Ink and Shadows

Readers love
Black Dog Blues

by
R
HYS
F
ORD

“I devoured all 246 pages of it as quickly as I possibly could… Rhys strings descriptive prose together in a way that I loved.”

—Boy Meets Boy Reviews

“Dark, gripping, intense and imaginative… I thought this was a great read.”

—MM Good Book Reviews

“Rhys Ford is an artist; her words are dredged off the palette and brushed on the pages, creating a world that overwhelmed my senses for days after I read the last words.”

—The Novel Approach

“This author plunges you straight into a gritty scene that totally showcases her ability to create sounds, smells and the essence of a scene from mere words.”

—Sinfully… Addicted to All Male Romance

“This story is everything a fantasy should be… not only a fantastic story, its technically excellent and smartly edited. It’s definitely an example of the brilliance I’ve come to expect from Rhys Ford.”

—Love Bytes

“I'm in awe over this Urban Fantasy world that Rhys Ford has created and I want more!”

—Rainbow Book Reviews

Copyright

Published by

DSP P
UBLICATIONS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dsppublications.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Ink and Shadows

© 2015 Rhys Ford.

Cover Art

© 2015 Anne Cain.

[email protected]

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact DSP Publications, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dsppublications.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-63476-016-4

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63476-017-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014920374

First Edition July 2015

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z37.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

The Four is dedicated to… the Five, Z.A. Maxfield, and LE Franks.

For the Five because they are the foundation of every work I’ve ever done.

For ZAM, who is convinced she loves me.

And for LE because apparently she licked the pixels and declared it hers.

TO THE FIVE who are everything—from Dragon to Rat: Penn, Lea, Tamm, and Jenn. And to my hanai sisters: Ren, Ree, and Lisa.

There are never enough words of thanks for Elizabeth North and everyone at Dreamspinner Press. Everything that is good is because of them. I cannot thank Grace and her crew enough for herding me like the nipped-up one-eyed cat that I am.

As many thanks to my beta readers and the Dirty Ford Guinea Pigs who put up with SOOOOO much of my crap and whining and damn, don’t read that—I’ve got another idea. So much patience.

Lastly, to every single artist in my music library. God, thank you for keeping me company.

D
EATH
SELECTED
a ripe orange from the fruit bowl, hitching himself farther back onto the kitchen counter, the marble cold under him, even through the thickness of the low-slung cotton pants he’d tugged on after his workout.

The sudden screech of thumping music had broken the quiet of their penthouse, but Death didn’t mind. It was good to have Mal around, and Death was willing to make adjustments for their youngeSt. As their new Pestilence, Mal brought a youthfulness to their Four that was long missing, although the other two didn’t see it as quite as much of a good thing as Death did. At least this time the volume hadn’t been loud enough to rattle the windows. They’d replaced a broken mirror recently, a victim of Mal’s music.

When the eldest Horseman bent over, his inky hair curved down over his strong jaw, nearly hiding the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Behind him the city glowed under the waning sunlight, holding back the San Diego night creeping in from the horizon.

Sliding his thumbnail against the dimpled orange skin, Death inhaled the sharp citrus oil of the
pierced rind. Curving his nail carefully around the rim of the navel, he pushed down gently to barely break
the surface. The fruit still lay under in its bright rind, seemingly immune to the immortal’s fingers. A door
opened down to the left of the kitchen area. Then Ari strode into the common area, fresh from a shower.

Ari’s rib cage ran thick in one spot, a cicatrice blooming on a stretch of tanned skin. The sunburst peeking over the towel’s edge caught Death’s attention, pulling him away from his orange and the problem that had landed in his lap. War’s scar was as familiar to him as his own but much more intriguing, rays of thinner lines spiraling out from a single spray, and still it tugged at his imagination. He gave the thin scar running down his left eye ridge and over the bridge of his nose much less thought.

Death wondered if their scars were from their deaths, one of the few times he’d given himself permission to wonder about where the Horsemen all came from, but the answer, like so many others, was out of his reach. Pestilence, the most recent of their Four, had none on him. Death was amused at the irony of a Pestilence dead from a disease. Min’s flat belly was carved with a half-moon arc between her hip bones, nearly a pinkie width of tangled skin.

“Ah, we’re alone. Okay, maybe not totally alone, but unless Cooties comes out of his room, we’re
alone enough. Want to neck and have some fun?” Ari’s white teeth nipped at the dark-haired man’s ear,
barely skimming the soft flesh before Death pulled away and gave him a muted disapproving look Ari
was quite used to. Eyes slanted slightly upward, he glanced a black warning at Ari’s familiarity with his
body.

“Stop it.” His gaze dropped, voice soft in a whisper, a reluctant protestation made out of habit. Looking at the recalcitrant fruit, Death worried once more at the rind, crushing the pulp inside. “I’m
thinking.”

“You think too much sometimes. And give me that. I’ll open it for you.” His rough voice broke Death’s study of the fruit. Disgusted at the mess made of the orange, he reached for it, tugging at the fruit until Death let go.

Death gave up the orange reluctantly, long fingers opening under the press of Ari’s callused hand. Ari met the other immortal’s contemplative dark eyes with a steady stare, refusing to give in to Death’s stubbornness. Looking down, Death avoided the other man’s frank gaze, staring instead at the towel knotted about Ari’s waist.

Ari’s flat stomach was bare except for a faint dusting of blond hair around his navel, the down darkened from spots of water, burrowing down past the towel. Moving forward, Ari’s thick and powerful legs straddled Death’s knees as the blond savagely worked the orange free from its skin.

Standing against one another in the kitchen, they touched casually, although Death was cautious, knowing Ari would take even the slightest hint of intimacy and run away with it. Ari had laid siege more than once around the dark-haired immortal, each time falling back and licking his wounds while promising never to approach again, then swearing under his breath when he renewed pursuit. Now they were at a rare peace, Ari circling and looking for an opening while Death was seemingly unaware.

Old arguments hung between them, heated tensions folded more times than they could count and tempered by the passions of the blond man, who sometimes pushed too hard. Death was a contrary player in Ari’s games, permissive just far enough to whet Ari’s appetites.

The fruit’s rind parted under Ari’s thumbs, tearing free from the flesh with a gush of juice.

Sucking at the white membrane left on his thumb, Ari handed the fruit back, grinning widely at Death’s wrinkled nose at the bruised segments.

“You’ve killed it.” Pulling the juicy sphere apart, Death gave a mock grimace at the shattered cells, popped from Ari’s aggressive tearing.

“You’re too gentle with things.” Ari sniffed, tugging the towel closed where it threatened to tumble from his hips. Most of his body was still damp, his long dirty-blond hair just starting to dry at the ends. Leaning on the marble counter, the tips of his fingers dragging along the outer edge of Death’s knee, Ari quirked one eyebrow at the immortal. “Sometimes you just have to tear things apart. It looked like you were making juice inside of that rind.”

“Sometimes you have to coax them along,” Death replied, trying to separate out a piece of orange.

“I’ve tried coaxing. It doesn’t work as well as tearing,” Ari said.

Turning, Ari gazed at the city below, the penthouse’s west expanse of windows reaching out over downtown and toward the bay. “City looks nice tonight. Fog might roll in early.”

“It might.” Death nodded.

A shuddering wraith wove past the window, then slammed into the glass, startling the two Horsemen.