Kelly Gay - The Hour of Dust and Ashes

“Him or Nuallan Gow.”

I blinked and my step faltered. “Nuallan Gow? How the hell would the Master Crafter of Atlanta know who you really are?” A mental image of her swam in my head. Black crafter extraordinaire, a ghoul in the guise of a beautiful human, and the bitch who had slept with my husband and tried to have me killed. Nuallan was a plague, a bad rash that kept coming back to haunt me.

“Probably figured it out from my ring. Every Malakim is given a ring. It’s special. It grows with you, stays on you from the time you enter until the time you leave. It signifies my family’s contribution to the Malakim .”

My stomach knotted. “The ring you bribed Nuallan with to help us spell Aaron’s body when he died.” I stopped. My mouth fell open. “Un-fucking-believable. How could you give her something that could identify you? We could’ve bartered for something else, Hank! Given her another reason to help us …”

“She wanted my ring. There are only a handful of people who could have known what it meant. The writing on it is the sirens’ ancient language, not even used today … The stone is where the value lies. I assumed that’s why she wanted it.”

“How could you be so blasé about it? Why? Why did you do that? Why did you even keep the thing if it could identify you?”

“I gave it to her because Aaron was dying,” he said simply. He stopped, dragging a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, and then stared at me with conviction in those glittering sapphire eyes. “We were there on that porch with time running out. She was the only person who could’ve saved him and she wanted my ring in return. I made the only choice I could.”

My mouth opened and closed. I wanted to rail at him, to fault him, but I couldn’t. How could I? He’d saved Aaron’s life. It was noble and right, and goddamn the sirens in Elysia for thinking him anything but honorable. Goddamn his king, the Circe, and his family for turning their backs on him. Damn them all.

I marched away, so angry that tears blurred my vision. He caught up with me and grabbed my arm. As soon as he saw the sheen in my eyes, he stiffened. A curtain of iron fell over his features. “Don’t you dare pity me, Charlie. I can handle most anything but that.”

“How do you expect me to feel?” I jerked from his hold. “I can’t help but feel sorry for that little boy who was robbed of a life. How can I not? As a human being, as a mother … I cn’t stand even hearing about a child being abused or abandoned, betrayed by those who are supposed to love him! How can I not feel for the child you were?”

His icy façade cracked. Anger flared around us. His fingers parked on his hips—a sign he was about to argue—but I shouted over him as he spoke. “I don’t pity the person you are now! I’m proud to even say I know you, and I sure as hell don’t want you going back now! So don’t you yell at me!”

My chest was heaving. Power coiled in my gut. I realized I was the one yelling, not him, so my words didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but … Tears slipped hot down my cheeks. Frustration built inside until I could do nothing else but make fists, growl, and march away.

He’d stepped up. He’d defied authority and he fought to rebuild his life and reinvent himself. He’d come to my world. Alone. In a foreign place. Without anyone. Damn right, I was proud of him. And he could go to hell if he thought that was pity.

I got five steps before he grabbed my arm and turned me around. Bleak thunderstorms gathered in his expression. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His head shook slightly as though he didn’t know quite what to do. His lips thinned in sudden determination as he reached out, hauled me close, and hugged me.

Surprise made me stiff as a board. His pulse beat hard through his neck. I felt it pumping against the side of my chin. We were sticky and sweaty and gritty, but it didn’t matter. My hands slid around to the hard planes of his back. I relaxed. It felt … good. Safe. Comforting.

“You really piss me off,” I muttered against his shirt.

He kissed the top of my head, tucked my dirty, sandy hair behind my ear, and then graced me with a crooked smile that dimpled his scruffy cheek. “A clear indication you like me, Madigan.”

I rolled my eyes, not bothering to lift my head, but I couldn’t stop the ridiculous laughter. “Oh my God,” I breathed. “We are so screwed.” In so many ways. “What will they do if they catch you?”

“They’d probably put me back in the grid and make sure I can’t get out. That would be worse than death and the Circe know it.”

And his life would basically be over. Time would pass, people would come and go, and Hank would be stuck again. But he could break free from it. He’d done so before.

“No, Charlie,” he said, perceiving my thoughts. “It took me a long time to break free. You. Emma. Everyone I know would be gone by the time I’d manage it again—if I even could. And by then …” He shrugged. “What would be the point? Everyone I care about would be gone. I might as well stay there.” His jaw flexed and I could see he was uncomfortable talking about the mortality of those he cared for. “We should get going.”

He took the lead this time.

I stayed quiet, mulling over his words and everything he’d gone through. He never had a life until he came to Atlanta. All those times his humor was off or he seemed a little schizo, or he steered me away from his past however he could … Now it all made sense. He’d been in my world for many years now, but he was still learn Atla to interact in human terms, learning all the subtle sarcasms and ironies and meanings of my culture. In projecting certain attitudes and behaviors, learning how to joke and make me laugh. I’m sure he’d taken his time learning about women as well, and according to Zara, he must’ve learned pretty damn quick in that department.

But I was glad Hank wasn’t the usual siren with a couple hundred years’ worth of notches on his bedpost. I was glad he wasn’t a jaded, narcissistic ass like a lot of male sirens I’d come into contact with. And despite all he’d been through, he brimmed with iron will, strength, confidence, determination … He’d certainly come into his own as a member of society, as a man—a damn good one, too.

Hank and I hiked for what had to be a few more hours at least. The stubborn grains of sand still lurking in my shoes had rubbed my heels raw. My aches and pains from the fall still lingered, but I was too tired to heal myself, too tired to care, and too emotionally exhausted to do anything except put one foot in front of the other.

Eventually, the ravine grew shallow. The direction turned north, so we climbed out to stay on an easterly track. The slant and the jagged rocks made it easy to grab footholds and handholds in the ravine walls. The sky remained clear of nithyn. Nevertheless, as soon as I made it out, I stayed down and turned to call for Brim, letting out a low whistle.

He circled below, whined, and then ran at the wall, his long claws digging in and propelling him up the rock.

“Good boy,” I whispered, patting his head.

I crept over the rocky outcroppings to where Hank lay on his stomach and dropped down beside him. The low gray sand dunes that greeted me caused a shudder to rush down my spine.

Across the sand, the dunes rose to another ridge that fanned out into a plateau littered with ruins. Moonlight shone over gigantic slabs of broken stone. A few intact columns jutted into the sky and practically glowed in the light. Others had fallen or were broken in half. A large Throne Tree grew on one corner of the ruins.

“Look,” Hank whispered, pointing up.