Kelly Gay - The Better Part of Darkness

“Excited about wha— Oh. Oh! That kind of excited. Really?”

“Really. Look,” he said, frowning, “it doesn’t happen with sirens, but I’ve seen it with others. It’s like an effect of euphoria, happens when they perform certain ritual dances or prayers, or they … you know …”

“Got it.” I held up both hands, putting an immediate halt to any mention of sex. Definitely not something I wanted to discuss with a drop-dead gorgeous siren with all the grace and power of a lion. That was a personal boundary I promised myself long ago I’d never cross. If I did, it would be way too easy to start wanting something I couldn’t—and shouldn’t—have. Hank was not only my partner, but one of my best friends. Not something I wanted to mess with. “Have you seen this recently?” I asked, wishing I’d rolled down my window for some air.

“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he said on an irritated breath, “In Underground.”

“What place in Underground?” I pressed.

“Helios Alley. The Bath House.”

No surprise. Helios Alley catered to off-worlders, Elysians to be exact. Restaurants, clubs, shops, you name it. Two streets over was Solomon Street—Charbydon territory. And the street in between was Mercy Street, a mix of everything—magic shops, psychics, anything supernatural and you’d find it there, legal or not.

If we’d learn anything about ash, it’d be in Underground.

My first reaction was to laugh, which I did, but then I saw he wasn’t exactly laughing with me. “Are you serious? The Bath House? I didn’t take you for a nudist.”

His eyes rolled. “It’s not a nudist club. It’s a public bath house, like the Romans used to have. Didn’t you study history in school?”

“Yeah, and the Romans had all kinds of nasty sex orgies in the baths.” I sighed dramatically, shaking my head. “It all starts with a massage …”

A spectacular groan came out of Hank’s mouth, which expanded his chest and made his white shirt stretch nicely across the broad expanse. Hell, seeing him lounging around naked in some bath would probably be worth the trip downtown. Hank had one of the best bodies I’d ever seen. But then he was a siren—his species had a knack for attraction and seduction.

“I swear, Charlie,” he grumbled, turning in the seat to face me with an evil glint in his blue eyes, “if we weren’t friends, I’d take off this damned modifier, make you strip naked, and skip all the way down to the station house.”

That sobered me up because I knew he had the ability. And because I knew Hank had his limits. “Okay, point taken. So, why The Bath House?”

“Females,” he answered without pause. “I’m single. I have a life, unlike someone in this car.”

“Yeah, well, you can be single without going to extremes. Women throw themselves at you all the time. You don’t need to hang out at a nud—er, bath house.”

“I do if I’m looking for one of my kind. You think it’s easy, getting hit on all the time and not being the tiniest bit interested? The only female sirens in At lanta are ones who have mates, or work in the private sector, or occasionally hang out at the baths because it reminds them of home.”

“Poor you.” I put the car in gear. “Try being a single mother, who carries three lethal firearms and can take down a runner at fifty yards. Trust me; it doesn’t make a date feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

I pulled into traffic and then made a U-turn at the light to head back to the station. “I have to make babysitting arrangements for tonight.” Hank blinked, confused, so I enlightened him with a smile before turning my attention back to the road. “We’re going to The Bath House. Looks like you finally got yourself a hot date.”

His lips dipped down, leaving a dimple in his left cheek. “Joy,” he said, as disgruntled as a teenager being told to clean their room. “Please, please, please, Charlie, don’t do anything stupid.”

Hank wouldn’t care about causing a scene. That’s why we made a good team. When it was necessary, neither one of us backed down, no matter what, no matter where. I switched lanes and passed a taxi, a thought suddenly occurring. “What? You like someone there or something?”

He rubbed his hands down his face and muttered, “Oh, Jesus H. Christ.”

Hah! A broad grin stretched across my face. “You do!” My laughter filled the car. “You have a crush on someone at The Bath House,” I sang. “Hey, doesn’t that mean you’re shy if you have a crush? Hank’s shy! Oh, my God …” I laughed for at least a good half mile. He cursed under his breath and slid down into the seat. Last time I had a date, with an officer from the ninth precinct, Hank had had a major field day. “Payback is a bitch, my friend.”

I parked the car in the fire lane off Ellis Street in front of ITF Building One, or as we referred to it: Station One. “It’s three right now. I’m gonna head over to the hospital and check on Amanda, make arrangements, and then I’ll meet you downtown at eight.”

Hank opened the door. “I’ll talk to the guys at the lab again about this eye connection. And I’ll pick you up at ten.” He lifted his hand to stop my argument. “Things don’t even start to heat up until then. You’d know that if you weren’t celibate.” He got out of the car and then leaned back through the window. “Oh, and try to take a beauty nap, and don’t look so damned professional if you can help it. Let your hair down, maybe use some of that deep red lipstick you wore on your date with Officer Wandering Eye.”

My eyes narrowed, and I opened my mouth, but he flashed me a broad grin, a wink, and then he was gone.

I supposed I deserved that.

Underground Atlanta was the hub of off-world activity in the city, an entertainment, shopping, and living district that encompassed six city blocks in the very heart of old Atlanta. In the 1920s city engineers built bridges and viaducts over old, Civil War—era railroad tracks and streets, raising the street level and eventually leaving the ground level almost forgotten until the city revived the area in the late 80s and early 90s. Now it was home to free concerts, restaurants, bars, nightclubs, and specialty shops.

One of those shops belonged to my sister. And, yeah, I could’ve called her to see if she’d babysit, but since her shop was on Mercy Street, it would give me a chance to talk to one of my informants.

Bryn’s place sat in the middle of a long row of shops that lined the left side of the street. There were potted plants out front, a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk advertising sales, and a few wind chimes hung from tall, ornate garden stakes shoved into the planters on either side of the door. I thought she was nuts for having a shop in Underground. But Bryn had some serious smarts when it came to business. She carried items the off-worlders craved, like crafting items, exotic herbs, minerals, rocks, and other trinkets, and she made sure to stock things humans could use as well—anything Wiccan. Books, antiques, charms, clothes … But mostly she specialized in herbs, the rarer the better.

I stepped around a three-foot-tall imp carrying a Gucci handbag and approached the back counter. Bryn had her back to me, snipping a few branches from a small potted herb as she spoke to it softly.

“Probably not a smart thing, to turn your back on the customers,” I said, looking around at the patrons. The store was packed with plants, items, baskets, and dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, so many corners and dark shelves; you couldn’t see a shoplifter at work if you tried.

Bryn turned. “I have a security system.”