Isa shifted her shoulders to break up tension and planted her feet flat on the floor. Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes and focused on shutting out everything but the ebb and flow of power at her core.
Ask for my help.
She didn’t bother answering. He was a distraction, something to be blocked out if she wanted to do her job. Besides, she already knew how asking for his help would work out. Just like it had last time, with him laughing and slamming the door on her.
Even with Daniel’s spell before them, his anticipation wound tight around her gut. He looked forward to luring her into wanting something, needing something from him that he could then deny her.
If she intended to save Emanuel, she couldn’t play the game.
Not now.
“You want Daniel’s magic squashed and the tattoo saved,” she said. “You decide.”
She dipped down into the river of her magic, took hold of a part of it, and rose back up into her body, pulling the tendril of power with her.
It resisted.
Fucking get over yourself and do your job. Or do you mean to let Daniel win? he snapped inside the echo chamber of her internal landscape.
Where she didn’t want him. Panic tightened her grip on her magic.
Power surged unbidden into her core. Too dark. Shadowed amber. Smoky. Not her own. It rose until it threatened to choke her.
Scrambling for control, she released her hold on the flood and switched gears to contain the wave, to shape it to her purpose. She flinched at the staccato fractals of jet shooting through her golden energy.
Reaching out with a tendril of power, she nudged Emanuel’s tattoo, shifting the three of them—her, Murmur, and the phoenix—into the otherworld.
Murmur elbowed her to one side again, forcing his way into the use of her etheric sight.
The ice phoenix shrieked and spun on her, wings batting and gleaming claws poised to strike.
“We’re here to help,” Isa said. Her voice rasped into the studio and echoed into the etheric.
As one, she and Murmur reached out etheric hands. His longer, taloned ones showed in shadowed overlay of hers. She extracted the hook spell from the phoenix while Murmur healed the magical puncture wounds.
The hook jerked in her grip. Snarling, she severed the twist of Daniel’s power with a slash of sunshine.
Murmur showed her how to insinuate her magic into the fabric of Daniel’s hook like a firecracker in a pop bottle. They lit the etheric fuse and watched the hook explode and vanish.
“Oh, I like that,” Isa said.
Murmur chuckled.
The ice phoenix chirruped a question. It cocked its head back and forth, eying Isa.
She shivered. The chill of the thing reached through the shield she carried in both worlds. She stared at the creature, a sense of wonder blossoming in her heart. “I’ll be damned.”
There, Murmur said at the same moment.
They both saw the problem.
The phoenix should have been a polished, solid creature of glacial blue and green ice. The fuzzy, imprecise lines of its inking rendered it less solid—permeable—a fragile creation of frost and snow.
The art and the intent had been enough for the tattoo to survive and to allow for integration. Until Emanuel had gotten the jones for a high. He’d popped a pill, and his body temperature had risen. The increase in body temperature had begun destroying the ice phoenix. Inked properly, the bird would have hard, reflective surface feathers that would have sealed out the heat.
What the tattoo needed flashed fully formed into Isa’s mind’s eye. Fixing it would require precision and exquisite attention to detail.
She shook her head, regret hanging heavy from the base of her throat.
Shifting her weight on her stool, she retreated back to her body. Her eyesight, shared with Murmur, took longer than usual to catch up and focus.
“I can’t fix this,” she whispered. “Maybe now that Daniel isn’t pulling the tattoo . . .”
“What?” Ria snapped.
Murmur hissed. She tasted sulfur. “Fix it,” he ordered aloud in a growl that echoed around the studio in a tone so low it didn’t seem possible for her vocal chords to have produced it.
Emanuel choked back what sounded like a sob.
“I wish I could,” Isa said, thick stickers of sorrow in her chest. “You saw what was wrong with it, the same as I did. My hands are useless! I can manage a crude and ugly bind. No way can I manage the detailed work required to repair that phoenix!”
FIX IT.
“With what?” she yelled, her eyes stinging. “Face it! Daniel won. My hands will never be the—”
An avalanche of dark power swept her from her chair. It crushed her against the basalt floor. It slammed down her throat, shoving aside organs as it gathered inside a body never meant to hold it.
Tears seeped from her eyes, but she couldn’t draw breath to scream for Ria to shoot them.
Pressure mounted inside her.
Murmur said something, or maybe he merely thought it. The alien word resounded across more than one reality, rolling round and round in her skull and vibrating through her bones. His power exploded down her arms, through her clumsily repaired hands. Agony ripped through every layer of flesh and bone, shoving white-hot knives straight up her arms, aiming for her heart.
Without air to scream, she could only writhe in anguish.
Murmur groaned. It sounded like pain.
Had she lost that much ground? Had he spread so far that he’d gotten into her nervous system? Could he feel her pain as his own now?
If he did—and even against her best interest, she hoped he did—it served him right.
The cascade of agony eased. So did the pressure grinding her into the stone of her studio floor. Panting, she rested, waiting for the last echoes of hurt to drain out of her nerve and muscle fibers.
She glanced at Ria. He’d paled. His dark eyes were wide and his shoulders rigid. He gripped the Glock in both hands in front of his body as if it could act as a shield. At least the muzzle still pointed at the floor.
He met her gaze, the first hint of uncertainty she’d ever detected in him creasing his forehead.
Whatever he saw looking back at him drained the tension out of his hold on the gun. He nodded.
Smoky, sulfur-scented magic trickled along the pathways of Isa’s muscles. It registered as a cooling balm for her outraged nerves. For her benefit? Or for Murmur’s?
She caught the bass pulse of his surprise. He hadn’t expected to feel anything.
Isa wiped cold tears from her face. And froze as realization flashed through her. She’d wiped tears from her face. With a hand that worked.
With a hand whose fingers had articulated and that hadn’t hurt. At all.
Chapter Twenty-three
Sucking in a shallow breath, Isa sat up and stared at her blue gloved hands. She’d expected blood. Considering the incredible pain, there should have been blood. The gloves were spotless, inside and out. They looked comically oversized on her hands.
Trembling, she clenched both into experimental fists.
They worked. No catches. No pain. No swelling. They worked as if Daniel had never touched them.
Something soared in her chest, spreading golden wings. The sweep and lift felt like hope.
She leaped to her feet, ripped off the too-big gloves, and strode to the edge of the circle nearest her papermaking workbench.
“You win,” she said aloud to Murmur as she sketched a door in the circle. She grabbed her bottle of black Live Ink and then closed the circle again. “One hundred percent. Hang on Emanuel. We’re going to fix that tattoo, but if you want to keep it, no more drugs, you hear?”
She sensed Murmur hovering near the locus of her motor control, ready to immobilize her. She wanted to laugh, b
ut didn’t find anything amusing in the realization that she couldn’t lie to him.
“Sí,” Emanuel whispered as Isa returned and pulled the rest of her Live Ink from the bottom of her work cart.
It had been two months since she’d so much as touched a tattoo machine. She hoped her muscles remembered what to do. At least with her hands healed as if nothing had ever happened, she had a shot at Emanuel’s fix.
“This is going to take some time, Ria,” she warned. “You have enough space to sit down, if you like, but I can’t have you moving around back there, and absolutely do not cross the circle.”
“You can do this? Save the Ink, not bind it?” Ria asked, his question sharp as a needle.
“Thanks to my Live Ink healing my hands, I can now.”
Silence for the stretch of several breaths.
“Do this,” he commanded triumph ringing in his voice. “I will wait.”
“Good man.” As if the ruthless gang leader gave a damn what she thought of him.
“And then you will tell me what Daniel Alvarez had to do with Emanuel’s tattoo going bad.”
She shook off the chill of Ria’s dead tone. She pulled on a pair of gloves that fit, poured Inks, set up the machine, and started with wiping Emanuel’s tattoo with an alcohol pad.
He shivered.
The bird stretched its wings wider for the evaporative cooling.
Murmur watched through her eyes, not bothering to ask if it would impact her ability to work.
A twinge of muscle fatigue in her eyes translated into a low-grade headache, but she didn’t bother fighting him. For whatever reason, he had a vested interest in saving this tattoo. He wanted it badly enough to have healed her hands. If he wanted to watch and experience doing Live Ink, Isa owed him that much.
The balm of sulfur-scented darkness trickled down her temples. Her headache, or maybe it was their headache now, evaporated. It hadn’t occurred to her that integrating with a tattoo meant to steal her body might confer a few benefits. Until he did destroy her.
She called magic, picked up her tattoo machine, hooked into the vision of what the phoenix needed to be, and set to work.
With Daniel’s hook destroyed, it was easier than Zoog’s Ink had been. The magic that had created the tattoo had been sealed properly. She caught a clear impression of the original artist’s lavender-scented silver magic, but it lay quiescent on Emanuel’s skin and spirit.
Somewhere in the process, it occurred to her that Murmur hadn’t followed her into the realm where she sewed magic rather than Ink into Emanuel and his phoenix. Choice? Or restriction? Interesting to contemplate the notion that he might not have a grip on every part of her. Yet.
She didn’t know how long she spent cleaning up the lines of Emanuel’s ice phoenix, polishing the rough edges to a high-gloss sheen. Goaded by the crystalline shrill of the bird’s cry inside Isa’s soul, she persisted until she couldn’t look at the creature’s etheric presence without squinting.
With a cry like an icicle shattering on concrete, the bird beat shining wings. Frigid air smelling of the sweet breath of first snow slashed straight through Isa’s etheric body. She shivered on every level of her being.
An inky claw hooked her lifeline, piercing through the line of magic connecting her to her physical body.
“Ow!”
It yanked.
She tumbled out of the etheric and slammed into her physical shell.
What the hell was that?
“That was you saving me from a happy ice phoenix,” Isa said, wishing she could rub the parts of her that were undoubtedly going to bruise from that hard landing. Too bad they were all intangible and on the inside. Kind of.
She shut off the tattoo machine and wiped the tattoo clean of Ink and blood.
She blinked several times to pull her focus out of micro and into macro again.
“Look,” Isa said to Murmur.
He did.
The phoenix stood out on Emanuel’s brown skin as if it had been cut by lasers.
Fierce satisfaction heated the inside of her chest. It wasn’t hers. At least, not all of it was. Sure, she was happy with the work. Her muscles hadn’t forgotten how to put Live Ink on someone. But the preternatural clarity of Emanuel’s Live Ink was as much a function of magic as of artistic skill. She couldn’t claim that her hand alone had brought the creature into sharp relief, nor had it been her magic alone that had fed it.
This sense of triumph felt far deeper, far more significant than any mere pleasure at a job well done. Even allowing for the elation of rising to a Live Ink challenge she hadn’t realized she could meet.
It was a repeat of inking Zoog. She’d worked, engaged on every level for—she glanced at the clock above the door—two hours. She should be exhausted. She wasn’t. Her senses rang. She felt amazing.
The reminder of Horace “Zoog” Fairbanks made her smile.
She put down the tattoo machine, grounded magic, stripped her gloves, and scooted her chair back. “All done, Emanuel. Take it slow. You and that tattoo have had a hard few days.”
After-Ink heat trickled through her lower belly.
What is that?
She gritted her teeth. Cold shower in her near future. “It’s nothing.”
“Señora!” Emanuel grabbed her wrist before she could rise.
Murmur snarled. Isa struggled to keep the expression from showing on her face.
Emanuel sat up, his gaze intent. “Thank you,” he said. “I—this tattoo meant much to me. I did not want it to die.”
“It’s a terrific piece of artwork,” she said. “I’m glad I could help.”
Smiling, he released her and peered down at his chest. Isa offered him the hand mirror she kept on her cart. His eyes widened when he stared at his reworked tattoo. He let out a breath on a low whistle while she took down the circle.
“You can safely move, Ria,” she said. “And it’s safe to put away the gun now, I think.”
“Sí,” he said, ambling into the center of the studio. He had his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans as if he’d never held a gun at all.
“Two things happened,” Isa said. “The lines of the art weren’t as sharp as they needed to be to protect the ice from body heat.”
Emanuel dropped his chin to his chest.
“The second thing is Daniel?” Ria said.
“Yes.” She sighed and shifted stiff shoulders. “I didn’t say this, and you didn’t hear it, but . . .”
“The nine other Ink deaths?” Ria finished, one brow lifted in challenge.
“You are thorough.”
“Yes, I am. What did he do?”
Murmur sneered at the threat in the thug’s voice.
“A spell like a hook. It was pulling the tattoo off.”
Both men recoiled.
Rage darkened Ria’s countenance. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I mean to find out.”
“I will kill him with my bare hands,” Emanuel growled. Vibrating with tension she could feel from three feet away, the young man straightened and peeled himself out of the recliner. Then it was as if a breeze blew over him. His tension smoothed away, and the dark stain of anger in his eyes cooled. He pulled his shirt on over his head. “When you hunt him, Ria, I will stand with you. Señora, I owe you my life and the life of my Ink. What can I do to repay you?”
“No,” Ria said to Emanuel. “The hunt? Yes. But your life is between you and me. Ice takes care of my people. I take care of Ice.”
She choked on the conflict between her laugh and Murmur’s disdain. Ria and Emanuel waited for her to stop coughing.
“I’d feel better about all of this if ‘taking care of me’ didn’t sound like fitting me for cement shoes,” she said, opening the studio door.
Ria uttered a rude noise. “Italian mob movies.
No imagination.”
“Didn’t one of the southern cartels disembowel—?” Emanuel began.
Ria cuffed the back of Emanuel’s head. “Shut up! What do I owe you, Ice?”
Hector, seated on the bottom step, scrambled to his feet when Isa nodded to him. His gaze darted from her to Ria to Emanuel and back to her. Relief looked stark in his answering grin.
“Two hours of Live Ink? Let’s call it a thousand dollars,” she said leading the way up the stairs. “We can talk about a payment plan . . .”
“No,” Ria said. He flicked a dismissive hand at Hector and Emanuel. “Go home.” He watched them mount the stairs, then looked at her. “We take care of this now. You charge too little for Live Ink.”
She nodded. “Because there’s more.”
His expression hardened a piece at a time until she looked at a face as cold as the phoenix had been.
Murmur tightened her muscles.
“I need to know where Daniel is. I could look for him my way, but he’d be forewarned.”
He blinked, and his features thawed in a split second. He raised his eyebrows. “A location? That is all?”
“That’s it,” she said. “Don’t go up against him, Ria.”
Ria’s expression blanked.
“He’s my mess to clean up. He took six weeks of my life. He tried to take my magic and my sanity. If he owed you that kind of debt, what would you do?”
Ria stared at her. She didn’t think he was breathing. “He’s a brujo,” he spat.
“And I’m a bruja,” I said. “We’re even on that count.”
No, the tattoo growled, you aren’t.
“And I have this.” She tilted her chin to indicate the Ink.
Ria nodded, slowly. “Cash?”
“Absolutely. Come on upstairs. I’ll get you a receipt.”
Nathalie was gone.
Troy had finished with his client. They caught him in the middle of cleaning up his machine.
“Got some stuff for the autoclave,” he said. “Nat has rehearsal for a gig next week. She bailed. Nice work on that guy, by the way.”
Nightmare Ink Page 27