Ash gave a faint smile. “Good man.”
They watched him stagger to his fallen partner, drag the body into the back seat of the sedan, and slip into the driver’s seat. A moment later, the engine started, and the car drove off into the dark without so much as a brake tap or glance back.
Rick let out a ragged breath, catching himself on the wall. Pain flared along his arm as the adrenaline wore off.
Ash stepped beside him, hand on his shoulder. “You’re hurt. I’ll call an ambulance.”
Rick waved him off with a grunt. His body would knit itself up by dawn. It always did. Especially this close to the full moon. “Nah. It’s a flesh wound. I’ll be fine.”
“You wereshot, Slade.”
Rick grunted. “Yeah, I noticed.” He winced as he walked over to his battered Caddie—bullet dents along the side, shattered headlight, paint scuffed to hell. “Look what they did to my baby. I just waxed her last week.”
Ash stayed behind. “You’re bleeding out, and you’re worried about yourcar?”
Rick bent over the driver’s side, muttering, “Have some respect, kid. That’s classic chrome. You don’t simplyreplacethat.” He reached inside and grabbed the mic from the dash, keying it. “Dispatch, this is Slade. Had a couple shots fired in Silver Cove while I was following up on a lead. No injuries. Suspects fled the scene. I’ll follow up in the morning.”
Static crackled.“Copy that, Detective. You sure you don’t need backup?”
“Positive. I’ve got this under control. No further units necessary.”
Ash snorted behind him. “CMPD’s golden boy, breaking protocol. I’m impressed.”
Rick slid the mic back in place. “Just trying to dodge the paperwork.” He looked around. The block was still. No sirens. No lights. No cracked-open windows. Only the glow of the streetlamp and the sour ghost of gunfire on the wind. Nobody called the cops here. Not unless they wanted to disappear next. This street would bury the noise like it buried everything else. New Town swallowed its secrets whole.
“Right.” Ash moved toward the building’s entrance. “At least come upstairs and let me clean you up. Unless you’d rather bleed all over your seats, too.”
Rick hesitated. Instinct said no. Walk away. Keep the lines clean. But Ash was already going in, glancing back once. And damn it, Rick followed, blood dripping down his side, vision spinning a little. He told himself it was the pull. Some kind of magic he couldn’t fight.
But magic had nothing to do with it. And he knew it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
(1:31 a.m.)
The hinges shrieked in protest as Ash opened the main entrance, the sound echoing up the stairwell. A coin-operated laundromat hummed on the ground level, all harsh light and spinning drums, sealed off from the rest of the old firehouse. They climbed the narrow flight of stairs to the second floor, side by side. Ash fished out a key, turned it in the lock, and pushed open the heavy door to his inner sanctum.
The moment they stepped inside, Rick stopped short. Ash caught the low, sharp sound of his breath—a quiet note of surprise that told him the place had landed its punch.
The loft unfurled around them, lavish as a sultan’s palace, every inch echoing with contradictions: crammed bookshelves, an enormous fireplace, lush Persian rugs, a grand piano, a king-sized bed draped in black silk that caught the light like oil. And past the sea of cushions and sofas, beyond the clutter of lamps and ottomans, the huge arched windows revealed Calgrave glittering under the haze, its skyline a jagged necklace of steel and shadow.
Rick let out a low whistle. “I’ll be damned.”
Ash tossed his keys into the porcelain dish on the table and shed his jacket. “Don’t look so shocked. What, you thought I curled up on a stained mattress in a burned-out ruin?”
Rick took off his coat and fedora, laying them carefully over the nearest armchair. His eyes were still sweeping the place, curious but guarded, as if he expected a trapdoor to open under his feet. “Well, I didn’t think it’d be this… Versailles.”
Ash smirked. “Get used to surprises, Slade.”
From the shadows, Poe came gliding out, tail high and disdainful. He twined briefly around Ash’s legs, caught sight of Rick, and froze. A low hiss rumbled from his throat, teeth bared, ears flattening.
Ash scooped the cat into his arms. “Don’t be rude, Poe. Detective Slade is our guest.”
Poe hissed again, clearly indifferent to proper decorum. He wriggled free, bolting under the nearest divan with his dignity intact.
“Cats never liked me,” Rick muttered. He seemed almost sheepish, standing there, too tall, too solid even for a space this vast, a room that seemed more an extravagant dream than a dwelling.
Ash gave him a once-over—the bruised knuckles, the blood-stained suit clinging to that hulking frame—then headed toward the bathroom. Suppressing the emotion crawling up his spine, he tossed the words over his shoulder: “Take a seat. Lose the shirt. I’ll find the antiseptic.”
