by Jory Strong
Glaring floodlights illuminated the harsh face of poverty: Parents with babies in arms and older children at their sides. Veterans and the mentally ill, dumped from institutions after budget cuts. Drunks and addicts whose choices and family histories led to a predictable end.
Etaín drove around back and parked the Harley next to a beat-up Ford. A few steps took her to a back entrance and a knock brought one of the staff members.
“Justine’s in the men’s dormitory,” he said.
She made her way there, traveling down a hallway that had once led to a manufacturing space but was now subdivided into rooms lined with beds, and others with folding tables and chairs.
Justine looked up from talking to a man with stringy brown hair and a meth-addict complexion. Seeing Etaín in the doorway, she finished the conversation and came over. The dense smell of cigar smoke permeated her clothing, sending the message that despite being a petite woman in her sixties, she had balls.
“I need you to do a consult first,” she said.
“Cover-up work?”
“No, one of your special tattoos.”
Etaín shoved her hands into her pockets and hunched her shoulders, uncomfortable despite having done this kind of work at Justine’s request since she was fifteen.
The dreams that had led to the eyes on her palms, the drugs and rebellion, and to finally running away from home had also led her to Justine, who’d been working a teen outreach program back then. If not for Justine, she might never have discovered this aspect of her gift.
Justine had been the one to notice that when she tattooed empowerment symbols onto some of the kids she ran with, the ones who desperately wanted better lives for themselves, then it happened for them. She’d been the one to order reference books and travelers’ journals documenting how tattoos held power beyond what most people in the Western world recognized. She’d insisted Etaín read the accounts of how monks used secret ink ingredients and symbols along with chants and rituals to imbue power into the charms they tattooed onto skin as part of their temple duties.
The parallels between what she did as a result of her dreams and what monks did as part of their culture unnerved her still. Celibacy wasn’t a remote possibility. Neither was accepting a religious calling.
“You sure this person is ready for the mojo tattoo?” she asked, coping by an attempt at humor, though it got her the usual censorious look.
“Teresa is ready. She’s trying to stay straight so she can get her child back.”
Some of the hunch left Etaín’s shoulders. “How old is the kid?”
Justine stopped a few feet away from the room where women without children were housed. “Ten months. He was born addicted and taken by the state.”
“He’s still in foster care?”
“Yes. Teresa’s gone through treatment but she lapsed when she went back to live with the baby’s father. Drugs showed up in her urine. He’s a user. Her friends are users. You know the story. She tried staying with her mother but there was trouble with her mother’s boyfriend.
“Mom chose him, not the first time it has happened if you ask me. Teresa hasn’t said as much, but I believe her involvement with drugs started as a way of dealing with a rape when she was preteen. After her mother turned her out, this place became her best chance at staying clean and getting on her feet. I think she can make it, but she could use a little help. Your kind of help. Ready?”
Etaín pulled her hands from her pocket. “Ready.”
They entered the room and stopped next to a cot where a girl not much older than nineteen or twenty sat cross-legged.
“Teresa, this is Etaín, the one I told you about.”
The girl’s eyes met Etaín’s, skittering away and then returning, resolute.
Etaín braced herself and offered her hand. After the hospital, she couldn’t handle much more direct contact.
The girl took it, the touch pouring fear of failure and loss, along with hope and determination, into Etaín’s bloodstream. “Will you do the tattoo?”
Etaín managed to give a squeeze of reassurance before pulling away. “Yes, it might take a few days before I’m ready. What did you have in mind?”
Teresa picked up a small photograph that had been lying on the bed, hidden by her thigh. She held it for Etaín to see. The edges were frayed from being handled. “Lothar. My son. He’s the reason for everything I do now.”
“I’ve got a copy of the picture in my office,” Justine said.
Etaín nodded but took a moment to study the boy’s face. Unlike the work she did in the shop, this had to be done freehand, without a stencil, without a tattoo machine. And like the ink on her own arms and palms, she wouldn’t do it until the design with its embedded symbols showed up in her dreams.
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” she told Teresa.
“Gracias.”
They left, climbing stairs that were off limits to everyone but staff. In Justine’s office Etaín took a chair after carefully folding the promised photograph and putting it in her jacket pocket. They went over the plans for the fund-raiser, wrapping up the old business before she said, “The owner of Saoirse came by the shop today. He’s volunteered to provide music for the event, either several bands or a DJ. I’m guessing he’d be willing to kick in some advertising money as long as the club gets mentioned as a sponsor.”
Justine pursed her lips. “We’ve got four days, that’s not a lot of time.”
“It’s time enough. Word will spread, and accepting his offer will mean a bigger crowd.”
“You’ll serve as liaison?”
Thinking of Cathal, Etaín suppressed a smile to avoid an interrogation. Liaison was already a given. “My choice whether it’s live music or a DJ?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Good. I’ll leave it to you then. In the meantime, I need to get back downstairs and see how many beds we’ve got left.”
Etaín called the shop before leaving the shelter. One of the guys who preferred to work evenings and nights answered.
“Is Bryce there?” she asked.
“Yeah, with a client. You need him?”
“No. Just tell him I’m on my way. Be there in about fifteen.”
“Okay. He already told us to start paying attention when you were due in, or any of the female clients coming at night. Said to keep our eyes open for anyone who might be hanging around, at least until they catch the rapist.”
Etaín shivered, the image of Tyra forming in her mind. For a split second she thought about calling her client and postponing the appointment. But home was a tiny apartment in Oakland and she didn’t want to be alone. Sleep would come when it came.
She brushed her thumb over the keys of her phone, thinking about Cathal and wondering if he was at Saoirse. Heat blossomed in her chest, sliding downward as she remembered touch and scent and the hard ridge of his cock pressed against her, his warning about wearing a short skirt to his club.
She had a few of them. Even had the fuck-me heels to go with them though she usually preferred wearing shit-kicker boots.
Definitely a great way to pass the time and get a workout guaranteed to make her go to sleep. If she went to him, the sex would follow, sooner rather than later. And that was part of the problem.
She’d need it later more than sooner. And she didn’t know him well enough to wake up in his bed from a nightmare that would send her to the bathroom to purge before she started drawing, obsessively capturing images recorded by another person’s eyes.
Of course, it was equally possible all his playing was done at the club, and come closing time, he parted company with whatever woman had captured his attention for the night. The thought sent sandpaper scraping over her skin. She jammed the phone into her jacket and started the Harley, reminding herself getting involved with Cathal beyond recreational sex wasn’t possible.
Five
He sat up when he heard the motorcycle. The half-full bag of Fritos fe
He checked the time, writing it down on a piece of paper with her name at the top. Then he crept toward the front of the cargo van, going just far enough so he had a good view of the tattoo shop.
One of the artists stepped out of the shop and looked around. He flinched back even though he knew there was no way he could be seen. Not in the darkness of the van, and not this far away. He was always careful not to be caught watching at this stage, when he was learning their schedules and figuring out the best place to take them.
Before coming to San Francisco to visit his brother, the thought of everyone knowing about what he did had scared him. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He liked hearing people talk about the Harlequin Rapist.
The drone of the motorcycle engine stopped and he licked his lips as she swung off the bike and removed her helmet. She was so beautiful.
When he squinted, it looked like she carried the sun around inside her. He could see a golden glow surrounding her. Day or night, it was always there.
It made him want to reach out and touch her. To make sure she remembered him for the rest of her life and thought about their time together every time she looked at herself.
He was almost sure she was going to be his choice. Almost.
There were a couple of others he was still watching. He needed to get closer to decide. He needed to see what color her eyes were.
They had to be dark. The same way her hair had to be blonde. Real blonde, not bought from the grocery store.
He didn’t have to worry about whether or not she’d have tattoos. She would.
It was better if they were on her arms but he didn’t care as much about where they were. He was too smart to be obsessed about that. If too much was the same, it made it easier to get caught.
She went into the shop and he lay back down on the mattress in the back of the van. He’d wait awhile before he left.
Some nights he parked near where she lived. So far she’d always been alone when she came home.
He decided he wouldn’t do that tonight. He’d wait and see her again tomorrow. He’d get closer then, so he’d know for sure if she was going to be his choice.
A giggle escaped as he imagined going into the shop and asking her to tattoo a small harlequin on his arm.
A shudder of revulsion followed.
No. He didn’t like them to touch him. If he decided she was next, then someone else would have to be the one to do the tattoo.
Etaín shrugged off her jacket and hung it up before retrieving a file from the cabinet in Bryce’s office where the artwork was stored. She pulled the finished design and supporting photographs of a girl in her early twenties from the manila folder.
The art she placed facedown on her workstation table, the pictures faceup. Sadness spread through her chest like a shadow as she studied the photographs, the emotion a small reflection of the grief that would soon be pouring into her if Kelli showed up for her appointment.
What would it be like to have a child? To lose that child?
Sometimes she wondered if one day she’d want one. If she’d dare have one, knowing the past might repeat itself and she might be forced to leave that child as she had been left.
She’d already learned that loving someone—at least where there was physical intimacy—didn’t protect them from her gift. The damage done when she was seventeen, and then again at twenty, to guys she’d thought would be a part of her life forever, still had the power to weigh her down with guilt, though in the end, both of her lovers had overcome it.
Her gaze moved to her own hands. She turned them over to reveal the intricate eyes at the center of her palms.
Her mother had tattoos on the backs of her hands and curling around her wrists. Not the same design, but the eyes were part of them.
She could remember sitting on her mother’s lap as they traveled by bus, disappearing from one life and into another as she traced the ink with her fingers, always asking, What do they mean? Always getting the same answer. See but remain unseen.
Etaín turned away from the memory. There were no answers to be found in it, only pain and longing.
Bryce had done as promised. Her machines were clean and waiting for her, along with fresh needles and latex gloves. She picked up a pad and pencil, drawing without conscious decision only to become uneasy when the image on paper turned into the one she’d seen in her mind’s eye on the inside of Cathal’s forearms. He was showing up too often in her thoughts and she’d never put her ink on a lover, either before or after the fact.
It’s just been too long since I’ve been with anyone, she told herself, relieved when Kelli’s arrival gave her something else to focus on.
Etaín walked around the counter, taking in Kelli’s pale features and bruise-shadowed eyes. Even braced for it, her breath caught when she put a comforting hand on Kelli’s arm and grief poured into her. “If you’re not sure about this—”
“I’m sure. I need to do this.”
“Okay,” Etaín said, letting her hand drop away and leading Kelli to the workstation.
Kelli teared up at seeing the pictures laid out on the table. Etaín picked up the drawing, turning it over.
“Yes,” Kelli whispered, her hand shaking as she wiped at escaping tears.
Etaín freed a paper towel from the roll on the lower shelf of her worktable and passed it to Kelli in lieu of a tissue. “I’ll make the stencil, then we’ll get started.”
She did it and returned, the tank top Kelli wore making it possible to do the tattoo without going behind the privacy screen. A quick wash with an antiseptic solution followed by the swipe of a new razor got rid of the hair above Kelli’s left breast. Another cleansing wipe, and then Etaín made a pass with stick deodorant before pressing the stencil against skin and smoothing over it to make sure all the lines were transferred.
She removed the paper then took the mirror from its spot next to the paper towels, holding it up for Kelli. “That okay?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll give it a few minutes to dry while I get the ink ready. Go ahead and lie down. You’ll need to stay still. Talking is fine and if you start feeling light-headed or queasy, or just need a break, let me know. There’s no time pressure here. This’ll take as long as it takes.”
Kelli’s okay was a little shaky but Etaín had worked on higher-strung clients, and Kelli’s tattoo was small. She’d get it done in one relatively quick session.
As they waited, she studied the photographs, building her defenses against Kelli’s grief by seeing the shades and shadows, visualizing the steps, the combinations of colors and space. It was more instinctive than learned, but even given the strength of her gift, she took pride in actively trying to improve her art with each piece of it.
After she’d placed the ink into caps and gathered all she needed, she put a light coat of Vaseline over the design. “Now the fun begins.”
Kelli managed a smile but gripped the edge of the massage table as she braced for the pain. The outline came first and by the time it was done, Kelli’s hands lay flat though tears streamed from her eyes, mental anguish melded to physical.
“You okay?” Etaín asked, exchanging the liner for the shader, the concentration on detail helping her to block the worst of Kelli’s emotions.
“I’m fine.”
She applied a gray wash next, for dimension. Then began working in the color, from dark to light. Adding flesh tones to skin in slow strokes so the portrait came alive, the subtle differences in shade and density creating depth, turning an outline into something evocative, into art that would exist only for a single lifetime.
She held against the heavy emotions dumping into her bloodstream until her throat clogged with them and she was forced into blinking away tears that didn’t belong to her. She eased off the foot pedal then and the needles stilled.
A swipe with a paper towel cleared the excess ink from Kelli’s skin. “What about a quick break?”
Kelli sat up. “Sorry I’m such a mess.”
Between the visit to the hospital and this session, Etaín ached inside her skin and would have shed it like a snake if she could have. She couldn’t bring herself to give Kelli a hug, but the smile she offered was genuine. “Don’t worry about it. You’re doing great.”
Kelli’s gaze strayed to the reference photographs on the worktable. Her hand lifted, unconsciously reaching to touch the nearly finished tattoo memorializing her daughter.
“Don’t,” Etaín said, stopping her. “You want a bottle of OJ or a can of Diet Coke?”
“How about the mirror again?”
“Hold off for another fifteen minutes? Thirty tops.”
“I can make it.” Kelli took a deep, calming breath. “I’m good to go again.”
“Let’s do it.”
Kelli lay back down. Etaín compared the tattoo to the pictures and decided to use a different shader. She picked up the machine and went back to work.
The reality of what Etaín did in the human world slammed into Eamon like a fist to the gut. He’d been alarmed when Rhys brought the news to him, but witnessing it made his chest constrict so it was difficult to breathe.
In Elfhome the seidic were said to live apart from others, in small isolated communities requiring will and purity of purpose for a petitioner to reach. And even then, not everyone who approached the seidic gained a tattoo.
What he knew of those with Etaín’s gift came from rumor and myth and ancient texts, but one thing never changed, the tattoos they created were linked to elemental magic. Nothing good could come of her applying ink to human skin in this way. Worse, a great deal of harm could come, if not to the humans, then to her. She was changeling, more possessed by magic than possessing of it.
He had to believe some instinct for self-preservation had been at play this long, unconsciously guiding her in the clients she accepted. But it still took discipline not to cross the street and push into the shop, demanding she stop what she was doing.
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