Inked Magic

by Jory Strong

  There was the slightest tremble in his voice when he said thank you and left. Another man immediately took his place. He was sweating, but when she asked him for a design, he answered promptly. “Number seven.”

  She pulled a stencil from a box containing numbered folders and showed it to him. “This one?”

  “Yes.” He pushed his sleeve out of the way and touched the place where his upper arm met his shoulder. “Right here.”

  “That’ll work.”

  She set the stencil aside and pulled on latex gloves before opening an antiseptic wipe. But the moment her hand curled around his arm to steady it, her gift woke.

  An overwhelming sense of wrongness came with it. The tattoo he’d selected didn’t belong on his skin. None of the ones offered here today did though she could catch the barest glimpse of one that might be right. And knew with a certainty she couldn’t explain except with one word—magic—that to fully see the image would require her to open the eyes on her palms and fully see him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wondering how she could possibly explain the refusal. “Do you mind if another artist does this?”

  The ease in which he left, and the fact he didn’t go to another workstation should have made her suspicious. But it took a few more aborted starts, and finally a woman leaning forward, whispering, “Please, Lady, don’t send me away like the others,” before she understood what was going on, and understood too, in a small way, why her gift had reacted to all of them.

  “Eamon’s responsible for your being here,” she said, and the fear spiking into her from where her hand rested on the woman’s forearm was answer enough. She didn’t need the accompanying glance to the place Eamon now stood with Liam and Rhys to confirm it.

  Anger pulsed into her to match the woman’s fear. This felt like shades of the argument outside the bar, with Eamon using words like tolerate and allow, as if he were Lord to her as apparently he was to those standing in line.

  She left the station. Liam and Rhys scattered as she approached.

  “Why?” she asked, not bothering to interpret Eamon’s actions as a way of supporting the shelter. He had money enough to make a donation.

  “Your gift is changing, you’ve admitted as much. My people have some small measure of protection against it.”

  His answer mollified her somewhat but only because it showed concern for others. “First, you should have discussed this with me before ordering them to show up. If you had, then I would have told you I can handle doing this. And second, send them home. They’re all going to be a no. If you doubt it, then I’ll go down the entire line and touch each one of them.”

  She turned away and he grabbed her wrist as he had earlier. “If not them, then no one, Etaín. Don’t waste your gift here.”

  His tone and his words were too close to the argument she’d remembered with the captain’s appearance at the news conference, too much like the fight she’d had with Parker. She couldn’t contain either the fury or the hurt though she managed to keep her voice low to avoid creating a scene.

  “I’m done with you for now. Maybe permanently unless you back the hell off and experience a major attitude adjustment. This is what I do. This is who I am. Accept it or get out of my life. I can find the answers I need about my gift later on my own. For now I’m going to go into the shelter on a little timeout. When I come back, I am going to resume work, and the only ones standing in my line had better be people who don’t have anything to do with you.”

  She jerked her arm and he let her go. She hadn’t been sure he would, though when she turned around she saw Jamaal standing, correctly reading her body language and ready to come to her aid.

  “I’m good,” she said as she passed him, “just going to take a little break.”

  Another time he would have snorted and pointed out she hadn’t even lifted the tattoo machine yet. He would have joked about how fast she went through men. This time he gave a small nod and directed a scowl in Eamon’s direction.

  Rhys and Liam drifted to Eamon’s side like a pair of bad omens as Etaín stalked away. “Do you wish me to follow her?” Liam asked, wisely holding his amusement and muzzling the urge to say I advised you against being here.

  Eamon sighed. “No.” She was safe here and he didn’t fear she’d run. There was no point in compounding problems brought about by a temper and patience more frayed than he’d realized.

  The depth of her fury and the promise he heard in her voice when it came to cutting him out of her life surprised him, concerned him, scared him, though he would never let it come to that. Getting better acquainted with Cathal seemed like a far safer activity than remaining in Etaín’s sight.

  “Release them from their duty,” he told Liam before finding Cathal near the stage.

  The cautious need to forge a workable relationship with him became a more urgent one at seeing the seidic tattoos lying dormant along Cathal’s forearms. When he’d decided to leave her apartment and allow them the previous day and night together, he’d suspected she might put her ink on Cathal.

  Seeing the tattoos, he wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not. He doubted Etaín understood what she’d done, or what it meant for Cathal. An infusion of magic and a permanent bond would form between them, a connection that would extend Cathal’s life beyond the short span of a human’s—or in all likelihood, kill him if she died.

  “One of your bands?” he asked, turning his attention to the task of becoming better acquainted with the man the magic had chosen.

  The argument with the blond-haired man changed everything. He’d planned on taking her at the end of day. It would be longer before anyone noticed she was missing then. But right now was the perfect time.

  Almost everyone was outside helping while she was going toward the door leading into the shelter. He thought she’d go to the bathroom. Maybe to cry or wash her face. Women always did that when they were upset.

  There was a line of Porta-Potties outside. He’d noticed even the volunteers were using them because it was quicker and they wanted to stay close to the music and everything else going on.

  She should be alone in the bathroom. No one would see him take her then, and the closet where he’d hidden the speaker was right across from it.

  He was good with locks. He’d always been good with them. Better even than Kevin. No one would look in the closet because everyone knew it was locked.

  He ducked his head and shuffled forward, heart beating so fast he could barely breathe. There was a chance someone would notice him going in after her, then coming out with the speaker, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

  Fear worked its way up his throat. He stuffed a candy bar into his mouth to keep quiet, then touched his jacket pocket, feeling the syringe and the smaller roll of duct tape he’d use over her mouth, just in case.

  The Taser was in his waistband. Pointing down while the snake pointed up.

  The thought made him giggle. Just a little sound before he could stop it.

  He hunched his shoulders, going through the door she’d gone through without anyone stopping him. The music followed him in and stayed even after he closed the door.

  Sweat rolled down his sides. It always did, he reminded himself. This was always a scary part. Then afterward, he liked remembering.

  He unzipped the sticky, garbage-stained army jacket so he could get the Taser out when he needed it. He hurried forward, stopping outside the bathroom door.

  The music made it impossible to hear if she was inside. He touched the handle on the closet to make sure. Still unlocked, just the way he’d left it. Licking his lips and tasting chocolate, he reached out and slowly pushed the bathroom door open, just a crack, squinting because if she was there, he’d see the golden glow.

  His heart leapt in his chest at seeing it. He pushed all the way in, pulling the Taser out of his pants. She turned, but it was already too late. The barb was in her and she was falling, twitching like a stunned fish on the line, her eyes watching him,
shining with fear.

  He went to her, hearing himself panting, mumbling. There were only three stalls in the bathroom and all of them were empty.

  The duct tape over her mouth came first, then he pushed her shirtsleeve up, shivering in pleasure at the sight of the tattoos on her skin.

  He clamped his hand around her arm, raising a vein and stabbing the needle into it like he’d seen his mother do a thousand times. He pressed his thumb down, but not all the way.

  He didn’t give her the full dose, just enough so her eyes closed and she went limp, so she’d sleep for only a little while. He didn’t want to wait until tonight to be with her.

  Hurry! His heartbeat screamed in his head. Hurry!

  He checked the hallway before carrying her into the closet. He used a flashlight instead of turning on the light overhead even though he didn’t think anyone could see beneath the door.

  The speaker was already open. He wrapped duct tape around her wrists and ankles before putting her in it. With her knees against her chest, the box was the perfect size for her.

  He was so anxious to leave he almost forgot to check her pockets before he left the closet. He had to unscrew the front of the speaker after remembering she carried a phone.

  Sweat rolled down his chest and back. He was afraid someone would hear him breathing hard.

  He found the phone and turned it off, hiding it behind a box of toilet paper on the bottom shelf before screwing the black part of the speaker back in place.

  He left the closet. Excited. Scared. His heart feeling like it was going to burst as he got out of the building without being stopped. And then away from the fund-raiser and finally into the van with its swapped out license plates so no one would know it belonged to Kevin.

  He touched the hardness between his legs as he drove away. Everything they needed was already at their special place. They could stay there for weeks. She wouldn’t leave him. And he wouldn’t leave her until the very end.

  Thirty-one

  Eamon hoped enough time had passed for Etaín’s temper to have cooled. If not, then surely Cathal’s presence at his side would help.

  Her empty workstation surprised him. Relieved him. Maybe whatever had caused her to reject the humans Liam had organized also made it impossible for her to tattoo anyone else today.

  “Where’s Etaín,” Cathal asked Jamaal, wondering what had happened when Etaín’s coworker glared at Eamon and said, “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her since she went inside.”

  “To get something?”

  “To cool off more like.”

  “How long ago?”

  Jamaal’s eyebrows drew together. “Thirty minutes? An hour maybe? I got busy and wasn’t paying much attention. Something must have come up. Etaín’s not one to stay pissed for long.”

  It sounded reasonable but Cathal couldn’t shake the sense of uneasiness he felt at not having seen her anywhere in the crowd as he passed through it. He called her and got voicemail.

  “She didn’t answer. I’m going to look for her inside.”

  “I’ll take the outside,” Eamon said.

  Cathal’s uneasiness increased as he made his way through the shelter, checking each of the open rooms, and after finding Justine, the locked ones. A nameless fear slid into him at returning to her workstation and seeing Eamon standing there without her.

  “She’s not inside.”

  “There’s no sign of her out here either. No one’s seen her.”

  “What did you fight with her about?”

  A muscle jerked in Eamon’s cheek. “Nothing to make her break her promise to be here.”

  Bryce arrived then, directing the same question they had at Jamaal. “Where’s Etaín?”

  “Fuck if any of us know. She can’t be found inside or out. My calls keep going directly to voicemail. She’s got no reason to dodge me even if she wants to dodge her men.”

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Bryce ripped his phone from its holder, his hands and voice shaking as he made a call. “She’s gone. Missing, you asshole. He’s got her! He’s fucking got her! All you’re going to find when you get here is her phone.”

  Cathal’s chest constricted, every muscle suddenly tight. “Who has her?”

  Bryce’s face was taut, the piercings standing out painfully. “The Harlequin Rapist.”

  Cathal shook his head in denial, though it didn’t shake the deepening sense of dread. “He’s dead.”

  “One of them is. The other came to the shop the other day. Freak had me tattoo him while Etaín was there. I recognized the name and address from the forms when they took him down yesterday. They just started showing a picture of the guy the police killed on the news. As soon as I saw it I knew it wasn’t the same one I put ink on. Close, but not the same. The fucking taskforce didn’t have a clue he was out there.”

  “That was Parker on the phone?” Jamaal asked.

  “Yeah. Asshole made her a target and then gave this guy more reasons to go after her. If he can’t find her—”

  Bryce turned away, inhaling loudly. “I called her old man first. Then Parker. Then I started calling her but it went to voicemail, same as Derrick’s calls did. He took off to check her apartment, thinking maybe she forgot her phone. I came here.”

  “Did her brother tell you anything that would help find her?” Cathal asked, willing to involve his father and uncle.

  “Nothing,” Bryce said, the word a choked sound.

  “Stop imaging the worst,” Jamaal said, throwing an arm around Bryce’s shoulder. “Keep your mind busy on something else, like making sure this fund-raiser goes off the way she wants it to. That’s what I intend to do until we know something.”

  Cathal felt Eamon’s hand on his shoulder. “Come,” Eamon murmured.

  He went, accompanied by Liam and Rhys.

  Eamon halted them next to the sedan. He hadn’t intended to tie Etaín to him in this manner, but only a fool would pass up the opportunity and he couldn’t afford to be one, even for love.

  “There’s a way we can find her,” he said, knowing what Cathal could not, that a vow made by him would be binding on Etaín.

  “How?”

  “You already know something about how her gift works. You already understand it is beyond what can readily be explained.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve made it a point to study such things. There’s more to her abilities than even she understands. The tattoos she put on you can be used to find her, but before I show you how, promise on her behalf that she’ll put ink on me with the same meaning should I ask it of her.”

  “I promise,” Cathal said, his expression revealing his suspicion and doubt.

  Satisfaction surged through Eamon at gaining the pledge. He grasped Cathal’s wrists and traced sigils onto his skin, sharing the essence of who and what he was as he had before with Etaín, the magic he’d been created to serve as a vessel for.

  Cathal gasped as fire poured into the deep tracks made by Etaín’s needles. It roared up his forearms, incendiary, wild and hungry. Breathtakingly painful before it was doused by frigid water, a stinging flow of it that warmed like a tropical sea when hot merged with cold.

  In its wake the tattoos changed, holding not only solid black ink, but shades of red and blue and gold locked in healed skin. His rational mind wanted to deny the evidence. His heart refused to allow it.

  “Concentrate on Etaín,” Eamon said. “Find her. The tattoos are a direct link to her.”

  Etaín, he thought, turning her name into the embodiment of everything he felt for her. Believing without reservation that he could find her when his emotions flowed away from him, reshaping in his mind’s eye so they became an extension of the designs on his arms, reaching as if they’d tangle themselves in the vines inked into Etaín’s skin.

  The instant they did he was filled with terrible urgency and the hard, fast throbbing of a heart thundering hurry, hurry. “I’ve got her. Let’s go!”

  Consciousness returned in a wave
of confusion followed by the rush of nausea. Etaín rolled to her knees, barely aware of her nakedness or the fetid, stained mattress she’d been lying on until she’d vomited the contents of her stomach onto splintered wooden flooring.

  Then terror came, memory overlapping memory with the metal walls surrounding her, all illuminated by a lit candle. For long moments she was herself and Tyra Nelson. Their realities flickering back and forth like a flame hungrily eating wax and wick.

  I can survive this. I WILL survive this.

  Tyra’s thoughts. Her thoughts.

  She didn’t try to separate Tyra’s memories from her own. She couldn’t afford to, not when she needed to guard against the walls falling, allowing all the ones that had come before Tyra’s to tumble in.

  Insanity would come then. Death would be a welcome release from it. She’d learned that lesson at sixteen, when the captain’s method of scaring her straight had nearly destroyed her.

  She staggered to her feet. The vines on her forearms writhing, turning the eyes into a weapon.

  A touch of her hands to her attacker’s skin and she could erase who he was, willfully take all his memories and stop him, praying all the while Eamon could teach her how to forever seal them away. It was her only chance of surviving. She’d seen his face, and knew because of it, that he didn’t intend for her to live beyond the rape and torture he planned for her.

  She remembered him coming to the shop. Remembered the dream afterward, not stolen memory but a message she hadn’t recognized and interpreted, that there were two rapists, not one.

  Flames melting tearful clowns into grotesque mirror-house distortions, turning them into dark puddles that gave birth to demons, a twisting mass of faces with their mouths open.

  The knowledge was there in Tyra’s memories, too. A black van and the whisper of a door opening, but the trunk of a blue car becoming a dark prison.