The Hour of Dust and Ashes (13 page)

“We’re running out of time, Doc. If you can cure them of the
ash
addiction, they’ll be strong enough to fight off what’s inside of them.”

“I know, Charlie.” He let out a weary sigh. “I know.”

As we stepped back in the room, I saw that Em had taken up Titus’s earlier position on the other side of Amanda’s bed.

“Can I stay here for a while?” she asked as soon as she saw me. “I don’t have school.”

“I can drive her home later,” Marti offered. “I’ll have to go home and change at some point anyway.”

I met my daughter’s eyes. They were hopeful, soft, worried … “Sure. You can stay.” I turned to Marti. “Rex should be home, but have Emma call him when you’re on the way. I don’t want her home alone.”

Marti nodded, and my chest ached for her. I knew what it was like, to fear for your child’s life, for your hands to be tied, and there was nothing you could do but wait. Mentally and emotionally, it was the toughest thing I’d ever had to deal with.

Emma crossed the room and gave me a tight hug, which I returned wholeheartedly. She gave me strength and she didn’t even know it. “You’re wearing all your amulets, right?” She nodded. “Good. I’ll see you after work, then. Call me if you need to.”

I paused in front of Marti, unsure. Wanting to give her some words of comfort, some support; but I froze up. I didn’t know what to say to make her feel better. First Amanda had almost died from ingesting
ash,
then her husband had been involved with the drug—using one of Titus’s labs to manufacture it into an easily ingestible form—then he’d fled the country, leaving his wife and daughter. Now this …

“She’s a strong kid. She’ll be okay,” I said, feeling
my words were so inadequate, but needing to say them anyway. She gave me a grateful nod.

On my way out, I stopped at the nurses’ station, flashed my badge, and told them to keep Amanda in the restraints. She wasn’t to get out of that bed, not even to use the bathroom. It was catheters and bedpans until we figured this thing out.

Amanda might be the one in restraints, I thought as I walked out of the hospital, but it sure as hell felt like it was
my
hands that were tied. I paused just outside of the main doors, glancing up at the rolling darkness above me. My mood was gray like the sky.

How do I fix this?

Ash
had only been on the market for a few weeks before we’d gotten it taken off the streets, but in that short time it had long-lasting, devastating effects. All because of some stupid flower—the Bleeding Soul,
Sangurne N’ashu,
an extremely rare, bioluminescent flower from Charbydon.

Cassius Mott was gone, Mynogan was dead, and the only other person of the three responsible for putting
ash
on the market was Grigori Tennin.

And he was right here. In my city.

And he was about to get another visit from a very pissed-off, potentially divine ITF officer.

Hank was waiting for me at the plaza in Underground. I’d called him from my car, but I didn’t need to see him to know he was there; I felt him, my mark going annoyingly warm and happy.

He was rising from his seat on the fountain before I cleared the steps—the siren felt it, too.

As Hank straightened to his full height, he drew the gaze of at least a dozen eyes. Men, women, kids, all drawn to him by something they couldn’t control, all willing to jump off a cliff for him and thank him going down. All he had to do was ask.

One of Titus’s many inventions, the torque-like device worn by Hank and every other siren by law subdued the majority of their potent voice, but not all of it. And it didn’t do a damn thing for the natural lure that seemed to emanate from every pore.

Also annoying.

Hank shoved his hands into his leather jacket and strode forward as I came down the last step, the zing from being so exposed to the darkness above lessening, now replaced by a different kind of zing. I bit down hard, clenching my teeth and stealing myself against the sudden one-two punch—first butterflies, followed by a sharp stab of heat, which I refused to define as lust.

He wore khaki cargo pants, black combat boots, and a white T-shirt beneath a blue button-down shirt that set off his tanned skin. His wavy blond hair curled past his ears, brushing his collar. He hadn’t bothered to shave, which I liked.
A lot
. It gave him a rugged appearance. Unkempt. Wild. Slightly bohemian.

I rolled my eyes.

Yes, I liked Hank. I knew it. He knew it. But it would’ve been nice to feel unaffected in the midst of work. Once I saw him as someone
other
than my partner, I’d fallen down the rabbit hole, on a fast track to wanting it all. It was confusing and quick and so unlike me …

His blue eyes glittered as he approached. One corner of his mouth was drawn into a knowing smile. I frowned harder, clamping down on my emotions and aura.

Hank stopped in front of me. “How are the Motts holding up?” The words were deep and rich, and lowered to an unnecessarily intimate tone.
No, a concerned tone, so maybe you should stop imagining things and get on with it.

I stepped around him, focusing on crossing the plaza as he fell in step beside me. “As well as can be expected,” I answered, looking straight ahead. “Amanda should pull through as long as she stays under watch and in the restraints.”

“Em doing okay?”

Some of my ire deflated. “She’s worried … I wish—”

“Wish what, Charlie?” When I didn’t answer, he said, “It doesn’t make you weak to say how you feel.”

I shot him a flat look. “I
do
know that.”

Usually, I wasn’t one for lamenting things beyond my control. But I’d taken all I could take. The Sons of Dawn had been behind everything, from creating me to be the only being in all three worlds capable of bringing darkness to the city, to letting
ash
loose upon the population, to making puppets out of its victims …

I went a few more steps before I finally answered. “It’s just that … all this crap they’ve put into play from the very beginning … I just wish it was over. Wish they had picked someone else.”

Everything that had happened since I died and was brought back ten months ago had been, in one way or another, the cult’s doing. Their plan. Their interference in my fucking life. And I was sick of it.

“You don’t mean that,” Hank said quietly.
You’d be dead if they had picked someone else to revive,
was his un-spoken thought; I could hear it in his voice. I knew it, but I needed to rant, to get it out.

“It’s not like there aren’t other people out there with off-world blood in their family tree. Any one of them could’ve survived the gene manipulation and been able to complete the darkness ritual just as well as me …”

I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and let out a loud sigh. “But … no,” I admitted, belligerently. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone and I know I wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t interfered.”

If I’d been conscious before my heart stopped, if Titus and Mynogan had stood above me and offered me life or death, knowing exactly what I’d be getting into, I would’ve agreed. I’d do anything to keep my kid from suffering that kind of loss.

“That was their first mistake—choosing you,” Hank said softly, his shoulder knocking mine for a moment as we walked around a jewelry cart. “No one else would’ve been able to do what you did, Charlie. Defeat Mynogan. Stop the ritual before it spilled darkness over
more
than just Atlanta. I bet the cult is kicking itself for involving you.” His voice went firm. “The bastards created the very thing that will destroy them.”

I did a mental blink, nearly bumping into a shopper who’d stopped to window-shop. The absolute surety of Hank’s tone and the fact that he thought this way about me … It was nice hearing it out loud. It took me several seconds to respond. And then when I opened my mouth I didn’t have any words.

We fell into an easy silence, both lost in our own
thoughts and emotions as the light grew dim and the air thickened. If Underground was the heart of the off-world population in Atlanta, then Solomon Street was Charbydon central. Home to a few nobles, some ghouls, and a large population of jinn, darkling fae, and goblins.

The street grew darker as we went. Years ago, the Charbydons had petitioned the city for the right to burn open fires on Solomon Street. They used the fires for light, for cooking, for warmth, for getting rid of things … It was part of their lifestyle, something that they didn’t want to give up. So in went ventilation shafts and city-approved fire barrels, and up went the soot and grime to cover the glass of every street lamp, giving the Charbydons a world that mimicked their own—sweltering, smoky, dark.

The jinn had gone one step further, and dug a subterranean village out of the bedrock beneath Underground, a maze of corridors, chambers, and dwellings that reflected the way they lived in Charbydon. Here, tribal customs and laws ruled.

The main entrance to the jinn’s underground territory, which I’d dubbed The First Level of Hell, was located at the dead end of Solomon Street, Grigori Tennin’s base of operations, the Lion’s Den—a gambling house, bar, and strip club.

Sweat formed on the small of my back as I walked down the street. The smoke from the fires made it hard to breathe; the city needed to overhaul the ventilation system big-time. The scent of
tar hung heavy here—a telltale sign of a large jinn population. Like on the other streets and alleys in Underground, doors were thrown open, sales carts rolled slowly over the brick pavers, music and voices blended into a chaotic hum.

It was too early in the morning for the Den to be open for business, but that didn’t stop Hank from opening the heavy iron-and-wood door. No need to lock up—everyone knew who owned the place, and you’d have to be an idiot or looking to get yourself tortured and killed if you took from the boss himself.

Inside, the space was quiet and empty. Our footsteps thudded loudly on the planked floor as we made our way past tables, the bar, and to the door that led below.

“After you,” Hank said.

I stepped through the open door and then went carefully down a flight of wooden stairs. A female jinn, part of Tennin’s personal guard, turned and glanced over her shoulder. She wore traditional jinn war regalia and was just as deadly and strong as her male counterparts. When they said
warrior race
, they weren’t kidding.

“We’re here to see Tennin,” I said.

Her violet eyes assessed us, unimpressed. And why should she be—she was six feet tall, armed, and had biceps that rivaled Hank’s. “This way.”

Deep, angry echoes filled the corridor, followed by the high-pitched crash of glass or pottery. Not unusual, as the jinn relished fighting and were quick
to anger. The sounds grew louder as we approached the main chamber, where Tennin usually had meals and held court. The Charbydon language was being shouted so loudly that it vibrated off the bedrock walls—echoing and bouncing and filling the subterranean village.

As we entered the chamber, I immediately noticed Sian standing near Tennin’s great wooden table. Her eyes flashed to mine in alarm, and she warned me with a slight shake of her head as Grigori Tennin threw another jar at the massive fireplace across the chamber, his booming Charbydon words jolting through me.

I understood none of it. But I did understand the tension and fright filling the massive space, emanating from the other jinn gathered in the room. I flinched as another vase crashed into the bedrock wall and rained pieces down over the floor.

The guard turned and went to usher us back out of the chamber, her face a shade paler than before. But before she could do so:

“YOU! CHARLIE MADIGAAAAAAN!”

Shit.

It got so quiet I could hear Tennin’s ragged breathing from where I stood.

Slowly, I turned, swallowed, and leveled my voice. “Tennin.”

His thick chest and shoulders rose and fell as he panted like a raging bull. His gigantic fists clenched and unclenched, his face a dark gray mask of seething jinn rage. His eyes glowed red violet and scary
as hell. Veins swelled and ran over his temples and over his smooth bald skull. His earrings flashed in the firelight.

In front of the fireplace, scattered over the floor, were remnants of alabaster jars. Tennin strode to the table and grabbed the last intact jar in his big hand.

And then it hit me. My eyes grew round. I knew what that was. A spirit jar.

Tennin grinned, feral and evil, his white teeth flashing. He tossed the jar and caught it again. Christ, Aaron was right. I glanced at the debris on the floor. How many had there been? Had they been empty when he threw them? Or full?

Better question, though: why was Tennin destroying the jars?

“Another
ash
victim tried to kill herself this morning,” I said slowly, observing his reaction. “But then, you already know that, don’t you?”

Hank chuckled, completely devoid of humor and full of hostility. Sian’s indigo eyes went wide and more frightened than before. I glanced over as realization settled warily in my gut. Tennin had planted an axe in Hank’s back during the battle on Helios Tower. And Hank, obviously, hadn’t forgotten.