Ash watched it the way a prisoner counts shadows when he’s forgotten the days. Gordon’s handiwork—precise, stern, and flawed. He sat motionless in the center, legs crossed, the air slick with dew and soot. It almost seemed like he was sleeping, yet his senses were ablaze. Waiting. Counting.
A slow, mineral breath exhaled from the pipes above him as a low rumble shook the old chamber for an instant. Shadows quivered across the concrete walls where the faces hung, their hollow eyes catching the candlelight and glistening, as if they wept. He didn’t look at them. Not anymore. Their silence had become part of the air, as constant as the smell of rust and iron.
Drip.
The rhythm had become a pulse below his ribs, intimate and cruel. Each droplet struck with the promise of release, a promise slower than mercy, sweeter than prayer. He breathed slowly, tasting copper and smoke, the ache in his limbs blooming into something strangely tender. In the yellow glow, his body seemed less flesh than flame; skin gleaming, every muscle rippling with trapped energy. The hunger had returned, coiling deep, electric and wild. It wasn’t only thirst that burned him now.
He closed his eyes. Beneath his lids, light trembled, amber and gold, the restless flicker of candlefire painting phantoms against the dark. He imagined he could sense the city above him: the storm gutters flooding, the hiss of rain on pavement, the neon signs bleeding their colors into puddles. Somewhere, far from this crypt of mildew and blood, life went on. Somewhere, right now, Rick might be breathing his name. Did he realize what had happened to him yet? Was he searching for him? He wouldn’t give up until there’s breath left in him. But by then it might be too late.
Drip.
The sound reached him again, a tongue against the edge of his cage. Ash smiled. The bastard had made a mistake. Every spell rotted in time; every prison leaked. He could almost hear the fibers breaking down, smell the iron oxidizing, the faint stench of mortality eating its own infernal geometry. Gordon had forgotten that blood is a living thing—and all living things die.
Drip.
Chapter Fifty-Four
(12:22 p.m.)
The elevator sighed to a stop, its brass doors parting onto a hallway steeped in old-world glamour. Art Deco sconces burned low and amber along walls paneled in mahogany and gold filigree. The air was a quiet symphony of lilies and champagne, of coffee and warm toast drifting from somewhere unseen. A thick carpet of crimson damask hushed his steps as Rick made his way toward Number 112, its gilded numerals gleaming like a whispered dare.
He hesitated before knocking.Ash’s twin sister.This wasn’t how it should’ve gone. Ash should’ve met her first, had that moment for himself. But Ash was missing, maybe dying, and Rick didn’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect reunions. He rubbed the back of his neck, drew a slow breath, and rapped his knuckles against the polished wood.
A shuffle stirred inside—muffled voices, the soft pad of feet—then the latch gave with a click. The man who opened the door wore nothing but snug charcoal trunks and a self-satisfied smirk, a model of undressed charm. Tall, broad-shouldered, early thirties, tawny hair tousled, blue eyes glistening with diablerie. The scent that came with him—cologne, heat, sweat—was sharp enough to sting Rick’s nose.
“Yes?” he drawled, folding his arms and leaning against the frame.
“Detective Slade, CMPD.” Rick’s voice came out low, roughened by urgency. “I need to speak with Miss Gardner.”
The man’s smile curved, lazy, unbothered. “Babe, it’s for you!” he called over his shoulder. He stepped aside, waving Rickin with the smugness of someone used to being the guest, not the host. “Don’t take too long, pal. We were just about to… get down to business.”
Rick’s jaw tightened as he crossed the threshold. Inside, the condo bloomed with lush, classical splendor: velvet drapes spilling from high, arched windows; orchids crowding crystal vases on low tables; the faint purr of a record spinning slow jazz. The furniture gleamed with velour and brass under a chandelier dripping with crystal fire, the carpets thick enough to swallow a man’s footsteps. The air was rich with scented candles and chilled white wine, with the heat of bodies, present and past. A trail of discarded clothing—shirt, trousers, shoes—led deeper into the apartment like breadcrumbs of lust.
Rick’s mouth hardened. A quick tumble before lunch. And he was interrupting. Again, he thought about how he shouldn’t be here. Not in her world, not before Ash had even seen her. This meeting should’ve meant something. Instead, it felt like trespass.
“Who’s there, Glen?” came a voice from the bedroom, honey over ice.
She stepped into the doorway, wrapped in a gown of liquid satin the color of champagne, clinging and flowing at once, a slit whispering up one thigh as she moved closer. Lush black hair poured down her face and over her shoulders, peekaboo style, catching the light like obsidian, the faint shimmer of perfume trailing her like a promise meant for someone else. She wore feather stiletto slippers—casual, effortless, decadent—and for a heartbeat, Rick forgot why he was there.
Ivy was stunning the way a diamond dims the world around it: luminous, breathtaking, almost unreal. He expected it, but the sculpted face, the full red lips, the violet eyes—Ash’seyes—still caught him off guard. It was like seeing the same soul refracted through another body, Ash’s beauty softened, renderedin porcelain instead of marble. Yet even as he admired her, a quiet truth coiled inside: he’d once thought she was perfection, if not for her brother. She was flawless, yes—but his soul craved a diamond of another kind.
“The gumshoe wants to talk to you,” Glen murmured, brushing her cheek with his lips before his hand slid down to give her a playful swat on the ass. “I’ll wait in bed. Don’t keep me long.” She only smiled, that slow feline curve of amusement, and Glen disappeared into her boudoir, the sound of sheets rustling coming from within.
Ivy glided into the living room, motioning Rick to sit. “What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked, voice smooth as silk, eyes gleaming amethysts behind a veil of lashes.
Rick cleared his throat, forcing his focus. “I need to ask a few questions.” He took the armchair opposite her as she sank gracefully into a curved white sofa, crossing one long leg over the other, the slit in her gown sliding provocatively high.
She reached for a silver lighter, its spark flaring to kiss the tip of her cigarette before she drew in a slow breath, exhaling toward the chandelier. Smoke coiled upward, wrapping her in a ghostly halo. “Questions about what?” she asked, reclining amid the cushions. Her gaze roamed over him, unhurried, halting when it reached his face. A smile fluttered across her lips. “What does the police want with little old me?”
Rick clasped his hands together, leaning forward and trying not to notice the shimmer of her bare leg. “This’ll sound strange,” he said, “but I want to know about your dreams.”
Her smile curved wider, the teasing deepening. “That’s a first,” she murmured. “Most men aren’t that interested in what happens when I’m asleep.”
“Guess I’m not most men,” Rick said dryly.
For a moment, the smoke between them shivered, a spark of caution flickering in her stare. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s for a case.” He swallowed, feeling the absurdity of it scrape his throat. “I can’t tell you more than that. But please believe me—it’s important. Have you had any dreams lately that stood out? Something vivid. Unusual.”
