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He sighed. “I know. I guess I’m just…disappointed. I expected her to be happy to see me, not…” He shook his head. “Not whateverthisis.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said again. “Sometimes people change, and she unfortunately changed for the worse.” She could say that again.

They left the hospital and continued back to the canal. Being out here was…unsettling. The darkness was almost oily, and Max could have sworn it was harder to breathe in these parts.That could just be his imagination getting the better of him, though.

As expected, Malakai was pacing on the boat, looking pissed. When he spotted them coming, he faced them, hands curling into fists at his sides. He looked like a bull ready to charge.

“Well?”he demanded.

Max said, “Travis and Jewels made out.”

They both swung their heads around to glare at him. “Max!” they hissed.

“I beg your finest pardon?” Malakai drawled.

Max jerked his thumb at the lovebirds walking beside him. “Ask them.”

Travis muttered, “Thanks a lot,” and climbed into the boat.

81

Hell’s Gate

ANGELTHENE, STATE OF WITHEREDGE

“Roark?”Loren called. The door to Hell’s Gate slammed shut behind her as she jogged down the front steps.

Roark was almost at the driver’s door of his car when he turned around, clearly startled that she’d followed him out here.

As she breached the distance between them, she slowed her pace, her fingers fiddling with the long sleeves of her shirt. It was warm out, the yard fragrant with heady jasmine and the earthy tang of freshly mowed grass.

“You should go back inside,” Roark said. “It’s safer for you in there.” While he didn’t say it rudely, he didn’t sound overly concerned, either. It was more of a…suggestion. Or maybe a way to dodge what she planned on saying to him.

“I will, I just…wanted to thank you,” she began. “Not just for everything you said in there—” She gestured to Hell’s Gate. “But for everything else, too. What you did for us in Yveswich…I know what it cost you. And I just want you to know that I’m grateful.”

The long pause that followed her words was awkward. But Loren didn’t regret saying any of it. If he wasn’t ready for this kind of relationship with her—open and honest—that was fine. But her days were numbered, and she, for one, refused to die with regrets.

Roark nodded—just once—before turning toward his car.

“Maybe we can talk alone sometime?” Her question froze him in place. “I still have questions. Alotof questions,” she amended with a forced laugh. “And maybe…maybe I can show you around next time?”

He studied her the same way he had in the foyer, as if she were still talking and he was hearing so much more than she was saying.

Then he nodded again, his expression unchanging. “Of course.” He opened the driver’s door?—

“Do you think Dallas is okay?” she blurted.

When Roark paused again, but made no indication that he was going to reply, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was pressing him too hard. It was difficult to move past that mentality—past the Loren who’d tiptoed around this man for so many years. The little girl who’d wanted nothing more than to be loved and seen and accepted by the warlock and the witch who’d raised her.

Behind her, the front door swung open. Darien was already talking as he hurried down the steps. “Those missiles,” he said, his boots crunching on gravel. “What are they made of?”

Roark propped an arm on the top of his open door. “The structure is made of cristala, mostly. The warhead is raw magic from the anima mundi.”

“Are they hard to make?” He came to stand at Loren’s side.

“There’s someone in your house who shouldn’t have a problem figuring out how.”

Darien glanced over his shoulder, clearly deep in thought.