The light turned green, and I accelerated again, this time a bit more slowly, and turned onto the ramp to I-95 North. “It’s strange,” Malachi said as he watched the scenery go by, “that this is the exact place you lived before, and it happens to be where the Mazikin arrived.”

“No kidding. Figures that the portal from hell would open up in Rhode Island.” I hesitated, and then decided to say aloud what had been bugging me. “I think the Judge knew where they would pop out once they went through the wall next to the Sanctum. I think she might have …” I stopped, feeling stupid and paranoid.

“You think the Judge intentionally lured you to the dark city, to be pressed into service.” He didn’t sound like he thought it was a ridiculous idea.

“Yeah. If it’s true, she has funny ideas about what makes a good Guard.”

Malachi chuckled. “You sell yourself short, Lela.”

“Let’s hope so,” I muttered as the lights of Providence came into view.

I exited the highway and headed up Wickenden, past the tattoo parlor where I’d gotten Nadia’s face inked onto my skin as a memorial. I made my way up the narrow street and turned left, onto the road that would take us deep into the East Side. Malachi squinted out the window, inspecting the shadows. I found a place to park off the main road, beneath the low-hanging branches of a tree and out of the glow of the streetlights. Malachi immediately pulled the pack into his lap.

“We’re going to have to talk about this weapons thing,” I said.

He gave me a puzzled look.

“You can’t stroll down the street with a couple of grenades strapped to your chest. Besides … I’m not so keen on carrying that stuff.”

Malachi nodded. “Because you’re not comfortable with them yet. You will be, once you’re properly trained.”

“I know, but—”

He reached into the pack and pulled out a familiar-looking belt. It was part of the set of armor, black leather and badass, that Michael had made for me when I was behind the Suicide Gates.

“Wear this, and take one knife.” He held one to the light. It had a subtle curve instead of a straight edge. “This one isn’t meant for throwing,” he explained. “It has a forward drop, better for slicing than a straight blade, but not curved enough to interfere with stabbing. I had Michael make it for you.”

“Um, thank you.” I took the belt but eyed the knife in his hand. I could just as easily stab myself as anyone else. “But we might not find anyone—”