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She butted out the cigarette and pushed off the car, tucking her phone into the pocket of her jeans. “You can have the front, I’m fine in the back. Anyone heard from Logan and Sabrine?”
“They said they’d meet us there,” Travis replied, heading for the driver’s door. He checked his watch. “It’s almost three.”
“What time does that place close?” Jewels asked as she slid the seat forward so Lace could get in.
“Three.” Travis got in his side and started the car. “Buckle up—we’re going to have to hurry.”
38
Roman’s House
YVESWICH, STATE OF KER
Kylar went into the house first, Jack second, Darien third. Darien listened to the voices—Ivy and Tanner, no Joyce, and two others he didn’t recognize—coming from the living room and kitchen as they walked down the hallway that led out of the garage.
He catalogued the scene before him the minute it came into view—the two Shadowmasters who stood in the living room, isolated from Ivy and Tanner, who stood closer to the kitchen. Closer to the front door. Paxton and Eugene sat on the couch—bodies tense, eyes bolted wide.
The female Shadowmaster made Darien nearly stop dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. From this angle, she could almost pass for Loren. She wasn’t quite as slight and delicate-looking, but she had the same proportions, the same narrow waist and toned legs, the same golden-blonde shade of hair that fell to the small of her back in soft waves. A hellseher, but a near goddamn twin.
For one split second, he thought it was her. The cruel lie the universe was feeding to him kicked the air right out of his lungs and made him drag his boots for several steps.
Darien forced himself to draw a breath. To get a grip.
She turned to look at their trio as they walked in, the face that was definitely not Loren’s dousing the idiotic flame that had kindled in his chest.
Not her. He had known better than to think it was, but for one second it had damn well looked like it. Could’ve fooled him.
The man standing beside her was brawny and tattooed, his features and the shade of his hair giving away their relation. Brother and sister, Darien would guess. Both in their mid-twenties.
The female Shadowmaster was still staring at him. Even her eyes were a vivid blue—ocean-blue, a shade he hadn’t seen on many people. A shade he’d only started noticing after meeting Loren.
“You’re back,” Ivy said with a smile. Her voice was strained, but she hid her stress well. “Blaine, Larina, this is Darien, my brother. And Jack, my husband. Darien, Jack—meet Blaine and Larina Barlowe.”
They kept it formal and brief, Jack first and then Darien stepping forward to shake hands. Darien knew the guy—Blaine—was squeezing harder than he needed to, but it was his encounter with the girl that put him more on edge. She wouldn’t stop staring at him, and she held onto his hand for longer than he’d like. He was the one who had to pull away first.
“We’ve heard a lot about you guys,” Blaine said. “Would’ve been nice if Pax and Eugene had introduced us sooner.” Darien didn’t miss the cold glare he shot at the kids, nor did he miss the way Pax shrank a size.
“Funny,” Darien said, shifting to catch Blaine’s eye when he dared to stare at Pax for too long. “We’ve never heard of you.”
Kylar cleared his throat and made for the kitchen. “You guys want a drink?”
“I’d love one,” Blaine said, still staring at Darien with a threat in his eyes.
Kylar started grabbing glasses from the cupboard. “What can I get you?”
Darien tore his eyes off Blaine and left the room.
He needed to get the hell away from here before he became violent. No one called after him; they knew better than that. After what just happened with the cops, he was closer to being assaulted by a Surge now than before he’d left Angelthene.
He kept an eye on the auras on the floor above as he made his way down to the shooting range, through the heavy metal doors that trapped sound inside. There wasn’t a trace of Loren in the house, no trace of Joyce. He counted on the Shadowmasters not figuring out that anyone else was here, if they even were—Ivy and Tanner might’ve hidden them elsewhere, if they’d had time—and headed to the rack of guns to let off some steam.
Roman’s selection of firearms was solid gold. There were so many to choose from, Darien had trouble deciding. But he picked one that stood out to him more than the rest, grabbed a pair of electronic earmuffs off a hook on the wall, and stalked up to the barrier, not bothering with eyewear. He didn’t wear any in the streets, so why’d he wear any here?
The gallery stretched on for an impressive distance—the whole of Roman’s property, which was a fucking lot. The paper targets set up at the farthest end were the ones that caught his eye.
He put on the earmuffs and fitted the gun to his shoulder. Took off the safety and aimed. Squeezed the trigger.
Bullets cracked through the room, the pop of each muffled. The familiar feel of the gun kicking back against his shoulder eased some of the tension in his muscles, and at the sight of the targets he’d hit, each a bull’s eye, he almost smiled.
