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Loren’s words were directed at the demon she held frozen in the grip of her magic. She was speaking in—

In another language. Ilevyn.

And then she said, “Don’t fucking touch him.”

Darien’s mind spun. “Loren?” he breathed.

“Kill it,” she ground out.

She didn’t need to tell him twice.

With an outward thrust of his hand, whole body trembling with exertion, Darien unleashed himself on the monster. Magic swept from his core, barrelling into the creature’s body in a wave of endless black. There was no time for weapons; this was his only hope.

The creature roared, straining to break free of Loren’s hold. It reached out a trembling claw, blood dripping from lethally sharp nails.

Darien pushed harder, envisioning cracking open the creature’s skull with his bare hands. He held those hands out in front of him, fingers curling in empty air, pushing outward—as if he really was cracking its head open. Dark fog threaded between his fingers.

Venom leaked out of his eyes like black ink, but he didn’t stop. Blood trickled from his nose and ears, but he didn’t stop. His blood vibrated, and his brain swelled, but he didn’t stop.

He wouldn’t stop.

—

The creature’s skull split open with a strident crack, brains and blood spraying the air like red rain. Loren flinched, blinking away her strange vision, as the thing’s limp body collapsed to the ground, shaking every structure in the carnival. A puddle of oozing teal seeped out from under the corpse, mixing with the blood flowing from its destroyed head.

Everyone was silent for three heartbeats. There wasn’t a sound in the area but heavy breathing and thundering hearts.

Blue, Lace, and Sabrine approached with caution.

Max was the first to speak. All he said was Darien’s name on a quiet breath, so quiet Loren could barely hear it.

It took Darien a moment to turn around, and when he did, he was swaying in place. His shoulders heaved, every breath a laboured pant. His clothes were soaked with blood, the white fabric of his shirt and the blue denim of his jeans black with it.

“Is everyone okay?” Darien gritted out. “Is anyone hurt?”

The sight of his face sent Loren’s heart zipping up her throat.

Those eyes of his were bloodshot, the skin around them webbed with black. A substance that looked like black ink swam in the whites of his eyes and irises, spilling over his lower lids when he blinked. Streams of it ran down his cheeks like dark tears.

Mixed in with the black was scarlet liquid.

Blood.

The ground dipped beneath Loren’s feet. “Darien—”

Loren barely finished saying his name before his legs gave out, and he fainted. He fell forward onto the ground—too fast for anyone to do anything, to react or catch him.

His face smashed into the pavement with a sickening thwack.

Blood pooled. A lake of red trickled through the cracks in the road and seeped toward her shoes.

It did not stop spreading.

59

Darien woke up with a pounding headache.

Someone was speaking to him, but he couldn’t make sense of a single word. The voice was distant. Slightly metallic and unfamiliar. When he tried to find the source of it, he was met with a blur of color and light that stung like little needles thrust deep into his eye sockets.