The Hour of Dust and Ashes cm-3 Read online

  And it was all wrong. So damn wrong.

  Bryn was currently staying at the Mordecai House, the League of Mages headquarters in Atlanta. Her choice, not mine. Bryn was afraid. Afraid to be alone, afraid of what she was capable of, and more determined than ever to uncover her lost memories. Her guilt in possibly aiding or even directly causing Aaron’s death was eating away at her faster than her addiction to ash.

  “Okay,” Rex said after we’d passed the store. “You can say it.”

  “What? That you promised to stay in the temple?”

  “No, not that part. The part where you tell me how awe-inspiring I was back there. You know”—he slid a look my way—“you might make a pretty good sidekick one day.”

  Oh my God.

  “Rex …” I paused, forgoing the lecture because it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference anyway. “What am I going to do with you?”

  A slow grin spread across his face. “Now that’s one hell of a question.” He threw an arm around my shoulder and picked up our pace. “So glad you asked. I have plenty of ideas. First …”

  3

  A slow, familiar zing snaked through me as I entered the crowded plaza where Mercy Street, Helios Alley, and Solomon Street converged, and made for the wide concrete steps that would take us Topside. Like the first jolt of a drug-induced high, the Charbydon genes inside of me responded to the forty-mile swath of darkness that hovered above Atlanta and its outskirts.

  I hated that I was getting used to it … that, little by little, I was coming to terms with the inevitable. The Charbydon and Elysian DNA that had been given to me as I lay dying ten months ago was altering me from the inside out, changing me into something new, or something old if I believed Aaron’s “divine being” theory.

  But it wasn’t the darkness that made me stop in the middle of the plaza.

  It was Alessandra’s comments about Hank that had quietly tunneled beneath my confidence, making fine cracks in my trust.

  Just like she’d intended.

  People passed by, conversations came and went along with the sounds of traffic from the city above. And I just stood there, knowing I should keep walking, that I should have some measure of belief.

  I bit down hard, grinding my teeth together with indecision. But when you’ve been burned before …

  I cursed under my breath and turned away from Topside, heading toward my new path: Helios Alley. Damn her.

  “Uh, Charlie?” Rex said from behind me. “We told Bryn we’d pick Em up at ten.”

  Was Hank really in bed recuperating? And, worse, how totally pathetic was I for having to check? “I know. This won’t take long. I just want to check on Hank.” I cleared my throat. Since when did saying his name become so uncomfortable?

  “Oh, really?”

  I didn’t need to look at Rex to know he was smirking. I sidestepped a baby stroller. “Yes, really. Someone should go check on him.”

  “No one needs to check on him. You were there when the chief told us the deal. He’s in a self-induced coma. Doesn’t need to eat, drink, or take a piss … When he wakes, he wakes. What are you going to do, stand there and moon over him?”

  My stride increased. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What the hell are you getting so defensive about?”

  “I’m not getting defensive.”

  “You sound defensive.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Yes you—”

  “Rex!” I stopped, letting him see just how tired I was of being provoked. “Knock it off.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Just trying to figure out which way the wind blows these days.”

  I growled and kept walking. Rex could think whatever the hell he wanted. Hank was my partner and I had every right to check on him.

  I knew Hank had his secrets. He was close-lipped about his Elysian history and why he’d come here. He evaded personal questions as easily as picking lint from his sleeve. Sure, he was entitled to his privacy, his secrets, like everyone else. But at the same time, we’d been partners for three years. I’d welcomed him into my world, shared my home, my life, my trust. We’d become friends. And recently, something more than that. Hadn’t I earned some small degree of sharing in return, some trust from him as well?

  Sounded reasonable.

  I chewed softly on the inside of my cheek, not liking the questions the oracle put into my mind. But how much could I lay the blame on Alessandra? My trust and faith in people—or, more correctly, men—had been shaken considerably since Will.

  I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, I knew that. But it didn’t stop my feet from carrying me deep into Helios Alley until I was staring at the polished brass numbers attached to the black door leading to Hank’s apartment above Skin Scripts and Off-world Exotic Pets.

  Heat formed in my belly and made the journey into my limbs and my face. Last time I was up there, the windows got blown out, and I’d almost killed my partner with the twig of a Charbydon Throne Tree. Among other things.

  I rolled my shoulder, thinking of the mark Hank had given to me during our fight. It was healed now, but not even my new healing abilities could erase the light indigo scar. Odd that it wasn’t giving off the strange, feel-good sensation that signified when we were close. But maybe the brick walls and the fact that he was a story above me d out cold had something to do with it.

  What the hell did I know about marks?

  “We going in or what?”

  I ignored Rex and let my gaze fall to the big front window of Skin Scripts. All I had to do was open the door. The artists there could tell me everything I needed to know about the mark permanently pressed into my skin. It would be even better if they could tell me how to get around the truth issue.

  In the heat of our fight, Hank had given me a truth mark, which meant I couldn’t lie to him if he asked me a direct question. I could evade it, choose to not answer, but if I lied outright, the ink embedded in my skin would release a toxin into my bloodstream. It wouldn’t kill me, but it would have serious consequences. There was a time when a broken mark could cause death, but legislation and regulations had long since prohibited actual death marks.

  I headed over to Skin Scripts’s entrance, but before I opened the door I turned to Rex with a stern warning. “Not a word. Not a single word. Got it?”

  An exasperated look crossed his face, but he nodded in agreement, and we stepped inside to the tiny jingle of the bell above the door.

  Behind the counter, the darkling fae artist looked up from a sketch. His long fingers were splayed over a piece of heavy paper, holding it down while he drew with a charcoal pencil.

  Like the sidhé fae, the darkling fae possessed a fascinating, otherworldly skin tone—a sheen, a luminescent quality that put one in mind of pearls. And it was easy to tell them apart. The darkling fae’s skin tones were indicative of Charbydon—shades of gray, some with hints of blue and violets—while the sidhé possessed lighter skin tones that reminded me of a very pale human, except for the soft, pearly glow.

  Darklings were thin, too, with long, graceful limbs and large, slanted eyes with irises that ranged from the lightest sea green to the darkest shades of violet. This one gazed up at us with pale blue eyes painted with heavy black eyeliner. His black hair was short and spiky, and he had a wealth of tattoos and markings on both arms and around his neck.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  I cleared my throat. “I was wondering if you could tell me about ceremonial markings? The ones having to do with truth between two people, a vow not to lie … that sort of thing.”

  The guy didn’t blink an eye, but then, why would he? The things people came here asking him to do were a hell of a lot crazier than what I’d just asked.

  He turned in his swivel chair to the shelf of books lining the wall and pulled one out. He set it on the counter in front of us, flipping it open and skimming. It was an encyclopedia, a collection of ceremonial markings complete with
sketches, incantations, and definitions. “Any of these interest you?” He turned the book so I could read right side up.

  Rex leaned over my shoulder as I scanned the six sketches, finding one that was very similar to the mark on my shoulder—a curved, incomplete arrow-shaped symbol with two slashes and a dot, though it lacked the correct combination of slashes and dots.

  “We can do them in traditional tattoo inor we can do them in Throne Tree ink. Tats will run you about eighty, and the tree ink will cost you a couple hundred to a couple thousand, depending on what you want.”

  Rex pointed. “Ooh, I like this one.”

  “I’m not buying,” I said to the artist. “I already have one. I just want to know what the hell it means because it’s not on this page.”

  That caught his and Rex’s undivided attention. “Let me see,” they said at the same time.

  I drew in a deep breath, turned, and tugged my shirt down over my shoulder, exposing the mark on my shoulder blade. Since we shared a home together, Rex would see the mark eventually. The bigger deal I made about it, the more hell he’d give me.

  The artist came around the counter and studied the mark, letting out a low whistle. “You got this and you don’t know what it means?”

  Rex’s laugh and the smart-ass comment that was about to come out of his mouth died a premature death thanks to the murderous glare I gave him.

  “No,” I answered the artist, truthfully. “I know it’s a truth mark, but that’s about it.”

  “Well, it’s an old version of a truth mark, one that signifies truth between lovers or a mated couple. These are illegal for humans, you know that, right?”

  “The only illegal ones are the death marks,” Rex said, working it out for himself.

  I didn’t respond. I hadn’t known. And I seriously doubted Hank had known that either when he marked me. As angry as we both were at the time, he’d never intentionally give me a death mark. Although, since I was no longer one hundred percent human, I was pretty sure the ink wouldn’t work in the same way on me as it would on your average person.

  “That’s hard-core, man.” Impressed, the darkling went back behind his counter. “Your work’s not bad,” he told Rex, mistakenly attributing the mark to him.

  Oh boy.

  A blinding grin split Rex’s face. “Why, thank you. It keeps my old lady”—his hand dropped possessively onto my shoulder—“in line.”

  I gave the artist a tight smile and ground the heel of my boot into the top of Rex’s foot. He hissed, but I kept my attention firmly on the artist. “Is it normal for the mark to get warm when I’m near the person with the corresponding mark?”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  “How close do we have to be to feel it? Could I feel it if the guy was upstairs or in the building next door?”

  “You should, yeah.”

  My gut tightened into a wary ball. “What if he was that close and it didn’t respond at all?”

  “Then he isn’t where you think he is … or he’s dead.”

  Shit. “Thanks,” I said and then hurried out without another word.

  Rex caught up with me at Hank’s door. “So. He’s not up there or he’s dead. Not a whole hell of a lot you can do about either one, I’m thinking.”

  “Rex?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop thinking.” I faced him, finally at my Rex limit for the day. “In fact, stop talking. Stop egging me on.”

  “Fine,” he said without a hint of remorse. “Just admit you’re crushing on the siren and I will.”

  Count. Just count until you don’t want to wring his neck.

  I ignored Rex yet again and instead pressed Hank’s buzzer before stepping back, biting on the inside of my cheek and staring up at the dark windows. Come on, Hank. A light. A light coming on is all I want to see.

  Nothing.

  Growing more concerned by the second, I pulled out the spare key Hank had given to me for emergency purposes only, unlocked the door, and ran up the stairs.

  I hesitated at the landing, my heart pounding. The tat artist’s “dead” comment had my hand shaking as I shoved the key quietly into the lock. Hank couldn’t be … gone. I would know, would have felt it somehow. My mouth went dry.

  “Don’t say a word,” I whispered to Rex as I drew my weapon and then entered the spacious loft, concentrating on my senses, trying to feel any auras I didn’t recognize.

  I eased forward, noticing the place had been cleaned somewhat since our fight. The Throne Tree was upright and back in the corner of the dining room. The floor had been swept, though not totally free of debris, telling me that Hank had attempted the cleanup himself.

  I kept my weapon trained as I made my way slowly over the hardwood floor. I cleared every room and then went into the bedroom, all the while knowing he wasn’t there.

  I used the nozzle of the gun to push open the unlatched bedroom door and entered. The blinds were drawn, the room dark. I flicked the light switch on the wall near the door.

  Empty room. Empty bed. Sheets pulled back. A depression in the white pillow where Hank’s head had been. The initial wave of relief washed through me with such intensity that I slumped against the wall. I lowered my weapon and let it rest lamely against my thigh.

  His scent clung to the room: the subtle aroma of dryer sheets, the faint mix of fresh citrusy herbs used at the Bath House, the barest hint of cologne—the good kind, the kind that probably cost me a week’s worth of wages—and lurking below all of them was a very basic, very potent, very masculine note.

  “There. See? Happy now? He’s obviously awake and has gone out.” I didn’t move. Rex let out a loud sigh. “No signs of forced entry or a struggle. He woke up and he went out. Elementary, my dear Watson.”

  As I holstered my gun, Rex let out a soft “Oh.” And then, “Oh shit. He didn’t call and tell you he was awake.”

  “So? Hank doesn’t have to tell me every move he mkes, Rex.”

  If Hank was feeling better and had gone out … more power to him. He didn’t have to call me, didn’t have to tell me he was up and okay. I wasn’t his mother, his wife, or his girlfriend. We were friends and partners, and beyond that I wasn’t quite sure what we were.

  But I couldn’t lie—it would’ve been nice to hear from him.

  Alessandra was no doubt laughing her head off. I holstered my weapon and left the bedroom.

  “Come on, let’s go get Em. We can stop for ice cream on the way home.” Rex reached over my head to hold open the door.

  “You think this is an ice cream moment?”

  He paused, careful, as though treading on very shaky ground. “Umm … yes?” I didn’t respond. “No?” He searched his mind. “This is a Charlie needs to kick someone’s ass moment?”

  The hint of a smile tugged my lips. “No. You were right the first time. This is definitely an ice cream moment.”

  Because, damn it, I was crushing on the siren.

  He was awake, whereabouts unknown, and he hadn’t bothered to let me know.

  My cell rang at a quarter to midnight. Em was asleep. Rex was downstairs watching TV, and I was sitting on my bed in a tank top and underwear, reaching for the bedside lamp. My first thought was of Hank.

  I picked up the cell from the bedside table. As soon as I saw that it was the chief’s name flashed on the screen, I got up and went for my discarded clothes. “Hey, Chief.” I began tugging my jeans on, the phone trapped between my ear and shoulder.

  He wasn’t the chief of the Integration Task Force anymore. He was boss only to me and Hank and our small division on the fifth floor of Station One. But his old moniker wasn’t in any danger of dying out. He’d always be the chief to us.

  “Charlie.” His tone was deep and quiet. Not good. I sat on the bed to get my other foot into my jeans. “We have a situation.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Two jumpers. At the bottom of the Healey Building, Forsyth Street side.”

  I frowned. “Since that’s norma
lly the ITF’s problem, I’ll take it there’s something special about the jumpers?”

  “They were ash victims. Casey Lewis and Mike Everton.”

  I froze, jeans halfway up my thighs, hands still, and staring at nothing. It took me a second to process his words. “Anyone see them?”

  “Only the entire metropolitan area. It’s all over the news, online …” The chief’s heavy sigh crackled the speakers. “No one was up there with them, Charlie. They just held hands and … jumped. I don’t think I have to tell you what we might be up against.”

  I settled in because whenever the chief said that, it meant he was going to do the opposite.

  Fact is we got ten people hooked on ash. Ten people who are perfect hosts for possession because of that damn drug and the Sons of Dawn. After last week on Helios Tower, the cult’s been exposed; they know we’re coming after them. If Casey and Mike were possessed by the spirits of deceased Sons of Dawn members, the cult could’ve ordered the suicides, Charlie. It means they’re scared, scared one of them will talk. They don’t want us knowing the names of their high-ranking members. Anyone who might be possessed is now a liability.”

  I struggled to keep the shake from my voice. “We need to contact everyone, the other ten ash vics.” Not twelve anymore.

  “Already done. They know. We’ve got a man on the inside for those who agreed to it and guys on the outside for those who didn’t, whether they like it or not. If any of our ash vics go climbing rooftops or standing on bridges, our guys will stop them.”

  I continued getting dressed. “That won’t stop them from opening a vein over their bathroom sink or swallowing a handful of pills if they’re told to.”

  “I know. And as much as I hate to admit, there’s not a goddamned thing we can do about it. I can’t force a man into their homes.”

  “We have to find a damn exorcist and fast. Call outside the city, fly one here, whatever it takes.”