After that, Dennis wisely kept his mouth shut as they left his office.
Loren found that she couldn’t breathe properly until they were back in the car. The sun was setting, the few mercury-vapor streetlamps throughout the district buzzing to life.
From where she sat again in the backseat, Dallas said with a grin, “I haven’t had this much fun since Boris Sledgehorn’s pants lit on fire in third year.”
Loren pressed her lips together at the memory. It was a harmless—well…almostharmless—witch’s act another student had played on Boris when they’d caught him lying. Loren could still hear the students chanting in her memory.Liar, liar, pants on fire.
What she could hear clearer than the chant was the smile in Darien’s voice when he spoke. “That sounds like a story worth sharing one day.”
“It is,” Dallas cackled. “But maybe you could warn me the next time you do something like that again, Darien. For a moment there, I was afraid Dennis wasn’t going to be the only one peeing his pants.” Loren had to laugh at that as they peeled away from the curb and left the Meatpacking District and its rancid smells behind.
“There’s more fun in surprises, Dallas,” Darien said. He was laughing, too.
29
After paying a visit to the Meatpacking District, Loren didn’t think any other place in this city could frighten her quite so thoroughly.
As it turned out, she was wrong.
She stayed closer to Darien than she had in Puerta de la Muerta as he strolled through the network of abandoned butcheries and warehouses that made up the Umbra Forum. A clandestine market where anything could be bought for the right price, the Umbra Forum was a lawless place inhabited by criminals and dealers. As with the Meatpacking District, all types of flesh were sold here; if a person knew what questions to ask, they could find contraband blood-infused brandy as easily as they could find human organs.
The warren of narrow gas-lit streets smelled of hookah and the musty reek of the Angelthene River flowing adjacent to the interconnected buildings. Loren peeked from beneath the brim of her sports hat at the stragglers gauging their trio like rodents sniffing out a meal, clearly gleaning whether the Devil—who was carving a path through food carts and ramshackle stalls—was here to sell Loren and Dallas or had purchased them himself.
Loren pulled down the brim of her hat as far as it would go. Darien had found it the trunk of his car and plunked it on her head in effort to conceal her human scent. When it hadn’t sufficed to his liking, he’d not only told her to tuck up her hair beneath it, but also made her wear his jacket.
It was far too big for her, but it smelled like him, and it kept her warm. It was also heavy with the weapons that were hidden in the concealed pockets, which made her feel a little more at ease. Not that she would know how to use any of the blades or gadgets she could feel rubbing against her hips. She would be more likely to hurt herself than someone else.
In the pitch-black alleys between warehouses, the soft cries of children carried to her on a briny breeze. Loren slowed, peering into the shadows, as they passed one such alley. Darien and Dallas carried on, oblivious to Loren having stopped.
A thing was tucked behind a dumpster, its elongated, bony limbs barely visible from here. It was a slouching thing with great, floppy ears that might’ve been horns. The crying grew more frantic.
“I’m lost,” the voice blubbered. Although it was childlike, something about it was wrong.
Yet Loren stepped toward it, as if pulled forward by invisible strings, her shoes dragging on the ground.
“Help,” the voice said. “P-p-please. Help me.”
Loren stepped out of the warehouse lights, the shadows wrapping like clammy hands around her limbs, urging her to keep walking, to not be afraid. The smell of sewer gas and decaying animals swept through the alley.
Terror froze her in place as the silhouette trembled and unfurled to clawed feet. There was the scrape of dead leaves on cobbles, and the sound of bones cracking.
And then the thing began to crabwalk up the wall, with arms and legs that bent the wrong way at the joints.
A hand closed around Loren’s upper arm, and she nearly screamed as she was yanked out of the trance.
“We don’t listen to the voices,” Darien hissed in her ear, pulling her back into the light of the Umbra Forum. “Ever.”
Once they were clear of the creature, he released her and resumed his position at the head of their trio. Loren blinked, shaking her head free of the spell-like feeling that had come over her in that alley.
“What are we doing here again?” she hissed. A crescent moon peeked through a gap in the tin roof. She shuffled closer to Darien as he edged around a metalworking vendor, and she stumbled a little when she stepped on his heel.
“We’re here for Casen Martel.”
“Remind me again who that is.” But Darien didn’t answer her, and soon they were slowing to a stop at a set of doors that led into a warehouse bedecked in spray paint. Music and cheering rattled the building.
Loren felt like she was having déjà vu as Darien said to the werewolf bouncer guarding the doors, “I’m here for the Butcher.”
The blood drained from Loren’s face. No wonder Darien hadn’t referred to Casen Martel by his underworld name; he must’ve known Loren would insist they immediately turn around and go back to the car.
