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It had come to her in pieces. A bright, beautiful foyer with flowers on a glass table; a set of big doors Loren rushed forward to block; the scents of a house that had become a home.

And the Darkslayer standing in front of her, duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. His ripped and bloodied henley and jeans, his worn boots, the look of anguish in his eyes.

Then came the memory of his hand resting in hers. She’d asked him to humor her, and he’d allowed her to tow him to the living room, where he’d sat on the couch, knees spread apart. She’d knelt on the floor between his legs, and had told him to walk with her to a sparkling ocean with a beach of white sand.

He had wiped away a tear on her cheek, and then had used his thumb to trace her chin, then her lips. She remembered his touch, clear as day, and swore she could feel it on her skin right now.

How had she ever forgotten that night?

“Loren?” Ivy’s soft voice called her back to attention.

She turned, blinking away her recollections of the past.

Ivy and Tanner were both watching her. Jack was focused on the television, his eyes glazed, mouth slack.

Ivy said, “He’ll be okay. This is normal for him. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few hours.”

Loren nodded. “Yeah.” She sounded as pained as she felt. “Umm—I think I’ll go have a shower.” She drew a breath that got caught halfway up her throat. “Have a good night.”

Tanner and Jack called, “Night.”

She disappeared toward the stairs, Ivy and Tanner watching her go.

She stayed in the shower for a long time, wishing all the while that more memories would return.

But they didn’t. So she was forced to wait and wonder what other extraordinary things she could have possibly forgotten about Darien Cassel.

71

The Snake Pit

YVESWICH, STATE OF KER

Darien lost himself to his rage, just like when he fought back at home. He couldn’t remember how much time had passed or how many people he’d felled, but he knew it was a lot—of both. At least four hours and two dozen bodies. Minimum.

By the time he snapped back into his dark and vile mind, there was only one opponent left in the Snake Pit. The hellseher was dragging himself across the cement floor of the ring in an effort to get away, a wet, reeking stain darkening the front of his pants.

Darien stalked toward him in ripped jeans and black boots, no shirt on. He wore Roman’s wolf mask; there were no eye holes, but the magic allowed him to see through it. In one hand he held a spiked bat. He dragged it behind him, the rusted nails catching on pits in the cement. An audience that behaved more like animals than they did people surrounded the ring, foaming at the mouths as they fought among themselves, fuelled by drugs and alcohol and tempers as bad as his own.

As Darien walked, dragging the bat behind him, he caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd.

A brawny warlock stood in the front row, his features shadowed by a heavy hood.

Darien lifted the bat, got a firm grip on one of the blood-slick nails, and ripped it out, splintering the wood. With blinding speed, he threw—

Straight at Finn Solace’s face.

The nail hit the wall of spells surrounding the ring with a searing crackle. Finn must have known there were spells in place, but he still flinched and fell backward, slamming into the rowdy crowds who were quick to shove him the other way. Finn barely caught himself against the ropes before the spells could chew through his skin—not enough to kill but to maim.

Darien returned his attention to the man on the ground—the victim he towered over. “Any last words?” Darien’s deep voice was slightly muffled by the mask. He’d covered up his Devils’ tattoo before joining the fight—with blood from his own hand. A quick cut across his palm, and then he’d dragged his hand down the sides of his neck, caking on the red.

The hellseher on the ground squeezed out, “You’re crazy.”

Darien nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He gripped the bat with both hands, wound it back over his head…

And struck.