In the end, stripped of the very thing which gives him the hope, the very will to live, his immortality becomes a death sentence.

Oh, the fucking irony.

Love is nothing if not punishing.

Above the crown of spotlights, where the black and twisted branches of the marsh trees claw toward ominous clouds, cosmic debris flickers across the early morning sky. It’s an arrangement of eerie and lovely that sets the perfect backdrop for Devyn’s newest display.

Her very own work of art, a lonely cry into the abyss.

Her pain lashes out in all its fury, her pursuit for her coveted stone raising the question of whether she’s the maker or the fiend.

Goddammit. Once Halen sees this, there will be no convincing her to leave Hollow’s Row.

Devil’s hour is when wicked deeds are done, and I can attest to this, all my darkest, most nefarious deeds whispered to me in the pitch of night. As I stare at the scene, the flurry of activity trying its damnedest to wake the dead, my mind delves to my own solitary abyss.

No one wants to be alone.

The ungodly hour calls for a devil, and I plan to deliver.

Jaw clenched tight, I roll the pad of my finger over my thumb ring, nose wrinkled at the boggy scent in the air. I spy Dr. Keller amid the reeds and wonder how difficult it would be to make this nuisance disappear. The pounding on my door started just before three a.m., the urgency of a new crime scene demanding the expert on call to the FBI.

I stand behind the bobbing yellow caution tape, breathing in the flavors of marsh water and decay, deciding which way to direct them.

Unlike the previous ritual offerings, where select organs and body parts were put on display, Devyn has taken a more creative approach in her staging of the body. The corpse of a woman has been adorned in fresh deer skin, blood of the animal coating her flesh. Alchemical symbols mark her skin. Bone-white antlers protrude from the crown of her head, circled by a ring of ivy.

The severed, deformed ears and black thread stitched across the sunken eye sockets establishes the victim as one of Devyn’s higher men.

The woman has been posed on her side, in a position as if she’s falling, her hands stretched up into the air and held aloft by woven string. Of course, Devyn’s signature. The arms have been entwined in a web of gauzy yarn, like a spider caught its prey amid the woman’s last breath as she tumbled down.

It leaves an echo of emotion. I circle my finger over the sigil Halen scored into my chest. It’s become a compulsion to feel the hint of pain that touch brings. I now understand why Halen sought the comfort of her pendant.

The reeds rustle in the still dark as Dr. Keller moves into my periphery and swats at a bug, interrupting my introspection. “What time was your last round of meds?” she asks me, wiping her palm off on her slacks. “I need to update my chart, then schedule to dispense.”

I keep my gaze fixed to the execution of Devyn’s misery. “I don’t take meds.”

“How is that possible, Professor Locke?” Her tone is incredulous. “Your file states you’ve been receiving two milligrams of risperidone and lithium since your induction to Briar.”

A wry smile lifts the corner of my mouth. Halen didn’t bother with these inane questions and procedures. She knew it was futile to push drugs on me. Hell, she knew right away I wasn’t on them, and that I’d find a way to dispose of them.

Instead of giving Dr. Keller a canned response to further waste both our time, I shift my focus to the tree line where an immediate pull grabs me on a cellular level. I can always sense her, her atoms dancing with mine. She’s crawled inside me, and I’ll never scratch her out.

Halen emerges from the high reeds with Agent Hernandez at her side. She’s changed into jeans for the occasion, and I shamelessly wonder if she bathed, or if I still coat her thighs.

As soon as Halen sees the body amid the maze of webs, she halts. Bag dropped to the wet earth, she stays frozen in that pose, lost in her thoughts. Crime-scene techs and agents swarm around her, yet she’s the still marsh reed amid the winds of chaos.

She did the same thing when she first glimpsed the Harbinger display in the quad. I watched her then, waiting for the spark of recognition that never came. I watched her for three days before I finally approached her, when I couldn’t bear to stay away from her for one second longer.

Seems I’m remiss to learn my fucking lesson as I start in her direction now. The unrelenting need to be near her supersedes my self-preservation, always.

As I approach, her gaze stays trained on the scene. “Madness is welcomed over suffering and death,” Halen says, her voice as soft as the early morning breeze. She then turns an inquisitive gaze on me. “You said something to that effect before, whether Nietzsche actually achieved self-deification, or if madness was his escape.”

I share a look with Hernandez, my drawn features conveying our need for privacy. Carting her tool case, he tics his chin toward the illuminated crime scene. “I’ll go find out who discovered the body,” he says, then steps away in search of Agent Rana.

Stepping closer to her, I say, “No, you likely said this.” Halen has a bad habit of denying her brilliance, what she attempts to hide from everyone. “I’m a student of philosophy, which means I ponder and question, but offer no absolutes.”

She touches her forehead. “It’s too early for existential…anything, Kallum.”

A potent mix of turmoil and anxiety swirls within her, and my suspicion flares. Something has changed since she left the Lipton house.

Her eyes finally meet mine, and I see the glassy sheen of unshed tears banked there. After a tentative beat, she says, “I was planning to leave in just a few hours…”

Apprehension cords my spine at what she leaves unsaid. “Until this,” I supply, and nod toward the body adorned in animal skin and bone.

She swallows hard. Then she again looks at the grisly exhibit. “This isn’t a part of her ascension ritual,” she says, blatantly avoiding the sore topic. “It’s not a part of her delusion at all. This is her suffering.”

“I agree with your assessment.”

Her gaze darts to me. “Don’t patronize me.”

I lick my lips, tasting her fury in the open air. It’s tantalizing, and the depraved craving to feel her rake her nails over my skin simmers beneath my flesh.

“You’re angry because you think Devyn is devolving,” I say, calling her out and provoking her further. Whatever happened between then and now, she needs a figurative punching bag. I can take her hits. “Which means the window to help her is closing.”

She arches a fine eyebrow. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, either, Kallum.”

“You could have never helped her,” I say outright.

She shakes her head, gaze slit. “God, such narcissism. This is exactly what you want.”

With a dark smile, I clasp her wrist and draw her into the shadows of the spindly trees. “Yes, we’ve covered that. I’m a selfish, greedy, covetous devil over you.”

She attempts to twist free of my hold. “Let me go.”

“Not happening, because I gave you my word,” I say to her, my voice rough. “That means I will go to whatever dark place you’re slipping into and drag you out. Over my goddamn shoulder if you make me.”

She stops fighting, and I reluctantly release her arm. “And you’d derive all the sick pleasure from that,” she accuses.

An amused sound hums past my lips, and I advance on her, sliding my palm along the slope of her neck as I back her against one of the trees. Because we’re made of combustible elements, I crave her vitriol as much as her passion. She can lash out at me and I’ll swallow every harsh word, drink it right from her sultry, venomous lips.

I lower my mouth near hers, claiming her breath as my own. “My smell is all over you. I’m all over you, my violent little muse.” She latches on to my hand, trying to free herself with a weak fight. “Fuck, the way you want to hurt me right now…want me to hurt you…” I lick the flavor of her on my lips. “I’ll make the pain taste so sweet, Halen, you’ll beg me to never stop giving you such sick pleasure.”