“Answer the question.” Although Darien’s voice was lethally quiet, Loren found that she jumped a little at the sound, as if he’d shouted, the legs of her chair screeching across the sticky floor.
Dennis bit out, “Almost twenty years.”
“Almost twenty years,” Darien repeated. “Almost twenty years of your measly quarter-human lifespan. You’ve poured your blood, sweat, and tears into this dump. And for what, Dennis? What do you make selling watered-down blood and ale to your clientele?”
Despite that his mouth wobbled with fear, Dennis leaned forward slightly and said, “Enough to feed my family.” Sour breath wafted across the desk. “And that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t take you for a family man. But being as you’ve stupidly offered up that information to me, I would be willing to guess you wouldn’t like it if I shut down this lousy excuse for a business you’re running.”
Dennis’s pimpled shoulders stiffened. “What would you get out of it?”
“I like watching people squirm, Dennis. It’s part of the businessI’min. The one that puts food onmytable. And even if shutting you down didn’t bring me any more than that simple pleasure, maybe the threat alone will be enough to convince you to quit lying to me.”
Loren was holding her breath. She had the sense that Dallas was holding hers as well as the clock that was shaped like a naked woman ticked loudly above the desk.
“What do you want?” Dennis ground out.
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I justtoldyou the truth—”
But Darien’s eyes turned black. Dennis bolted upright in his chair, like a cow whose neck had been wrangled with a loop of rope. His filthy fingernails dug into the armrests, the cracking leather shredding apart beneath the force, as whatever Darien was doing to him began to work.
Darien watched Dennis in silence, slowly canting his head from side to side. His hair shone blue-black in the fluorescents.
“Get out of my head,” Dennis whimpered, veins in his neck bulging. The smell of blown-out birthday candles choked the room as Darien’s magic dove deeper.
Loren realized what he was doing. It was a power typically reserved for pureblood hellsehers: the ability to drag a mental claw down someone’s thoughts until they revealed to them whatever information they were hiding. From what she’d heard of the ability, it couldn’t be used on just anyone. Like all magic powers, it had its limits, and this particular one could not be used on other hellsehers, nor could it be used on anyone who’d trained their mind to resist such influence.
Suddenly, Loren remembered that night in the dining room—Darien’s ability to make her…feelthings without physically touching her. It must be similar to that, she realized.
Darien’s chin was dipped toward his chest as he watched the bar owner with a gaze so terrifying it turned Loren’s head weightless on her shoulders.
“As much as I would thoroughly enjoy seeing your brain leak out through your nose…,” Darien began, spiralling into his magic, his mental claws raking across Dennis’s mind, “I have a feeling your bouncers wouldn’t enjoy cleaning up the mess it would leave on your floors.”
Blood dribbled from Dennis’s nose as he struggled against the invisible hands that held him in place. The stink of urine cut into the smoke of magic as the owner of this dive literally pissed himself beneath the mental grip of Darien’s magic. Moisture splashed on the floor, and Loren’s stomach churned.
Dallas leaned forward in her seat, peering around Darien to share aholy-shitglance with Loren.
Darien didn’t remove his gaze from Dennis for one second. “There’s not much going on in your mind, is there,” he murmured as red tears began to flow from Dennis’s bulging eyes. “But youarekeeping something from me. Are you going to tell me, or shall I turn the half a brain you’ve got into liquid?”
It seemed to take everything Dennis had to pant, “I’ll tell you, you son of a bitch. Get your claws out of me.” When Darien didn’t relent, he barked,“Gods-damnit, I said I’ll tell you!”
Darien released him, his face smoothing of its murderous expression as the black in his eyes faded away, like night shifting into morning.
Hacking and wheezing, Dennis grabbed a rag from the corner of the desk and proceeded to swipe at the blood streaming down his face and neck. And when he glanced at the floor—at the puddle at his feet—his pinched lips wobbled.
“I’m waiting, Dennis,” Darien crooned. His voice took on a cold and peculiar note as he added, “And don’t ever call my mother a bitch again.”
Dennis shot him an irritated look, but went on to say, “I didn’t want to tell Logan because I figured he’d blame me and have me killed. But the night Chrysantha disappeared, I kept her an hour late to clean up the broken glass from a bar fight that broke out between nomadic vampires and warlock bikers. She got out of here just after two thirty, and I didn’t wait with her for her ride to show as I locked up and got in my car.” To his credit, Dennis looked somewhat ashamed of himself for having done this.
“And?” Darien pressed.
“And…” His sweat-slick throat bobbed. “And as I was driving away, I saw Chrysantha get into a van she doesn’t normally get picked up in.”
“What did it look like?”
“Black and brand new. No windows except those in the front.”
