Doctor Atlas completed the tattoo, and the machine vibrated as it shut down.
Darien and Loren pulled away from each other at the same time. The heat from Loren’s touch still lingered on Darien’s skin long after they broke the contact, like the kiss of sunlight on a cold day.
He wasn’t sure what to make of that.
—
Loren wanted to laugh as she walked through the spotless white halls of the hospital. She was in the very middle of the group of Devils, Darien at the head, and not only was Loren the lone female among them, but she was the only one wearing any color, the only one who looked like she was more likely to blow a kiss at someone than kill them.
She blamed her near-uncontrollable amusement on the relief she was feeling at having her tattoo procedure over and done with. But her amusement abruptly faded as she glanced into several rooms they passed in the hospital, noticing that nearly every one of those rooms had an occupant—some more than one.
Where he was walking at her left, Tanner took note of where her attention had gone. “They’re Tricking patients, most of them,” he explained quietly, his words nearly drowned out by the pounding of boots on the floors. She tipped her head up to look at him, and she saw that he was frowning. “Mom said she’s never seen it so bad.”
The Tricking was the reason why immortals did not live for as long as they should. It was the leading cause of death in the world of Terra; nearly everyone contracted it at some point in their life. Because of it, no one had lived longer than six centuries.
One room they passed had a woman crouching on the floor at the feet of a patient, who was sitting on the edge of the crisp white bed. The woman was dressed in a white lab coat, and she was holding the patient’s hands in her own. They both had their eyes closed, and what looked like a silver chain was wound around their hands in a pattern that seemed intentional.
Loren slowed as she passed the room, resisting the urge to completely stop walking—to gawk and demand to know what they were doing.
Instead, she asked Tanner. “What was that woman doing?” She picked up her pace again.
“She’s an Aura Healer,” Tanner replied. He nodded hello at a nurse bustling down the hall, who looked startled by the gesture—startled byallof them. “They’re medical professionals with white or rainbow auras who’ve received the proper training to heal the sick or traumatized by pouring a part of their own aura into them.”
Interesting,Loren thought. She wished such a thing could healherfrom her own mysterious illness. It certainly would be nice to not have so many fainting spells. But she figured aura healing must have its limits, as did everything.
“What was that chain thing?”
“A conduit,” he said. Like magic staves but different, Loren realized. “Even aura healing has its risks and requires an object to act as safe passage for magic between the giver and the recipient. It helps the giver to not come down with the Tricking or any other side effects that come with using magic.”
She gave a thoughtful hum. “Are the healers hellsehers?”
“Hellsehers, warlocks, and witches.” They were nearing the front desk now. The low ringing of phones and the beep of machinery drifted down the hall. “They’ve also been known to help some people who suffer from Surges—”
Darien suddenly broke off from the rest of the group without a word and sped-walked through the automatic glass doors that barely slid open for him on time. Patients checking in at the desk and the receptionists that were helping them turned to stare.
And Loren stared, too, as he disappeared around a corner of the building outside.
“Speaking of Surges,” Max sighed. He shared a look with Jack.
Not bothering to ask any of them what exactly a Surge was, she took off after Darien before the others could stop her, sneakers slapping on the polished floors. The automatic doors reflected the image of her running toward them as they slid open, squealing on the tracks.
The sun was setting, and a warm breeze rippled through the parking lot, scattering palm tree fronds and tumbleweeds across the ground. The air smelled of creosote and sun-warmed pavement cooling after a hot day. A few people were heading to their cars, and headlights swept across the lot.
Loren found Darien at the side of the building. His open palms were braced on the wall, and his fingers were trembling—albeit very faintly, but Loren saw. His head was bowed, and his eyes were closed, his breathing ragged and laboured.
“Hey,” Loren whispered. “Are you okay?”
His shoulders tensed up, as if he was startled by her presence, despite that he possessed immortal senses that should’ve made it near impossible for someone like her to sneak up on him.
“Stay away from me, Loren. Please.” He pushed away from the wall, fingers curling into fists at his sides, and began pacing the same three feet of sidewalk, again and again, never once opening his eyes.
“What can I do to help?” Loren was vaguely aware of the other Devils watching from some distance away. Giving him space, she realized. Which was exactly what she was…not doing. She regretted her question the moment she voiced it, especially when Darien’s eyes opened, and she saw how utterly black they were.
Blacker than his hair. Blacker than the night that was quickly sweeping into the parking lot. HID lamps buzzed as they flicked awake, spreading pools of eerie light across the pavement.
Loren couldn’t stop staring at Darien. A look of…ofshameflickered across his face. As if this—this…thingthat was causing him distress—was somehow his fault.
That look of shame reminded her of herself. She wasn’t sure what he was feeling exactly, but in her best moments her anxiety attacks made her feel weak and unworthy, and in her worst, they made her feel crazy.
