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“And where is ‘back’?” Darien asked. Magpies squawked out a death prediction on the roof of the consignment store to his left.
“I don’t know.” His cheeks puffed with labored breaths. Both of his hands were broken, fingers bent and scabbed. Darien had taken his sweet time snapping all ten. “He never told me.”
Darien drew a switchblade, his other hand still fisting the man’s collar—holding him in place in case he tried anything stupid. “You sure about that?”
He flicked open the blade.
The coward’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating as they fixed on the knife, the edge of that blade glinting in a streak of sunlight. “Yes!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking. “I swear it, I swear to you—he didn’t tell me shit! I swear on my life, I’ve told you everything I know! Please!”
Darien let go of the man’s collar with a shove. “Thank you,” he whispered.
A tremor wracked the man’s body. “Will you set me free now?”
“A promise is a promise, isn’t it?” It certainly was.
He slashed the hellseher’s throat.
Freedom—but in death instead of life.
The man’s back arched in agony, the back of his head grinding into cement, feet thumping. The sounds of his suffering sliced through the alley, the gurgling and gasping enough to make anyone physically ill. Anyone other than Darien—and the men watching from several feet away. Anyone who wasn’t sick in the fucking head.
With a stare as dead as he felt, Darien watched his target fight for oxygen. Watched him die, just like he had the others. With mangled fingers, his victim clawed at his gushing throat in a feeble attempt to pinch it shut. A sea of red spread across the ground and seeped into Darien’s knees, the black denim of his pants lapping it up like a thirsty beast.
It didn’t take long before the man’s body went limp. His hands collapsed to the ground, his bloodstained fingers curling with one final spasm. His aura dimmed like a lightbulb, until not one speck of color was left.
The smell of blood choked the air. The magpies quieted down.
And the monster inside him laid down to rest, its hunger sated once more.
Darien shut his eyes and tipped back his head, breathing in deeply through his nose as a rush of sick satisfaction crackled through his veins. He sensed the others watching, their concern hanging in the air, heavy as the heat, but he didn’t turn.
Slaying gave him a high stronger than any drug. Spilling blood had always been his most addicting thrill, but in the ten days that had passed since Loren was admitted to the hospital, he had become more dependent on it than ever.
Without it, he didn’t feel alive. With it, he felt vile. His self-loathing had reached a boiling point, and he avoided mirrors more than ever now.
At least the hatred he felt for himself was better than feeling nothing.
2
The Hospital
ANGELTHENE, STATE OF WITHEREDGE
Maximus Reacher had spent so much time in Angelthene General Hospital these past few days that he was beginning to forget what Hell’s Gate looked like.
The hospital staff had moved Loren to a different room under Darien’s command. She was on the fourth floor of the Healer’s ward, her door facing a quiet waiting area where Max and the other Devils took turns keeping watch. But tonight, Max wasn’t here to keep watch.
His boots pounded as he neared the ward. The hallways were quiet, save for a handful of exhausted nurses and Healers, who nodded in greeting. It had been an adjustment, but the staff had grown used to seeing Max and the others—not just the Seven Devils, but also the few Angels of Death and Reapers who popped in. They no longer gawked or stuttered over their words, though they still chose to keep their distance, their attempts at making conversation short-lived and half-hearted.
The edge of the curved desk that occupied a large portion of the waiting area came into view. Five steps later, Max rounded the corner.
Eight plastic chairs were set up along the perimeter of the room. Two were occupied.
Tanner Atlas was slouched by the windows, his ringed thumbs flicking across his phone screen. The music tinkling through the speakers told Max he was playing that same old frog game again.
In the chair closest to the vending machine sat Dallas Bright. The witch was fast asleep, an open bag of candy-covered chocolates in her loose grip, her Fleet wings draped across the empty chairs on either side of her. The steady rise and fall of her stomach threatened to scatter the candies across the floor.
Tanner looked up, blinking the glaze out of bloodshot eyes. “Hey.”
