He didn’t need to ask them twice. They pulled off their sweaters, leaving only the white nondescript tanks they had on underneath.
And then they made their way to Death’s Door.
—
In the nineteen years she’d lived in Angelthene, Loren had never ventured anywhere near the Meatpacking District.
Unlike other Meatpacking Districts in distant cities, where plants and slaughterhouses onlyusedto inhabit a large area of the metropolis, the one in Angelthene was still the same as when it was first built hundreds of years ago. All types of flesh were processed here, and it wasn’t unlikely to find human among the flesh of swine and cattle. Which was exactly why, as a human, she’d kept far away from here. The smell alone was enough to make her gag.
North of this area of Downtown Angelthene were the Arts and Jewelry Districts, and three blocks away from the street they were driving down was the Historic Core. And it was just south of the Historic Core where one of the city’s many dangerous places lurked. A place where no one who valued their life would dare wander, alone or otherwise. Even in broad daylight.
And daylight was fading fast as Darien parallel parked in front of the dive bar known as Puerta de la Muerta, right near the Meatpacking District. Every window of every building in this area was barred, and the few houses that remained were boarded up, fenced, and tagged. Garbage was all over every open lot and side street, stuffed into gutters and stuck on fences like glue after the wind had blown it there. Aside from bars and strip clubs, the only businesses around were pawn shops and liquor stores—all with bars on their windows.
Loren felt hot and cold and distant and alert all at once. Her heart raced as she watched Darien lean over and snap open the glovebox before her—and raced faster as the sleeve of his jacket brushed against her knees.
“Does your car have bullet-proof windows?” she stammered. He ignored her as he retrieved a pistol and slammed the glovebox shut.
Leather groaned as Dallas leaned forward to peer between the front seats. “They let you bring weapons in there?”
“The weapons are only a distraction,” Darien said as he holstered the pistol and pocketed a pair of brass knuckles. He then slid a knife into the inside pocket of his black jacket.
Loren said, “A distraction from what?”
“The real threat.” Darien gave her a demon’s smile.
She swallowed. “And what’s the real threat?”
That smile turned into a wicked grin that showed all his straight, white teeth. “Me, silly girl.”
Of course,she almost said. But she found that she suddenly couldn’t work her tongue to form words—for reasons other than the fear of her current location—as Darien leaned across the center console and took her Avertera talisman into his hands.
His knuckles brushed her collarbone as he studied the talisman, the familiar heat she’d felt the other day at Hell’s Gate returning so quickly it made her head spin. He was close enough for her to smell the delicious, masculine cologne she’d noticed the first time she was in this car. She could see every fleck of silver in his eyes, made brighter by the contrast of his dark eyelashes.
In the backseat, Dallas was suppressing a smile. With Darien’s attention otherwise occupied, Dallas took the opportunity to lift her hand to her mouth to form an obscene gesture.
Loren’s face reddened as she tore her gaze away from the sight of Dallas’s tongue pushing against the inside of her cheek—and found Darien grinding the pendant between his thumb and index finger. When he released it, the pendant jingling softly against her neck, there was a smear of gold on his hands.
“It’s weakening.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his door. “It should last another day or two, but I’ll have to find you a new one soon. I’ll switch talismans with you tonight; mine is newer.”
“You arenotshelling out another copper on me, Darien Cassel,” Loren warned. “And I’m not taking your talisman.”
He smirked, setting one booted foot on the pavement. A gust of wind that smelled of the horrible deaths via butchering blocks swept into the cab, the stench turning her stomach. “Don’t argue with me, Loren Calla. I’ll do whatever I want.”
Dallas was trying not to laugh as she and Loren stepped out of the car and followed Darien to the bar, where two bouncers stood outside a set of closed metal doors.
Pimps and sharks worked the street corners, and groups of witches and warlocks wearing filthy clothes sat at the base of a lamppost near the bar, smoking from water pipes and scribbling protection symbols and meaningless graffiti on the concrete. Just beyond the veneficae, a half-dressed werewolf was holding up a water-stained cardboard sign with a message.
F*CK THE IMPERATOR.
Another wolf some distance away had another opinion to share: WE WILL NOT BE EQUAL UNTIL WE MAY ALL LIVE IN PEACE.
Tearing her gaze away from the sign, Loren sidled closer to Darien as he came to a stop before the bouncers. The tallest of the full-blooded warlocks, with dark, shaggy hair and a goatee, took immediate note of the mark of the Devils below Darien’s ear and squared his huge shoulders.
“What business do you have here, Slayer?”
“I need to speak to Dennis Boyd,” Darien replied coolly, entirely unfazed by the fact that this bouncer stood a foot over his head. “I think he’ll have no problem granting me an audience once he finds out why I’m here.”
The bouncers shared a glance. It was the clean-shaven one who said, “Dennis is busy. We’ll let him know you stopped by.”
