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“I’m going with Reacher out to Foxhill to look for his sister,” Malakai declared.
Only Valen heard him. Sylvan’s glazed eyes remained glued to the flatscreen.
Malakai grabbed the remote off the arm of the couch and shut it off.
Sylvan blinked and slowly looked his way. “You’re going out to Foxhill with Reacher?” Leather groaned as he turned his body to face him.
“So you did hear me,” Malakai said.
“Which of us is going with you?” Valen asked.
Sylvan asked him, “Want to flip a coin?”
“Neither of you,” Malakai cut in. “I’m taking Asp.”
They both gave him stupid grins.
“So that’s what’s happening here!” Valen said.
“What? No! Nothing’s happening, shut up.” He glanced toward the stairs. “I want you guys to keep an eye on Jewels. Make sure she doesn’t let Travis stay the night here, and make sure she doesn’t stay at Hell’s Gate. Got it?”
Sylvan said, “There’s such a thing as daytime sex, you know.”
“You want us to spy on her?” Valen asked.
“Not spy,” Malakai hissed. “Just watch her, make sure she stays safe.”
Sylvan got up and turned the TV back on, using the button on the corner instead of the remote Malakai still held in his hand. “And has safe sex, got it.”
“I think he said no sex,” Valen said with a smirk. He winked at Malakai.
Malakai rolled his eyes and threw the remote at Valen, hitting him in the knee hard enough to make a thud. He walked away. “I’m counting on you,” he called over his shoulder.
33
Roman’s House
YVESWICH, STATE OF KER
Darien had just started to drift off in his room at Roman’s house when the television on the ground floor came on, the volume so loud it literally shook the bed he was lying on.
“What the hell?” he muttered. He lifted his head off the pillow and glanced around the room—dark apart from the orange glow of the salt lamp on the end table. That lamp was the reason he’d claimed this room; he knew Loren would love that little glowing rock. As soon as she saw it, she’d probably want to take it home like she did the dented cans in the grocery store.
It was by habit that he got up slowly, trying not to jostle her. With sleep weighing heavily on him, demanding he soon pass out if he wanted to live another day, he could almost fool himself into thinking she was merely asleep.
The television got louder, vibrating the windows.
Darien remembered Kylar’s warning from that afternoon as he swung open the bedroom door, not bothering to put on a shirt or pants overtop of his gray boxers. It was unlikely that anyone was up at this hour—though they would be soon if that noise kept up.
If he had anything to say about it, it would stop right the fuck now.
He stomped out the door and down the hallway, to the split staircase that would take him to the ground floor. He thundered halfway down the steps, just far enough to see the tiny Hob—smaller than Mortifer—sitting on the leather couch, television remote in hand. Her glowing eyes were hot-pink, and the black-and-blush flames on her head were swirled like cupcake frosting. Beside her sat a bowl overflowing with ice chips.
What the hell was her name again?…
“Itzel!” Darien barked.
The Hob glanced his way.
