’re one of them Devils,” the guy said, the silver fillings in his teeth glinting in the fluorescent lights droning above their heads.
Darien held back a smirk. “Yeah, I’m one of them Devils.”
The wolf failed to pick up on his mocking tone, the fucking idiot, making him as stupid as he looked. “You guys kill for fun?”
“We kill for money,” Darien replied. Although it was quiet, his deep voice carried far. The attention of every person in the holding cell was fixed on him. “The fun is just a bonus.” An empty smile that was more like a baring of teeth spread across Darien’s face.
“We kill for power,” the wolf said. “Status. I’m thinking if we killed you, it’d get us a whole lot of both.” He nudged the warlocks and wolves on either side of him, who nodded in agreement, muttering unintelligibly. The lead wolf thought it through in the half a brain he possessed, those silver fillings showing again as he slid his tongue across the front of his teeth.
Darien didn’t look away or blink—a predator in the wild, facing down another who believed they were tough until someone tougher came along. When it came down to it, they were all just animals.
“Nah.” The wolf waved an inked hand in dismissal. “You’re not worth my time.”
Slowly, Darien turned his head so he was facing forward again. He stared out through the bars at the peace officers; two were standing near the far wall, while the third pretended to look busy on the lone computer in the room. It was the third one that met his stare—by accident, Darien knew—before busying himself with the mouse and keyboard, fingers striking the keys.
Darien closed his eyes and bowed his head. He felt the inky shade of hellseher magic rush into the whites, swallowing them whole, followed by the irises. The Sight caused all of the senses in his body to triple in strength, making him hyperaware of the boisterous male voices and the clacking of the keyboard at the desk; the reek of perspiring bodies and cheap cologne and deep-fried pastries.
The voices were the first to go.
Darien kept his eyes closed as his magic snapped every neck in the holding cell. Bodies crumpled to the cement floor, fleshy thuds carrying through the room.
The peace officers were next, but the spells were in the way.
One of those officers—the one at the desk—had even less of a brain than the werewolf with the face tattoos. He rushed forward with a shout, gun raised, and slid open the door to the cell, metal bars rattling.
The spells fell away, leaving the path clear. The other two officers screamed at him to shut the door. Darien sensed their movements as they lunged across the room, ripping guns from holsters—
Every officer was dead in half a second.
And Darien still hadn’t opened his eyes.
After their hearts had stopped, he continued to sit there, eyes still shut. He didn’t think. He didn’t feel. He was vaguely aware of the alarm sounding in the building, red lights flashing on the walls, but what should’ve been a warning to flee felt more like a lullaby. It kept his mind quiet, its wailing preventing unwelcome thoughts from invading the peace he’d acquired from releasing pent-up magic and rage. Now that his soul was no longer swollen with them, he could breathe a little easier, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. The weight would return, as it always did. Only now, it was heavier than before. So heavy.
Sometime later, he opened his eyes and rose to his feet. He walked out of the cell and through the room, stepping over bodies, grabbing his belongings—keys, jewelry, weapons, phone—on the way out.
