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Unleashing all that pent-up rage made Darien feel like a whole new person.
There was no place to shower here, not like at the Chopping Block or Perez’s Pit, so he had to leave wearing the same clothes he’d fought in. He’d at least had enough sense to take off his jacket and hooded sweatshirt beforehand, giving them to the ring announcer for safe keeping, so it was only his pants and boots that were wet and heavy with blood.
He spotted Finn having a drink at a dilapidated bar near the Snake Pit. The warlock eyed the whiskey he swirled in his glass, clearly contemplating his decision to order a drink in a seedy place such as this.
Darien headed his way, people stepping out of his path as he moved.
The detective must’ve sensed Darien’s approach. He turned, his eyes immediately finding his.
“Did you know there was a wall of spells there?” Finn’s every word was taut, and he still looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Did you?” Darien countered. “You still flinched,” he accused.
“You still threw.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I asked myself where you’d be, and I have to say you’re a bit predictable.”
Darien said, “Another city, different fighting ring. What do you want to talk about?”
Finn’s eyes flicked about the market. “I’d prefer to do it elsewhere.”
Darien grunted. “I’d prefer to know what it’s about before agreeing.”
Finn glanced around again, well aware of the many eyes picking apart their exchange, and whispered, “The men from The Blood Queen.”
They made the decision to talk at a rundown diner not far from the Black Market. The Hash House was one of the few places that dared to stay open twenty-four hours, and because of how late it was, they were some of the only people in here. There was a drunk at the counter, staring up at the boxy television with glazed eyes, and a homeless person passed out in the corner farthest from the door.
Darien and Finn sat across from each other in a booth by the windows. Hoods up, heads down. The long, sit-down counter was lined with cushioned stools the same blue-green as the booths. The menu boards above the counter boasted a wide selection of breakfast items, milkshakes, and bottomless coffee—the same coffee Darien and Finn had ordered. Weaker than water. No amount of cream or sugar could fix it.
“Two of the men who died at The Blood Queen were Gaven Payne’s,” Finn was saying. He sipped on his black, bitter water and fought a grimace. “It took us longer to complete the autopsies because there wasn’t much left of the bodies by the time we dug them up.”
“And you,” Darien began, shoving his cup aside and folding his arms on the table, “are here to ask me if I’m the one who did it.”
Finn set down his mug. “You or one of your own.”
Darien glared. “If I wanted to kill Gaven’s men, I’d do it in private, where I could take my time pulling them apart.”
“You were at the hotel when it exploded,” he challenged.
“And I nearly got killed, in case you didn’t notice.”
“You could have timed it badly. It’s easy to make mistakes when it comes to raw magic—”
“Do I look like someone who makes mistakes?”
Finn slid his mug aside, smearing the coffee ring, and laced his fingers on the table. “I’ve got a lot of people breathing down my neck right now to find whoever’s responsible.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I refuse to be someone you frame.”
“I wasn’t planning on framing you. I just want to know the truth. And if it wasn’t you, then maybe you could lend me a hand finding out why it happened and who did it.”
Darien’s brows shot up. “Another favor?” The words were razor-edged.
