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Max gestured to Dallas. “Did she go to class today?”
Tanner’s grimace was enough of an answer.
Max sighed. “Her parents are going to kill her if she keeps missing class.” Not to mention training with the Fleet. Had Dallas’s parents been anyone other than Roark and Taega—anyone decent—they would’ve been empathetic toward their daughter, would have even slept here, in this waiting area, the way Dallas had done so often, showing their support not just for their biological daughter, but the one they’d adopted too.
He sighed again and studied Dallas’s sleeping form. Her copper eyelashes twitched, the thick hair she wore in an unruly knot atop her head fluttering in a draft of cool air blowing from a vent.
Her tangled, hadn’t-been-washed-in-days hair. Even asleep, she looked exhausted. Ever since Loren had wound up in the hospital, Dallas only slept when she passed out, her body giving her no other choice. It was the reason Max was here right now: if Dallas was going to refuse to take care of herself, then he would take care of her.
Max closed the short distance to her chair. He looked down at her, waiting for her to wake up, but she didn’t stir. He brushed a strand of hair off her face, the task made difficult by the patch of drool drying near the corner of her mouth.
Dallas jerked awake. “What—” Her bag of candy fell, spilling its contents across the floor. Witch Whoppers clattered and rolled, the noise causing one of the receptionists to peek over the desk.
Max turned in the direction the candies were rolling—
And saw Darien heading this way. He didn’t slow down, nor make eye contact, not even when a couple of the candies bumped into his boots.
Darien had stopped at Hell’s Gate to shower and change into a clean hooded sweatshirt and jeans. There wasn’t one drop of blood on him, not even on his boots—a different pair than the ones he wore to collect or fight. It was one of the few requests the hospital staff had been daring enough to voice: that they come to the Healers ward dressed in clothes that were as clean as possible. Blood was a big, fat ‘no’, but expecting Darkslayers not to have any blood on them was…kind of laughable, really.
Max understood why, though. This part of the hospital was full of Tricking patients with heavily compromised immune systems, some on ventilators, others fed by IV lines. New strains of the Tricking were appearing almost weekly, so it was because of this and the rising number of cases that the Healers had been forced to make adjustments.
It was either that or the staff was trying their best to make the visiting Darkslayers appear less frightening for the other patients.
As if clean clothes had anything to do with that.
Darien disappeared into Loren’s room without a backward glance.
“How’s he doing?” Tanner asked, taking care to keep his voice down.
Max sighed. “How do you think?” he mouthed.
He had never seen Darien so…empty. And he’d known him for a long time—practically his whole life. Darien was now a shell of himself, but he wasn’t brittle like one. If anything, Loren being in a coma had forged him into something else, something more dangerous than the old Darien, if that were even possible. He was a newly honed weapon still glowing red, his edges sharper than ever before.
Max had to admit, it scared him, and he wasn’t the only one who felt this way. When Ivy had come to him two nights ago needing to vent, she had surprised him by speaking his thoughts aloud. She felt as hopeless as Max—as hopeless as all the Devils. Hopeless and utterly desperate to help Darien but not knowing how. All they could do was be there for him as best as they could. Even when there was nothing to say, nothing to do but listen if Darien was willing to speak, or sit with him in silence if he wasn’t.
Dallas scrubbed her hands over her face and sat up. “How long was I out?” With a big yawn, she stretched her arms and fanned out her wings.
Max looked at Tanner for the answer.
The hacker shrugged. “Two hours, maybe?” He flashed them his phone screen, where pixelated frogs snatched flies into their mouths with pink tongues. “I’ve been busy.”
Dallas glanced in longing at the Witch Whoppers scattered across the floor, a couple of them having already been crushed by the shoes of Healers bustling by. “I didn’t even get to eat any of those,” she mumbled, her eyes still watering from her yawn.
Her attention abruptly shifted to something—or someone—behind Max. She stiffened, the silver in her eyes flashing once before dimming.
Max turned, reaching for the gun that was tucked into his back waistband.
He froze at the sight of the man coming down the hallway.
The amber eyes. The tall, proud form. The harsh face. The swept-back hair, the smooth strands the same shade of polished copper as Dallas’s.
Was he dreaming? Because Roark Bright was heading for Loren’s room.
Hell if he was going to let this happen tonight.
Max crossed the room, hand drifting toward his gun again.
Was he really going to shoot the Red Baron? Gods, it would probably feel good as hell.
