Kelly Gay - The Hour of Dust and Ashes

After I agreed and hung up the phone, I sat back on the bed and pulled on my boots, debating on whether or not to call Bryn anyway. I knew she was sleeping. With a whispered curse, I picked up the cell and hit her speed dial number.

She picked up on the sixth ring. “Charlie.” Her voice was groggy.

I went to my mirror, dragged my fingers through my chin-length hair, tucked one side behind my ear, and then left the room. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah.” She yawned. “I’m fine. Are you?”

No. I feel like putting my fist through a wall or, better yet, murdering Grigori Tennin. “I’m okay. Just checking in. Someone there with you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. I don’t want you doing anything alone, even going to the bathroom. I mean it. Leave the door open. Just don’t be alone. Please. Promise me.” I left my room and walked down the hallway.

“I promise21;

A relieved breath escaped me. “Okay, thanks. I’ll come by first thing tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Now let me talk to your guard.” As expected, she sighed into the phone. But I wasn’t taking any chances. If I couldn’t be there myself, I had to know she was being protected, even if it was from herself.

After talking to her guard, saying my piece, and being assured Bryn would not make a move without his knowing, I hung up, clipped my cell on my hip, and inched open Emma’s bedroom door. Our adopted hellhound lifted his gray head.

“Just me, Brim,” I whispered under my breath.

His eyes caught the light from the hallway and flashed red. He blinked in that quiet way of his and then resumed his position on the rug by my daughter’s bed. Those two shared an incredible bond. Brim and I would never so close that we could communicate without words, but ever since he’d given his life to protect me on Helios Tower and I brought him back from the brink of death … well, I loved that ugly beast and I got the feeling he might just love me too.

I crept to Emma’s bed, brushed the hair from her temple, and kissed her softly, not worried about waking her; the kid slept like the dead.

After closing her door, I went downstairs and headed toward the living room, where the blue glow of the TV told me Rex was either still watching or had fallen asleep.

I went for the hall closet, pulled out my shoulder harness, and then walked into the living room. Rex was stretched out on the sofa, hands folded over his chest and out cold. I nudged his leg. Nothing. “Rex.”

“Hmm?” His eyes didn’t open.

“I have to go to work.” I picked up the remote and turned off the TV. “Not sure when I’ll be back.”

“Hmm. Fine. I’ll take Em to school …”

“Rex. There is no school. It’s Christmas break. Rex .”

“Huh. Yeah. Break. Sure. Hey, turn off the TV, will ya.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbed the afghan off the back of the sofa, and spread it over him.

Me leaving in the middle of the night for a case was nothing new to Emma and was no surprise to Rex. I knew they had shopping plans tomorrow and Rex would look after her. That was our deal—he had a place to stay, and in return he helped with the house and played stand-in parent to Em. As much as Rex bitched and complained, it was clear that the Revenant inside my ex’s body was trustworthy and he liked living here, being a part of our family.

I went into the kitchen and left my daughter a note, pretty sure she’d be up in the morning before Rex, and then I left the house.

It was only after I pulled out of the driveway and headed downtown that I allowed myself a moment to freak out about the suicides and what this all meant.

Murder. I was sure of it.

No one needed to be on the roof with thm, not if they weren’t in control of their minds and bodies. The Sons of Dawn could’ve given the suicide order to the spirits controlling Casey and Mike. Death would set their spirits free, and would keep law enforcement from containing them and using an exorcist to find out what they knew. Like the names of the high-ranking cult members.

My fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. Shit, shit, shit.

This was not like Grigori Tennin. He’d never get rid of a useable commodity. So, what the hell was going on?

Could it be that he wasn’t the big man in charge after all? A faint tremor ran up my spine. Not a comforting thought.

The Healey was one of my favorite old downtown buildings. Sixteen stories. Took up an entire city block, and had a grand Gothic presence I loved. Will and I used come here with Emma to see the massive Christmas tree they’d place in the rotunda for the holidays, eat at one of the restaurants, and do a little shopping in the ground-floor stores. Much of the building, however, was luxury condos. It was right near Five Points and Woodruff Park, and convenient to Station One.

An ambulance and a few police cars blocked Forsyth Street. A cop directed traffic at the intersection. I drove up and flashed my badge. He waved me through. A TV crew was hurrying down the sidewalk. Pedestrian onlookers had gathered on both sides of the street beyond the tape.

I parked behind a cruiser, ducked under the tape, and approached the uniformed officer already walking toward me. “ID?”

I flashed my ITF badge. Federal Division, Detective Madigan, it said. What it 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?”