Shadows Before the Sun

open area where Hank, Sian, and I had our desks.

It was also where six delegates made up of civil rights attorneys, Federation representatives, and ITF officials happened to be standing—the same six who were supposed to be in Fiallan working toward the release of my partner.

That they were here now . . .

Oh, God.

3

“Charlie, calm down. Breathe.”

My eyelids slid closed at the chief’s words. If only I could.

I let my forehead rest on the drywall near my left hand, palm pressed flat against the surface. My other hand was sunk deep into the hole I’d just made. Pain radiated from the center of my chest in a burn so acute it felt as though my entire torso had become a boiling, poisonous cavity.

Breathe.

Just give me a minute, I wanted to say, but nothing came out. Just a minute to myself where all eyes weren’t on me. To regroup. To allow my wildly beating heart time to slow down. But they weren’t going to walk away until I accepted the complete and utter bullshit they were trying to feed me.

I jerked my fist from the hole in the drywall and turned to face them, these vile people, these . . . liars.

This isn’t happening.

This. Isn’t. Fucking. Happening.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, needing to hurt, to ground myself and force some focus into this nightmare. I glared at the small assembly crammed into our office and repeated what I’d said earlier, right before I hit the wall. “I don’t care what you say. You don’t have a single bit of evidence. No proof. Nothing at all to back this up.”

Argue with that, assholes.

But argue they did, softly and with pity. The arguing I could take, but the pity—not so much.

My gaze found the chief and latched on. He leaned back against the small kitchen counter and wiped the inside corner of his eye, his large shoulders sagging in defeat. My fists closed tightly. I wanted to scream at him. How could he give up so easily and accept what they were saying?

A woman stepped forward. Human. Classy. One of the attorneys, I remembered. Her hesitant look to my left where our resident ITF psychologist, Doctor Berkowitz, stood almost made me laugh. Like Berk could do anything. Like Berk could protect them if I went psycho.

“We’re truly sorry, Detective Madigan,” the attorney said. “I know your source identified Hank as being in one of the towers, but the Circe took us into each one. Your partner was not there. He was exec—”

“Don’t. Don’t say it. Just . . . don’t.”

But she pressed on. “Without Hank’s testimony, we have nothing to put pressure on Fiallan and the Circe to end the Malakim practice. Nor do we have any cause to bring a case against them for the execution of someone they consider a known traitor and murderer. One of the things that enables the Federation to function is respecting the cultures, customs, and laws of its members . . .”

Blah, blah, blah.

All I could focus on was the fact that she said the one word I told her not to say. What did she not understand about Don’t say it? I wanted to kill her for that, wanted to wrap my bare hands around her throat and choke off the lies spewing from her painted lips. It would feel good and right, justifiable after they just left him there and—

“Charlie.”

An echo, a whisper of my name, nothing more. I shrugged it out of my head and went back to considering murder.

A gentle hand touched my shoulder. I shrugged that off, too.

A second hand landed on my other shoulder. Hurt and anger filled me with a rush that stole my breath. A crash sounded somewhere far off. Power pushed at me, filling me, searing me from the inside out.

And, for once, I didn’t care.

I didn’t care that my power had become a beacon. Let Sachâth come. The weird shadow being I’d first encountered back in the oracle’s club was drawn to my power like a heat-seeking missile. Chances were good it’d knock me out and everything would turn into blackness like before. And blackness would be an easy escape.

No, some inner part of me rose up and said. Hank deserves more than you falling down now, Charlie. Stand and fight.

I tried to concentrate, to think, to battle against the sorrow and listen to that inner voice. I had to figure out what went wrong and fix it.

Had to fix it.

Because the idea that Hank was gone and would never come back . . .

Hot grief stabbed my chest as their words breached my defenses. We’re sorry to inform you, your partner was executed upon his arrival in Fiallan. There was nothing we could do . . .

A sharp pinch to my bicep made me flinch. I swatted at it, wishing they’d all just shut up and leave me alone. My face was wet and hot. I couldn’t see, couldn’t get enough air into my lungs.

They didn’t understand how it was. The bond of friends and partners, the things we’d been through, facing down death together, what that meant. If they were right . . . he didn’t deserve to go out like that. Not like that. Like a criminal. Hank . . .

The ache . . . the squeezing wouldn’t stop. I dropped to my knees. I leaned over until my forehead touched the carpet. My nails dug into the fibers. “It’s too short. This carpet is too short.” I couldn’t even grab it, pull at it.

“Charlie. Listen to me.” Berk placed her hand on my back. “You’re going to be all right.”

A wet laugh burst from my lips. Right. I fell slowly to the side until my face pressed into the floor.

“I gave you a shot, a sedative, something to calm you down.”

Someone sat down behind me and pulled the hair back from my wet face, and I knew it was Sian. She’d stayed in the corner, watching, always trying so hard to not draw attention to herself. But now she was here on the floor next to me, her lavender scent filling my nose and her strange, calming vibe working alongside the sedative.

And I just lay there. On the office floor, eyes open but unable to see.

He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead.

* * *

“Momma?”

Emma’s soft voice jerked me awake. I stayed still, the side of my head deep into my pillow, my brain feeling as heavy and overworked as a wrecking ball.

“Mom?”

“Yeah,” I forced out through scrunched lips.

The bed dipped with her weight as she sat behind me and put her hand on the comforter covering my hip. “How do you feel?”

“Peachy.” Just peachy. My gut clenched into an empty sour ball and I groaned. Once the romance wore off, sedatives and I had a hate/hate relationship. “Can you grab me some saltines?”

After she left, I rolled onto my back, threw off the comforter for cooler air, and cracked open my eyes to the sound of panting. Brim’s bald gray head rested on the mattress, his expression pathetic, worried, and hopeful. His tiny ears twitched as if trying to determine my state, and his rear end swayed back and forth as he wagged a tail he didn’t have.

I lifted my hand. Immediately the hellhound rooted my palm with his wet nose. “I’m fine, you big stinky beast.”