Ink and Shadows

by Rhys Ford

  “Charity.” The darkfae acknowledged the immortal, an accent roughing the edges of his speech.

  “Aegus,” Charity replied with a nod. “I’d offer you a seat, but this isn’t going to be a long conversation.”

  “You’re bold doing this in front of a human. Is he tainted enough to see our kind? Or are you wanting to drive him mad by hearing voices?” Circling Beckett, the creature snorted, foamy specks ringing his nostrils.

  “I’m very sane,” Beckett answered for himself, meeting the amused immortal’s smile with one of his own. “And I see you quite fine, thank you.”

  “Seer or magus?” The creature leaned forward, sniffing at the air around the human. His breath was hot on Beckett’s face, ruffling his collar when the darkfae snorted in derision. “I’m guessing magus. He doesn’t have the smell of poison in his blood.”

  “Poison?” Beckett repeated, questioning the word.

  “Humans that can see past the shadows usually stink of drugs to calm their nerves.” The creature smiled, showing the pointed long teeth hiding behind his lips. “Chickenshit creatures, humans. Hard to believe they’re the reason we all exist.”

  “This chickenshit creature is going to be your boss,” the magus pointed out.

  “Charity is the one who sent out word that he wanted assistance with something,” Aegus replied dryly, staring down at the human from his greater height. “I’m being rented. No one is my boss, human or otherwise. What’s the job?”

  “We need to secure a human boy.” Charity stepped into the conversation before it could dissolve any further.

  “Secure?” A turn of his sloped head bobbed the tails into a cascading wave. “Do you mean bring back to you alive or in pieces?”

  “Alive,” Beckett responded. “I need him alive.”

  “Hardly worth the amount of money that you’re offering and not much chance of a trophy from it.” The darkfae narrowed his eyes, sizing Charity up. “What’s the catch?”

  “The catch is that the Four have him.” Charity let that tidbit sink in, watching the creature’s expression change from cocky arrogance to a guarded wariness.

  “I’ve never heard of an immortal going insane.” Mumbling, the creature shifted. His leathers creaked as he moved, his bowed legs pacing off sections of the floor. “It’s impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible, Aegus,” Charity said in return. “I’ll need to know if you’re in on the job before I go any further.”

  “Now, the money you offer is hardly worth dying for,” the darkfae mulled. “If Death and War have the boy, then let them keep him. There are plenty of humans around. Just pick another one.”

  “We’ve got too much invested in this one,” Beckett said. “It has to be this one.”

  “You’ll be getting more than money for this.” Charity leaned against the back of a couch. “There are boasting rights beyond what you can imagine. Perhaps even a clan trophy if you play it right.”

  He knew how the darkfae social structure worked. The lower ranked in an individual clan spent most of their lives searching for ways to raise their bloodlines’ status. Trophies brought back from raids far outweighed any monetary gain a darkfae might bring to the families’ coffers. Money was spent, but bones and boasts were eternal. He was depending on this ambition to forward his plan, but it would require some level of commitment before he would offer up the potential prize.

  Charity saw the lure catch his prey. He’d chosen carefully among the brutish darkfae. Their success would depend not just on the killing skill of the individual but also on personal motivation. It would take something nearly irresistible dangled in front of the creatures to assure their loyalty. Money wasn’t going to be enough to keep them from abandoning the fight if it turned.

  “I know your ranking in your clan, Aegus.” Charity caught on the darkfae’s ambition, playing to his status. “What you can get from this would be enough for your family to acquire a lot of influence, possibly even leadership of some sort.”

  “There’s nothing that can offer us that.” Aegus stepped away from the conversation, turning his back on the men. Tempted to walk away, leaving Charity to his own devices, his clan status and his position in his family chafed at him. If he could raise his bloodline’s ranking high enough, it would be possible to kill his father, and he would become the head of the family without any political fallout. His clan wouldn’t mind losing a popular leader if their status was raised high enough.

  “There is,” Charity disagreed. “And I have the means to give it to you. Curious enough?”

  “I am curious, so I’m in. I give you my word on that.” The darkfae nodded once, his gaze moving to rake over the magus. “But if there’s any funny business, I’m killing your pet human first.”

  “Understood.” The immortal shook his hand behind his back, shushing Beckett before he could say anything. “But there won’t be. I promise.”

  “I think the pet human might have something to say about it,” Beckett mumbled at his lover’s brother, keeping his voice low. Charity turned his head to the side, giving the man a quick smile.

  “So how are you going to get him away from the Four?” the darkfae asked, shifting on his feet. “And how many others are you intending to hire?”

  “I think we could use five others, perhaps,” Charity replied. “And getting the boy away from the Four isn’t going to be as hard as you might think.”

  “I still think you’re crazy in thinking you can just walk up to them and take something they have.” Aegus grimaced, his mouth working around his tusks.

  “Let us worry about that,” Beckett reassured the darkfae. “We’ll talk further once we decide on the others.”

  “This better be good, immortal,” Aegus warned Charity. “Where can I wait until you two wade through the rabble waiting to talk to you? And I’ll need something to drink. It’s going to take you a long time to pick through the trash I walked through.”

  EVENTUALLY CHARITY decided on five, choosing from the dozen or so that answered his initial summons. For the most part, the darkfae he hired knew one another, either by reputation or from prior jobs together. The creatures broke off, talking low and sizing up the next. They’d each been promised the same thing, money and a chance to lift their personal and clan status. Achieving the latter would more than likely depend on the failure of another, and the darkfae were calculating which among them would be that loser.

  “Is this all of us?” One of the smaller darkfae slurred, his shoulders wide and thick with muscle. His mouth was ill equipped to speak, rows of blunt broad teeth folding his lower lip out. Genetic evolution and the low status of his clan had led to his bowlegged stance and hunched back, bred into his line for mining work that was no longer being done in the modern world the Veiled now found themselves in.

  “The cavefish’s counting how many boots he’s going to have to polish.” A deep laugh echoed through the darkfae. Hearing the derogatory clan nickname angered the shorter darkfae, his face hardening as he looked at the others.

  “Look, I’m not going to expect all of you to get along.” Charity looked out into the room, watching the creatures jostle for position. “I do expect you to at least work with one another. You can kill each other later if you like. For now, any killing that you do is done for me, and is directed by me. Do you have any questions before we start?”

  “What about the human?” The male who taunted the shorter darkfae spoke up. “Are we expected to answer to two of you or just one?”

  “The human is named Beckett.” Charity motioned for the magus to step forward. Beckett dropped an ice cube into a glass of water before joining the immortal, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

  “How crazy is he?” The darkfae they’d first interviewed grinned widely at the harsh laugher his question brought out in the others. “He can see us clearly and doesn’t look drugged.”

  “I’m not insane,” Beckett offered. “Well, not in the true sense of the word.”

&nb
sp; “Beckett is a magus,” Charity said. “And has some means to help him see into the Veil.”

  “Those means include carving up one of us and cooking the flesh into a potion?” One of the gray-skinned darkfae spoke up, the slant of his ears and the almond shape of his pitch-black eyes evidence of UnSidhe blood somewhere recent in his lineage. “Isn’t that what magi do? Collect bits and pieces of the Veiled to use for their experiments?”

  A rumble of anger echoed through the creatures, disquiet forming among them. Beckett sighed with disgust. The shortsightedness of his own species irritated him. Coming face-to-face with more closed-mindedness annoyed him more. Clearing his throat, he kept his temper in check.

  “Yes, that is what a magus does, and I’ll make no apologies for what I do. And as Charity pointed out, I’m paying the bills. Do you really want to walk away from this opportunity because you have some misplaced outrage or disgust? Can any of you eat off your pride? No?” Beckett scanned the group, looking for any further dissent. “Good, then I’ll let Charity explain what we need you to do.”

  “You said we’re looking for a boy, a human,” Aegus said from the back of the group. “And that the Four have him. What’s your plan?”

  “My plan’s simple.” Charity passed around sheets of paper, a sketched-out schematic of a floor from a high-rise. “We’ll be taking this fight to the Horsemen’s doorstep. What I’m handing you is the layout for where the Four live in San Diego.”

  “So the human’s the sane one and you’re crazy.” There were murmurs of assent from the darkfae at the shortest creature’s words. “What you’re asking is impossible. They’ll slaughter us.”

  “Beckett will be providing a distraction,” the immortal continued. “What I need the five of you to do is keep the Four occupied long enough for him to finish what he needs to do. Then we can grab the boy and leave.”

  “And when the Four hunt us down?” Aegus asked thoughtfully. “What then?”

  “They won’t be coming after you,” Charity assured the wary darkfae. “They’re going to be too busy mourning to be concerned about one of you.”

  “Mourning?” Another cocked his head, tilting his chin up.

  “One of you is going to kill Death, maybe even War.” Charity grinned at the stunned silence that struck the darkfae. He pulled a slim automatic out of his jacket and held it up for the creatures to see. “And this is how you’re going to do it.”

  MAL MOVED gingerly down the stairs to the lower level, a nearly disastrous descent when his foot caught on the edge of the top step. Kismet caught the brunt of Mal’s weight before the taller man toppled over and before Min pushed the human out of the way to support Mal with her own body, grumbling on his lack of common sense. Mal wanted his own bed and the quiet of his room, curtains drawn over the impending sun and the noise of San Diego’s downtown district.

  After they’d all come through the Veil, Death locked the door behind them, removing the key from the deadbolt for the first time in Mal’s memory. With a single click, the penthouse became a silent prison, keeping Kismet within its walls. The young man fought his resentment, jaw muscles working around his anger as he swallowed bitter words.

  “Fucking son of a bitches. Why don’t you guys just microchip me?” Kismet glared back at Min when she pushed at his shoulder. After challenging Min with a frustrated hiss, he slid his arm around Mal’s waist, helping the immortal down the stairs to his bedroom below the main floor.

  Reaching the bed, Mal sat down heavily, wondering why the bathroom was so far away.

  Another shuffling walk to the toilet exhausted him. Pulling the final strained remnants of his strength, Mal returned to the bed, sweat running down his back.

  “Okay, I’m done,” the exhausted immortal gasped, clutching at his side. “I’m just going to fall over and try to heal the rest of the way.”

  “Call me if you need something,” Min said before she reluctantly left the two men behind, her final backward glance at the young man sitting next to Mal filled with menace. Kismet silently snarled back.

  Kismet’s addiction was beginning to test him, probing at his nerves to see if he would break. It was a fight he was used to. More often than not, he gave in to the seductive pull of nothingness heroin gave him, anything to peel the feel of shadows off his soul. Inside of the Horsemen’s home, Kismet found the pressure lessened in the invasive, disturbing silence. If he could ignore the want for a few minutes, Kismet knew he could fall asleep, providing he could get his mind to stop crawling with thought. Breathing deeply, he concentrated on more important things, like getting Mal’s shoes off.

  “Here, let me help.” Kismet leaned down near Mal’s feet after watching him struggle with his shoelaces. The last person he remembered helping with their shoes was Chase; his younger brother’s laces often tangled into tight knots that were nearly impossible to undo. Mal lifted his feet, kicking at the heels of his shoes to work them fully clear. “I’ll head upstairs to sleep. That sofa you got up there already has my drool on it.”

  “You can sleep down here.” Mal felt a burn of bashfulness on his cheeks. The stretch of mattress was a cool invitation to the Horseman’s healing body, but the thought of Kismet sleeping in the room above him left a curious tendril of unease in his belly. “The bed’s large enough for five people. Ari ordered it. I think he hoped I would have orgies down here or something.”

  “Orgies?”

  “I think he had high hopes to corrupt me.” Blushing again, Mal adjusted the pair of glasses he’d found upstairs. “But yeah, I’d like to know you’re safe.”

  “Sure. If it’s okay. I’ll take a bed over a couch any day.” Kismet shrugged, not seeing the red blush on Mal’s face. “Let me go pee first and turn off the lights. Can you get your clothes off, or do you need help doing that too?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Mal pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead after Kismet disappeared into the bathroom, wondering why his tongue suddenly seemed too large for his mouth. “If you need to shower, there’s some T-shirts and sweats in the closet you can borrow.”

  “Thanks. I think I reek,” Kismet called out. “Hot water without rust would be great. Sometimes my room’s shower is so red with it, it’s like pouring blood over me.”

  Mal peeked out through hooded eyes, glad his glasses emerged unscathed. Catching sight of Kismet’s pale body reflected in the bathroom’s wide mirrors, Mal watched as the young man stripped off his shirt with an unconscious grace, free in a way he could only envy.

  Kismet hooked a finger around a broken belt loop, absently pulling the waistband of his jeans down over the dip of his navel. Mal watched surreptitiously as the other rubbed the pad of his thumb over the small bump on his nose. The break hardened the too pretty femininity of Kismet’s face, and Mal wondered if it was from a fight.

  Long veins throbbed under the skin of Kismet’s arms, faint punctures fading along the inside of his elbows. A single keloid burst an ugly purple over a red dollop of healing flesh. His fingers trembled, nails caked with the stain of oil paint he could never completely scrub off in the shower.

  When Kismet’s tattered jeans shifted down over his legs, Mal spotted the tattoo stretching over his hipbone and rolling around his thigh. Brilliantly orange, an inked koi fin peeked up out of the waistband of his boxers. The fish swam down the young man’s skin, the rise of Kismet’s ass a spray of ocean mist, curves lightly inked with white and teal foam. Mal swallowed as the carp moved when the artist tested the shower spray with his hand. Then Kismet disappeared from view, lost in the water stream.

  Looking away, Mal hated the hardness in his groin, breathing in deeply to wash the cold air into his lungs. He hastily shed his dirty jeans and the borrowed shirt he was fairly certain he would never return. Lying back on his bed, Mal drifted off, letting the sounds of the water lull him, trying to tell his body to stop reacting to the erotic images playing through his mind.

  The sound of quiet footsteps shocked him into wakefulness. K
ismet shut the bathroom light off behind him. A pair of Mal’s sweatpants was rolled up to his ankles, and a worn T-shirt hung on Kismet’s narrow chest, the hem brushing the rise of his rear as he sat down.

  “Hope you don’t mind, but I found a package of toothbrushes and stole one.” Kismet rubbed at his wet hair with a towel, hoping to soak up most of the water. “If you’ve got a hair dryer, I can dry my hair and not get your sheets wet.”

  “It’s okay.” Mal swallowed. His chest felt too tight, and he wondered if he was having lingering effects from being shot. “I go to sleep with wet hair all the time. Unless you want to dry it. Then I can find it for you.”

  “Nah, too tired. If you don’t care, then I’m not going to.” He returned the towel to the bathroom, then flopped down on the bed, nearly rolling into Mal’s prone body. Sighing, Kismet lifted his arms over his head, the past few days’ events catching up with him.

  “Did you want to take a shower?” Kismet sat up, fatigue running dark slashes under his wide eyes. “I can help you to the bathroom if you need it.”

  “Do I stink?” Mal lifted his head, rolling over onto his side. The sheet he’d hastily pulled up over his body slid from his bare chest, the purpling mark from the extracted bullet vivid against the light tan of his skin.

  Wincing at the healed-over wound, Kismet swallowed and lay back to rest on one elbow, staring at the immortal.

  “Auntie Kay sponged me down, but the soap smelled weird. I’m kind of afraid to wash it off after she told me it was to help the healing process. For all I know, it’s just burned cat hair and chicken bones she ground up.”

  “You’re good. You smell a bit like spices.” Kismet reached forward, about to touch the mark on Mal’s chest. With his fingers barely skimming above the slick, shiny skin, he sighed at the sight of the puckered flesh. “I think you getting shot is my fault. Actually, pretty sure about it.”