The Darkest Edge of Dawn

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Yesterday I’d wondered who the hell I was, and this morning I had to wonder what the hell was happening with my partner.

“You and I, whatever this is, is …” His hand dropped from my waist to drag his fingers through his hair, looking beyond me for a moment before turning his face back to me. “I can’t stop thinking what it would’ve been like—your tongue in my mouth.”

I blinked as heat ebbed all the way into my bones. I finally managed a swallow as a lightheaded sensation made me sway slightly on my feet. “Are you using your siren crap on me?”

“No. But think of all the fun we’d have if I did.” His irises turned diamond-blue.

“Did your head not heal correctly? Are you trying to get me in trouble? Trying to ruin our friendship?”

“I’m trying to get your tongue in my mouth.”

The rational part of my brain was about to vacate the premises. “Please stop saying that.”

“Why, does it affect you, Charlie?” He leaned down and nuzzled my earlobe ever so lightly, breathing his hot breath on my neck, just grazing my cheek with his day-old stubble.

A delicious shiver went through me. “No, no it doesn’t.” My knees were about to give out. He laughed against my neck, his lips brushing my skin and making me grab onto his hips for balance.

“We should at least explore whatever this is between us. Once and for all.”

I looked up at him in a daze. “Once and for all,” I repeated. “Explore.” Man, that word conjured up all kinds of possibilities.

“I’m a great explorer, you know.” His lips spread into a broad, white smile as though he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

And then I understood.

“You’re an asshole.” I stepped back, consumed in heat, heart pounding, but relieved that he’d been totally playing me. “And that was the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard in my life. Does that actually work for you?”

Hank’s rich, deep laughter nearly did me in. His grin was absolutely shameful. Then he licked his thumb and pointer finger and trailed them over his eyebrows and said, “I know. Pretty slick, right?”

“Idiot. Who are you and what have you done to Hank?” I shoved him back. “Just give me the damn file, will you?”

“What? I figured you’d be all embarrassed after succumbing to my incredible charm yesterday. Look, it happens. No big deal. Just trying to lighten an awkward moment.”

“You sure it wasn’t a little payback for nearly drowning you?”

“That, and the water in the face … But really, we should talk about—”

“No. No more talking. I’ve had enough of your talking for one day.”

He let out a disappointed sigh. “Fine. You’ve killed all the fun this morning.”

“Fun? You do know my kid ran away this morning, right? And you call getting me all worked up fun? Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had any fun? ’Cause if you did, then you wouldn’t be doing this to me. Oh, no wait. Yes you would … because you’ve lost your fucking mind! Whatever happened to having a little sympathy for those of us who can’t go out every night, snap our fingers, and magically get lai—”

Hank’s shoulders shook with his laughter, his dimples deep and his eyes crinkling at the corners, and it really bugged the piss out of me that he looked so good while laughing at me while I was sure I was red-faced and frazzled.

“Just give me the fucking file.” He handed it over, finally. “Thank you.”

“So did I really get you all worked up?”

“Shut up, Hank.” I leaned against his car, next to him, as he wiped at his eyes, opening the file, my mind gripped with images of murdering my partner in slow, painful, agonizing ways.

It took a long moment for me to calm down on the inside and regroup, to get my head wrapped around work. I flipped through the first two pages of personal health information and vitals, wondering if everything Hank had said, every expression he wore had been a joke. Because some of it seemed completely genuine. Either that or he was one hell of an actor.

I stole a quick glance at him as his gaze turned toward the warehouse, his rugged profile unreadable. I was totally losing it. Losing control over my body, my responses, my common sense, my ability to read people.

Work, Charlie. Focus on work.

Health form. A copy of Llyran’s faked visa. Family history, which was pretty scarce. Photos and measurements. EKG. Brain scans. Then I came to the glossy photographs.

“Holy hell.”

Tattoos. Small, black script running down both sides of his torso and one hip. Ancient writing.

“Thought you’d like that,” Hank said.

“It’s the same as on the warehouse walls.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have a clue what it means. The folks at the Fernbank are expecting us in a little while and we still have that second warehouse to check out. You ready to get to work?”

I glanced at my cell, thinking I’d felt it vibrate, hoping that maybe it was Emma. But it was just wishful thinking.

“Hey, Madigan?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Em’s going to be fine.” He steered me around the front of my vehicle. “She’s a good kid and she has a great mom. It’s just growing pains. You guys will work it out.” He opened the door for me. “Get in. I’ll follow you back to the station so you can park, and then we’ll take my car to the museum.”

I gave him a half-smile, appreciating his attempt to make me feel better.

Our footsteps clicked loudly along the polished tiled hallway of the Fernbank Museum and down a second flight of stairs where a musty smell hung in the air. We passed labeled doors with names and titles—offices for the curators, archaeologists, anthropologists, paleontologists, restoration department, collections …

As we rounded a corner, a figure stood outside of an open doorway, the light from inside spilling over a tall, rail-thin female with pearly white skin that took on a glow in the light, large almond-shaped eyes, and white hair braided down her back. An Elysian. A sidhé fae. And an Elder, if I had to guess as we drew closer. Very elusive and very rare to see outside of Elysia.

“I am Cerise.” Her eyes, with their unusual light pink irises, appraised us slowly. “I take it you’re the Detective Williams I spoke with over the phone?” she asked, extending her slim hand to Hank. Her accent sounded similar to French, but with an Irish lilt.

“Thank you for opening the lab, Cerise,” Hank said warmly. “This is my partner, Charlie Madigan.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said as I shook her thin, bony hand, surprised to find it strong and warm, and getting a good vibe from her. Her aura was a mix of white, pinks, and purples. “Please come in. We haven’t touched anything in here, so it’s exactly as Daya left it the last day she was here.”

We stepped inside Daya’s lab to find a cluttered room with a small desk, computer, and a large center work table covered in dirt traces and small chunks of hardened earth. “What was she working on?” I asked, walking slowly around the room.

“Daya was restoring an eighth-century amphora from a site off the Turkish coast. She specialized in object restoration—stone, ceramics, metals …”

“Did you know she was freelancing as well?” Hank asked, leafing through the files on Daya’s desk. “Using her lab and museum resources?”

“Yes. We were well aware. Daya was permitted to use the lab and her tools for her freelance work, but only ‘off the clock,’ as you say. She was very excited about her most recent project.”

Hank and I turned at the same time. “Which was?” I asked.

Cerise walked to the table and placed both hands on the edge of the work surface. Dirt clung in the grooves and cuticles around her short fingernails and beneath. “Artifacts with great historical significance.” Disappointment settled over Cerise’s beautiful features. “I was hoping she’d taken them home with her. We haven’t been able to find them here. They were extremely rare. Do you believe this was the reason she was killed?”

I folded my arms over my chest, more intrigued by the second. “They were that important? Rare enough to