Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
Rick slowed for a light, rain sheeting the glass, the glow of yellow bleeding across Ash’s face.
His stomach churned with rage for what Ash was enduring, with awe for what he could do, with dread for what it meant.
That kind of connection could either destroy him—or help Rick end the nightmare.
“You must be tuned to it somehow. Your… other half. It’s in sync with whatever dark force he’s feeding on.
That symbol… it’s not just a marking. It’s a key. And you can read it.”
Ash turned, eyes luminous and haunted. “You think it could help the case?”
Rick’s instincts screamed to keep him out of it, to lock him away safe, to never let those shadows touch him again.
But the truth cut deeper: he needed him.
There was more at stake here than whatever was going on between them, and Ash knew it.
He wasn’t just a material witness anymore.
He was the only thread leading into the Sculptor’s labyrinth.
“Yes. I think so. Would you be willing to? For real. No games.”
Ash didn’t waver. “Yes.” He leaned against the seat, expression fierce despite the ridiculous sweater draping off him. “I want to nail that son of a bitch. For Jimmy.” He paused, then added: “For all of them.”
The light changed, and Rick eased the car forward, a heaviness in his chest matched by something sharper: pride, fear, desire, tangled into one. He told himself he was only thinking like a cop, but the facts were simpler, and more slippery: Frank was out of the picture, and he couldn’t do it alone.
Outside, Silver Cove loomed in broken grandeur, its skyline a jagged crown of stone monoliths. Inside the Eldorado, Rick nodded, jaw tight, heart louder than the engine. “All right. It’s you and me, kid. We’re gonna hunt him together.”
(4:01 p.m.)
Rick always hated hospitals. Too much bleach in the air, too many flowers left to wilt in vases, and that fluorescent hum that gnawed at the nerves.
But mostly it was the memories: a young man waiting in a room just like this, while a sheet slipped over the face of a mother taken too soon. He never shook the smell.
And now Frank. The sight of him in that bed was all wrong.
Frank was no giant, no brick wall of a man like he was, but he carried himself with a kind of seasoned solidity, a frame shaped by decades on the job.
Seeing him pinned under starched linen, one shoulder bound, and his complexion dulled to gray, knocked the wind out of Rick more than he cared to admit.
But his eyes still looked like Frank’s—bloodshot, yes, but sharp enough to cut him where he sat.
“Dammit, Rick,” Frank rasped, voice hoarse but steady. “If you’d just told me—”
“What, Frank?” Rick stayed planted at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight. “That I had a late-night appointment with a bloodsucker in the boneyard? You’d have listened and stayed put, would you?”
The sheet shifted as Frank tried to push himself up, teeth gritted. “Hell no. But you can’t keep running me blind. We’re partners. That means no secrets on the job.”
Rick’s throat worked around the words he didn’t want to give. He let his gaze wander to the rain sliding down the window, fine as wire. “You still don’t get it. I’m trying to keep you breathing.”
“No, you’re shutting me out.” Frank’s words cracked, then settled hard as shale. “You think you’re carrying the weight of this whole rotten city on your back, and hell, maybe you are—but I’m no rookie you can kennel. Don’t toss me scraps and expect me to wag.”
Rick’s jaw flexed, his voice low. “You damn near got killed. Another inch and you’d be on a slab.”
“I had to know.” Frank’s fist bunched in the blanket, tendons sharp under skin gone taut. “And now I do. More than I ever wanted.” He slumped against the pillow, breath ragged.
Silence stretched, filled only by the tick of the monitor, steady and indifferent.
Rick shifted his stance, uncrossing his arms, the tang of antiseptic scraping his nerves raw.
He hated this part—the waiting, the hovering—because there was no rulebook for it, no training that taught a man how to tell his longest friend that he was glad he was alive.
Every word that came to mind felt clumsy, too small, and he’d never been good at laying himself bare.
Easier to stay quiet, to keep it buried where it couldn’t be fumbled.
Frank shook his head, gaze softening just enough to pry at Rick’s guard. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”
Rick grunted. “You’ve bailed my ass off the hook more times than I can count. Call it even.”
“At least tell me it wasn’t for nothing. You get anything out of that leech?”
Rick hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Enough to know we’re on the clock. He’s got room for one more before Halloween.”
“Fuck.” Frank shifted against the pillows, wincing. “And I’m out of action.”
“Let me worry about that. You focus on getting better.”
Frank huffed a small breath. “Wish I’d just trusted you, though.”
The knot in Rick’s chest loosened, though he wouldn’t give Frank the satisfaction of seeing it. “Would’ve saved you a cracked skull and a couple weeks of soup dinners.”
Frank snorted. “Don’t rub it in. Stella will be bad enough.”
For a moment, their gazes held, and something unspoken passed between them: memory, regret, and the kind of loyalty that didn’t need words.
Years of nights like this—close calls, bullets dodged, cases gone sideways.
No speeches, no apologies, only the weight of everything they’d already lived through pressing into the silence until it settled into something familiar.
The kind of silence brothers shared without needing blood.
Frank shifted again, and his gaze caught on the door’s small window. His brow furrowed. “Christ almighty,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “Guess I really did hit my head hard. I’m seeing that pretty boy of yours out there.”
Rick followed his stare. Ash leaned against the corridor wall, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, head tipped with that same melancholy poise he wore like a suit.
He’d changed at the loft—new pair of black jeans clung to his legs, clean black hoodie hugged his torso under the jacket—but in the bleached glare of hospital lights, he looked out of place.
Too vivid, too alive, the world bending around him without meaning to.
Rick’s groin gave a traitorous pulse. That kid. That damn kid. He’d been haunting him even when he wasn’t in the room. “You’re not seeing things,” he said, words rougher than he meant.
Frank turned sharply, wincing at the pull in his shoulder. “You’re telling me he’s actually here? What the hell for?”
“He’s agreed to help with the case.” Rick braced for Frank’s blowback.
And it came; Frank’s mouth tightened, breath flaring sharp. “For fuck’s sake, Rick. Like it wasn’t bad enough you screwed him. Now you’re working with him?”
Rick felt his own temper rise. “It’s not like I have options! You’re laid up, and I’m running out of road. He can… do things I can’t.”
For a long moment, Frank only glared at him, weighing, measuring.
The anger bled into something else; weariness, maybe, or the kind of reluctant acceptance that tasted bitter going down.
Finally, he gave a dry, quiet grunt. “So you’re taking whatever help you can scrape up, even from the demon stripper built to ruin men? ”
Rick almost smiled, though it snagged at the edges. “Something like that.”
Footsteps echoed along the corridor; the faint squeak of rubber soles on polished tile, the ghost of antiseptic riding the air, softened by the powdery trace of perfume. Rick caught the nurse’s scent before the door even swung open.
A petite brunette slipped in, crisp in her white uniform, the cap perched neatly over shining curls. Scarlet lipstick gave her smile a touch of glamour, her appearance polished and professional. She carried the clipboard with practiced poise, as if it were part of her image.
“How’s our troublemaker today?” she asked, voice brisk but lilting, glancing at Rick before turning to Frank.
“The old noggin’s still attached,” Frank said with a grin, shifting against the pillows.
Rick smirked. If Frank had the energy to flirt, he was mending fine.
The nurse moved to the monitor, tapping the screen with a pen. “Vitals look good. A lot better than when you were first brought in. Another day or two and your wife’s going to have her hands full keeping you in line.”
Frank gave a rough chuckle that turned into a wince. “Don’t jinx me, sweetheart. I’m aching in places I didn’t know I had.”
Rick leaned at the foot of the bed, watching the easy rhythm between them.
But Frank needed downtime, and Rick had his own miles yet to walk.
He rose, gave the rail a parting tap, and reached for his hat.
“Take it easy,” he said as the nurse bent to adjust the bandage with deft fingers.
“Stella can keep you in check. I’ll handle the rest.”
As he tipped the brim in a casual goodbye, Frank’s voice caught him. “Hey, Slade.” His gaze sharpened, though the glint there was warm. “Try not to get yourself killed. I called dibs on that.”
Rick let one corner of his mouth lift. “No promises,” he said, tugging the brim lower before turning for the door. The sound of their laughter trailed him into the hall.
Ash was waiting across the corridor, eyes half-closed, jacket drawn close, fists sunk in his pockets. He pushed off the wall as soon as he saw him. “How is he?”
“Stubborn as they come.” He let the words hang a beat before adding, quieter, “He’ll pull through.”
A faint smile tugged at Ash’s mouth. “Good.”
Rick’s gaze roamed over him—the tilt of his shoulders, the careless fall of his hair, the quick beam of merriment that always caught him off guard. He forced his tone steady. “Ready to hit the road?”
Ash tipped his head, a flicker of mischief playing at his lips. “Yeah. I called work, took some time off. I’m all yours now.”
Fuck. The line hit deeper than it should, low in his chest and lower still. The kind of line that should’ve slid off harmless, but it sank straight into him, heat and ache in one stroke. Rick’s mouth curved despite himself. “Vinny gonna survive without his star dancer?”
Ash’s grin widened, sharp and sure. “Vinny’ll live. He always does, as long as I promise to return.”
They fell into stride together, shoulders brushing as they walked down the corridor. Rick caught the faint brush of Ash’s sleeve against his coat—nothing, really, yet it set his pulse off-beat. He told himself to keep walking, to keep his thoughts clean, but the awareness lingered.
“Lunch?” he asked.
“Sure,” Ash said.
The glass doors opened onto rain-slick pavement and the greedy sprawl of Calgrave beyond, wet and gray.
The Eldorado sat waiting on the lot, its chrome gleaming in the drizzle.
Ash slid into the passenger seat like he belonged there.
Rick circled to the driver’s side, wishing they had more time, something more than a stolen breath, before the world closed in again.