The Darkest Edge of Dawn

returning a few moments later. “You can go down.”

Casually I swung around and smiled—the twisted smile I reserved for sarcasm and assholes—and then strode to the door that would lead me into what I liked to call the First Level of Hell.

Damp. Hot. The distinct scent of jinn—tar, and lots of it—assaulted my nose along with the heavy mix of wet dirt and wood smoke as I went down a long flight of wooden steps that led into the jinn’s subterranean village beneath Underground. The walls and chambers had been carved straight out of the bedrock beneath the city, supported by massive beams and arches. Long, vaulted corridors curved out of view, the main one leading into the vast central chamber where Tennin held court and the jinn gathered. Ventilation shafts pulled smoke from the rooms. Running water was fed in through pipes. Food was prepared on spits and in pots over open fires. To be in the tribe meant keeping to the old ways as much as possible. Only the jinn who were wanderers or rogues took more to mainstream society, but there weren’t many of those around.

A male guard met me at the base of the steps and then led me to the main corridor. Two months ago, Hank and I had made this same journey, passing open rooms where the jinn lived their daily lives, where I’d once seen them picking the petals off Bleeding Souls and tossing the bioluminescent centers into boiling pots—one of the steps to making ash. No honeysuckle-like smells this time, though.

As I stepped into the main chamber, I expected to find Tennin sitting at his dining table, dwarfing the female guards behind him. A few jinn warriors sat gathered around the large fire pit in the center of the room, but otherwise the chamber was empty.

One of Grigori’s personal female guards appeared from a small archway across the chamber. Not that he needed a guard. I’d learned firsthand that the tribal boss of a jinn tribe held absolute rule, and had the power to eliminate any tribe member with a simple thought. The guards were merely for show.

“This way,” she said, taking over, and then leading me back the way she’d come.

I followed her down another corridor, past several curtained rooms and wall torches that suggested this was a more personal area of the tribe’s abode. Beneath an archway, down another similar hall, and finally the guard stopped and pulled back a heavy multicolored curtain, ducking inside. The chamber was small, and thick with heat and humidity. A fire burned in a pit dug into the far wall.

Grigori Tennin lay facedown on a stone slab, his well-formed, intensely muscled backside completely bare, completely smooth and hairless just like his massive bald head. A human, mid-twenties if I had to guess, very petite and very pretty with chin-length red hair and pale skin that looked even paler next to his glistening, dark skin, massaged his enormous calf.

Tennin turned his head, resting the side of his face on his hands, the three gold hoops in his earlobe winking in the firelight. His violet eyes held a wealth of cunning. “Make an appointment next time, eh?” He sounded highly amused, though I couldn’t tell if he found his words funny, or the fact that I was here in his massage parlor funny. “Harder, Missy!” he barked as she moved to the back of a rock-hard thigh. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of her red face. “Good. Good. So, Charlie … Miss Detective … what you want this time? Shall we bargain again?”

I let loose a bitter laugh. “That second debt, the one where you beat the shit out of my ex-husband, we didn’t bargain on that,” I said tightly.

He rose onto one elbow. “Ah, but I did. When we bargained, I simply said I hadn’t decided yet on what the second debt would be. You agreed. Then, I made my decision. End of story, as they say. But he lives, eh? So all is good for you.” He put his head back down and closed his eyes.

“Yeah, if you call being stuck inside a body you can’t control living.”

One eye popped open, surprised, and then narrowed in a calculating way. “You don’t say?”

“Cut the bullshit, Tennin. We both know you’re not surprised. You want to tell me about the warehouses?”

“Which ones? I own many, you see.”

I sighed, wondering why I was even bothering. “You sent Ebelwyn into the warehouse. You knew what he’d find.”

“So what if I did? I own them, nothing more. You figure it out. You’re the detective, no?”

I wanted to hit him. Really, just whale on him until that smug look was off his face completely. “I’d like to speak to your Storyteller,” I said.

Grigori’s thick head cocked slightly, and one hand came up to scratch his skull, the red gemstone in his ring flashing. “No,” he said simply, and that was that.

“No?” I repeated, growing more irate by the second.

“You hard of hearing, Detective? I said no. Now you go away.”

“No.” Heat of a different kind surged through my limbs, gathering in my chest. “After all the bullshit you’ve pulled. Supplying ash. Getting people hooked to the point where they can’t function without it? Working with Mynogan to bring darkness to the city—”

A small grin played on his face. “Now why you think I had anything to do with that?”

“Because I got your fucking flowers. I know you had something to do with it, you sonofabit—”

The guard’s blade was at my throat before I could finish the word. Missy the masseuse stilled, her eyes widening. And Grigori Tennin? He just watched me, eyed me so closely that I felt like he could see the angry blood racing through my veins and the chaotic power coiling and screaming for release. I wanted to swallow, but didn’t dare.

Another jinn entered, took stock of the situation, shrugged, and then walked to Tennin and whispered in his ear. The hint of victory in his eyes wasn’t missed. After the jinn left, he turned his attention back to me and motioned to the guard to remove her blade.

“I change my mind. You can see the Storyteller.”

“Just like that?”

He shrugged. “Yes, Charlie Madigan. Just like that.” He laid his head back down, dismissing me.

When I didn’t move, the guard shoved me toward the curtain, knocking me out of my frozen fury. I nearly tripped, but made it out of the chamber without falling on my face or losing control of my powers—as much as I’d wanted to. My anger was slowly tempered by confusion as I was led through a maze of tunnels and chambers. Why had he changed his mind so suddenly?

We came to another curtained chamber. The guard pulled the frayed material back and I ducked inside, finding myself in a small, low-ceilinged chamber that smelled like smoke, onions, and chili. A small fire burned in a pit in the center of the room, releasing sparks that floated to the ceiling and eventually got sucked into the ventilation shaft. A pallet lay against one stone wall, and a small writing table against another. Shadows licked and danced on the earthen walls.

An aged jinn female stooped over the fire pit, her back to us. With jerky movements, she shoved at the fire with a stick, creating several loud pops and sending an eruption of sparks into the air. The guard dropped the curtain and stayed outside of the chamber, leaving me alone in the room with the old Storyteller.

“Come, come. Come closer,” she said, not turning around.

Her long, gray braids were flecked with dirt and pencil shavings, the ends tied off with strips of beaded leather. She wore a brand-new, puffy white ski jacket and a long, stained skirt that had seen better days.

I came around her left side and took up space across the fire pit. There was a pot hanging in the center, the source of the chili smell. “You want a story, eh?” She lifted her eyes, one violet, the other glazed over in blindness. She sighed, her face sinking back into the deep frown lines that curved around her mouth and eyes. “They all wants a story from Vendelan Grist. None comes to see me otherwise.” Her head shook in disappointment. “Very well. Sit, sit.” She motioned with the glowing end of her stick to the low stones set around the pit, her one good eye gleaming with intelligence. “Once I was this great warrior, ya know? But that is more story, for later times. So what is it? What you want? I haven’t got all day, ya know.”

I pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to her as I sat down on a low stone, pulling my knees closer to my chest. “The story of Solomon,” I said, slipping my bangs behind my ears and settling in.

“Ah.” She nodded in approval, stuffing the bill into her coat. “That’s a good one, yes. The great king himself. The half-breed. Born of the jinn High Chief and a human mother, much like our Sian.” She laughed, poking the fire again and making it crackle. “But in those days, he was a god to the jinn. Male of two worlds, ya know? A king who wanted to rule the land, to break the yoke of the nobles, and bring the jinn to greatness.”

“I thought he captured the jinn, used them as his slaves, commanded them.”