Page 35 of Crown of Ash

"He's a rot in this city." Marcus's words were sharp and biting, his gaze never leaving Bell's face. "The law had its chance at him. It had years. I want him gone, permanently, and I'm asking if the Crimson Company is willing to be part of making that happen. He’s started targeting my people… Reaper’s people."

Reaper? Andre felt a chill run down his spine at the mention of the name. He had heard the rumors of a cadre of killers in masks all named for Death. No one had ever gotten a single description or MO… The existence of him, them, was another myth. But now, standing in this room with these men, Andre was starting to understand that he now walked among such myths, and they were so much more than stories.

Bell looked at Marcus for a long moment, his golden eyes unreadable. It wasn't a performance, or if it was, Andre couldn't find the lie in it. It felt like being weighed, like being measured for a suit that might not fit.

"I've had people on that ugly man since he started making noise again," Bell said finally, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. "Months now. I was waiting on you, sugar, not the other way around."

A muscle twitched in Marcus's jaw, the only sign of his surprise. His eyes narrowed slightly as he met Bell's gaze.

"You knew I'd ask." His voice was barely above a whisper, but it filled the room with its intensity.

"I knew you'd get there." Bell's voice was a soft murmur, his thumb tracing a gentle path behind Princess's ear, finding that sweet spot that made her lean into his touch with a contented purr. "A man like you doesn't go looking for a war. He waits till the war's already inside the gates, and then he goes looking for the fastest way to end it. I've been ready a while."

"Why?" The question slipped from Andre's lips before he could stop it. Both men turned to look at him, their gazes sharp and assessing. He swallowed, but made himself finish the thought instead of retreating. "Why do you care? You could sit this whole thing out and lose nothing."

Something flickered behind Bell's eyes, a shadow passing over his golden gaze so quickly Andre almost missed it.

"Sovriegn called me the night that ugly man put his hands near Reaper's boy." Bell's voice remained light, but his hand stilled on Princess's back. "Apparently, the cold-eyed prince was in a state over it, and Reaper doesn't get in states, so that told me plenty on its own. You don't get to be a murdering billionaire with a fleet of guard dogs and operate loose in my city. That's reason enough, though I have plenty more and I owe you, Andre Jefferson, none of them."

"Is there another kind?" Andre asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bell's smile didn't waver, but something beneath it shifted, like tectonic plates grinding against each other.

"I don't much care for men who buy and sell people," he said, his accent thinning around the edges, all the honeyed charm burned away to reveal something raw and hard underneath. "Traffickers. The men and women who arrange them. They doing get to breathe the same sweet, Goddess given air I do. And before you ask, no, I'm not going to tell you why, and yes, you already know why, you're just too polite to say it in my house."

The room fell into a heavy silence. Even Princess had stopped moving under his hand, as if she too sensed the shift in the atmosphere. The air seemed to thicken, the tension winding tighter and tighter until it felt like the slightest movement might shatter it.

He'd walked into the room prepared to face a monster. Instead, he'd found a man who had clearly survived one, a man who had spent every year since transforming that survival into a weapon aimed at men like the ones who'd made him. Andre didn't voice these thoughts. There were certain things you didn't say aloud in a man's own house, regardless of whether he'd invited you in or not.

"So," Bell began, his voice returning to its full honeyed richness within a single breath, as if he'd never allowed the darkness to surface at all. "Tech. Bodies on the ground when you need them. My people go where I point them and they don't question why. But that's the only promise I make about how this gets done."

"And what's the price?" Marcus asked, his voice steady despite the weight of the question.

"Not a single dollar." Bell's eyes met Marcus's, gold and unwavering. "I don't do this for money, darling, I do this because it's mine to do. This city belongs to me, even if sweet Sovriegn might pretend otherwise. But don't mistake free for cheap. You'll owe me. Not now. Not on any schedule. But you will. And when I come collecting, you'll pay it… I think we both know that."

"I know," Marcus replied, his voice carrying an acceptance that was almost serene.

"You don't even seem worried." Bell tilted his head, a genuine curiosity in his gaze as Princess resettled against his stomach with a small, disgruntled sound. "Smart men worry about open debts to me."

"You've never once asked me for something I couldn't give," Marcus said, his voice steady and sure. "I don't expect that to start now."

Bell studied him for a long moment, his face softening in a way that the affected warmth hadn't managed. It was less polished, more genuine.

"No," he said, his voice mellow and easy, almost fond. "I suppose I haven't."

His gaze then shifted to Andre, sliding over as if he was only now remembering there was a second man in the room.

"You're quieter than I expected, detective. Word was you talk more."

"Word was you were seven feet tall and ate men for breakfast," Andre retorted, his voice carrying a hint of humor.

Bell laughed, a sudden, delighted sound that echoed around the room. Princess startled at the noise, resettling without ever fully waking. "I like him," he said to Marcus, as if Andre wasn't standing right there. "Keep him."

"Working on it," Marcus replied, a hint of warmth in his voice that spread low in Andre's chest, absurd as that was.

"Well." Bell's fingers paused in their rhythmic stroking of Princess, scratching her once more under the chin with a fondness that seemed at odds with the sharpness returning to his gaze. His gold eyes flicked between them, the softness that had briefly warmed them now replaced with a keen, predatory focus. "Go on home, both of you. I'll be in touch when I have something for you. My Sable was left wanting and I can't have that."

His voice was a rich tapestry of sound, the honeyed tones dropping out for just a moment as he addressed Andre directly. "And detective," he said, the word slicing through the air like a blade sliding between ribs, precise and deadly. "You tell that pretty captain of yours she still owes me. I watched her silly Persian for a whole, agonizing weekend. That cat is nothing but fur and hatred. She needs to take my sweet Princess for at least that long."