by Strong, Jory
Derrick took a sniff at each shoulder then bent his head forward to make sure nothing clung to the leather. Secondhand smoke was a killer.
Enough stalling. He patted his zippered pocket, a nervous gesture since there was no possibility the carefully folded sketches had escaped. Do this for Etaín.
Hah! He knew exactly why she’d sent him here.
Matchmaker! She’d given him this excuse to see Quinn again.
His heart took a dive, settling with a hard crash at the pit of his stomach as a reality bigger than the state of his love life gripped him. Twice in two days she’d nearly disappeared from his life permanently. First the Harlequin Rapist and now this brush with death in front of the shelter.
He hadn’t been sure she’d be at Cathal’s house, not until tall, delicious Mr. Edible made his presence known and tried to send him away. Well, bigger, nastier brutes had attempted it in the past but when something mattered, he had a spine of steel.
Not that Etaín had needed him to rush to her side. She had Cathal and Eamon. They were enough. She didn’t need him—
No!
No! No! No!
That was negative thinking.
He was done with negative thinking. He’d had weeks of negativity. Months even, if he was being honest about the state of his life prior to Quinn.
Strength was his middle name now and because of it, he could face a hard truth. There was a reason Etaín hadn’t fully shared. True, she’d always played things close. It was there in her apartment for everyone to see. No personal touches. Nothing. As if at a moment’s notice she might pick up and leave.
Since he’d known her, she’d been the rock and he’d been just plain pathetic. Some of his choices when it came to men…
He shuddered. Bad. Worse. Horrible. Totally awful.
Well, as of now, that had changed. He was going to be her rock. He was going to help her get the police some information, whether it meant working with Quinn or not. He wasn’t without contacts. He’d found her, hadn’t he? He had access to the records at the tattoo shop and he’d been there when she’d tattooed a lot of her clients.
“Time to pull on the big girl panties,” he said, striding purposely to the dock that would take him to Sean’s boat—and Quinn.
Fourteen
Quinn rolled his shoulders. Christ, he’d forgotten how much he hated sitting at a desk and mentally grinding through mostly irrelevant data as a way of gathering intel.
The Internet search on the Curs MC was a slow, excruciating crawl that had landed him on Facebook more than once. Facebook! There was a reason the jails were full. Call it the stupidity of criminals, though unfortunately nothing had popped that had any relevance to the killing at the Curs hangout.
It’d be so much easier to tap into law enforcement files, even kiss someone’s ass in a different agency, but one of Sean’s sources had gotten back to them with a warning that one wrong move would trip plenty of red flags and cause a shitload of trouble for anyone who didn’t have official cause to be looking into the club.
Didn’t mean it couldn’t be done, but their involvement in this didn’t warrant trashing a contact or leaving anyone hanging out to dry. What they needed was the list of names from Etaín, a place to start, and truth be told, an excuse to move.
He was antsy. Itchy. As if at any moment he just might come right out of his skin.
He didn’t like the feeling even if he understood the source of it. There’d been plenty of down time when he was undercover, but even then he’d been playing angles and pushing limits, living at the sharp edge between life and death.
He’d felt like a soldier in the trenches, especially during the stint in prison. He’d longed for freedom more fiercely than a lot of the inmates, because for him freedom was a call away.
And now, days into that freedom after making the call and having supposedly been shanked by another inmate and bled out, he struggled against the urge to escape the chair in favor of pacing as a swell of frustration and helplessness came. He wasn’t used to not being able to take action, but other than being there for his family, his father’s cancer wasn’t an enemy he could fight. And he hated it. If not for Derrick—
He stopped himself because the only thing worse than the slow crawl of a worthless Internet search was doing that same search with a raging hard-on. Jesus, what a way to come out of the closet.
A muted tone sounded, announcing someone had just tripped the farthest of Sean’s sensors. There was the tap of keys as Sean opened a camera’s live feed.
Quinn used it as an excuse to leave his chair but the boner he’d been trying to avoid came on like a battering ram at seeing Derrick on Sean’s screen. A few clicks later, and Sean had pulled up another image, Derrick at Stylin’ Ink.
“I thought I recognized him,” Sean said. “What’s he doing here?” It was followed immediately by, “Fuck. Etaín’s worse.”
Sean reached for his cellphone as if to call Cathal. Quinn stopped him by saying, “Hold on, Derrick is probably just stopping in to see me.”
“You know him?”
A throb of pure heat went through his dick at just how well he and Derrick knew each other. Unfortunately that heat also slid up his neck and into his face just as Sean glanced at him.
Sean laughed. “Like that, huh? Why don’t you intercept him on the dock, blow off a little steam, because for the last hour I’ve felt like I was trapped in the cabin with a caged beast.”
Quinn headed for the doorway. “Back in a few.”
“Take it out of camera range unless you want me watching.”
“Will do. I’m not into kink.”
“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“Not going there,” Quinn said, stepping out into the wet, silky caress of fog arriving in thin wisps.
The feel of it against his skin momentarily halted him, driving the heat of lust back with a desire equally intense and not totally foreign. He’d always enjoyed being on, in, or near the water, but not like this, at least not since he was a kid visiting his grandparents in the sweltering heat of the South, days so hot he’d wanted nothing more than to rip off his clothes and dive into the lake.
He shook his head, partially clearing it as he resumed walking. “Been cooped up too long,” he muttered, gaze straying to the Bay and water cold enough to shrivel his dick and pull his balls up tight in protest if he jumped into it. Jesus, it might come to that if he and Derrick couldn’t get somewhere private, though when his path finally intercepted Derrick’s, thoughts of privacy, water, and Sean slid away like raindrops down a building to be replaced by fiery possessiveness and a growled Mine.
Fuck, where had that come from? But he didn’t deny it, and he didn’t care who witnessed the kiss as he pulled Derrick to him, locking their bodies together for the grind of hard cock against hard cock as he slammed his mouth down on Derrick’s, plundering and claiming with the thrust of his tongue.
It didn’t end with the one kiss. Or even a second, though he restrained himself from touching anything but Derrick’s shirt-covered back even when his own shirt was pulled from his jeans and unbuttoned, then pushed open so talented fingers could stroke over taut nipples, sending hot streaks of fire straight to his dick.
God it felt so good. Better than good. Better than anything.
He’d gladly give up breath, but the need for it forced a momentary separation of his mouth from Derrick’s, and in that instant Derrick seized control with the press of lips against Quinn’s throat, a caress that had him fisting Derrick’s shirt in his hands to keep himself from urging Derrick lower, and lower still.
“Let’s take this private,” he managed. Hell, if it had to be in his car he’d settle for that if it meant he could free his cock and feel Derrick’s hands and mouth on it.
Derrick leaned back, satisfaction on his face though there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes when he said, “Someone’s anxious to do the nasty. It’s a good thing I showed up when I did.”
“Well, I’m not apologizing, you delicious man you. I intend to just eat you right up.” Derrick radiated pleasure, practically preening with it until his eyebrows drew together in surprise.
He stepped out of the hug, making Quinn’s cock scream in protest though the physical separation and the wet feel of the air against his heated flesh cleared his mind enough to remember Sean’s cameras. With the reminder of their existence, he’d swear he felt someone watching with intense, focused interest. It was real enough he blushed when Derrick reached for him.
“Oh, don’t turn into a prude now, you sexy man you. Take off your shirt, Quinn, so I can see the rest of the artwork.”
“Derrick…” But a glance down at his own chest and with a start, Quinn complied, because instead of skin in its first week of recovering after taking on a massive amount of ink, his flesh was healed, and the colors of the Dragon vibrant and deep, richer and even more beautiful than they’d been that morning when he dressed.
“Amazing.” Derrick whispered, awe in his voice as he moved around Quinn, taking in the full design. “Simply amazing. It almost looks alive. And your skin…”
Fingertips traveled down Quinn’s spine, and his thoughts snapped back to the carnal. He turned, throwing his arm around Derrick’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Derrick.”
Derrick allowed himself to be guided away from the dock, his conscience clear because Etaín had sent him there. She had to have suspected there might be a small delay in handing off the pictures. Certainly a shorter delay than if she’d meant to come herself considering she was with two men. Naughty naughty girl. One lover at a time was enough to handle, and a healed Quinn…
A shiver of anticipation went through him. He absolutely refused to think about the weirdness of it, or to dwell on how he’d also noticed the healed tats on Cathal’s arm, tats he’d heard were absolutely fresh yesterday morning when Cathal and Etaín had shown up at the shelter fund-raiser. There were more secrets, but he would root them all out.
His arm tightened around Quinn’s waist then tightened again when he noticed he wasn’t the only one totally enthralled by Quinn. Tall, Dark, and Predatory stood on a yacht that screamed money. Worse, as they neared, the man jumped from the boat, radiating a subtle threat.
* * *
Sooo, Cage thought, landing lightly on the dock. He’d felt the singing call of one magic hidden in another and he’d come.
Lord Eamon would have left watchers to see who might investigate but he didn’t trouble himself to look for them. The bargain made decades earlier allowed him to hunt in San Francisco.
His presence would be noted, but the Elves had long since ceased trying to follow him, though he tore his eyes from the approaching men in order to read the deep shadows. The Lord’s Assassin and he had a history. Undoubtedly he would encounter Liam soon enough.
His attention returned to the man who was of greater interest, a man whose arm tightened on his companion, nostrils flaring and body tensing possessively. Understandable. No treasure was more valued than a mate, and the human morsel he’d heard called Derrick clung with a tenacity that deepened Cage’s appreciation of him.
This was mystery wrapped in a clue impossible to miss, surprise already becoming dangerous curiosity. Stepping in front of them, he said, “The body work is exquisite. Who is the artist?”
It was Derrick who answered, “Etaín.”
His shock was genuine. He had been in the area long enough to recognize the name and know how thoroughly it was enmeshed in human affairs. “She has been much talked about of late.”
Derrick’s chest puffed out. “She’s my best friend. I also work with her.”
“Is she at the tattoo shop today?”
“No.”
Derrick nudged his companion to continue walking, not so subtly putting his body between them.
Cage allowed them to pass though he turned, following them with his eyes, mesmerized by the ink and what it had to imply in this Elven-controlled territory. Seidic. And yet he could not begin to fathom what game played out here, though that had never stopped him from joining the fun.
* * *
Tell us about the Dragon,” Eamon murmured against her ear, returning to the abandoned conversation with the lazy trace of a nipple as Cathal’s wicked hand stroked her belly while sensuous lips teased an ear lobe.
“Ganging up on me now?” she asked without heat.
“If that’s what it takes to keep you safe,” Eamon said.
Beneath the water her palms rubbed over muscled thighs, not an effort to distract them but a delay as she battled the fear that her throat would close up, preventing speech and shattering the peace.
Cathal’s teeth were a sharp nip to her lobe accompanied by a growled demand. “Answer the question, Etaín.”
Reality or hallucinogenic effect? Science had an explanation for the whole bright light at death thing. But not for the rest of it.
She hadn’t imagined the voice or the locking of her limbs. She licked her lips as if somehow the moisture would guarantee the smooth flow of words. “It started with the nightmare of the slaughter. Just a hissed voice before Cathal was with me.”
Cathal’s immediate tensing was a sharp thrust of terror. “Saying what, Etaín?”
“I see.”
Eamon’s expression gave nothing away. “Not surprising considering your gift, and the likelihood one of the killers wears your ink.”
She licked her lips again. “Then the voice came a second time, calling Liam a shadow walker.”
A nod indicated Eamon’s lack of surprise and encouraged her to go on. But when she thought to tell him what had happened outside the shelter, to speak of Peordh, phantom coils encircled her throat in silent warning.
She said instead, “I didn’t actually see the Dragon until the hospital. I caught the last of Kelvin’s thoughts, just when he was shot from behind, I’m guessing. There was blackness, followed by golden script, the tattoo I’d done for him.”
Her breath caught at the remembered pain. Guilt crept in, that she might have brought about his death rather than him causing her heart to stop, and because of the bond, Cathal’s.
“I went from darkness to bright sunshine, to a place like the one you called magic’s primordial birthplace for those like us. Meaning Elves?”
She was proud of herself for managing to say the “e” word without hesitation or a lingering hint of disbelief.
“For Elves,” Eamon answered. “For other of the supernaturals.”
Relief relaxed the pressure in her chest, though the lake hadn’t been part of what appeared in the mirror. “So the Dragon is real?”
“I do not believe so.” A cautious answer, because he didn’t want to lie. “It’s not uncommon for changelings to hear voices, to give magic a form in order to separate it from the self. I have seen drawings similar to the one you did.”
“Of Dragons?”
“No. More often the avatars take the form of ancient, elemental deities. Phoenixes for those linked to fire. Merfolk for those with a tie to water.”
He sounded sure, reasonable, making her doubt herself and believe him. Did it matter if the Dragon was real or imagined manifestation?
Gift and magic were inextricably entwined. She already knew the cost of denial.
When the call to ink had come, and with it, the need to touch others, to turn skin into canvases for her art, she’d answered it with a feeling of rightness, of absolute certainty that this was her purpose in life. Sometimes she’d placed images found in her dreams on those who wanted tattoos. Other times she’d drawn based on their preferences, content with the chance to hone her skills. But that heady time of happiness was short-lived by the start of conflict with the captain. And the trouble at home was compounded when the parents of her tattooed classmates threatened lawsuits and demanded reimbursement for the expense of removing the ink.
She’d tried to sto
p tattooing and failed. The need for a steady stream of canvasses became a natural gravitation toward rougher and rougher kids, and experimentation led to the discovery that drugs buffered the pain of being a disappointment and shielded against the captain and Parker’s disapproval. It was a vicious circle whose shadow entangled her still, making the two men who’d once been the center of her world see darkness in her rather than light, failure rather than success.
Eamon’s gentle pull and twist of her nipple returned her to the present. “Does the Dragon guide your actions?”
Yes. No. She couldn’t deny there was a cause and effect, but it was easier, and more reassuring to say, “It doesn’t tell me what to do.”
“It will. Today only my presence prevented another changeling from killing a human boy.”
“What happened?”
Fear slid into her veins and traveled down the ink in her arms to settle in the eyes on her palms like ice as he told her about his visit to the fishing boat and how Farrell had become the unreasoning vessel for wild, raging elemental magic. She balled her hands into fists against masculine thighs, chest so tight she could barely breathe. There had never been any real doubt that the killer had been aware of Vontae because they both wore her ink, but now she whispered, “What if I’m responsible for the slaughter. What if because of the ink—”
“Bullshit, Etaín,” Cathal growled.
“Unlikely,” Eamon said, abandoning her nipple to take her hand and straighten it from its tight fist. “Magic does flow through your ink. That is why many would kill any human wearing it. You empower humans with your art, giving it a specific focus. Doing it siphons away magic, which is perhaps another reason the barrier against the memories you’ve taken has grown thin. But I don’t believe humans wearing your ink will hear magic’s voice or be victim to it in the same way we are.”
He carried her hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her palm. “There are sigils of shielding, of deflection and channeling, as well as one to produce the glamour that will become necessary to hide what you are after the change.”