The light turned green, and Darien accelerated into the heart of Jubilee Square, where Loren and Dallas shared a meal with four deadly killers at the Date Palm Café, one of the few restaurants that stayed open this late into the night. HID lamps lit up all of Jubilee Square, keeping the demons at bay.
It was an out-of-body experience to sit with the Devils in that café; to watch the employees and the few customers who dared to be out at this hour give them a wide berth. A few people even got up and left, taking their half-eaten food with them, upon seeing them enter.
It gave Loren a sense of power she’d never known before, a feeling that she could never receive on her own. As she sat with the slayers, Loren found herself pretending she was not only immortal like them, but strong and feared. It was nice, even if she was only pretending.
For one wild moment, she knew how it felt to be important.
—
Darien stepped out of the café and into the damp night. He’d told the others, who were still finishing their food, that he was going for a smoke. He supposed it wasn’t a total lie, for he was currently retrieving a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his leather jacket as he leaned against the exterior brick wall of the building.
He placed a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and slid the lighter and half-empty pack into his pocket, never once taking his eyes off therealreason he’d stepped outside: the phone in his left hand, an unknown number flashing across the screen with an incoming call.
The call had almost gone to voicemail when he swiped right to answer and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Riddle me this,” drawled a familiar, gravelly voice. Darien’s stomach dropped like a stone in water, his fingers tightening around the phone. “A slayer and a gangster meet in the gangster’s hood. The gangster arrives with one side of his fucking ugly face unmarked but leaves with the good side worse than the bad. What pissed off the slayer badly enough for him to decide the gangster needed a makeover?”
When Darien spoke, his tone was scathing, despite the feeling of his soul leaving his body. “Was it really such a big deal that Cain had to come crying to you about it?” He took a drag on the cigarette, willing the smoke filling his lungs to ground him.
“It’s a big deal when my Devils are making decisions that I didn’t instruct them to make,” Randal said coldly. Randal Slade, godfather of Angelthene’s underworld. Crime boss extraordinaire and leader of not only the Seven Devils, butallDarkslaying circles in the city. “Are you going to answer my question, or do I need to rely on a scumbag like Cain to get some truth around here?”
Darien thought fast. “He was getting in the way of a target I’m hunting. Someone had to put him in his place or he’s going to start thinking he runs these streets the same way he runs his army of thugs and petty thieves.”
“Sounds to me like he’s not the only one who thinks he runs these streets.” The prick paused long enough for the meaning behind his words to sink in. “If you step out of line again, it won’t be Cain getting a makeover—it’ll be you. And you can count your baby sister in on that promise, too.” The threat erased every trace of fear from Darien’s body, and his blood boiled in his veins.
He would kill Randal if he touched Ivy. He wouldkillhim,and he would take his precious time doing it.
“Do you understand me?” Randal’s voice sounded far, far away.
“I hear you,” Darien gritted out. “Loud and fucking clear.”
“Good,” he drawled. “I’ll be in touch.”
Randal hung up, and Darien stood there for a long time in the mist and the rain, breathing hard and fast. He tried to stop the Surge from coming, but his efforts were futile. His eyes turned black with the Sight, and the need to hit—tokill—swept through his veins.
He took one last drag on the cigarette before flicking it to the wet sidewalk.
He had to make it back to the house. Had to get the others back home—and then he could find a way to deal with the rage that was swiftly turning his blood to acid.
Fighting helped. Killing always helped more. But he knew there was no chance in hell of the Surges ending for good, unless he were to kill Randal Slade himself.
One day. One day, he would.
He kept telling himself this as he managed to blink the Sight from his eyes and strode back into the café. Managed to somehow convince the others that nothing was wrong as he suggested they head home.
The minutes felt like years as he sped back to Hell’s Gate, promising himself that the day would come when he would be more than…thanthis—more than Randal’s personal attack dog.
He wanted to believe his own lie so badly.
Healmostbelieved it.
—
Darien was silent the whole drive home. And for that whole time, Loren watched him in the rear-view mirror. His eyes never once met hers in the reflection; in fact, it was likely that he was hardly seeing the dark road in front of him.
And when he parked the car at Hell’s Gate, he was the first to get out, the first to reach the front steps, the first through the set of arched doors.
As soon as Jack had exited the car, freeing up a path for her, Loren hurried to catch up to Darien, tangling her arm in her seatbelt and pinching Dallas’s thigh in the process. She ignored the witch’s cries of frustration as she launched herself out of the car and hurried across the gravel driveway.
