The Hour of Dust and Ashes

didn’t say was: covert division, license to use deadly force, no disclosure necessary, deal with it. Hank and I did what the ITF did not and could not. We cleaned up messes. We hunted down monsters. We killed that which fought to the death, that which could not be integrated into the prison system or stand trial, that which was a danger to society on a level far beyond the average criminal.

But the only thing I cared about now was that my badge opened doors. The officer stepped aside as I clipped the badge back onto my belt and proceeded to the sidewalk, just a few feet down from the grand entrance of the Healey.

I glanced up, the windows above me ablaze with light, with onlookers from above. Finding the broken one wasn’t hard. Twelve stories up. Guess they hadn’t bothered to go for the roof. No doubt the falling glass had alerted someone to start recording. Don’t call police. Don’t try to talk them down. Just turn on your camera and start filming. I’d never understand that mentality. Everything was reality porn these days—even a tragedy like this.

A thirty-something guy stood in the street talking to investigators. Eyewitness, maybe. Or could be the person who caught the footage. Might even be the owner of the car where one of the victims had landed. I’d find out later.

I turned my attention to the second “crash site” on the sidewalk, bracing myself and taking a hard analytical line to process the scene of blood, fluids, and brain matter with a detached approach. The body had already been bagged and was being hoisted onto a gurney.

“Great way to end the year, eh?” Liz came up beside me. “Looks like your average double suicide,” she said. m'> how was your Christmas?”

“Fine. Rex and I took Emma to Jekyll Island. We spent most of our trip on the beach in the sun. Nice getting away from the darkness for a while.”

“Tell me about it. I need to drive out for lunch on my next day off. Could use some real sunlight instead of this fake crap from a bulb …”

“What’d you do for Christmas?”

“Slept. All damn night. No one woke me until dinner. Best Christmas ever.”

“I thought you loved the night shift.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, about as much as paying full price for Beausoleils.”

“Never heard of them, but I’m guessing those are eyeglasses.”

She turned to look at me, giving a model-like wave at her face. “Yeah. You like?”

I studied the glasses she wore. The fifties-style secretary look she had going was cute on her small frame and Asian features. “I do. They’re very nice.”

“I know, right? So, two fatalities,” she said, switching gears. “Broke the window up there, twelfth story. Female landed on the Ford Fusion. The other on the sidewalk. Computer geek over there”—she indicated the guy I’d put on my radar earlier—“saw the glass fall and recorded it with his phone. Guys are up in the condo now, but so far no signs of a struggle, nothing to suggest this was anything but a suicide.”

“Who owned the condo?”

“The female. Lewis.” She scribbled on a piece of paper and then tore off the edge. “Here’s the male vic’s address. Heard Ashton talking about it. Said he was heading over to notify next of kin and see if the guy left any kind of warning. You know he won’t be too happy to see you.”

“Ashton’s never happy to see me. Didn’t you hear? I’m not only a Tri-racial Bitch, now he thinks I’m the Antichrist.”

Liz glanced up, her eyes narrowing. “Well, you can get scary.” I opened my mouth to argue that summation, but she cut me off. “But I find it cute, endearing, more like a rabid puppy than the Antichrist.” Her lips twitched.

“Ha ha.” I rolled my eyes.

“I would say one of these days Ashton will get over it, but I think we both know it’s a lost cause.”

Couldn’t argue with that one. Ashton Perry was one of ITF’s lead detectives. He’d never had a problem with me in all the years we worked together in the department, until I stopped being “one of them,” as he called it … until it was known that I had the genes of all three worlds in me, that I was the one who’d brought darkness to the city of Atlanta to save my kid from Mynogan, the now deceased Charbydon noble and Sons of Dawn cult member.

But more than anything else, Ashton hated that I’d taken a federal job, one where I didn’t answer to the department or the reigning chief. Ashton and everyone else in the ITF were on a need-to-know basis when it cae to my job. And Ashton hated that. He hated even more the fact that I now had the freedom to work on the really big cases, and that my new division had the power to take cases away from him, if necessary. Such was the power of Washington.

And Liz was right. He’d never let it go. He took every opportunity to insult me, call me out, push me to the edge, which usually involved insulting my daughter somehow. Asshole. “Well, he won’t see me at all,” I said. “I’d rather not deal with him making my life miserable. All he’ll know is that I was here nosing around.”

Liz chuckled. “You’ll be wanting autopsy details, yes?”

“As soon as you have them.”

“Will do. How’s Bryn holding up?”

Boy, that was a loaded question. “She’s been okay. Under watch at the League. But now …” I dragged my hand down my face, gazing up at the building. “We need to get every ash victim under lock and key. This can’t happen again. Not until we know more.”

“Hey!” Liz shouted suddenly. “Hands off my body!” She mumbled a quick good-bye and then marched over to the detective who’d been about to lift Casey Lewis’s hand from the hood of the car with the tip of a pen or pencil.

Damn, I’d meant to ask her if she’d heard of any new sidhé fae in the city.

I walked away from the scene, shoving my hands in my pockets. It could wait.

4

“What do you mean, Aaron moved out?” I leaned against a dresser in Bryn’s room at the Mordecai House— the League of Mages headquarters in Atlanta—cradling a venti Starbucks coffee like it was a lifeline. I’d had very little sleep last night and had gotten up early to check on Bryn.

Bryn stood near one of her upstairs bedroom windows, one shoulder against the wall, her arms wrapped around her middle as she stared out at some mysterious point beyond the glass. She was so quiet, so enigmatic, and with her blank aura, I couldn’t even begin to guess her mood.

“Why would he leave?” I went on. “The League is his home.”

My sister turned her head—the first time she’d visually acknowledged me since I’d arrived just moments ago. “He didn’t leave the property, Charlie. He’s staying in one of the guest houses on the grounds. Says he wants his solitude.” Her attention returned to the window.

I expected the pale skin, the somberness, the muted-out version of her former, vibrant self, but it was her eyes that thickened my throat and squeezed my chest. Round. Tired. Hollow.

“I think he just wanted to get away from me. I did”—she tossed an uncaring glance at the guard sitting quietly in the corner—“kill him, after all.”

I took a step toward her, denial and sadness filling me. But she was so distant. For the first time, I wasn’t sure my sister would welcome my emace. “You don’t know that,” I said instead. “Aaron knows whatever part you played, whatever happened that night, it wasn’t you in control. He knows you’d never do something like that willingly.”

“I’m sick of this room. I’m sick of being tired all the time.”

Her depression dominated the space, heavy and stifling, covering everything like a dreary, sepia-toned picture. It scared me to death. Two ash vics had just committed suicide. Could depression, intensified by ash, be the cause, and not murder?

I kept my voice neutral. “You want to get out of here? Take a walk. Go get some breakfast. We can raid the kitchen, make some nachos …”