Rain Dance (Sunshine & Scythes Book 1)

by D. N. Erikson

  “Lionhawk Ink.” Stefan’s voice shot across the night like an arrow.

  I stopped. “Why?”

  “The report said you claimed the gun was planted by a young man in a suit. Sounds like just the place such a man might frequent.”

  “No it doesn’t.”

  “There might have been a fingerprint left on the broken sill in your house.”

  “What, are you stalking me, now?” I asked.

  “Keep your allies close and your enemies closer, Eden,” he called back. “And your partners closest of all.”

  I felt bile well up in my throat, and I had to shut my mouth to keep from vomiting. If he was the killer, it would almost be worth taking the fall never to return. But I had the feeling I would be back here, sooner or later. Because in my line of work, crossing paths with bad people wasn’t just an occupational hazard.

  It was the only way to stay alive—now more than ever.

  12

  I dialed Dante—I could use the company, and he was the closest thing I had to an ally. But he responded with a text. He was busy taking care of a few things, and besides I had his car. He asked me for my location; when I told him the mayor’s, he said that was too far out of the way, since he was on the eastern part of the island, but he’d meet up with me if I was downtown. I wondered what the hell he was doing on the other half of Atheas. The type of people who lived out there were those who generally didn’t want their activities to crop up on anyone’s radar. Although rent was cheap, so those who didn’t mind dealing with living on the frontier also took their chances in the eastern wilds.

  I was as brave as the next girl, but I tried to stick on this side of the island when I could. Unfortunately, reaping souls was a dangerous business, and I found myself in the east pretty damn often. Didn’t explain what Dante was up to, though.

  The taxi stopped at the end of the cul-de-sac, where I’d been waiting alone for twenty minutes, wishing I had a cigarette. And I had never liked smoking one damn bit. But right then seemed like the perfect time to start.

  The ride back to the city was quiet. I was beginning to feel the fatigue settle in, but I still had a few pressing issues. Whatever Khan had whipped up to counteract the sandstorm viper venom had slowed the effects of the bite, buying me more time. But the top part of my shoulder was gray—and I definitely needed to address that before my arm fell off.

  But with Rayna breathing down my neck now, too, I needed to follow up on the mayor’s lead more. Who knew how long that intel would last?

  So, back to the Loaded Gun we went. The taxi driver dropped me off at the corner and I paid him. I made my way past the drunken stragglers enjoying mediocre late-night pizza and other foodstuffs they would certainly regret in the morning. I approached the parking lot, which was now empty save for the borrowed Porsche—and, well, the dwarf Jötun who had banned me for life.

  Twice, now. An impressive record.

  I tried to keep to the shadows and out of his line of sight, but Magnus spotted me and thundered out, “You return, Eden?”

  I waved at him, acting like it’d been a friendly greeting. “Just getting my car. No drinking and driving.”

  “Tell me, something, Reaper.” He pushed off from the brick façade, which had been worn away from years of abuse from cigarettes, beer and urine, and strode toward me. I don’t know about other people, but having a towering man with neck tattoos come at you in a parking lot at four in the morning will get the old blood pumping. Discombobulated, I almost dropped all the things I had clutched in my hands.

  He stopped a few paces away. The sigils on his neck glowed slightly in the darkness. Someone was still angry.

  I swallowed hard and tried to maintain my smile, “Look, I’m really not trying to come back. Ever.”

  Magnus didn’t answer. The faint amber glow of the hammer on his neck stared at me like a harbinger of doom. Not that he needed to cast any of his ancient Norse spells on me. He could just reach out and snap my neck with one of those bear paw sized hands.

  “How did the FBI arrive on our island?”

  I breathed an audible sigh of relief. He just wanted to know about Rayna. “So you saw her badge, huh?”

  “While we were dragging her outside, yes.” He folded his arms. “Are you one of them?”

  “Why, you got something to hide?”

  His lips folded into a scowl. Wrong tact. Bad Eden. I needed to pull out the old grifter bag and build rapport. But it was hard to bullshit when you were sick and tired and getting framed for murders you didn’t commit. Which, ironically enough, was the exact time when such skills were needed the most.

  “I have various business interests that the American government would likely frown upon.”

  “You mean your underground fight nights?”

  He scratched his face, eyes flooded with suspicion. Like I was wearing a wire or gathering intel. Yeah, try doing anything in a dress like this—other than get your ass kicked by someone a decade older. Not happening.

  Instead of answering the question, Magnus said, “What does Aldric think about these developments?”

  “Unhappy,” I said.

  “I see. And he can do nothing?”

  “Even overly controlling assholes have limits.” I shrugged, immediately regretting it when my shoulder barked in pain. “Death, taxes, the government and all that good stuff.”

  A vein in Magnus’s neck bulged, making the hammer look ready to strike. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, trying to communicate my desire to return to the Porsche. But there was clearly something the massive man wasn’t asking, but desperately wanted to.

  Finally, I said, “Stop being a pussy and just ask me what you wanted to ask.”

  This caught Magnus off guard. Women two feet shorter than him weren’t usually dumb enough to openly insult him. But I wanted to follow up on the mayor’s lead at Lionhawk Ink.

  “A man tried to spend this tonight.” Magnus reached into his burlap sack of a shirt and extracted a gold bar. The same size and weight as the one Rayna had dangled in front of me like a matador egging on a bull. “I believe it belongs to your employer.”

  He handed it to me and I held it up to the dim light. The insignia was unmistakable—a cloaked rider atop a galloping horse. The Scythians had been talented horsemen, striking terror in the Eurasian Steppes for hundreds of years with their innovative battle tactics. This was Aldric’s way of honoring the past—and delineating his revenue streams. For this logo only appeared on his ill-gotten gains and other enterprises.

  “Why are you giving me this?”

  “Because there is word that someone has stolen from Aldric.” Magnus crossed his arms. “And I do not wish to be viewed as a suspect in that particular heist.”

  “Any idea what this man might have looked like?” I asked.

  “Tall. Slender. Charming, you know, chatting with the ladies.” Magnus looked up at the stars, as if thinking. “And my guy behind the bar said he was asking about someone.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “You.” Magnus pointed at the gold bar I now held in my hands. “He tried to buy information with that.”

  “Interesting.” I nodded toward my lone car. “If that’s all.”

  “Just make sure Aldric knows.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, and headed to the sports car with a goodbye. After getting inside and dumping everything on the passenger’s seat, I glanced in the mirror. Magnus was staring at the car. He looked worried.

  Like hell was I going to put in a good word for him. He could suck it. But this development was interesting—because it meant Roan had ripped off Aldric. And he’d had a partner help him do it.

  All the more reason to follow up on the mayor’s lead.

  I spun out of the parking lot in a cloud of dust, and headed to Lionhawk Ink. As I drove, I thought of Magnus’s description. Slender, charming.

  I knew someone who fit the bill.

  And I was behind the wheel of his car.
>
  13

  Late night calls to tattoo shops were rarely a good call. In this case, that advice went double. I could be stepping into a hostile environment. But that seemed about par for the course.

  I walked across the parking lot at the city’s outskirts and cracked my knuckles. Lionhawk Ink’s sign cast a neon glow across the empty, fading asphalt. The nail salon next door was closed for the night. Or maybe it was never open at all. But Lionhawk’s interior glowed, and people moved within. Even past four, they remained open and ready.

  Of course, they didn’t deal in tattoos. Okay, they did your normal stuff—your tramp stamps, the regrettable boyfriend’s name inked over a side boob. Speaking from experience, what you think is forever usually lasts less time than a value-size bottle of shampoo. But that type of ink wasn’t their bread and butter. It was just a money-laundering front for what they couldn’t put on the books: magic. For the right price, Mick could brand you with a sigil. Sure, it looked like a tattoo to the unknowing eye. The non-magically inclined would mistake it for as such and be none the wiser. But, depending on what the purchaser desired—and how much they could pay—it would do a lot more.

  Wanted to make James Bond or Casanova look like amateurs? The Heartbreaker was a good choice. What about sing like Freddy Mercury? Golden Voice might be a little more up your alley.

  But, as the old saying went, everything had its price. And mere currency wouldn’t grant you the otherworldly powers you desired. No, to imbue someone with magical energy where there was none before demanded some sort of magical fuel source. Which meant that a sigil could only be created using the soul of a magical creature. A shred, perhaps, would suffice for something as materialistic and shallow as the Heartbreaker. But work like Magnus’s, which resulted in a Zeusian display of thunder and lightning, that would cost many souls. Of course, he had received his brands in a time when human life was nasty, brutish and short, and subsequently valued far less.

  These days, there were pesky ethics and laws to contend with. Which made this off-the-books type of operation a much more clandestine affair. And operating in the darkness brought with it the holy trinity of danger: desperation, narcissism, and greed.

  So, under normal circumstances, I stayed clear of places fueled by souls. Entering them as a Reaper was like coming to a dog shelter covered in steaks. The outcome was not good—everyone salivated at your presence, eager to eat you up and spit you out. If I wasn’t Aldric’s Reaper, more than a few people would have tried to twist me into their own employ. Even with Aldric’s looming, unspoken guillotine waiting in the shadows, certain creatures would be too excited by the possibility of having their own little soul generator to resist fucking with me.

  But tonight’s circumstances were different. Because, tonight, the guy who had broken into my house and tried to frame me was in Lionhawk Ink. Was he the actual killer? I was tempted to say yes out of spite, even if all answers pointed to no. The FBI could have his overdressed ass. That would solve my Rayna problem, at least.

  A bell jingled as I yanked the door open. The tall clerk turned—too quick to be human—and gave me a quick lookover. I recognized him as a wolf named Darius from the last time I’d been here.

  “We’re closing soon,” he said. There was another wolf in the corner pretending to push a mop. They were really security. When you dealt in souls, and kept some on hand, it was like having a vault full of precious metal on the premises. Eighties hair metal blared from the speakers. Four vinyl chairs were lined up in parallel. Behind the chairs was a wall of designs—everything from script to flaming skulls.

  One of the chairs was taken by a teenager who didn’t look like she could even buy a pack of smokes. Not that I was judging; I would’ve pulled the same shit at her age, had I liked the idea of permanence. But I’d always been drifting on the wind, changing too much to tether myself to anything for too long. One of the many allures of a grifter’s life—once you got bored, you just pretended to be something else.

  I now had one sigil, of course, courtesy of Aldric. Relatively cheap, as sigils went. I glanced at the lantern on my right wrist, recalling how useless it had been on the beach. Then again, Aldric had no doubt warned my assassin that it was merely a convincing illusion. The real thing would have been far too pricey for his cheap ass. Although I suspected the real reason had less to do with finances than practicality. You didn’t want to create a creature capable of killing you. That was just idiocy. I’d had the work done at Lionhawk four years ago. I hadn’t returned since.

  “Take a pitcha, why don’t ya?” The girl snarled, laying on her East Coast accent thick, like it made her tough. Her eyes told me she wanted to be, probably because something had happened that had made her feel small and afraid. I could relate.

  But I didn’t have time.

  “I’ll pass,” I said.

  The wolf in the corner stopped mopping and cast a wary eye over his broad shoulder. It didn’t take good instincts to taste the tension in the room. But it wasn’t between me and the girl, who was a human and non-threat.

  It was between me and the man doing her work, who was far from human.

  Seated on a stool, his weathered fingers clutching a buzzing pen, was Mick. And we didn’t get along too well.

  His sun-beaten skin was remarkably free of tattoos. The only ones visible were the ones on his knuckles—each joint bearing an intricate design. To a regular client, they were merely a personal expression of his art—a choice to place his ink where it was most meaningful.

  But I knew better. The placement was to maximize the magical power his hands could channel. I wasn’t apprised of all the nuances of sigils, but suffice to say, the location mattered. A skilled artisan could double or triple the effectiveness of a spell by putting it in the correct spot. That was why my lantern sigil was close to my hand—it allowed the energy to flow up.

  Mick was a master.

  He didn’t turn around. His pen continued tracing across the girl’s ankle.

  “I have to hand it to you, Eden.”

  “Hand what?”

  “It takes real courage to visit a man whose eye you took.” The buzzing pen punctuated the silence. I could feel both wolves tense. Last night had been lucky. I wasn’t ready to gamble on myself again so soon, especially outnumbered two to one.

  But I wasn’t leaving, either, because I needed answers about whoever had planted the gun in my villa.

  “Or real stupidity,” I said.

  He snorted. “Courage and stupidity are dangerously close on the continuum.”

  “You tried to kill him?” the girl whispered, her accent disappearing, suddenly realizing she was in over her head. She tried to jerk her ankle away, but Mick’s strong, practiced hands held it steady. “Let me go.”

  “You don’t want half the words, do you?” Mick pressed his reading glasses up his craggy nose. I could just see his good side from this angle, the one that still had an eye. It was wrinkled and sun-weathered. What was left of his hair was splayed out at a graying, odd angles, like an aging rock star.

  “I just want to go home.” Her voice was small.

  “Darius.” Mick nodded toward the mop-holding wolf. “Get this young lady’s money from the register.”

  What happened next surprised even me. Mick’s right hand glowed bright blue, dousing the linoleum tile in an effusive glow. The girl squealed slightly. Mick paid her cries no heed. His hand—still clutching the tattoo needle—moved in a blur, too fast to see. The work was finished before Darius had returned with the girl’s crumpled bills. The light dissipated, ceding luminescent duties back to the musty box-store style fluorescents humming in the particle board ceiling.

  Mick let the girl’s ankle go and gently placed the money in her hand. She said nothing, and sprinted out the door without looking back. The tattoo master ran through his supplies, cleaning up after the job. Despite the speed, there were no ink spills or stains. Everything was perfect.

  “Where is he, Mick?”

>   “You know how many stitches it takes to close a four-inch gash over the eye socket?”

  “A lot, I’d presume.” I glared at Darius, who had his thick arms crossed. The wolf stood next to his boss like the old man was in need of his help. But Mick could handle himself.

  “A hundred and thirty four.” He took final stock of the instruments in his tattoo case, then snapped the metal box shut. “And two pints of blood.”

  “I would’ve guessed two hundred. You made it out ahead.”

  Mick turned for the first time. The scar ran from the middle of his cheek to his eyebrow. Even in the wrinkles, the raised white flesh was clear as day. The hollow socket stared at me, as if searching for guilt. But I had a good poker face.

  That, and I could give a shit about slashing up his face. No, I wasn’t a sociopath. But you try coming back from the dead, waking up on a strange island, then being dragged to tattoo parlor in a basically abandoned strip mall. Your fight-or-flight instincts would be all out of sorts, too.

  I said, “If we’re done rehashing ancient history, I heard someone hangs out here.”

  “I don’t recall any visitors.”

  “Young guy. Well dressed, business suit. Brown hair,” I said, gauging his reaction. From the way his good pupil dilated, I knew he recognized the description. But Mick was a pretty good liar himself, and good at keeping secrets.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  I opened my hand—the one clutching the gold bar. I saw Darius tense. No one in this room trusted me—for good reason. In their eyes, I was a wild card, prone to insane moves. The only reason I hadn’t died when I’d slashed up Mick’s face was Aldric. He’d been here, and he hadn’t been ready for his investment to go to waste.

  Now, well, it was just me. And I must’ve been crazy to return here alone, without backup.

  Mick’s good eye grew wide in his craggy face.

  “That belongs to Aldric,” Mick said.

  “More than you know,” I replied.

  “It’s true, what they whisper.”