by Cari Z
“Mind back on the job, babe,” Rio said, killjoy that he was. He pulled out slowly, and patted Devon on the ass as he sat up straight. He drew Devon up as well, but instead of immediately pulling him onto his feet, Rio kissed him. It was a soft, sweet kiss, way too brief but still special. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Rio murmured against Devon’s lips before leaning back.
“Me too,” Devon replied, a hand on Rio’s chest. His skin was tacky with sweat and semen and he smelled funky, but Devon still couldn’t quite bear to let him go.
“Try to stay that way,” Rio added before getting to his feet and hauling Devon with him.
“Puh-leez,” Devon scoffed, draping his arms over Rio’s shoulders and letting the bigger man drag him into the bathroom. His toes barely touched the ground. “Between us we’ve weathered captivity, hordes of armed minions, shady magicians and genuine black magic so far.
“What could possibly happen in Seattle that we can’t handle?”
Chapter Seventeen
Steven Sorenson sat alone at a table outside of the little restaurant he’d chosen as a meeting place and kicked his feet up onto the chair across from him. It was a mark of ownership, about as clear as you could get without pissing all over the damn thing, but in this sea of humanity there was always someone willing to try regardless. In this case, it was the woman one table over from him, freshly arrived and clearly in possession of an Agenda, capital “A” fully intended. She disregarded his ownership-via-feet statement and reached for the chair.
“S’occupied,” he informed her, going heavy on the accent. He knew he looked like a proper chav right now, dressed in hoodie and cap, plenty of tattoos on display. What was the American word for the look…grommet? No, that was surfing. Gangsta? Homie? Whatever it was, she was thinking it about him so hard he thought she might catch fire.
“I need this extra chair for my family,” she said, laying emphasis on the word family, like that made it so much more important.
“Yeah? Where are they, then?”
The woman frowned. She was wearing a pink t-shirt with Pike’s Place Market printed on the front of it, a rumpled white skort, socks with her chunky sandals—oh, luv, really?—and a fanny pack. One more tourist in a sea of tourists, and after six long months in Vegas, Steven had had his fill of the type. They were as like to look down on you as everyone else, but had none of the righteousness that came from being a local to back it up. “They’re on their way.”
“Yeah, well, I need it for my business associates.” Who were running late, the sods. “So until one of your fam arrives and takes the chair for themselves, it’s stayin’ with me.”
She put her hands on her hips and huffed through her nose at him, her lips creased into a scowl, and for a moment Steven thought she would stay and try to fight this out with him. But no, in the end she turned away and began noisily collecting chairs from different tables. The other diners bore her intrusion with much better grace than Steven had.
Fuck it, though. He wasn’t here to be gracious to every tosser who looked at him sideways; he was here to work. And he’d done a damn good job so far, actually, and he was anxious to share his success. It felt a little odd, to do work that he didn’t hate. Reminded Steven of prison, strangely enough, but then again, there he’d fallen in with a crowd that took care of their own.
Beauregard Syfer was a gentleman in many respects, ruthless but fair. He’d taken a shine to Steven that had come with a heavy price, but the rewards…Steven touched the edge of the new tattoo on his left palm, wincing just a little at the residual tenderness of it. Yeah, the rewards were worth the trouble. Good inkers were hard to find, and an inker who’d do the work without fucking with you was even rarer.
So what if the price of freedom and entrance into an elite criminal network was a year of being Lynlis Syfer’s personal gofer? So what if after the first month Steven had stopped sleeping through the night, and started dabbing menthol under his nose during the day so he wouldn’t smell the things she kept around her? So what if that girl owned her daddy’s heart but had eyes like an ancient god, distant and cruel? None of Steven’s business. As long as she didn’t ask him to do something that might get him sent back to jail—for a given and flexible value of “might,” he wasn’t unreasonable—he would work with her. Case in point: being loaned out to these gents. Steven had the feeling that either of these boys could get him into plenty of trouble all on their own, and the two of them together…well. At least he wouldn’t be bored, right?
Except for being bored out of his skull right the hell now. He’d finished his massive bread bowl of chowder ten minutes ago and kept the top, and he flicked pieces of it to a bold gull perched on a lamppost across the sidewalk. The gull hopped down to the ground and gobbled up every crumb like the verminous little vacuum it was, then retreated to safety to wait for the next tidbit.
A little girl a few feet down from him watched with envy as Steven made the bird come at his bready beck and call. After a minute or so, he held out a bit of bread to her. “Want to try it?”
The girl didn’t say anything, but she nodded and gently took the piece of bread without touching his fingertips. She threw it with gusto, and watched avidly as the gull swooped down and plucked the offering from the bricks. He handed her another piece, then another. He could see the moment her eyes were distracted from the bird by his newest tattoo.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Steven asked with a smile. She nodded again. “Hey, want to see a magic trick?” A much more eager nod. “Right, let me get my mojo working…” He rubbed his hands together for a moment, to get the feel of the thing, then held his hands out toward her—palms in; it was one thing for her to see his newest tattoo and another for her to get a look at the gun outlined on the other hand—then wiggled his fingers and…
“Voila!” Pinched between thumb and index finger was a bright golden coin, shiny and distracting. That particular tat had been done in yellow ink and was hard to see on the side of his finger, even harder now that he’d almost used it up. Soon the tattoo would be exhausted and Steven would have another square inch of pristine skin just waiting for a purpose.
The little girl didn’t look impressed. “Not so much, huh?” Steven sighed. Kids these days, impossible to please. “Here.” He handed her the rest of his bread, which she seemed much happier about, and let the coin vanish back into his skin.
Fortunately for his state of mind, he had other things to focus on now, because Steven noticed his mysterious associates as soon as they turned the corner two blocks down. Rubbish at blending in, both of them. The cambion was too damn pretty and the giant was too damn tall, impossible not to pick out even when he wore nondescript blacks and browns like he was now. Steven watched their approach and thought over the bits of info Lynlis had given him before he had flown up here.
“Devon Harper,” she’d said, unable to keep from rubbing her thighs together even while she was supposed to be working. “I couldn’t find out much about what he’s been doin’ since college, but he’s a lover, honey, not a fighter. Good guy to be friends with, though, so try to be accommodating.” Don’t be afraid to whore yourself out was what she meant. As if shagging the bloke hadn’t been almost the first thing that sprang to Steven’s mind when he first saw him. He just hoped that the man wasn’t the type to hold grudges.
“The other one I don’t know anything about,” Lynlis had continued, and oh, how that ignorance had burned her. “There’s somethin’ special about him, though…you find out what he is and I’ll knock a month off your time with me.”
One less month of working with Lynlis was damn tempting, but Steven wasn’t sure it was worth his life, which was the impression he got when he looked at the big guy.
Such an odd couple, the pair of ‘em. Happy and Grumpy, if Steven were picking monikers. Or maybe Sexy and Badass, dwarves for the modern era. And a…what in the bleeding hell was that?
“S’at a dog or a muppet?” Steven asked as the two of them reached his
table. The big guy pulled the spare chair out from under Steven’s feet and sat down, tying the little critter’s leash to the arm rest.
“That’s Maggie,” Devon said with an indulgent smile as he leaned over to pet her. The leaning just happened to tip him into the big guy’s lap, where he landed with a happy sigh. The big guy groaned.
“Seriously, Devon, get off. I cannot take the pressure, not after that last rest stop.”
“Aw, Rio,” Devon nuzzled the other man’s neck affectionately. “Did I break you? Does that mean I’ve bought you too? I know the perfect spot for you at home, right in the middle of my king-size bed.”
“Beaten but not broken,” Rio said dryly. “But I do mean it when I say get off.” He hoisted Devon out of his lap with one hand.
Devon rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He turned around and caught the eye of the skort-wearing, chair-nabbing tourist. “Excuse me, do you mind if I take one of these?” he asked sweetly, placing a hand on the back of one of her spoils.
“Oh,” the woman began, instantly flustered. “Oh, well, I suppose not.”
“Thank you so much.” He pulled it over and sat down, a picture of smugness.
“You never have to wait in a queue, do you?” Steven asked.
“Nope!” Devon beamed at him, sending a warm thrill all the way down to Steven’s toes. “How are you, Steven Sorenson, lately of London but born in the good old US of A?”
Cheeky bastard. “Just splendid, Devon Harper, cambion, Berkeley graduate and all-around lothario.”
“Nice,” Devon congratulated him. “But I bet you can’t do the same for Rio.”
“I can’t,” Steven admitted, and Rio nodded.
“Good.” Rather taciturn gent, this Rio. “I’m going to get us food. What do you want?” he asked Devon.
“The lobster bisque,” Devon said immediately. “But not in one of those bread bowls. I can never finish them.”
“I’ll finish it for you,” Rio promised. He petted his muppet on the head and went inside, the crowd parting inexorably around him like Moses and the Red Sea.
Cold wetness nudged Steven’s hand, and he jerked his eyes back down at the tiny orange thing now licking at his fingertips. “She’s a Pomeranian,” Devon told him as Steven pet her, warily at first and then with a bit more confidence as she wriggled happily under his hand. “You’ve seriously never seen one before? I thought the queen had a few of them.”
“Those are corgis, mate,” Steven corrected, giving in to the cuteness and lifting the little fluffball up into his lap. “You’re looking better,” he offered, a cautious reference to their earlier meeting. Thankfully Devon just smiled.
“Back to mint condition,” he said proudly. “Poor Rio, he’s going to develop exhaustive prostatitis soon if I don’t give him a break.”
“Come again?”
“I’ve been shagging the ever-living fuck out of him since this time yesterday, and he’s getting sore,” Devon said, his eyebrows quirking mischievously. “What’s up with the new tattoo?” he asked, casually changing the subject. “Don’t tell me you actually want to manifest a real eyeball in your hand, because I don’t like to judge, but that’s just gross.”
Sharp eyes, this lad. Steven had been pretty careful to keep his palm turned away, and Devon had picked up on his new design regardless. “My tattoos don’t always have to be removable to be useful,” Steven said, for once not minding the explanation. There was something about being with the cambion that made sharing feel easy. He wondered how much of that was natural and how much was due to the allure. “Most of ‘em are, yeah, because it’s easier to get one of those inked. You don’t have to put so much effort into it. Tats that do other things take more time and are a lot pricier, because it’s a matter of intent, something you and your inker both have to be able to get your heads around and visualize.”
“Fascinating,” Devon said, and he really seemed to think so, eyes wide and interested. “So you’re only limited in what you can accomplish by the scope of your imagination.”
“Well, it’s not like havin’ a genie in a lamp,” Steven replied cautiously. The last thing he needed was another person thinking they could just prick any old picture into his skin and get something useful out of it. He still had scars from the last time. “You can’t project with one of these tats, for starters. The gun, yeah, it works just like a gun, point and shoot. The bullet manifests real enough to do damage, but I can’t throw my intent around. Not like you can.”
Devon frowned. “You noticed?”
“I’d be fighting a hard-on right now if your Maggie didn’t have pointy paws, mate,” Steven said, gesturing toward his crotch. “Kind of a mood killer.”
“Sorry about that.” The subtle, sensual warmth that had descended over Steven bled away, and suddenly the rest of the world sprang back into focus, the sounds and smells of scores of people eating, talking, moving. “I’ve been running hot ever since I got my sense of touch back. Rio helped as much as he could, but there’s only so many times you can fuck before things start chafing, you know?” He shrugged. “At least, for other people.”
“Still, he’s a lucky bloke to have you for a boyfriend,” Steven said honestly, and was surprised when Devon blushed.
“Well, we’re not exactly…it’s kind of complicated.” Devon smiled brightly and said, “You were telling me about your new tattoo.”
Devon Harper: the only person Steven knew who could turn batting his eyelashes into a decent segue. “Right, the eye. It’s designed to be multipurpose, both looking into and influencing whoever I touch it to. It won’t work if I just grab someone’s arm, but if I can get my hand on their head for a few seconds, I can read surface thoughts and control them enough to, say, put them to sleep for a few minutes, or make them forget they ever saw me.”
“That’s brilliant,” Devon said, and Steven took a moment to bask because, yeah, it was one of his better ideas. Thank god Lynlis was still footin’ the bill for his ink, because the twins were a bitch to get appointments with and had no problem chargin’ an extra fee for a rush job.
“What’s brilliant?” Rio asked, taking his place again and passing Devon one of the enormous bread bowls, filled to the brim with pink bisque. He had chowder for himself, by the smell of it, and beers for both of them. Maggie hopped off of Steven’s lap and sat expectantly at her owner’s feet, looking perilously adorable. Somehow Rio ignored her.
“Steven’s newest tattoo. It lets him read minds and control actions.”
“To a limited extent,” Steven reminded Devon, not wanting the big guy to start getting the wrong impression about his abilities.
“Impressive,” Rio said. “There aren’t many tabula rasa that can do that.” He took a bite of his chowder, closing his eyes appreciatively.
Devon frowned. “Tabula rasa?”
“It means—”
“Blank slate,” Steven finished, more than a little shocked. He hadn’t heard his talent described that way since his first inker, Benton, the one who got him started down this path. Benton was one of the only inkers who hadn’t tried to fuck him over, who hadn’t put any secret symbols into the tattoos, who hadn’t tried to sign him like he was some sort of goddamn masterpiece they could hang on a wall. Tabula rasa. He had said it reverently, appreciatively. Rio said it the same way. “You met many of us before, then?”
“Not many,” Rio said, looking directly at Steven. His eyes were so dark Steven could barely tell pupil from iris, murky and layered with secrets. “A few, over the years. It’s a rare ability.”
“I didn’t know you knew anything about this,” Devon said, sounding a little hurt. “You didn’t act like you knew anything about it before.”
“It didn’t really come up,” Rio said, trying for innocent. Devon just raised one eyebrow in disdain. “Look, the details didn’t really seem to matter, and by the time I might have considered it, you had other plans for how to spend the time.”
“So you’re blaming your enforcement
of my ignorance on me.”
“Baby…”
“You sure you two aren’t boyfriends?” Steven asked, trying to cut the tension. It worked, after a fashion; now they were both glaring at him. “Not that that’s any of my business, you just act…you just…look, can we get on with talkin’ about the job?”
“Let’s,” Devon agreed. “Talk to us about Porter Gray.”
“The man’s got a schedule and he sticks to it like glue, at least since I’ve been here,” Steven said. “Mornings he spends in his suite, doing what I’m not sure, haven’t gotten into the hotel for more than a casual look yet, and there was a guard outside of his door when I did look. He has food brought in by his own people, and he has a personal driver if he needs to go anywhere. The only place I’ve seen him go so far is a high class knocking-shop called Infinite six blocks away from his hotel. He heads there at eight and leaves after midnight, and he’s come out with the same woman each time so far. Takes her back to the penthouse, probably shags her brains out, rinse and repeat.”
“What does she look like?” Rio asked.
“Oh, pretty. Y’know, tall, killer heels, long hair, big tits.” What else went into a description of a bird? “Wears real posh clothes, which is kind of funny since none of the other girls who leave the place do. I mean, they don’t exactly look like hookers, but this woman could be a CEO. Looks older than the rest of ‘em, too.”
“A knocking-shop?” Devon frowned. “That’s a brothel, right?”
“Right, but this one’s set up in a club,” Steven explained. “An exclusive club, with good security. I haven’t worked my way in yet; didn’t want to burn through my tat before you got here.”
“Sounds a bit like the Pearly Gates,” Devon murmured to Rio. “What do you think?”
“I think the two of you need to get in there and check it out,” Rio replied.
“Just the two of us?”
“You’re the ones who have a real chance of blending in,” Rio rationalized, and Steven had to admit he saw the man’s point, even if a little part of him felt more comfortable with the thought of going in under Rio’s direct aegis. It just seemed…safer. “I don’t want Steven to use up his tattoo on making a bunch of people forget that they saw me when you two could just slip on by. You can wear mics, I’ll follow along from the truck and come in if you really need me.”