The Hour of Dust and Ashes (5 page)

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 ink or 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 makes, 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 normally 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.”

“Sian’s here right now,” he said. “She’s been on the phone for the last hour. The exorcists’ union has issued a warning to all registered members not to come to Atlanta. They know that several exorcists have already fled the area and some have gone missing. It’d take a miracle to get one to come here right now.”

Or a whole lot of cash.
“Tell her to keep trying. Offer them whatever they want. I’m heading to the scene now.”

“Look.” His voice dropped. “I know you’re worried about Bryn, but she’s fine. She’s been called, and the League knows what’s going on. There’s a guard in her room. You just get to the Healey and find out what you can.”

After I agreed and hung up the phone, I sat back on the bed and pulled on my boots, debating on whether or not to call Bryn anyway. I knew she was sleeping.
With a whispered curse, I picked up the cell and hit her speed dial number.

She picked up on the sixth ring. “Charlie.” Her voice was groggy.

I went to my mirror, dragged my fingers through my chin-length hair, tucked one side behind my ear, and then left the room. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah.” She yawned. “I’m fine. Are you?”

No. I feel like putting my fist through a wall or, better yet, murdering Grigori Tennin.
“I’m okay. Just checking in. Someone there with you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. I don’t want you doing anything alone, even going to the bathroom. I mean it. Leave the door open. Just don’t be alone. Please. Promise me.” I left my room and walked down the hallway.

“I promise.”

A relieved breath escaped me. “Okay, thanks. I’ll come by first thing tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Now let me talk to your guard.” As expected, she sighed into the phone. But I wasn’t taking any chances. If I couldn’t be there myself, I had to know she was being protected, even if it was from herself.

After talking to her guard, saying my piece, and being assured Bryn would not make a move without his knowing, I hung up, clipped my cell on my hip, and inched open Emma’s bedroom door. Our adopted hellhound lifted his gray head.

“Just me, Brim,” I whispered under my breath.

His eyes caught the light from the hallway and flashed red. He blinked in that quiet way of his and then resumed his position on the rug by my daughter’s bed. Those two shared an incredible bond. Brim and I would never so close that we could communicate without words, but ever since he’d given his life to protect me on Helios Tower and I brought him back from the brink of death … well, I loved that ugly beast and I got the feeling he might just love me too.

I crept to Emma’s bed, brushed the hair from her temple, and kissed her softly, not worried about waking her; the kid slept like the dead.

After closing her door, I went downstairs and headed toward the living room, where the blue glow of the TV told me Rex was either still watching or had fallen asleep.

I went for the hall closet, pulled out my shoulder harness, and then walked into the living room. Rex was stretched out on the sofa, hands folded over his chest and out cold. I nudged his leg. Nothing. “Rex.”

“Hmm?” His eyes didn’t open.

“I have to go to work.” I picked up the remote and turned off the TV. “Not sure when I’ll be back.”

“Hmm. Fine. I’ll take Em to school …”

“Rex. There
is
no school. It’s Christmas break.
Rex
.”

“Huh. Yeah. Break. Sure. Hey, turn off the TV, will ya.”