Shattered Ashes (Dying Ashes Book 3)

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  “NO.” As Davora spoke, something pulled at me, like a hand grabbing ahold of my heart; it felt like the energy—and the anger—rushed out of me, like heat drawn into a consuming vacuum. I staggered, and the group of men in suits funneling into the small room froze in their tracks, motionless.

  The air bulged and flexed, blurring as Devora, her face sickened, shifted to the side and disappeared completely, swallowed up as she stepped Next Door.

  I stared at the empty spot where she’d been, wanting to curse, but feeling strangely empty save for a cold tingle of ire tracing its way up and down my spine.

  “She got away,” Garibaldi said from beside me, his deep voice also sounding a little drained. He sighed heavily, then turned to face me.

  At the sight of my face, he blinked and did a double take. “You don’t...look so good.”

  A drip of dark liquid plopped dully to the floor, as if emphasizing his words. “I hear that a lot lately,” I shrugged, rubbing at my cheek and jaw.

  Guns and suits moved past me, making themselves busy, scouring every inch of the house. A pair of gunshots rang out from one of the upstairs rooms, then silence; the screams of injured Sanguinarians had died away while I was too busy with their bosses to notice. Garibaldi glanced at the ceiling, then back at me. “Are you alright, then?”

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I rasped. “Her face wrote a check her ass couldn’t cash or something.”

  The older man snorted. He’s serious, but not humor-challenged like Charles, I thought. Thank goodness.

  The note of amusement was short-lived, though. “We didn’t get what we came for, though,” Garibaldi said, gesturing for me to follow him back to the kitchen-command-center.

  “Didn’t we?” I asked hoarsely. I pulled the durable recorder he’d given me out of my waistband. “I got pretty battered, but I think it still works.”

  The businessman shook his head. “Hardly. We did this to shut down whatever the Moroi-Sanguinarian alliance was up to at the root. Kill this before it became more of a danger than it already was. But as I feared, we didn’t dig up the roots at all. For that, we needed a living witness, someone we could hand to the Moroi and let them ‘gently pressure’ into revealing the truth.”

  I frowned. “We have recordings. She pretty much admitted her involvement outright. ” I gestured around the room at the cracked display screen and drug samples lining the counter. “And we have all of...whatever that stuff is.”

  “And?” Garibaldi asked flatly. His eyes, caught between that hard steel and ocean blue, held no anger, just cool logic. “We’re not Moroi. Any evidence we have is secondhand and our motives automatically suspect. We would need iron-clad evidence—as in iron-clad testimony—before we dared accuse a powerful Moroi of what amounts to treason.”

  “You mean they won’t listen to us, just because we’re outsiders, and she’s family?” I responded.

  “Would you?” He countered.

  “Fair enough.” My shoulders slumped. “I still don’t understand how she got away.”

  “If I understand correctly, the Alilovic family are rage eaters.”

  Fuck me sideways. “She fed off of me.” I drooped even further. A bit of the earlier anger started to return, this time directed inward. “She played me and raised enough energy to step Next Door.”

  Garibaldi nodded. “That is my best guess as well.” He shrugged. “But no plan ever works out perfectly. This is still a setback for them, and now you know more than you did before. Information is key.”

  “Don’t you mean we?” I eyed him, but the taller man shook his head.

  “I’m not involved,” he said. “Not past this.”

  I furrowed my brow, surprised. “But what about Rain? Now that she got away, they’ll assume you’re involved! You have to help get to the bottom of this.”

  In an instant, Garibaldi’s eyed went dark and hard. I almost took a step back, but they pinned me to the spot, glittering with barely-leashed danger. “Is that what you intended? Did you let her go intentionally?”

  I flinched, my eyes going wide. “No! I—” Stumbling over my own words, I quickly took a deep breath and started over. “No,” I repeated honestly, meeting his gaze. “I thought we could end it here. But I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I just don’t want Rain’s life to be in danger because of it.” I paused, weighing my words and assumptions. “And someone told me that you want to make the city better, not let it go to shit in a shitbasket. Whatever they’re doing here, I think that’ll be the end result. And I’m not certain there’s anyone else I can ask for help.”

  The broad-shouldered man was quiet for a long moment. “I can’t,” he replied finally. His eyes softened. “I’m retired.”

  I couldn’t let it go. “Won’t they take tonight as a declaration of war?”

  His eyes turned to cold steel again for an instant. “No. They’ll take this as a declaration to leave my son the hell alone. I’ll make dead certain of that.” His voice lost its razor blade edge as he looked down at me again. “I’m sorry. But you’ll just have to find someone else.”

  Garibaldi turned away; the conversation was over. I glanced aside at the sound of boot heels crunching glass underfoot, and a familiar voice.

  “Nephew, go help ‘em out ‘round back,” Paulie commented in his thick Brooklyn accent, tromping through the kitchen and tucking his pistol away. “Got a lotta bodies t’move tonight, y’know?” He kicked a fallen Sanguinarian indicatively.

  I shifted aside to let the younger, oversized man accompanying him squeeze through the kitchen doorway. “Wait.” I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Muscles is your nephew?”

  Paulie raised an eyebrow right back and snorted. “Muscles, eh? I like that! Yeah, kid’s a regular chip off the old block, huh?”

  He flexed like a professional wrestler striking a victory pose, one arm pointed skyward.

  The Sanguinarian he’d kicked darted across the floor, lightning quick.

  I stomped down on her spine, even faster.

  A shot rang out, blowing the top of her skull apart, her bare and dripping fangs inches from the man’s heel.

  “Phew,” Paulie mopped at a sudden outbreak of sweat under his thinning hairline, though his pistol arm was rock steady and trained on the Sanguinarian’s shattered skull. But as he put his gun away again, I noticed the barrel wasn’t smoking.

  Garibaldi’s was.

  “Ya beat me again, Mitch,” he stepped over and clapped Garibaldi on the shoulder, then gave me a considering look. “An’ thanks.”

  I nodded. “Macho Man Randy Savage, ‘88 Championship,” I said, and mimicked his pose, drawing on my mental encyclopedia of the random wrestling moments I’d watched and rewatched with my father.

  “Ha!” Paulie chortled. “Hey, Mitch. She’s not so bad for some kinda freak.”

  Garibaldi discreetly rubbed at his temples.

  I nodded again. “I hear that a lot lately too,” I rasped.

  There was a moment of eerie quiet, nothing but beating hearts and the footsteps of the men searching the house, stepping on creaking wood, broken glass, and dead Sanguinarian alike. Occasionally someone spoke, but it was quiet, all business.

  “Paulie,” Garibaldi began quietly.

  The portly Italian looked at his boss expectantly.

  “See what the boys can salvage out of this display and those computers. Have them take a sample of the product home with us, and check over the dead.”

  “You got it, Boss.” Paulie turned and pointed at a slender, middle-aged man in a long black coat with a black ponytail hanging down past the collar. I didn’t miss the casual ease with which he held the sniper rifle across his knees as he perched on the kitchen counter in the next room. “Jackie, get down from there. Y’gonna ding up the cabinets.”

  Jackie gave Paulie a flat look. “We shot the house to Hell and back, Paulie. Ain’t gonna matter.”

  Paulie scoffed. “Still, don’t gotta be fuckin’ rude about it. Show a little respe
ct.”

  Jackie rolled his eyes as he slipped down from the counter. “Nobody lives here, Paulie.”

  Paulie blinked once. “Oh. Well, whatever, grab that computer and give me a hand.”

  The two went on bickering, but the sounds of playful banter faded into the background as Garibaldi, obviously content that his men had the situation in hand, turned to face me fully. “I got out of the game years ago,” he said. “But I’ll take a look, at least. I can do that much.”

  “Thank you—” I started.

  He shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. Moroi and Sanguinarians. This is too big for us.” He watched Paulie and Jackie work, glanced around at the backs of some of his other men. “We’re a group of humans. Capable humans, but humans. I’m not willing to risk my men—or my family—over this. They mean more to me than you could understand.”

  His eyes held no insult, only experience.

  “But you’re also right,” he continued. “I do want to do something good here, in this town.” His eyes grew distant, a cloudy, roiling sea. “Leave one place in my life better than I found it.” His eyes met mine again, heavy like anchors. Turning away abruptly, he raised his voice again. “Paulie! Tell the men to triple check these things, not just double check. Make sure they’re dead.” He shook his head. “With the supernatural, nothing is ever what it seems,” he grumbled, seemingly to himself.

  I frowned.

  “Hey!” I said suddenly, making Paulie jump and his hand shoot halfway to his gun. “I um, have to go.” As things fell into place in my head, I took a step backwards toward the door. “If, um, that’s okay.” As Garibaldi nodded, a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his eyes, I patted myself down and frowned again. “But...first, could I borrow someone’s phone?” I glanced at my meager audience. “Mine’s as dead as I am.”

  Paulie barked out a one-note laugh and tossed me his. “Sure, Girlie. Who ya gonna call?”

  “Ghostb—nevermind.” I shook my head. “A friend.” I tapped out a familiar number as my stomach clenched and roiled, trapped in coils of fear.

  Paulie shrugged. “Whateva. Just wipe it down when you’re done, ‘kay?”

  Once done, I left, pausing only to stop beside Suit and check the old, capable Sanguinarian assassin over for myself.

  Like Garibaldi had said, nothing was ever what it seemed.

  “You smell like smog, sweat, and piss,” I muttered. I nudged the mangled body over with a toe. I’d once seen Aine survive a broken neck, after all; best to be certain.

  Once reassured, I hurried back to the only home I had left, used my old laptop to send Charles a message for tomorrow, and barricaded myself in the basement of my church.

  I used a lot of extra stone to block the stairway down, taking extra paranoid precautions. Then I blocked off the entryway to my room—and all the others—for good measure.

  Because things were not okay. Tonight I’d glimpsed the truth, and I was a little worried I wouldn’t wake up again tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Where there's smoke there's lies

  I awoke the next night to my continued existence, to my mild surprise.

  I also awoke to about fifteen increasingly irritable messages from my favorite wizard, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest.

  With anxiety sitting in my gut like a stone—at least, I hoped I hadn’t swallowed an actual stone—I filled in an impatient Charles, set up a rendezvous, and put my plan into motion.

  By the end of the night, my friends and I would either be free of Ca-Lethe Meladoquiel...Or I’d probably be very dead.

  A few hours later, we met up just across the highway from The Summit in an empty parking lot of pristine asphalt and freshly painted, unmarred lines.

  “You’re sure about this?” Charles sounded skeptical as he gazed upward at the three story apartment building, a newly finished construction. “It's not usually this easy to find her. How did you manage it?” Doubts or no, he was careful to close his truck door quietly.

  “I’ve made a couple of useful new friends,” I explained.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Got her scent!” Jason exclaimed quietly, drawing all eyes. Rain hurried over, inhaled the air, and nodded his agreement.

  “And you doubted me,” I said.

  Charles rolled his dark cinnamon eyes, and the chase was on.

  The four of us raced up the building’s main stairway, stealth now a secondary consideration. The two shifters led the way, sniffing out Tamara’s trail and leading us ever upward.

  It was barely necessary. I already knew where we’d find her.

  They stepped aside as we reached the top floor; I effortlessly shouldered aside a locked door leading to an expansive—and expensive—apartment, fully furnished. Charles wasted no time in pushing past me, staff at the ready.

  Straight ahead of us, in the kitchens, Tamara Moroaică looked up, dressed as I’d last seen her—torn shirt and all—her lambent blue eyes gleaming in the darkness.

  Then she bolted, slamming another door behind her as she ran out the back of the room.

  “Come on!” Charles bellowed, charging after her.

  “No.” I held out an arm, pushing Rain and Jason back as they tried to follow.

  “What?” Charles turned to face me, a scowl rippling across his features.

  “Rain, Jason,” I steeled myself. “Get out of here.”

  “Um, why do—”

  “Chica, I don’t—”

  “NOW!” I roared, drawing on supernatural power to add bone-chilling terror to the word, my volume rattling the cabinets and filling the air with static.

  With twin pops, two teens became coyotes and fled, their paws pattering down the stairs at full speed.

  “Dammit, Ashley,” Charles turned to regard me, tilting his head, exasperated. “Why?” He leaned against his staff casually. “I mean, I was so close.”

  I stared hard into his deep cinnamon eyes as they slowly began to bleed ink.

  “What gave it away?” Charles-Meladoquiel asked, the Ur-demon’s voice rapidly eroding my friend’s. “The lack of Rhongomyniad?” She pronounced the old Celtic name with ease. “Did you see Tamara’s eyes and doubt? Or was it me not locating you with that blood vial?” She paused a moment, pursing Charles’ lips thoughtfully. “Maybe it was because I didn’t bother to lock his doors properly.”

  “Actually, it was you getting my movie reference.” Without looking, I kicked the door closed behind me. “Everyone knows Charles doesn't watch TV.”

  Charles threw his head back and laughed, Meladoquiel’s syrupy-sweet tones echoing through the room.

  “That, and you’re not as good of an actress as you think,” I added. “You only managed a caricature of the man I know.”

  “Oh, my. Insults?” Charles-Meladoquiel shivered playfully. “You’ll hurt my fragile feelings. Instead...”

  I threw myself forward, rushing her without warning.

  “...join me,” she finished.

  Her alien voice burned the air like acid, poison in my ears. I staggered to a halt as the earth went sideways and collapsed, everything except the darkness fleeing her presence. In my world’s place was her rotting realm, towering spires and black stone balconies, bone chairs and barbed iron cages.

  I dug in my heels and growled as I set foot on blood-veined black marble under stormy charcoal skies. I could see her umbral form overlaid on top of Charles’, her arms open wide to “welcome” me.

  “No...means...no, asshole!” I ground my teeth and reached deep down inside myself, setting my feet and pushing her realm away with everything I had.

  The world did a mind-wrenching one-eighty as familiar reality reasserted itself, and I clung to a couch to keep from falling down as everything streamed back into its proper place.

  Meladoquiel’s laughter filled the room once more, only to cut off abruptly as Charles’ inky eyes settled on me. “You know,” she said calmly, “Ariande said you were resilien
t, but I’m sincerely impressed!”

  I froze, still gripping the couch, as my jaw dropped open.

  “Oh, you look so surprised!” She offered me a saucy smirk and a chuckle from across the darkened living room. “Delightful. Do you really think two ancient creatures like us don’t know each other? Who do you think told me where Charles was?” Her eyes flickered from playful to deadly in an instant, then back. “She says ‘hi,’ by the way!”

  Snarling, I lunged at her, only to stop desperately short as fire blazed from her stolen fingertips.

  “Nope!” Charles-Meladoquiel commented cheerily, and the bundle of flames shot at me like a hungry rocket.

  I dove and rolled, and the little fireball hit the couch instead, blowing it apart. Fear clawed at my skin as tiny bits of burning padding floated through the air, nearly filling the room.

  There was barely time to register that deadly hazard before another blaze blossomed from the metal tip of Charles’ staff.

  Thinking fast, I covered my head with my cardigan’s hood, scooped up a footstool, and slung it at her as hard as I could. Meladoquiel knocked it aside with the staff, and I was there in a flash, my claws bursting free and raking across, catching in the hardened wood and ripping it from her grasp.

  As Charles’ dangerous weapon tumbled away, I rammed my shoulder into his gut, throwing him through the open doorway into the master bedroom. I followed immediately, desperate to put some distance between myself and the burning fuzz still floating in the air all around me.

  Charles-Meladoquiel tripped and fell back onto the king-size bed, laughing merrily. I stalked forward, claws out, but she just propped herself up on her elbows and shook her head. “What are you going to do, Strigoi? Gut your friend?” She chuckled, then pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Actually, that sounds like an awesome idea.” Rolling to her feet on the opposite side of the bed, she grinned at me intently with his face. “A death match! You versus the sour old magician. Whichever one survives…” her inky brown eyes glittered with excited menace, “...I get to keep.”