The remainder of my day at Klau Tower was as prosaic as my morning. I watched Angela for the most part, learning her habits and methods so I could mimic them in my own work. She was quite chatty but could easily slide into her professional mien whenever someone approached our desk for information. We took our lunch break in the cafeteria on the second floor, where Angela introduced me to several other Klau employees ranging from white-coated technicians to suited managers.

While everyone I met was friendly and upbeat, I could sense an unpleasant skein clinging to the lot of them like a widow's veil. Their eyes would slide to empty seats and their voices would catch. Names would drop from their tongues and hit the table between us like lead bombs. Underneath their chipper attitudes, these people were afraid or in mourning. Five of their fellows had been killed—but the consequences of their deaths had dug roots far deeper into Amoroth's edifice. Dozens of workers had quit without notice. Some had disappeared completely. Those who remained were unwilling to be here and their work ethic was compromised. In small doses, the waning moral may have made no difference to Klau as a whole—but with everyone doing desultory jobs? Amoroth didn't just have a proverbial thorn in her side; she had a dagger rammed into her ribs, and the wound was hemorrhaging.

It was only four in the afternoon when Angela received a call from some unknown contact within the building and I was dismissed early for the day. I changed into my cardigan and navy skirt again before leaving, folding my uniform and stuffing it into my cavernous purse. Angela waved as I passed through the lobby on my way out and I waved back, feeling awkward. I liked my co-worker, but I was less than pleased with how my sudden change in employment had come about.

I walked to the parking garage on the empty street. It was too early for most employees to be on their way home and too late for anyone to be grabbing lunch. The sun had ridden the hours to the western horizon, and the heat was unbearable. It rose from the asphalt in wavering lines and burned the back of my neck as I peeled off my cardigan and threw it over my shoulder, my thoughts drifting. I wondered how Darius had faired today. Did he follow the vampire? How does one follow a vampire in broad daylight?

The graffiti-strewn elevator in the parking garage was out of order—which was just my luck, considering I was parked on the fourth level. I found the concrete stairs and climbed. When I reached my level, I was out of breath and thoroughly frazzled as I cursed my uncomfortable footwear and the loose swathe of hair that had escaped its tie.

The lights flickered above, several broken and in disuse. The sun was level with the open partition, throwing its blearing orange rays through the garage to obscure the shadows and warm any visible color. I dug for my keys when I reached my car—extracting sticky fingers and the wrapper of my spare power-bar. Darius must have eaten it when he took my purse the day before. Marvelous. That monster was a black hole.

I hit the key's fob to unlock the car and had my hand on the door's handle. Glancing into the window, I spied my own vague reflection peering at me from the tinted glass, my limp hair in a slow free fall from its loosened tie. I paused to frown when I thought of what Darius would say if he saw me looking so tattered. Why am I even considering that? What would he care?

My vanity saved my life. I saw his darker reflection behind my own, approaching too quickly. I yanked on the car's handle and threw myself to the side, skinning my knees on the ground as my free hand groped at the car's tire for balance. The door sprang open and the edge caught the masked man's extended hand. The silencer hissed, the loud ping! of the bullet striking my car's side inches from my head. The man swore as the gun clattered on the oil-stained concrete.

I scrambled for it. My fingertips skirted the grip just as my attacker landed on my back, slamming us both into the ground. The gun skittered farther and slid underneath a bulky SUV. His hands fumbled in my hair, at my face, at my neck, as if he were unsure of what to do. I bit down and my teeth sunk into some sort of padding molded to his two anterior fingers. The antiseptic taste of gauze and rubbing alcohol filled my mouth.

The man gave a sharp, painful screech and ripped his hand from my teeth. We grappled between the SUV and my Toyota. Unable to see through my own blasted hair, I threw an elbow behind me and it collided with a barrier of bone and muscle. I twisted, unseating the bastard, and was able to pop up onto my shocked feet. The man followed. He lashed out, kicking with purpose, and his foot rammed my beleaguered side.

What breath I'd mustered for a scream was promptly stolen. Pain lit through my nerves with searing clarity, taking my oxygen and burning my thoughts. I collapsed and held my wound, unable to feel the pressure of my hands through the swelling ache. For a moment, I forgot where I was and that I had been ambushed in the quiet parking garage. All I knew was the agony holding me in its unforgiving embrace.

The man reeled and kicked for a second time. I tried again to scream but was unable to pull air into my shocked lungs. I curled, trying to protect myself and howled wordlessly into the ground. I tasted copper on my tongue and grease on my lips.

"Stupid bitch!" the attacker raged. He tried to stomp on my wound but I rolled. Instead of kicking my other side, the man shifted positions and rammed his heel into my covered injury. I managed a ragged gasp, mind reeling.

A mask. A gun. A finger braced upon the trigger for a swift kill.

He kicked again and I latched onto his ankle. Linen slipped beneath my slick grip. He toppled and threw an arm out against the SUV to catch himself. The alarm wailed, headlights blinking in warning.

Anger. Anger at me. Bound and bandaged fingers. Obvious knowledge of my wound.

A memory burst into relief: a poorly lit alleyway, gritty brick walls, rank water beneath my heels—a masked man reaching for my arms to restrain their flailing movements, my teeth sinking in his fingers against my mouth. His scream of anger.

The kidnapper. The kidnapper! He's with the cul—! My temple bounced off the SUV's wheel when his foot grazed my jaw, dazing my revelation. The abductor finally stopped working out his anger and straddled my back, his weight pinning my legs. He wrapped a muscled arm around my neck and his opposing fist tightened on his wrist to increase the pressure.

My nails dug furrows in his arms, but he didn't relent. He shook—I shook. His blood was hot against my fingertips, his skin tough as leather underneath my blunted nails. I scoured his flesh as if I could reach through it and pull apart his muscles and bones. Above me, I heard him keen from the stinging pain, but he did not let up.

Vision darkening, I cast a wayward thought out for the Sin of Pride—for anyone, really. I would settle for anyone at all to come along and dislodge my attacker. I recognized that I hadn't allowed myself to be terrified. I was afraid, but only superficially, like condensation clinging to an otherwise impenetrable glass. I was more surprised—and angry, furious, the indignation of it hot and heavy and burning.

This man had attacked my family. He was part of the crew that had abducted my twin and had delivered us all to our doom. I yearned to scoop out his heart with my bare hands and crush it in my fist.

Struggling, I allowed myself to truly feel fear—not fear for the monster at my back, but for the yawning abyss of oblivion growing in breadth and depth before my eyes. I latched onto the budding terror growing with the blotched blurs in my vision. For the first time, I realized I was afraid of dying.

I couldn't see him, but I felt the ashen gust of Darius's appearance grace my sweat-slicked face. My attacker shouted and his weight disappeared, his grip unraveling from my neck as if he had been little more than an enthusiastic shawl. Gasping as I tipped, I searched until I could see the Sin through the straggled length of my hair, and Darius held the man several inches off the ground against the SUV's side, his callused hands molded to the man's thick throat.

"Darius!" I managed between heaving gulps of air. "Darius, don't kill him!"

Fury undulated from the Sin of Pride as I'd never seen before. On a typical day, Darius vacillated between angry and irritated with few moods in between—but this ferocity was unlike anything I'd witnessed, unlike anything anyone had ever witnessed. Blood and oil on the concrete froze. The afternoon's heat dissolved under the presence of the irate creature, the foundation of the building beneath us crying from the shifting pressure as cracks spiraled outward from Darius's feet and split the stone.

I smelled burning flesh. Darius's hands burned the cultist's exposed skin and the man screamed. Darius's teeth were sharp, his features angled, ears narrow and eyes utterly black. This was the creature I had invited into my house, the one I had bargained my soul with. Shadow spiraled from beneath the parked cars to paw at me, at Darius, and the sun had never felt so very far away.

Smoke curled below the edges of the cultist's mask. "Darius—." His alien eyes found mine and I almost couldn't hold that primordial gaze. "Darius, don't kill him. He's with the cult. He's one of them! He has information!"

He recognized my words and understood their significance. I knew exactly when he decided what I yelled didn't matter, because malice dripped from the Sin like saliva off a beast's fangs when his eyes lowered to the mass of red staining my powder-blue blouse. Color shredded the ungodly black of his glare—and the Sin snarled.

The crack of the man's neck breaking hit me like a gunshot. My attacker's limbs jerked once before stilling, his arms unfolding to his sides as they thumped the dented SUV.

"No!" I cried, watching as Darius inhaled and dropped the cultist. The man crumpled without complaint as the wounds on his bare neck oozed. The smell of burnt flesh clung pungently but not pervasive enough to cover the scent of the man's loosened bowels. I covered my mouth and retched, belatedly realizing my scuffed hand was quivering.

Darius sneered as he nudged the downed cultist to his side. "It seems the little mortal woman was all talk after all. She doesn't have the stomach for murder."

In an instant, the fear and guilty relief churning my stomach roiled into a maelstrom of rage. I leaped to my feet and threw a fist into the Sin's face. The grinding sensation beneath my knuckles was peculiar and ominous, his face like a wall of stone, and the feel of his nose breaking was akin to a cinder-block snapping. To his credit, Darius didn't react. I think he was too surprised.

My legs wobbled. I knelt and slumped into the side of my car as my heart thundered too quickly in my chest. I was dizzy, and the black spots in my vision had yet to fade. "Why?" I demanded as I fumbled with my saturated shirt. "Why?!" My blood wept through my fingers, out of control like so much else in my life—like the outraged idiot looming beneath the busted garage light.

Darius clenched his nose between thumb and knuckle and aligned it with a grueling crunch. His tongue roved over his lower lip to slather red on his teeth. "You've made an unwise decision, girl."

"Don't spout your bullshit to me!" I seethed as I picked up my car keys to jab them in the demon's direction as if I were holding a large butcher's knife. "You killed him! Goddamn it, I said not to! You knew who he was! You knew he was one of them!"

"I saved your life!"

"My life is meaningless without revenge!" I fired back, slipping farther. My hip was on the ground, my legs useless and numb beneath my weight. The screech of tires echoed from somewhere deeper within the structure, though and though we remained sheltered between my car and the SUV, someone was bound to pass through soon enough.

Perhaps intuiting my thoughts, Darius reached for me, but I slapped his burnt hand away. "No!"

He snarled, the sound shaking in my chest, and he grabbed me before I could stop him, yanking me from the ground. "No!" I yelled again, flailing, and the Sin pinched my arm hard enough for a bruise to form.

"King's breath, Sara! Will you just—?"

My elbow collided with the demon's throat, choking his words. "No!" I shouted, voice ringing, unsure of what I was refusing. The Sin's touch? The death of the cultist? The darkness progressively swirling in my mind?

Those spots in my vision were all-consuming, charring and burning the world inch by inch until I could see nothing at all. In the warmth of nonexistence, I wept. I wept not because of the pain or my anger, but because I knew I'd failed again. Fate had thrown another clue into my path and I had failed to snatch hold of it again. With each avenue of possibility I or Darius spoiled, the cult faded further and further from my reach. They were going to escape. They were going to disappear unscathed and my twin's murder would be just another trivial tally in the list of their crimes.

Another drop in the blood-soaked ocean that was Verweald.

"I'm so sorry, Tara," I sobbed. My sister couldn't hear my worthless pleas, but I said them anyway, if only to find undeserved comfort for myself. "I'm so sorry."

Heat enveloped my exhausted body and the pain dissolved beyond a numbing curtain. The gruff utterance of "Idiot," seemed to reverberate through oblivion like the warped gong of a dented bell, and as I gradually bled out and lost consciousness, I laughed, wept.

Idiot. Yeah, if one were to abridge my life and condense my existence into a single noun, idiot would be it.

What an idiot I was.

* * *