The Darkest Edge of Dawn

the distance and safety—the one at Ebelwyn’s apartment had totally freaked me out.

Skin Scripts also had a glass front where passersby could watch a patron get inked or branded, but most would agree the ceremonial markings were the best ones to watch. Done with the freshly cut twig of a Throne Tree shaved to a needle-fine point, the inside of which dripped an indigo-colored substance, the mark was scratched into the skin to form intricate symbols relating to vows, religion, or anything that was binding. And once the marks were made, there was no turning back—you were forever bound. Go back on your chosen vow and the Throne Tree ink embedded in your skin turned to poison.

Today, however, the patron inside, a young human male—a college student if I had to guess—was getting pierced in the navel by a darkling fae artist.

133 Helios Alley was accessed by a tall, black door sandwiched between the pet shop and Skin Scripts, the apartment above running the length of both businesses. I pressed the buzzer. “It’s open,” Hank’s deep voice crackled through the small speaker.

With a fortifying deep breath, I opened the door and jogged up the hardwood stairs. At the landing, I paused briefly, about to knock and ready myself, but the door swung open.

Hank stood in the doorway in an untucked white dress shirt, rolled to the elbows and open at the neck, with a tumbler glass filled with amber liquid and ice in his hand. He wore jeans, with a hole just above the right knee and the ends frayed to white threads at his feet, which were bare. He stood aside, inviting me into a professionally decorated apartment that struck me as being more a showplace than an actual lived-in home.

“You cleaned,” I said. Last time I’d been here, it looked like a cyclone had hit.

“Zara had it cleaned.”

He closed the door behind me. “Just grabbing some dinner. Figured we were going out again after you took care of Bryn.”

I followed him across hardwood floors and into the kitchen with its cherry cabinets, stainless steel everywhere, and a smooth cream and black marbled countertop. He stood behind the counter where an entire array of lunch meats, condiments, and toppings had been dumped. After a long drink, he set the glass down. “You want a sandwich?”

My stomach growled. Obviously the Doritos hadn’t cut it. “Sure.” I removed my jacket and my weapons harness, setting them on the stool next to me. “Just fix me whatever you’re making. What are you drinking?”

“Yrrebé.”

I made a face. The Elysian drink made from the Yrrebé root was not a favorite of mine. Way too bitter for my tastes. “That stuff is nasty.” And strong. “How many have you had?”

“Three. You want a beer or something?”

“I wish.” Unfortunately, I didn’t have the liver function of a siren. Alcohol went through their system so quickly that Hank could drink three Yrrebé on the rocks, experience a buzz, and be fine within the hour without any ill effects. “Why do you even bother?”

He shrugged. “Because it tastes good, and it helps me relax. Here, have a soda, then.” He pulled a Mountain Dew from the fridge and handed it to me. “How’s Bryn doing?”

Hank had to possess the same kind of crazy metabolism I did because he was in the process of making the biggest sandwich I’d ever seen in my life. It didn’t seem like he had any rhyme or reason to what he was doing either. Just picking pieces of lunch meats, piling them onto giant kaiser rolls, and building higher and higher …

“She’s sleeping. Aaron is with her. I’ve been going over everything in my head and can’t make the connection between the star and Solomon’s artifacts …” I spent the next five minutes filling him in on what Aaron had told me about Ahkneri, and then the next ten trying to eat Hank’s colossal sandwich creation.

“I think our next step should be visiting that jinn storyteller,” he said, polishing off the last bite, then taking a healthy drink from his glass. “Winter solstice is approaching, and I’ll bet Llyran is laying low until then.”

“I agree.” I finished the Mountain Dew and then dumped my paper plate into the trash can.

“You have a Throne Tree?” I asked, surprised to see the large potted tree in the corner of the dining room. It was obviously pruned and trained to that size because in Charbydon they grew to be over fifty feet high with heavy corkscrew limbs and smooth bark in shades of dark grayish blues.

He flicked a glance at the tree with its thin, leafless branches, the ends of which were pointed and often razor sharp, and nodded. “It was a gift …” He dumped his plate into the trash and then began cleaning up the chaos on the counter.

I glanced around, realizing how very little I came here—unlike Hank who was at my house every week, stealing something from the fridge or just stopping by to say hi to Emma—and how very little personal information I knew about my partner.

“A gift from whom exactly?” I slid back onto my bar stool as he turned his dark, enigmatic gaze my way. When he didn’t answer right away, I continued. “Why did Llyran call you Malakim on the terrace? And why did you leave Elysia to come here? And how do you and Pen know each other?”

He took the three steps to the counter where I sat and placed both hands on the smooth, cold surface. My blood pressure rose. If there was one being with the ability to unnerve me, it was this one. I could handle egos, ranting, fighting … but this quiet allure made it difficult to read him, to anticipate his thoughts and actions, and to control my own.

“Full of questions, eh? What’s this really about, Charlie?” His voice had dropped an octave, low and confident and easy. And buzzed on Yrrebé.

“It’s about realizing you know everything about me, and I know near to nothing about you. It’s all surface stuff.”

He shrugged, but a small grin tugged on one corner of his mouth, making a nice little dimple in his right cheek. “You never cared before. Why the sudden change?”

Heat shot to my cheeks. “There’s no change … I was just curious.” I sat back and crossed my arms over my chest, embarrassed by how lame that sounded.

He slid his hands across the cool surface of the granite, leaning on his elbows and eye level with me. I held my ground, instantly drawn into the way his eyes started to change from sapphire blue to topaz blue. “You like me. Admit it.”

An instant sputter of denial erupted out of my mouth as he withdrew, looking like a damn Cheshire cat. He was trying his best to unsettle me, but he’d have to do more than that to get me unhinged. “Yeah, well, that’s the problem with sirens. They assume everyone likes them, and when one doesn’t they’re just so damned blind and ignorant, that no amount of denial can make them see the truth.”

“The truth being that you want me. Don’t lie. I can tell.”

I laughed without humor. “You’re drunk.”

A small smile played on his sensual lips as he finished cleaning up and put everything back into the refrigerator and cupboards. “Probably for the best anyway. Wouldn’t want you falling in love with me, bugging me at all hours of the day and night. Begging please, Hank, please. I need you nooooowwww …”

“Oh my God,” I said, rolling my eyes.

He wiped the counter, tossed the paper towel in the trash, and then placed one hand on the counter and the other on his hip, his smile fading. “The Throne Tree was a gift from my sister. I knew Pen as a child back in Elysia, but then lost track of him after I’d grown. Malakim is something I’d rather not talk about, and I came here to get away from my family because, when it comes right down to it, I’m a selfish asshole. So there you have it. Anything else?”

He stood there, waiting, his irises returning to their familiar hard blue.

I couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t move, yet every instinct was telling me to run. The air became charged with a dangerous mix of awareness and potent masculinity. I’d become prey—caught, stunned by the sheer beauty and power of his being.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed, heart pounding through my eardrums. “Stop using your siren crap on me.”

His jaw tightened and flexed. “I’m not.” He lifted both hands in an innocent gesture, but his expression said “I told you so.” My reaction had just proved his point—I wanted him, and he hadn’t done a damn thing except stand there and be … Hank. That alone would’ve made most women cave, but I wasn’t most women, I was his partner.

“You’re an ass. A schizophrenic ass.” I hopped off the stool. “One minute you’re normal, the next you’re all