round showerhead on the ceiling and then turned to him to see him fumbling with the small buttons on his shirt.
I took over, fingers flying through the buttons and then removing it carefully, briefly touching hot skin and making me feel guilty again. Once his shirt was off, he straightened, trembling all over, blood seeping out of the small wound and over his flawless skin. Next I fumbled with the zipper and pulled his jeans down.
He held on to my shoulder as he stepped out of them. I glanced up to see he wore black boxer briefs. I straightened, avoiding his gaze, and pulled back the glass shower door.
“I’m fine now,” he muttered, but I helped him step into the shower, leaving the briefs right where they were. He gasped at the cool spray, the water thinning the blood on his chest as his arms went protectively up, his muscles tensing.
I swallowed. Seeing him weakened like this—my eyes stung—I’d almost killed him. And for what? Because I had to win? Couldn’t admit the truth that he so easily saw? “I didn’t know about the ink,” I said quietly.
He bowed his head and stepped fully under the rain shower, the water flattening his hair and running over his wide shoulders. “I know, Charlie.” He spit water from his lips and then stepped back, using both hands to rub his face and swipe the hair back off his forehead.
The mark on his chest was angry and red, but the cold water washed away the blood as soon as it surfaced. The other wound was worse, but he’d heal. Both wounds, however, would leave a scar. That was another one of the Throne Tree’s unique properties. Hank would heal on the inside—most likely in a few hours—but he’d carry the scars for the rest of his life. I tried not to think about my own mark, and the warm, sticky blood that soaked my back and shirt.
“Here, turn around,” Hank’s solemn voice jerked my gaze from his chest to his face. He held out a washcloth. Mutely I turned as he slowly lifted my shirt and pressed the cold, wet cloth against my mark. I hissed, but the initial sting was lessened by the cold.
He wrung out the cloth a few times, pressing it against the mark until finally it stopped bleeding. “You should take off the shirt,” he said. “You can borrow one of mine.”
I turned, stepping out of his reach and pulling the hem of my shirt back down. “It’s okay.” My gaze snagged on the tile under my feet for a long moment before I lifted my chin. “I’m sorry.” I frowned and shook my head. “I didn’t mean to fight, I just … I’m not … I don’t think I’m ready …”
“Don’t worry about it.” His attempt at a halfhearted smile came out as a pain-laced grimace. “That’s the last time I drink Yrrebé around you.” He shook his head, quiet for a moment, before saying, “I wasn’t thinking straight … about the mark.”
Two small dots of heat stung my cheeks. “What, um, kind of mark is it exactly?”
A slow exhale whispered through his wet lips as he turned regretful eyes on me. “It’s a truth mark.” My stomach dropped, my mouth opened, but he continued quickly, “We’ll make a pact not to ask each other anything that involves things of a personal nature. And if we mess up and ask, then don’t answer. The ink won’t respond unless you outright lie.”
My eyelids fluttered closed, and I shook my head in total disbelief at what we’d done. “I can’t believe this …”
“Yeah,” Hank echoed, one corner of his mouth dipping into a frown. “Me neither … So, pact?”
“Yeah. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Got it.”
“Same here.”
We skirted around the other issue—the intimate one—and that was fine by me. “I should go talk to the Storyteller.”
“Wait for me, Charlie.”
“We just wasted an hour with all this … mess. You’re in no shape to go anywhere. Stay and heal. I’ll call you after I’m done.” I left the bathroom to the sound of Hank’s soft curse, grabbed my jacket and harness off the stool, and hurried out of the apartment.
Only after my feet landed on the sidewalk of Helios Alley did I stop and allow myself to breathe. Holy hell.
I groaned, tucking the jacket between my knees as I slipped my arms into my weapons harness, glad for small miracles—the strap just missed the mark on my shoulder. I left my jacket off, not wanting to stain the inside with the wet blood on my shirt. I kicked a piece of glass off the sidewalk and into the dip of the curb, glancing up at the blown-out window and realizing how disheveled I must look—clothes twisted, hair a mess, soil all over me. Quickly I rearranged myself, redid my hair, and brushed the dirt from my clothes, then began the trek down Helios Alley toward the plaza.
Throne Tree ink could kill an Elysian. That was a little fact I hadn’t known, and I’d bet that most people didn’t. And I’d bet the only reason I learned of it was because I’d almost killed my partner. I’d seen a few of those trees before, but only in upscale residences and shops—apparently they were high-dollar due to the difficulties in cultivation and the cost of importing them.
I sensed the rain before I reached the plaza. And for once, I was too spent to react much to the raw power that misted over the plaza’s brick floor. It still tingled, still spoke to me, but not so intensely as usual. Probably because I’d just spent much of my power and energy fighting with my partner.
Or maybe sex was the key?
I laughed out loud, garnering weird looks from the two darkling fae standing near the soda machine as I headed toward Solomon Street.
I weaved my way through the chaos of Solomon Street on autopilot, lost in thought, my mind replaying events, thinking of all the things I
My steps slowed as I advanced on the Lion’s Den, Grigori Tennin’s base of operations. It occupied the long row of buildings at the dead-end street—a bar, strip club, and gaming house on two levels. I stopped in front of the door, squared my shoulders, and then opened the heavy wooden door while my other hand came to rest on my weapon.
A wave of humid, earth-scented air and jazz music hit me full on. My boots echoed over the planked floor; the old wood coupled with the heavy timber beams overhead gave the place a dark feel. Typical bar on Solomon Street, though. Steady business. Regulars, mostly jinn. Stripper on stage—this one jinn, undulating against a pole.
The jinn in the room only gave me a passing glance rather than the intent, almost violent regard they’d given me the last time I was here and reeking of a jinn sex-spell. The jinn warrior at the bar, however, fixed a harsh stare on me as he drew beer on tap for the two human males seated at the counter.
I made my way to the bar to the beat of sultry old jazz, which kept the place on a mellow keel, and gave the strippers something to writhe to. Two Pig-Pens—a male nymph and female siren—sat in the back corner. Black crafters. They’d given up their innate Elysian power for the dark power of Charbydon—a very complex ritual with very serious consequences. The thin, dark aura that surrounded them gave them their illustrious nickname.
“Detective,” the bartender said, laying both beefy hands flat on the old bar top, his shoulders hunching over and making him look like a water buffalo on steroids. All the jinn were massive, all with smooth skin that ranged from medium gray to dark pewter. Their violet irises ranged in hue, and the males were completely hairless, bald like this one. His arms were tattooed. He wore several rings on his fat fingers, and his earlobes were pierced several times. A typical jinn warrior.
“Your boss in?” I asked.
Jinn males were extremely chauvinistic to any females but their own, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “He’s busy.”
“He’ll want to see me.” I turned my back to the jinn, the ultimate in disrespect, and leaned back against the counter, eyeing the jinn stripper on stage wearing nothing but a leopard G-string and deerskin boots. If I had sleek muscles like that, I could do some serious damage. She had to be at least six feet tall, with gunmetal skin and angular bone structure. When I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the bartender had yet to move, I added, “Or I can start asking everyone here for their papers. It’s up to you.”
The bartender muttered under his breath in Charbydon, but he went to the phone and made the call,
