Chapter Twelve
Rick led the way past the hooded stone sentinels flanking the entrance and down the grand steps of the Central Station, the wind tugging at his coat as if trying to drag him back inside.
The plaza opened before them like a flower: Calgrave’s heart of power and prestige, all soaring towers and monuments to old money.
To their left, City Hall loomed with its wedding-cake tiers and dome gone green with age, while across the square, the Gazette Building’s spire stabbed at the overcast sky, gargoyles leering from every corner.
The National City Bank dominated the eastern edge, a fortress of limestone with columns thick as redwoods, and beyond it, the Post Office stretched an entire city block, its Beaux-Arts facade crawling with allegorical sculptures—Commerce, Industry, Justice—all blind to the rot below their feet.
Ash followed close behind, boots thudding against the wet concrete, his gaze sweeping the buildings with the kind of calm interest that made Rick all the more intrigued.
The kid was too composed for someone just sprung from a cell, too comfortable in his skin.
Rick wanted to know what went on behind those fathomless amethyst eyes and a smile that hid blades beneath the gloss.
When they reached the bottom, Ash gave a low whistle that curled with the smoke into the morning air. “Well, well,” he drawled, pausing at the curb. “That your ride?”
Ash walked a slow, appreciative circle around it, fingertips trailing a lover’s caress along the hood.
Rick’s gaze followed, unbidden, the quiet intimacy of it twisting something low in his gut.
“Didn’t peg you for the type to drive a gangster’s caddy, Detective.
I figured you for a pickup truck and a bad attitude. ”
Rick shrugged. “It was my old man’s. I just keep her running.”
Ash flashed a crooked grin over the roof. “She’s a beauty. Front-wheel drive, if I’m not mistaken? Sixty-seven was the first year they tried that with a car this size.”
He blinked, mildly impressed. “You know your classics.”
“I know what turns heads.” Ash tapped the fender. “Eldorado’s a hell of a flex. All this and a badge?”
Rick didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have something to say, but because his mouth was too busy betraying him with a twitch he couldn’t suppress. He pulled the keys from his pocket, the cigarette clenched between his teeth, and unlocked the driver’s side. “Get in before I change my mind.”
Ash slid into the passenger seat with the ease of someone who belonged there. The leather creaked beneath him, worn soft with age and bearing the faintest trace of cigarettes, gunmetal, and cologne that had long since evaporated but still haunted the seams.
Rick got behind the wheel, a pale ribbon of smoke coiling around the brim of his fedora, and started the engine. The car rumbled to life with a throaty purr, vibrating through the chassis, a black panther stirring from sleep. “Home?” he asked, easing the car away from the curb.
Ash shook his head, looking out the window. “Take me back to the club. My bike’s still there.”
They pulled into traffic, merging with the stream of yellow cabs and delivery trucks that clogged Mokasset’s arteries.
Rick guided the Eldorado past the Stock Exchange, its marble steps crowded with men in gray suits clutching briefcases like shields, then through the canyon of Commerce Street where the towers leaned in so close the sky became a ribbon overhead.
Every building here had a name, a history, a secret.
The Merchants’ Tower. The Ironworkers’ Union Hall.
The old Telegram Building with its Art Deco eagles spreading stone wings above the entrance.
“Quite a neighborhood,” Ash murmured, eyes tracking the architecture.
Rick grunted. “It’s all for show. Pretty facades hiding ugly truths.” The words hung there a moment before he realized how they might be taken.
Ash’s head turned slightly, eyes glinting with a look Rick couldn’t read. Then he faced forward again, saying nothing.
They crossed Packard Avenue, where a bronze general on horseback presided over a soot-streaked fountain that spurted streams toward a slate-colored sky, then turned west toward the river.
The buildings began to change—less marble, more brick.
With each block, the grandeur dwindled, giving way to old churches, courthouses, and clinics darkened by time.
Smog clung to the skyline, a wraith that had nowhere else to go.
“You planning on working tonight?” Rick asked, eyes on the road.
Ash turned his head to look at him. “What’s it to you?”
“You’re not off the hook yet. You’re still our number one suspect.”
Ash snorted. “And here I was, thinking we were finally starting to trust each other.”
Trust him? Like hell, Rick thought. He couldn’t even tell what he was, let alone if he could be trusted. “Right,” he grunted.
Ash shifted in his seat, voice softer now. “That’s okay. I wouldn’t trust me either.” He took a long drag, the ember flaring briefly, a stream of vapor trailing upward in soft tendrils. Then he stubbed the burning tip into the dash tray, cinders hissing as they died.
The unexpected sincerity hit closer than Rick liked.
He didn’t reply. Just kept driving, the windshield streaked with dried rain and the blur of Court Square sliding past like a dying reel of film.
He could feel Ash’s stare on the periphery of his vision, a violet arrow piercing through the dancing smoke straight into his skull.
His smell was almost overpowering in the confined space, stronger than tobacco, too sweet, too intoxicating.
Rick crushed the spent butt into the tray and clenched his jaw, refusing to glance his way.
Minutes passed. They rode across the Rockwell Bridge, the Bellona River glinting dull and murky below, its slow current dragging memories and sorrows toward Blackwater Bay and the waiting Atlantic.
The drive fell quiet: only the low thrum of the tires and the wind off the water, carrying the faint breath of the ocean.
Ash’s fingers tapped a rhythm against the doorframe, an attempt to fill the silence with sound. “You’re not like most cops,” he said at last.
Rick shot him a look. “Yeah? How so?”
A beat of silence. Then: “You’re too careful. You think too much. You ask the right questions, but you’re afraid of the answers.”
Rick huffed. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“No?” Ash said, studying him. “I think you’re afraid of me. Of what I make you feel.”
That snapped the tension. Rick slammed on the brakes a little harder than necessary at a congestion, the tires screeching slightly on the wet pavement. “You flirt with every cop who arrests you, or am I just lucky?”
Ash reclined his head against the seat, eyes half-lidded. “Only the ones who glower like it’s an Olympic sport.”
Rick exhaled sharply through his nose. “Everything’s a joke to you, is it?”
Ash’s gaze snapped toward him, expression unreadable. “It’s the only way to stay sane in a crazy, cold world. The wicked inherit the earth. The rest of us do our best to survive.”
Rick shifted gears as the light turned green. “You’re a real piece of work, kid.”
“And you’ve got a stick so far up your ass it’s picking up radio signals.”
“Get this straight.” Rick turned to face him, voice gravel under pressure.
“I don’t know what you are. But I know you’re not just some pretty face with a difficult past. Something’s off.
People bend around you. You make them… nervous.
Obsessed. And until I figure out what it is, I’m keeping my eyes on you. ”
Ash laughed, but it was hollow. “Maybe I’m simply charismatic.”
Rick slammed his palm on the wheel. The horn bleated once, sharp and angry. “I’m trying to help you, dammit!”
“No.” Ash scoffed. “You’re trying to understand me so you can shove me back in a box when I don’t fit into your narrow, black-and-white worldview. Sorry, Detective. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Try me.”
Ash smirked. “You wouldn’t survive me.”
They stared at each other, the car humming around them. The silence now wasn’t just loaded—it was radioactive.
A horn blared from behind.
Rick jerked his gaze forward. “Goddamn it,” he muttered and gunned the gas, hands tightening on the wheel.
The rest of the ride passed in silence, the kind that gritted between teeth.
They pushed deeper into Duskhaven now, the soul of New Town’s rot.
A child’s balloon floated up between two buildings, their windows like eyes half-shut against the light.
A tarot reader smoked behind a beaded doorway.
Neon signs glimmered, red as a whore’s lipstick.
Pizzerias and liquor stalls. Psychic shops and tattoo parlors.
Back-alley galleries and used bookstores. Life went on.
Rick kept his eyes on the road, letting the tension settle like dust. Beside him, Ash stared at his phone, thumbs flicking off a brief message before the screen went dark again.
They didn’t speak again until the Eclipse came into view.
Its marquee lights were off, the gold trim catching just enough daylight to hint at last night’s glamour.
The nightclub was closed, but not deserted—someone was expecting him.
Rick pulled to the curb in front of the entrance. “Don’t leave the city,” he said, sharper than he meant to. “We’ll be in touch.”
Ash smiled, the scent of crushed cloves and summer heat radiating from his skin. “I’m counting on it,” he said acidly, stepping out.
Rick started to speak—maybe to stop him, maybe to apologize, maybe just to scream—but Ash slammed the door hard enough to rattle his bones. Through the glass, Rick saw him flip the bird before disappearing into the club.
Rick sat there, engine idling, fists clenched on the wheel. He hated this. Hated the confusion, the pull, the fucking ache. Ash was trouble. A hurricane. A trick. A goddamn riddle wrapped in sin. And he was already under his skin.