“How’s Randal these days?” Cain asked as he slid a chair out at the lopsided kitchen table and lowered himself into it. “Go ahead and have a seat.” He propped his cane up against a table leg.
“We’ll stand, thanks,” Darien replied.
“Suit yourselves,” Cain mumbled. Returning to his former topic of conversation, he said of Randal, “I never see him at the Advocate anymore.”
“He’s the same as he’s always been,” Darien said, his eyes sweeping the house—the cluttered countertops, the scummy dishes piled up in the sink, the staticky television that was balanced precariously upon a cardboard box in the living room. “He’d rather milk the benefits from the sidelines of his cash cows than get his hands dirty—whether that be nightclubs or collecting, it makes no difference to him as long as his pockets are full.”
Tension rippled through the room, and for a long time, no one said anything. Cain appraised Darien closely, as if trying to decide whether he was making a joke.
And then Cain, drawing the wrong conclusion, gave a long, wheezing laugh. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you can get away with saying shit like that.” He could barely get the sentence out between bouts of laughter. “You always were his favorite.”
Darien didn’t smile. “I doubt that.”
The smirk on Cain’s face faded just a little, but he didn’t know Darien well enough to really figure out the hostility simmering beneath every word he uttered about Randal. “You said you have questions,” Cain said. “Any friend of Randal’s is a friend of mine. Go on and ask them, boy, and I’ll do my best to answer.”
“Word on the street says you’re looking for a girl,” Darien began. The frown on Cain’s face deepened. Clearly, he hadn’t expected this when he’d invited them into his house. “A girl worth four million gold mynet.”
Cain shifted in his seat. “I seem to be missing what the question is, son—”
“Don’t call meson,”Darien cut in. Cain lifted his chin, a muscle in his bony jaw twitching. His silvery eyes flicked toward the door—his escape route, if there came a need for one. “Last time I checked, you and your men were very aware that there are only six Darkslaying circles in this city. Since you claim to be a friend of Randal’s, I think it’s also safe to assume that you areveryaware of the fact that no one may take a Darkslaying job in this city unless they are a member of an Angelthene circle. So, my question,boy,is why you think it’s okay to not only steal this job from under my nose but also get paid more than me.”
Cain, wisely, took a moment to consider his answer. “I had no idea that you were on this job—”
“Doesn’t make what you’re doing right. I was offered three mil for that target—money Randal Slade gets a cut of. Do you really think he’ll be so forgiving when he finds out you’re practically trying to rob him?”
Cain folded his hands in his lap. “Did he send you here to threaten me?”
“I’m not threatening you.”
“It feels like you are.”
“Trust me,” Darien said with a sly smile. “If I was making a threat, you wouldn’t have to ask me for clarification.”
Cain merely watched him, his expression betraying nothing.
The room had grown tense. Darien decided the situation needed a minute to deescalate; he needed Cain to talk, and now that he’d planted the seed of fear in Cain’s mind, he would allow him a moment to process it, a moment for that seed to bud, and for Cain to decide to give Darien the information he was looking for.
Regardless that Darien was bluffing, what he’d told Cain was the truth: no one was allowed to act as a Darkslayer on Angelthene soil unless they were a Darkslayer themselves, belonging to one of the six circles and answering to—and paying—Randal Slade. The fact that Tyson Geller had been willing to partner up with a graverobber to find Loren was enough of a betrayal that he could be stripped of his title as a Reaper. Or, worse, killed.
He was next on Darien’s list.
Darien’s gaze slid to the massive mosaic glittering on the wall behind Cain—the only thing in this nasty place that was worthy of a second glance. Made of shards of glass that were every shade of red and blue, the piece of art told the story of a hunted phoenix that rose from the ashes of its destruction, becoming more magnificent than it was before.
He’d certainly seen a lot of this extinct bird recently.
“Where did you find this piece?” Darien asked, jerking his chin at the mosaic.
“Won it at an auction.” Cain turned in his chair to take in the image. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmured, almost to himself. “It’s a shame the phoenix no longer exists. If it did, I would bottle its powers and use them to fix…well,this.”He gestured to the left side of his face. “And to make love to my old lady again.”Old lady.What a disrespectful term. Darien wondered if Cain’s wife minded being called such a thing.
The implication behind Cain’s statement did not escape Darien; clearly, this man had suffered injuries that ran deeper than surface level when he’d got caught in that fire.
Cain went on, his voice a grumble, “Instead, all we’ve got is those pesky Firebirds. They do nothing but pose a fire hazard and wake me up every day at the ass-crack of dawn with their bloody squawking.” He turned back around to face Darien, his scarred lip curling into a cruel half-smile. “I shoot them down in the yard when I see them. Feed ’em to the demon.”
Darien shifted his hands into his jacket pockets. “I find it slightly odd that you’re so critical of an animal descended from the one you worship.”
Cain’s expression sank into a frown. “I worship no one and nothing but yours truly. If the phoenix was alive today, I would snap its neck and drink the blood straight from its veins if it meant I would be healed of my scars. I would kill every last one of them and take them for everything they’ve got.” He paused, and he looked right out of his mind as he leaned forward in his chair and repeated, the veins in his neck bulging, “I worshipnothing,Cassel.”
“Yeah,” Darien said, his voice clipped, “you said that already.”
