Kelly Gay: The Hour of Dust and Ashes

My stride increased. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“What the hell are you getting so defensive about?”

“I’m not getting defensive.”

“You sound defensive.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you—”

“Rex!” I stopped, letting him see just how tired I was of being provoked. “Knock it off.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Just trying to figure out which way the wind blows these days.”

I growled and kept walking. Rex could think whatever the hell he wanted. Hank was my partner and I had every right to check on him.

I knew Hank had his secrets. He was close-lipped about his Elysian history and why he’d come here. He evaded personal questions as easily as picking lint from his sleeve. Sure, he was entitled to his privacy, his secrets, like everyone else. But at the same time, we’d been partners for three years. I’d welcomed him into my world, shared my home, my life, my trust. We’d become friends. And recently, something more than that. Hadn’t I earned some small degree of sharing in return, some trust from him as well?

Sounded reasonable.

I chewed softly on the inside of my cheek, not liking the questions the oracle put into my mind. But how much could I lay the blame on Alessandra? My trust and faith in people—or, more correctly, men—had been shaken considerably since Will.

I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, I knew that. But it didn’t stop my feet from carrying me deep into Helios Alley until I was staring at the polished brass numbers attached to the black door leading to Hank’s apartment above Skin Scripts and Off-world Exotic Pets.

Heat formed in my belly and made the journey into my limbs and my face. Last time I was up there, the windows got blown out, and I’d almost killed my partner with the twig of a Charbydon Throne Tree. Among other things.

I rolled my shoulder, thinking of the mark Hank had given to me during our fight. It was healed now, but not even my new healing abilities could erase the light indigo scar. Odd that it wasn’t giving off the strange, feel-good sensation that signified when we were close. But maybe the brick walls and the fact that he was a story above me d out cold had something to do with it.

What the hell did I know about marks?

“We going in or what?”

I ignored Rex and let my gaze fall to the big front window of Skin Scripts. All I had to do was open the door. The artists there could tell me everything I needed to know about the mark permanently pressed into my skin. It would be even better if they could tell me how to get around the truth issue.

In the heat of our fight, Hank had given me a truth mark, which meant I couldn’t lie to him if he asked me a direct question. I could evade it, choose to not answer, but if I lied outright, the ink embedded in my skin would release a toxin into my bloodstream. It wouldn’t kill me, but it would have serious consequences. There was a time when a broken mark could cause death, but legislation and regulations had long since prohibited actual death marks.

I headed over to Skin Scripts’s entrance, but before I opened the door I turned to Rex with a stern warning. “Not a word. Not a single word. Got it?”

An exasperated look crossed his face, but he nodded in agreement, and we stepped inside to the tiny jingle of the bell above the door.

Behind the counter, the darkling fae artist looked up from a sketch. His long fingers were splayed over a piece of heavy paper, holding it down while he drew with a charcoal pencil.

Like the sidhé fae, the darkling fae possessed a fascinating, otherworldly skin tone—a sheen, a luminescent quality that put one in mind of pearls. And it was easy to tell them apart. The darkling fae’s skin tones were indicative of Charbydon—shades of gray, some with hints of blue and violets—while the sidhé possessed lighter skin tones that reminded me of a very pale human, except for the soft, pearly glow.

Darklings were thin, too, with long, graceful limbs and large, slanted eyes with irises that ranged from the lightest sea green to the darkest shades of violet. This one gazed up at us with pale blue eyes painted with heavy black eyeliner. His black hair was short and spiky, and he had a wealth of tattoos and markings on both arms and around his neck.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. “I was wondering if you could tell me about ceremonial markings? The ones having to do with truth between two people, a vow not to lie … that sort of thing.”

The guy didn’t blink an eye, but then, why would he? The things people came here asking him to do were a hell of a lot crazier than what I’d just asked.

He turned in his swivel chair to the shelf of books lining the wall and pulled one out. He set it on the counter in front of us, flipping it open and skimming. It was an encyclopedia, a collection of ceremonial markings complete with sketches, incantations, and definitions. “Any of these interest you?” He turned the book so I could read right side up.

Rex leaned over my shoulder as I scanned the six sketches, finding one that was very similar to the mark on my shoulder—a curved, incomplete arrow-shaped symbol with two slashes and a dot, though it lacked the correct combination of slashes and dots.

“We can do them in traditional tattoo inor we can do them in Throne Tree ink. Tats will run you about eighty, and the tree ink will cost you a couple hundred to a couple thousand, depending on what you want.”

Rex pointed. “Ooh, I like this one.”

“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?”