Inked Magic

by Jory Strong

  In bringing her to Eamon, he’d cast doubt on his ability to deliver on his promise. He’d increased the risk to her rather than diminished it.

  There was ominous weight in the silence, one that ratcheted up his heartbeat. His father and uncle watched. They contemplated. And if he didn’t find a way to deter them, they’d act.

  Etaín finished eating and stood. “I need to take off. I’ve got to head to the shelter.”

  She didn’t mouth platitudes, or linger, just said, “See you around.”

  Maybe. He heard it as surely as his uncle and father did.

  It was all he could do to remain at the table long enough for her to get out of hearing range so he could play the only ace he currently held—and that one thanks to Sean. “Chevenier. As in daughter of SFPD Captain Chevenier and sister of Parker, FBI. I’ll be in touch.”

  He left the table, “intense” describing his thoughts and emotions since meeting her. His gut telling him only casual had a chance of working with her now.

  He caught her on the bridge, taking her hand and halting her there. “I’m willing to grovel. Or you could remember the great sex and let me off easy by saying ‘I told you so.’”

  The knot in his chest loosened with her slight smile. “I rarely say those words.”

  “I’m glad. I hate hearing them.” He stepped closer, cupping her cheek, daring to touch his mouth to hers. Reminding her of how good they were together with the trace of his tongue along the seam of her lips. “I have to swing by the shelter to make decisions about the music. Let me give you a lift, Etaín. Your kit is already in my car.”

  Etaín shoved her free hand into the pocket of her jeans. She should tell him no, she knew she should. Worse, she suspected a part of her had known he’d catch up and make this offer when she’d named her destination.

  The urge to separate that had swamped her at the table couldn’t hold against the desire resulting from the press of his mouth to hers, or the electric heat originating where her palm touched his skin. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. “I’ll take the ride.”

  From above, Eamon watched them on the bridge and contemplated his own actions, his own loss of control. He hadn’t intended to do more than make an appearance at the table. But seeing the way her aura permeated Cathal’s had stirred his possessiveness, a contradiction given that the thought of sharing her remained arousing.

  Close to her he hadn’t found it possible to remain sanguine at the prospect Cathal’s involvement was motivated by a desire to use her. Next to him Rhys said, “Her mother runs and hides. Are you so certain she won’t ultimately follow the same path?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  If she was a runner, then she would never have entered Aesirs the first time. The wards reacted to her. She felt something though she hadn’t asked him about it.

  He’d convinced himself knowledge gave him the upper hand and their physical joining would add to her need for him. He’d underestimated the effect of living among humans and outside of Elven culture. She was dangerously independent and unpredictable.

  Longevity bred patience into their kind, a belief that there was no need to agonize over a lost opportunity because it was only a matter of time before it presented itself again. When it came to Etaín, that patience was like mist evaporating in the sun. He wouldn’t be able to continue this course of action beyond the shelter fund-raiser.

  He wanted her with him each day. He wanted her bound to him in the same way the magic seemed to be choosing Cathal.

  There were no guarantees a changeling would survive the transition, but given her gift, at some point she would need to anchor herself to a lover or—he strongly suspected—lovers. The details of how such a thing came to pass weren’t easily discovered, but what he had ascertained, in those moments he’d been allowed access to a Dragon’s hoard, was that sometimes the bond formed spontaneously, while other times it could be created by a willful act.

  The few seidic born into this world and claimed by the queen, only to be assassinated while ensconced in their luxurious prison, had all inked their chosen mates, low-caste Elves because it was deemed far too dangerous to allow them to claim a spell caster.

  It was a risk he believed himself willing to take, though the timing of it was uncertain. She would be his wife-consort, and he, her anchor, if not by spontaneous act, then by willful one.

  Below, they left the bridge, passing into the main dining area on their way to the exit. He let them go when an order would have prevented it. She could remain in Cathal’s presence for a little while longer. He’d allow them both that much, but no more. Tonight she’d be back in his bed.

  Fifteen

  Denis watched Cathal leave with Etaín, impatience boiling to the surface. When they’d first stepped through the doorway his hopes had ridden high. A look and it was obvious they were lovers, the sexual chemistry between them enough to heat a room.

  He’d been surprised by Cathal’s hand on her back and the possessiveness his nephew didn’t bother to hide. But he didn’t blame Cathal for letting this thing with Etaín turn into something more than carrying out a responsibility to the family.

  She was a beautiful woman. Dress her in designer clothes and give her quality jewelry, she could move around in the same circles they did.

  His hand tightened on the coffee cup. The searing anger he’d carried since being awakened and told about Brianna was an explosive mass in his chest.

  He’d agreed to hold off grabbing Etaín in the hope of Cathal being able to deliver her. But breakfast hadn’t given him cause to continue waiting, not when the animals who’d raped his baby girl were still out there.

  That guy showing up and making it clear he had a claim on Etaín changed things as far as he was concerned. Her accepting his kiss and not denying the possibility she’d go from Cathal’s bed to his was reason to stop waiting.

  A wife—or a potential wife—was due respect and protection. But a mistress, a whore, could be taken out as collateral damage. Niall understood that.

  “I’m done waiting,” he told his brother.

  Niall turned his head so their eyes met. “The names attached to hers mean careful planning. No mistakes. There’s more at stake here than your need to see justice done for Brianna and Caitlyn, Denis. Cathal’s promised to handle this for the family, let my son have a chance to take care of it.”

  Searing rage and burning anguish clawed their way up his throat, but for his brother he forced them back into his chest. “I can give it a little longer.”

  Unless something else happens to change things.

  It felt like a thousand ants were crawling on him. Not the tiny black ones that had streamed across the floors and counters in every place he’d lived with his mother, but the big ugly red ones that bit.

  Where was she? Now that he knew she was the one, he wanted to get started.

  His hands tightened on the steering wheel until his fingers hurt. He looked at them. They were white against the dark blue vinyl, reminding him of the bandages and Popsicle sticks his mother used once to keep them all straight so they’d heal right.

  She’d dragged him up the stairs after catching him outside the apartment. First she’d slammed his hand in the door. Then one-by-one his fingers, so he’d know better than to leave when she’d told him not to.

  He’d been so hungry that day, hungry enough he didn’t care how she punished him as long as he could find something to eat. Even the cat food left out for strays by the old lady on the first floor made his mouth water after three days of being alone in the apartment.

  Reaching over he buried his hand in the mound of candy bars on the passenger seat. She’d taken Kevin with her that time, to sell so she could buy drugs.

  He shuddered and looked away from the steering wheel, eyes skimming the tattoos covering the burn marks from where she’d pressed her cigarettes and hot spoons against his arms. Sometimes afterward she was sorry for doing it. She’d make it better with kisses.


  The snake between his legs woke up and the stream of ants crawled downward, melting and soaking through his skin so he squirmed at feeling that part of him getting bigger and harder. He reached down and rubbed the new tattoo, pressing the material of his pants into it.

  Pain streaked up his leg and the snake stopped swelling until he thought about how he’d gotten the tattoo done while she was there. And how it’d felt when she looked over and saw the one that would always remind him of her.

  He touched himself then, through his jeans. It was okay to touch himself now that he knew she was the one, just as it was okay to touch himself when he remembered the others.

  Laughter made him jerk his hand away from his lap.

  Three teens slowed next to the car, pants hanging off their hips.

  “Pervert,” one of them said.

  “Get a room if you want to jack off.”

  “Ten bucks and a prostitute will blow you,” the third one said and they all laughed again.

  He fumbled as he turned the key. Stupid, stupid, stupid to get noticed near the homeless shelter, sitting in a car when usually he shambled along pushing a stolen shopping cart he kept hidden nearby.

  The ants re-formed, crawling over his skin and biting him, sending anger rolling through him. She wasn’t at her apartment. She wasn’t at the tattoo shop. She wasn’t here, all places she should have been at this time of the day.

  A sports car pulled into a parking place reserved for police and important visitors. He stayed where he was, curious, but also not wanting to pull away from the curb and maybe be noticed by someone else.

  The passenger door opened and she got out of the car. His heart started racing in his chest.

  The golden glow was there and he ached inside when he saw her smile. She was so, so beautiful. All he needed to do was decide on the best time and place to collect her. Then they’d be together for as long as it took to be sure she wouldn’t forget him.

  Movement distracted him. The ache turned into anger when he realized her smile was for the man who must have been driving.

  It wasn’t the blond one he’d seen her with outside the shop. This one was dark-haired.

  He met her behind the car, stopping her there with hands on her hips. Making the golden glow turn dirty at the edges.

  She didn’t fight him off even when his mouth lowered to hers. Her arms went around his neck, her body pressing and rubbing as they

  kissed.

  Whore. He couldn’t sit and watch her the way he’d sometimes had to do when his mother brought strangers home.

  Ducking his head so he didn’t have to see more than a sliver of street above the dashboard, he drove away from the curb, getting a block from the shelter before he realized he hadn’t written down the time.

  He pulled over. There was only one piece of paper now, with her name on it. He subtracted out a few minutes, then wrote down when and where he’d seen her. Hesitating, he added that she’d been with someone, not because he would forget it, but because being thorough was the key to not getting caught.

  He reached down and touched the tattoos. All thirteen of them, not just the one he’d gotten for her.

  It wouldn’t be much longer, he promised himself. They’d be together soon.

  Cathal walked through the shelter alongside the teen Etaín had passed him off to after a quick introduction to Justine. Kitchen. Dining room. Dorm-style sleeping areas. The number of children present dismayed him. They were everywhere and all ages. With one parent or two, often accompanied by someone old enough to be a grandparent.

  The crowded conditions made him think of the men and women on Wall Street who’d caused the collapse of the economy with their legalized schemes and paid-for loopholes. They’d swelled the ranks of the homeless and jobless yet they’d never be charged and never see a day of jail time.

  He recognized the slippery moral ground, but he couldn’t stop himself from comparing them to his father and uncle, and thinking the damage done by those nameless, faceless corporate employees with their golden parachutes and legally untouchable bank accounts was far worse than what could be laid at his family’s doorstep.

  “Is it like this all day?” he asked.

  “Depends on how many kids are here. Unless you’re signed up for one of the services that come around, soon as breakfast is over, those who don’t need to tend children have to leave and look for work until dinnertime.”

  They exited through a backdoor. “This is where the tattooing is going to be happening. If you don’t need anything else, I got to grab breakfast before the meal is done.”

  “I’m good.”

  Cathal pulled his phone from his pocket so he could make notes about providing music for the fund-raiser. His assistants would carry out the tasks.

  He wondered what brought Etaín here. What drove her to give her time and talents to this particular . . . Charity didn’t seem like the right word. Charity was a mind-set, an expectation imposed by society or religion or some outside force.

  His mother and the wealthy women she considered her social equals did charity work. Etaín’s involvement with the shelter didn’t feel like that.

  Frustration gnawed at him. He wanted more than just the narrow window into her life sex provided.

  Uneasiness crept in at the strength of his interest in her. Everything about Etaín complicated his life. Worse, he could no longer distinguish between his desire to keep her safe and his desire to be with her.

  Etaín looked up as Teresa slipped into the small storage room, now set up to accommodate the tattooing. A mat was on the floor and the bright light bulbs had been swapped out for a low-wattage glow. Incense burned, a compromise against candles and CDs loaded with nature sounds.

  The whole setup made her uncomfortable and close to outright embarrassed. Few of those at the shelter guessed Justine had New-Age leanings hidden beneath the no bullshit exterior, but Etaín had learned in her teens that resistance was futile when it came to this.

  Justine thought doing it this way was important, because getting this kind of tattoo was more of a spiritual undertaking than a physical one. There were artists around the country who felt the same way, women who tied their work in with ceremony, some of them even claiming to be practicing witches or pagans.

  Etaín tried not to think too much about this aspect of her tie to ink. Gifts came with responsibilities. Of that she was certain though the refrain came from the captain’s influence, not her mother’s. So she did this, even though the trappings of it nearly spooked her.

  Teresa sat down without being prompted, legs crossed and arms resting loosely on them. “This okay?”

  “For right now.”

  Teresa glanced to the side, where a low table held everything needed for the tattoo. Her eyes widened at seeing the hand-needles. Etaín said, “This will hurt a lot more than doing the work with a machine. It’ll also take longer.”

  “Justine said when you’ve given other people tattoos like this, it made a difference. She said they were able to make a break from their past.”

  “They still had to work at it. And keep wanting it. But yeah, the changes stuck.”

  “I want my son back. I want to be a good mother to Lothar.”

  “Think about that while you’re getting the tattoo. Picture the life you want with him.” It was as far as Etaín felt comfortable going with the mystical stuff. Any further and she’d freak herself out.

  Teresa had dressed in a tank top with spaghetti straps. A few swipes of the razor, followed by a smear of Vaseline, and the small area above her left breast was ready for the tattoo.

  “Go ahead and lie down.”

  Habit made Etaín open the sketch pad to the image of Lothar with its embedded sigils, but the memory of it was in her hands. When she looked at the place where the tattoo would go, she saw it in an inner eye as though it were already inked into Teresa’s skin.

  Picking up a short hand-needle, she dipped it into a cap of ink. “Ready?”

 
; Teresa didn’t ask about the lack of stencil, just said yes, the faith she put in Etaín enough to unnerve her if she let herself think too much about it. She took a deep breath, clearing her mind. Emptying it of everything and giving herself over to the physical act of turning the dream image into a reality.

  It took concentration to work the needle in a steady rhythm. It required strength of will as well as physical stamina and control to push the needle through skin by hand and put the ink in at a consistent depth.

  Outline first. Then shading. And at the very end, weaving the hidden sigils in.

  Until Eamon she’d always thought of the sigils in terms of Jung, as symbols of a collective unconscious giving power to belief and triggered by pain. She’d never seriously considered the existence of some external magic that could be captured and manipulated. And in turn, might manipulate its user.

  Fear skittered through her at where changes in her gift might lead. She shivered, pushing worry aside because there was nothing she could do about it.

  She made sure the tattoo on Teresa’s skin matched the one she’d seen in her dream before saying, “It’s done.”

  Teresa sat and Etaín handed her a small mirror she kept in her kit. With shaky fingers Teresa positioned it so she could see the tattoo. A small intake of breath was followed by the flow of tears.

  Her fingertip went unerringly to Lothar’s hair and the sigil there. “I’m going to get you back,” she whispered.

  She touched the ones woven into his mouth. “I’m going to be the best mother in the world for you.”

  Etaín didn’t know whether Teresa was consciously aware of the hidden symbols or not. She didn’t think it mattered.

  She went over the aftercare instructions, placing a printed copy of them on the mat for Teresa before taking the mirror back and covering the tattoo with ointment and a bandage.

  Teresa grabbed Etaín’s hand. Gratitude poured into her along with fierce determination. “Thank you. What you’ve done for me I’ll never forget.”