As Darien had suspected, far above the walls of the Pit, he spotted a familiar figure. In the sea of sweaty, thrashing bodies, the messenger was the only person standing still. They wore the same white rabbit mask as always, their black clothes nondescript. It was a call all Darkslayers answered: when the mask appeared, it meant a job offer was coming his way.
It was time to end this.
Darien lunged at the same time the demon made a move. It dove for his jugular with a roar, jaws snapping together.
Veering to the left of those gleaming teeth, Darien struck hard, his fingers bursting through the creature’s esophagus. The thing gagged and writhed in agony, its beastlike feet fumbling for purchase in the sand behind it.
Darien dug his hand in deeper, twisted—
And ripped out its throat.
The body collapsed to the blood-soaked sand in a heap of quivering flesh.
If he’d thought the crowd was cheering loudly before, it was nothing compared to the noise now thundering through the arena, the racket threatening to shatter the foggy skylight far above.
“Call it,”Darien barked at the half-human ring announcer, whose face had blanched.
“Victory is yours,” the man choked out.
Wiping his bloody hands on his torn and stained jeans, Darien swept the audience again.
Only to find that the rabbit had already disappeared.
—
As soon as Darien had finished cleaning up in the shabby changeroom in the basement of the arena, he made his way to the wrought-iron gates out front of the crumbling building.
His dark hair was still wet from the shower, his long-sleeved white shirt and faded jeans clinging to his damp, suntanned skin. The duffel bag slung over his shoulder was stuffed full of bloody clothes and the kind of weapons only a Darkslayer could get their hands on, along with the Stygian salts that aided his Sight. The salts were a gateway drug—literally. They opened the floodgates of a hellseher’s magic and allowed them to see a person’s aura—and see through the magical wards on most buildings and vehicles—for extended periods of time, making the act of remotely tracking targets a cinch for people like himself and his Devils.
Wind blew down the dusty street in gusts, setting the palm trees and cypresses lining the sidewalks swaying. Aside from the odd desperate junkie or prostitute straggling through the shadows, the city was mostly deserted at this hour, especially here in the slums, where most of the streetlights had been shot out long ago. The Sturgeon moon was slipping below the horizon, the sky in the distance staining a dull gray as dawn made its approach.
Another night well-spent at his favorite shithole. The no-holds-barred underground fighting ring was in the Meatpacking District, not far from the slaughterhouses that processed every type of flesh a person could name; in a place like this, anything that could breathe was on the menu, and no preference—no matter how foul—was off-limits.
Across the street, where it was parked by the trash-covered curb, his car lurked like a bat in the lingering dark. Unlike any other vehicle whose owner dared to park here, the glass of every window was still in one piece. No keys had scratched the black paint, no graffiti artist had tagged the hood. The people who frequented these parts of town not only knew who he was and to stay away from him—they also knew to stay the fuck away from his car. Some days he enjoyed the infamy that came with ripping apart whoever was stupid enough to walk into that pit with him more than he enjoyed the mynet he received for doing so.
He took his cellphone out of his pocket to find half a dozen unread messages from his sister, along with several from the other Devils and a handful from Valery Sternberg, his most recent fuckbuddy who was starting to get a little too clingy for his liking. This came as no surprise; it was always only a matter of time before women decided they wanted more than rough, no-strings-attached sex from him, but he was never willing to give it.
His mouth twitched into a frown as he skimmed over the messages his sister had sent him, the weight of reality returning as the adrenaline from fighting in the ring vacated his system far too soon.
Where are you?Ivyana had written.Don’t tell me you went to the Pit…
I thought you meant it this time—that we were going to the cemetery together.
It wasn’t your fault, you know. If Mom was able to talk to you, she would tell you the same thing. You need to stop blaming yourself.
I’ll bring extra flowers to Mom’s grave for you… Hope to see you there.
The last message was sent two hours after the previous.You can’t keep running away, Darien. You’re not the only one who’s hurting.
He shut off the screen so hard the button jammed.
It didn’t matter that he wasn’t the only one who was hurting. Ripping apart actual demons was one thing—but confronting his own wasn’t something he was ready to do yet.
Blowing out a sigh through his nose, he slid his phone back into his pocket. So much for calming the Surge that had taken over his mind earlier that night; it seemed he would have to return here tomorrow after all.
As he drew closer to the gate, gravel crunching beneath his combat boots, the rabbit stepped into view from where she was waiting for him near the safety of an unshattered mercury-vapor streetlamp. Out of what he knew was respect and more than a hint of fear, she stayed a careful distance away from him—and close enough to the greenish glow of the lamp to feel somewhat of a sense of protection from the demons. Demons like the one whose throat Darien had ripped out with his bare hand minutes ago.
The mask she wore was like something from a horror film. The mouth was pulled into a gaping smile lined with jagged teeth, and the grotesquely large eyes were as white as the rest of it—no pupils. It was no harmless little bunny like those sold at the pet shops on the Avenue of the Scarlet Star—that was for gods-damned certain.
