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To hell with this shit. Now, he was angry.

His fingers closed around a sharp object discarded in the dirt. Without a glance to see what it was, he moved.

Winding his arm back, he struck, cutting right through her esophagus with a long shard of what looked like volcanic glass. It gleamed in the ghostly light of the tree roots, a wicked smile to match this wicked place.

The thing began to scream. An awful, high-pitched wailing that vibrated his eardrums. She reeled back, clawing at her throat in a useless attempt to stifle the black blood spurting from the wound, the bones at her feet fizzing as it melted through them.

With a shout of anger and determination, Darien pushed himself to his feet. He limped across the lair, bones clacking under his boots. The creature tried to run from him, her wide eyes—black again, no longer white or glowing—fixed on the weapon in his hand.

The shard glinted in the air as he wound it back. “Go back to hell, you fucking bitch,” Darien bit out.

And then he cut off her head. The black glass sliced through her skin with such ease that he barely felt the impact, though his skin tingled from his fingertips to his elbow, as if he’d banged the ulnar nerve on a hard surface.

The light in her depthless eyes faded, her grotesque features going slack in death. The head dropped to the ground first, followed by the body. Blood spread into the earth, a great puddle of fizzling black goo.

Darien stepped back, back, back—until he was met with the tunnel wall, the damp soil seeping into his skin through the rips in the bodysuit.

For a long time, he stood there, gasping for breath, trying to grasp what in the hell just happened.

She had used Loren’s voice. Stolen his memories. Listened to his thoughts without permission. He had no idea what to think, but suddenly, he couldn’t wait to get out of here.

Pushing away from the wall, he found a lighter in his pocket and lit the corpse on fire.

The creature’s papery skin ignited quickly, the flames turning black, blue, and green. The tree roots hanging from the ceiling shrank away from the fire, retreating into the earth above, the ghostly glow of the wood fading to a dimmer color. The walls shied away from the blaze too, groaning and crunching and rippling, a high-pitched sound resembling a scream drifting through the tunnel.

Darien glanced down at his chest, where the creature’s venom had melted a gaping hole through the bodysuit. His skin was blistering and raw, the ink Kyle had begun on his chest just the other day nearly ruined. And it would be ruined, if he didn’t find a way to keep it from scarring.

Darien pushed his hair back from his face, fingers curling into a fist against his scalp. “Fucking bitch.”

That bitch had ruined his tattoo.

—

Where he sat on the couch in the sitting room at Hell’s Gate, Darien held very still as Loren applied a layer of healing salve to the wounds on his chest. She was kneeling on the floor between his legs, her touch so light and careful he barely felt it.

The salve smelled of eucalyptus and peppermint. It left a pleasant, cooling sensation on his skin, the plant extracts instantly calming the blisters and caustic burns.

Darien watched Loren while she worked. Damn, she was nice to look at. The sight of her made the pain disappear faster than the salve.

Mortifer was watching Loren apply the salve too. He was perched on the back of the couch behind Darien’s head, his fiery face scrunching up with disgust whenever he caught a whiff of the salve. Bandit was sprawled on the rug with Soot and Noble, his back legs kicked out under the coffee table, his prized rubber chicken lying nearby. The Familiar was trying to play it cool, but Darien could sense through their Spirit Bond that he was more concerned than he was letting on.

Should’ve let me help, Bandit grumbled.

Darien forced himself to look away from Loren so he could glance at Bandit. I didn’t want that thing to know you existed unless your help became necessary.

You’re just too proud to ask for assistance when you need it. It’ll be the death of you, you know.

Maybe, Darien replied, his focus returning to Loren. But not today.

Tanner, Max, and Ivy were the only Devils in the house who were awake and unoccupied. They were standing near the couch, watching in silence, eyes bleary with exhaustion. The three of them had woken up when Darien had made it home and limped up the stairs. Apparently, he hadn’t succeeded at moving as quietly as he’d thought.

“You guys can go back to sleep,” he offered, ignoring the pain that zipped through him when Loren moved onto another patch of blistered skin, this one worse than the rest. “I’m fine.”

“Not a chance,” Ivy said, her voice firm. She turned to Maximus and Tanner. “When was the last time he came home hissing in pain and waking everyone up?” She looked back at Darien with a cheeky expression. “Oh, that’s right: never.” Although her tone said otherwise, Darien could see the concern shining in her eyes.

He didn’t blame her for being worried. After all, she spoke the truth: rarely did he ever come home looking like this.

Max said, “I seem to remember him pissing and moaning after a bar fight last year.” His broad shoulders shook with a chuckle.