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Authors: Tina Whittle
Blood, Ash, and Bone
Blood, Ash, and Bone
A Tai Randolph Mystery
Tina Whittle
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2013 by Tina Whittle
First E-book Edition 2013
ISBN: 9781615954339 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
To Archie and Dinah Floyd—my dear parents—who taught me the power of stories and the importance of family, and who always believed in me, and encouraged me, and loved me.
A writer is only as good as her support group, and mine is made of stars and magic and solid gold. Special thanks to three ladies of The Mojito Literary Society—Annie Hodgsett, Susan Newman, and Laura Valeri—who are always there to share their brilliance, encouragement, and enthusiasm. Fine writers in their own right, they are fine friends and human beings too. In addition, Amber Grey lent her editorial expertise and wholehearted encouragement. I owe them all buckets of gratitude.
Big thanks go to historian and fellow mystery writer Jon Bryant, who not only helped me piece together this tangled web, he also provided the essential story seed from which the book blossomed. In addition, he lent wordsmithing, research acumen, and general rah-rah support to this effort. Special thanks also to Pam Wynne, who shared her expertise on private detective licensure in the state of Georgia, and Girish Patel, who finally learned to hold on to his peanuts.
My loved ones deserve special kudos, especially my parents, Dinah and Archie; my parents-in-law Yvonne and Gene; my sibling and siblings-in-law, Tim and Lisa, and Patty and Rich, plus my wonderful niece and nephews. And, as always, much gratitude to the fine folks at Poisoned Pen Press—especially Barbara Peters, Annette Rogers, Jessica Tribble, Rob Rosenwald, and Suzan Baroni— a writer’s dream team that serves both writers and writing in exemplary fashion. Sincere thanks to the creative team of Nan Beams and the folks who lent their artistic genius to the design and cover art. I am also grateful to my fellow PPPers—the Posse—for their unwavering good cheer, good advice, and good faith.
And, last but never least, XXX and OOO to James and Kaley, who have my love forever and always.
“Do it again,” he said.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, my legs shaking. “You’re kidding.”
“No. One more time.”
“I need to catch my breath first.”
He moved behind me and ran his hands down my ribcage to the small of my back, palms flat. He toed my feet two inches further apart and tucked my hips under. “One more time. Shoulders down and back. Keep your feet in neutral.”
“Can’t we move to side kicks?”
“Round kicks.”
“Trey—”
“One more set.” He stood in front of me again and picked up the kick pad. “Keep it sequential.”
I gave up arguing and straightened my stance. We were alone in the workout room at the gym, his students long gone. No way to avoid his laser-lock attention. I took a deep breath and kicked one more time, channeling my annoyance into the kinetic chain of hip-thigh-ankle. To my astonishment, I landed it solid, all of my mass and energy converging in a blow so powerful it knocked Trey back a step.
I bounced on the balls of my feet. “I nailed that!”
He didn’t smile, but I did detect satisfaction. He always looked so boyish with a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, his black hair mussed.
“Good,” he said. “Stop bouncing and finish the set.”
I squared my stance as he put the kick pad up again, then launched into the rest of the set, seven more kicks in rapid succession. I felt like a ninja, a starburst, a firework.
I put my hands up in a fighting stance. “Come on, let’s do some sparring.”
“Not today.”
“You always say that.”
He lowered the kick pad and started untying his handwraps, eyes down. I put my hands on my hips.
“Trey. We have talked about this.”
He shook his head, not looking at me. “Nonetheless.”
I exhaled in frustration. Three months previously, in the heat of a bitter argument, I’d grabbed his elbow. He’d popped my hand away in a Krav block, a move as precise and sudden as a lightning strike. It hadn’t hurt, but it had certainly shocked me. Trey too. He’d stared at his hands like they were alien things, then babbled an apology. And we hadn’t sparred since.
“You still spar with your other students. Why not with me?”
He didn’t deny the charge. His attention remained on the neat unwrapping of his hands.
I spread my arms. “Look at me. Shin pads, combat vest, gloves. I’ve even got the damn helmet on. You’re wearing a t-shirt and shorts, barefoot. I’m a virtual tank, and you’re one layer from naked.”
He folded his arms. I recognized the gesture—full defensive lockdown—which meant I wasn’t breaching his perimeter with a direct assault.
I took two steps closer, and he narrowed his eyes, wary. Up close, he smelled like sweat and bleached cotton. I imagined how he would taste, the salt sting of bare skin against my tongue. I ran one hand up his arm, from wrist to elbow. He didn’t visibly react, but I knew he craved the flare and ignition as much as I did, even if he was better at tamping it down.
I smiled at him. “We’ll take it slow and easy. No sudden moves, no surprises.”
He didn’t budge. I ran one finger down his breastbone, feeling the contraction of each muscle group—first the pecs, then the diaphragm, then the abs. He could make a fortress of his body. He was doing it right in front of me.
He cocked his head. “Tai? What are you doing?”
“Sparring.”
“This isn’t sparring.”
“You sure?”
And then I yanked my knee up within a millimeter of his groin. He froze, and his eyes went ice-blue. And he got calm. Real calm.
I looked him in the eye. “So drop the over-protective routine, Mr. Seaver. I may not be the Krav Maga god that you are, but I can take care of myself.”
He hadn’t moved an inch. “A point.”
I smiled bigger. “In my favor, I do believe.”
And then it happened. Suddenly the world somersaulted—wheel and whirl and reel and tumble—and the back of my skull slammed against the cushioned mat with a thud. I blinked into the overhead fluorescents, flat on my back.
Trey stood at my feet, hands on hips, not even breathing hard. He hadn’t broken eye contact, had simply grabbed my arm and flipped me, one deft move. Close the space, vault, and release.
I squinted up at him. “Omigod, you have to teach me that.”
“What?”
“Seriously. That was awesome.” I held a hand in his direction and wiggled my fingers. “Help me up.”
His natural courtesy almost undid him, and he reached out to take my hand. Fortunately for him, his training kicked in a millisecond later, and he snatched his hand back before I could grab it.
I grinned. “You almost fell for that.”
He glared at me, then headed for the door.
I rolled to my stomach. “And where do you think you’re going, you sneaky son of a bitch?”
He bent over his gym bag and pulled out his gloves. “To get my sparring gear.”
***
He drove me back to Kessesaw the back route, avoiding the interstate, keeping the Ferrari right at the speed limit. I watched Atlanta roll by—steel buildings, gray asphalt, tree branches going bare against a gunmetal November sky. My thighs ached from the last thirty minutes on the mat. He’d been relentless. I hadn’t been able to get in a single punch, much less block anything he’d sent my way, and he’d sent the whirlwind.
“That still wasn’t sparring,” I complained. “That was you teaching me a lesson. You dominated the entire time.”
He turned onto my street, a narrow lane lined with small mom-and-pop stores, of which my gun shop was one. It was fully dark now, the streetlights blooming in the night like nocturnal flowers.
“Of course I dominated. I’m better than you are.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to go full bad ass on me! What happened to the zone of proximal learning, keeping students at the edge of their comfort zone?”
He didn’t reply.
“You used to give me a fighting chance. But tonight, all you did was knock me down over and over. I didn’t learn a damn thing.”
He glanced my way. “Nothing at all?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I frowned. “Is this you being cryptic? Because I’m not used to that.”
He considered his words. “Every offensive move exposes a defensive vulnerability. The same move that put you close enough to attack also put you too close to defend.”
“I couldn’t have defended against a front takedown, you haven’t taught me how!”
“I keep explaining this, and you keep ignoring me—don’t move outside your training. Stick with what you can execute cleanly and effectively.”