The Hour of Dust and Ashes

“I’m not buying,” I said to the artist. “I already have one. I just want to know what the hell it means because it’s not on this page.”

That caught his and Rex’s undivided attention. “Let me see,” they said at the same time.

I drew in a deep breath, turned, and tugged my shirt down over my shoulder, exposing the mark on my shoulder blade. Since we shared a home together, Rex would see the mark eventually. The bigger deal I made about it, the more hell he’d give me.

The artist came around the counter and studied the mark, letting out a low whistle. “You got this and you don’t know what it means?”

Rex’s laugh and the smart-ass comment that was about to come out of his mouth died a premature death thanks to the murderous glare I gave him.

“No,” I answered the artist, truthfully. “I know it’s a truth mark, but that’s about it.”

“Well, it’s an old version of a truth mark, one that signifies truth between lovers or a mated couple. These are illegal for humans, you know that, right?”

“The only illegal ones are the death marks,” Rex said, working it out for himself.

I didn’t respond. I hadn’t known. And I seriously doubted Hank had known that either when he marked me. As angry as we both were at the time, he’d never intentionally give me a death mark. Although, since I was no longer one hundred percent human, I was pretty sure the ink wouldn’t work in the same way on me as it would on your average person.

“That’s hard-core, man.” Impressed, the darkling went back behind his counter. “Your work’s not bad,” he told Rex, mistakenly attributing the mark to him.

Oh boy.

A blinding grin split Rex’s face. “Why, thank you. It keeps my old lady”—his hand dropped possessively onto my shoulder—“in line.”

I gave the artist a tight smile and ground the heel of my boot into the top of Rex’s foot. He hissed, but I kept my attention firmly on the artist. “Is it normal for the mark to get warm when I’m near the person with the corresponding mark?”

He nodded. “Yep.”

“How close do we have to be to feel it? Could I feel it if the guy was upstairs or in the building next door?”

“You should, yeah.”

My gut tightened into a wary ball. “What if he was that close and it didn’t respond at all?”

“Then he isn’t where you think he is … or he’s dead.”

Shit. “Thanks,” I said and then hurried out without another word.

Rex caught up with me at Hank’s door. “So. He’s not up there or he’s dead. Not a whole hell of a lot you can do about either one, I’m thinking.”

“Rex?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop thinking.” I faced him, finally at my Rex limit for the day. “In fact, stop talking. Stop egging me on.”

“Fine,” he said without a hint of remorse. “Just admit you’re crushing on the siren and I will.”

Count. Just count until you don’t want to wring his neck.

I ignored Rex yet again and instead pressed Hank’s buzzer before stepping back, biting on the inside of my cheek and staring up at the dark windows. Come on, Hank. A light. A light coming on is all I want to see.

Nothing.

Growing more concerned by the second, I pulled out the spare key Hank had given to me for emergency purposes only, unlocked the door, and ran up the stairs.

I hesitated at the landing, my heart pounding. The tat artist’s “dead” comment had my hand shaking as I shoved the key quietly into the lock. Hank couldn’t be … gone. I would know, would have felt it somehow. My mouth went dry.

“Don’t say a word,” I whispered to Rex as I drew my weapon and then entered the spacious loft, concentrating on my senses, trying to feel any auras I didn’t recognize.

I eased forward, noticing the place had been cleaned somewhat since our fight. The Throne Tree was upright and back in the corner of the dining room. The floor had been swept, though not totally free of debris, telling me that Hank had attempted the cleanup himself.

I kept my weapon trained as I made my way slowly over the hardwood floor. I cleared every room and then went into the bedroom, all the while knowing he wasn’t there.

I used the nozzle of the gun to push open the unlatched bedroom door and entered. The blinds were drawn, the room dark. I flicked the light switch on the wall near the door.

Empty room. Empty bed. Sheets pulled back. A depression in the white pillow where Hank’s head had been. The initial wave of relief washed through me with such intensity that I slumped against the wall. I lowered my weapon and let it rest lamely against my thigh.

His scent clung to the room: the subtle aroma of dryer sheets, the faint mix of fresh citrusy herbs used at the Bath House, the barest hint of cologne—the good kind, the kind that probably cost me a week’s worth of wages— and lurking below all of them was a very basic, very potent, very masculine note.

“There. See? Happy now? He’s obviously awake and has gone out.” I didn’t move. Rex let out a loud sigh. “No signs of forced entry or a struggle. He woke up and he went out. Elementary, my dear Watson.”

As I holstered my gun, Rex let out a soft “Oh.” And then, “Oh shit. He didn’t call and tell you he was awake.”

“So? Hank doesn’t have to tell me every move he mkes, Rex.”

If Hank was feeling better and had gone out … more power to him. He didn’t have to call me, didn’t have to tell me he was up and okay. I wasn’t his mother, his wife, or his girlfriend. We were friends and partners, and beyond that I wasn’t quite sure what we were.

But I couldn’t lie—it would’ve been nice to hear from him.

Alessandra was no doubt laughing her head off. I holstered my weapon and left the bedroom.

“Come on, let’s go get Em. We can stop for ice cream on the way home.” Rex reached over my head to hold open the door.

“You think this is an ice cream moment?”

He paused, careful, as though treading on very shaky ground. “Umm … yes?” I didn’t respond. “No?” He searched his mind. “This is a Charlie needs to kick someone’s ass moment?”

The hint of a smile tugged my lips. “No. You were right the first time. This is definitely an ice cream moment.”

Because, damn it, I was crushing on the siren.

He was awake, whereabouts unknown, and he hadn’t bothered to let me know.

My cell rang at a quarter to midnight. Em was asleep. Rex was downstairs watching TV, and I was sitting on my bed in a tank top and underwear, reaching for the bedside lamp. My first thought was of Hank.

I picked up the cell from the bedside table. As soon as I saw that it was the chief’s name flashed on the screen, I got up and went for my discarded clothes. “Hey, Chief.” I began tugging my jeans on, the phone trapped between my ear and shoulder.

He wasn’t the chief of the Integration Task Force anymore. He was boss only to me and Hank and our small division on the fifth floor of Station One. But his old moniker wasn’t in any danger of dying out. He’d always be the chief to us.

“Charlie.” His tone was deep and quiet. Not good. I sat on the bed to get my other foot into my jeans. “We have a situation.”

“Go ahead.”

“Two jumpers. At the bottom of the Healey Building, Forsyth Street side.”

I frowned. “Since that’s normally the ITF’s problem, I’ll take it there’s something special about the jumpers?”

“They were ash victims. Casey Lewis and Mike Everton.”