Inked Destiny imw-2

by Jory Strong

  The captain’s wife stepped into Etaín’s personal space, her voice a whispered hiss. “You’re dragging my husband and son through the mud with your antics and your association with gutter trash. I want you gone from their lives.”

  Etaín shrugged, refraining from pointing out that Parker and the captain were the ones who called her, who involved her in their cases. “Nothing new there.”

  “Oh but there is something new. If I tell you where your whore of a mother is, will you leave my family alone?”

  Anger and loathing poured off Laura. Visceral. Rabid. Fresh enough to give birth to hope. “Where is she?”

  “Agree to have nothing to do with my husband and son. No calls. No contact.”

  It wasn’t a promise Etaín was willing to give. It wasn’t an oath she could make without becoming foresworn.

  Her hands lifted, will and gift not entirely in accord. Inherent magic was nothing but a shimmering possibility in a span of time measured in heartbeats, a hush and stillness that disappeared in harsh, ruthless decision before either Liam or the maître d’ could stop her—if they dared.

  She shackled Laura’s wrists, inked eyes pressed to skin. Demand a sharp knife sliding through flesh and cutting into Laura’s mind. “What do you know about my mother? Where is she?”

  Bitterness engulfed Etaín. Fury and pain that weren’t hers and yet they became a part of her.

  What do you know about my mother? Where is she? This time a compulsion, a mental demand, and Laura had no protection against it.

  Standing in the memory, her hands trembled at receiving the text message. I’ve got something for you. Check email for the link.

  She rose from the chair where she’d been enjoying a cup of tea, pain splintering through her chest, sickening dread and a sense of betrayal battering against the walls of her heart. It grew with each step toward her private office, feeding a hate so intense and directed that it jarred Etaín, driving her out of the memory in self-defense against having the swell of it trapped inside her when she was its target.

  She was vaguely aware of Portia and her sister screeching, demanding she let go of their mother, their nails digging into her arms through the fabric of her blouse as the Elves allowed it, too wary to touch her themselves and no doubt hoping the humans would manage to break the contact and stop the use of magic in the process.

  Focus. Control. Eamon had taught her the rune for channeling magic away from her, but with a leap of intuition, she shunted Laura’s emotions into an imagined sigil and forced the memory forward, pulling back mentally as if she was a camerawoman capturing a scene instead of an actress living it.

  It was very like the slaughter she and Cathal had witnessed in the shared dream, except this time, as Laura sat down at the desk and logged into a Yahoo mail account using a made-up name, Etaín’s own emotions buffeted her, hope and happiness and anticipation.

  The sender hadn’t disguised what he was. The return address was a detective agency.

  A click opened the email. There was no explanatory text, only the link.

  Surprise rippled through Etaín. It came with the whispered sense of destiny at seeing the date. The email had been sent on the very day she’d met Cathal and Eamon.

  Foresight. Her mother’s gift.

  For a long moment the curser hovered over the link, the hand that wasn’t her own leaving the mouse and returning, leaving and returning until finally opening the link. Shock came first, at seeing the captain with her mother in a time-stamped recording made a little over a week ago, and then came a hungry longing. The camera lens cut through glamour so there was no sign of aging. Her mother looked just as Etaín remembered.

  A heartbeat, a second one, and Etaín realized she’d paused the memory, freezing it outside of time, isolating it like a movie frame, like the sketches she’d always drawn upon waking from someone else’s stolen reality. Reluctantly she let go and moved forward, becoming aware of the backdrop against which her mother and the captain stood facing each other, hands clasped but bodies separated.

  This time the pain invading Etaín was her own. A fist of it around her heart as she recognized the shabby motel in Seattle, even the room number was the same, everything about it etched firmly in her mind and replayed over and over again, especially in those early years. She could still remember the vivid beauty of the scenery, and the excitement of traveling by rail instead of by bus, and the way her eight-year-old world had expanded in a burst of joy at meeting the man she was told was her father, only to be shattered when what she’d believed was a short visit became abandonment.

  At sixteen, she’d gone back to Seattle. She’d stolen a car for part of the journey and hitched the rest of it, sure there’d be clues, answers. Believing her mother must have left something for her to find because this shabby motel was the last place they’d stayed before boarding the train and coming to San Francisco.

  In Laura’s memory, her mother turned her head to look directly into the camera, jolting Etaín as though there’d been a shouted scream to pay attention. See but remain unseen. This was no accident. She and her mother had the same sixth sense about cameras pointed directly at them.

  An expression came and went, a dare Etaín thought. Her mother looked away, closing the distance between herself and the captain with a laugh, something that put a smile on his face as he enfolded her in a hug, the act triggering a rage in Laura that took her back to the day Etaín and her mother had shown up on the doorstep, humiliating her with the existence of a bastard child fathered by her husband.

  Curses flowed through Etaín’s mind as her ability to maintain the sigil funneling away Laura’s emotions failed, her reality submerged under another’s as she dressed for the function Isaac had bowed out of in order to spend time with his bastard, the spawn of a whore he’d probably picked up at a cop bar.

  It didn’t matter that they’d been separated at the time—or so he claimed. He’d shamed her by accepting the child. He’d angered her, disrespected her family by not demanding a paternity test, by refusing to even consider it.

  Hours late and the bitch hadn’t returned. Isaac hadn’t seen the obvious yet. Or hadn’t dared broach the topic but she knew what was happening. That slut wasn’t coming back for the child.

  If it were up to her, she’d call Social Services and have the girl taken to the shelter. But he wouldn’t stand for it.

  He’d pay for that. Not directly. She cared too much about their children to drive him away after they’d reconciled—even if he didn’t. But his little by-blow would understand she wasn’t welcome here, that she didn’t belong in their lives.

  At least Parker and the girls were visiting their grandparents, grandparents who were seething at learning of the child’s existence. Measures were being taken to put this behind them. Private detectives had already been hired to locate the girl’s mother and offer a monetary incentive to make this all go away.

  Stomping over to the bedroom safe she opened it only to remember the necklace she wanted was in the downstairs safe. Isaac had picked it up from the jeweler on his way home and put it there rather than make the trip upstairs with it.

  Spine stiffening she left the bedroom. The sound of the child’s laughter had her silently screaming with indignation.

  Her husband didn’t acknowledge her as she passed the entertainment room on the way to the den. She went to the safe and opened it.

  A manila envelope lay on top of the jewelry case. Her lips thinned, suspicion coming on a wave of hostility.

  Taking the envelope she opened it, nostrils flaring at the picture she pulled from it. Bitch. Whore. Slut.

  Whether it was the venom of the diatribe or the emerald green of the lake in the photograph, Etaín’s reality diverged from Laura’s. Her mother stood as if caught in sunrise or sunset, luminescent, heart-stoppingly beautiful in the same way Eamon had been when he let the glamour fall away as proof he wasn’t human.

  She stared directly into the camera, the fingers of her rig
ht hand touched the base of her throat, making Etaín aware of the collar-like necklace she wore. A message given the color of the water matched that of the Dragon? She couldn’t be sure of anything except that she was meant to find this memory.

  In a furious rip the picture was torn, then torn again and again and again until suddenly the destruction was halted by the captain’s presence. Angry words were like leaves caught in wind for Etaín, swept away without examination as the pieces of the picture scattered to the floor and she stared hungrily at them, seeing by the way they fell that there had been a second picture on the back of the first.

  Laura’s angry exit from that long ago scene forced Etaín’s attention away, drawing her fully into the memory again, the necklace she’d come downstairs for forgotten until she reached the doorway, then abandoned altogether in disgust at the sight of Isaac kneeling and gathering the pieces, bitter hurt filling her at knowing he meant to put them together and keep the picture.

  Etaín ceased using her gift, the need to see the second picture dominating her thoughts.

  “Take your hands off me,” Laura hissed, no less venomous for having some of her past erased, or at least Etaín assumed she’d stolen those memories with her gift. There was no way to know for sure without asking, and she was as ready to end the contact as Laura was.

  Freeing the captain’s wife, Etaín stepped to the side, noting the wall of Elven servers who’d kept what was happening hidden from casual view. Their expressions were carefully blank though she could sense their fear, not quite the stark terror she’d seen on Farrell’s face, but she suspected it would appear if she were to reach for them.

  They fled back to their duties the instant Laura and her daughters moved past Etaín, leaving a tight-lipped Rhys with his distinctive red-sun earring standing next to Liam.

  “Shall I escort you upstairs?” Liam asked, his voice the chilled dark of icy rain on a deserted road.

  “No.” She took a step toward the door and saw the Elves stationed there blanch. “I’m leaving.”

  “I don’t advise it. This is a perilous time for you.”

  “So I’ve been told. And don’t bother playing the Lord Eamon wants card.”

  He blocked her exit and immediately the eyes on her palms flared, becoming a weapon. His gaze flicked downward and back, cold ruthlessness the only thing in them. “You’re allowing magic to get the upper hand.”

  “I’m in control.”

  His smile was a merciless flash of white. “Openly stripping a human of their memories?”

  His gaze dropped to her hands, remaining there for a heartbeat before meeting hers again. “Threatening violence you have no true understanding of? These are the actions of someone in control?”

  Her skin dampened. Doubt crowded in.

  She dispersed it with the stiffening of her spine and a step forward, into Liam’s personal space. “Unless you intend to keep me prisoner here, move out of my way.”

  “The price you pay for this may be your life.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” That particular threat was losing impact. Or maybe it couldn’t stand against the conviction her mother had left the memory for her, and more than that, a clue meant to help her survive the change.

  She’d never believe the captain was involved in an affair. Never. He was a man of too much principle.

  Her mother’s making contact with him on the very day Cathal and Eamon had come into her life was no coincidence.

  Peordh. Predestination. Her thought. Not the Dragon’s.

  “Move,” Etaín said, a direct order.

  “The consequences are yours to suffer.” But he stepped to the side and his yielding signaled the Elves stationed at the door to open it for her.

  She escaped, breathing deeply of air that smelled of freedom and possibility. Lifting her face to the sky, the caress of muted sunshine was soothing balm and sharp contrast to the wild hammering of her heart and the flood of riotous emotion that surged into her as she relived the stolen memory.

  The desire to see her mother again was a tidal-wave swell she couldn’t hold back. Why? Always why? Why did you leave me? Little girl pain at the core of a woman grown.

  This time, there was an answer. Sibilant Dragon’s voice validating what she believed to be true, expanding on it. Peordh. Destiny preordained. The righting of a wrong.

  The sigil representing servitude appeared, banishing stolen memory. Etaín rebelled against the thought of accepting it. And that rebellion brought renewed focus and determination, enough to hold back the trepidation and deeply engrained fear, a kneejerk reaction to her ultimate destination—the police station where twice she’d been held, and twice the barriers separating her reality from that of all the victims she’d touched had fallen away.

  Longing swept into her with the temptation to call Cathal. She wanted to hear his voice, wanted him with her, but reason dictated she go alone to see the captain. Or as alone as someone accompanied by a shadow-walking assassin could be, even if he’d apparently elected to watch her from a distance given his absence at her side.

  She headed toward Stylin’ Ink, cursing the fuck-me heels and tight skirt by the time she stepped off the first curb. Finally removing the tortuous shoes and walking barefoot until she reached the front door.

  Cat calls greeted her as soon as she entered the shop. She laughed, because obviously the expensive clothes meant to make her fit into Eamon’s world didn’t separate her from this one. Derrick left his station, striding rather than flouncing, his movements telling her the man lying facedown on the massage table was a homophobe, probably gay and in extreme denial of it. Derrick was a magnet for them.

  Hugging her, Derrick whispered, “I must have a pair of those shoes. Simply must!”

  “Eamon’s choice. They’d probably cost a month’s rent.”

  “Knock-offs, darling. They’re god’s gift to the working man.”

  “More like organized crime’s.”

  She ruthlessly suppressed all curiosity about Niall and Denis Dunne’s activities.

  “Whatever,” Derrick said, drawing away. “You look exquisite. That man does have an eye for clothing and jewelry.”

  “I’ll let Eamon know he’s got your seal of approval. In the meantime I’m just going to hobble on back to Bryce’s office and change into something I can actually cover some distance in.”

  “You planning on running?” Jamaal called from his workstation. “I figured it was about that time. You’ve been with the same guy, maybe the same two for what? A week now? Got to be some kind of a record for you.”

  “I’m reformed,” she said, going around the counter.

  “Sex must be mighty fine then.”

  She wasn’t quick enough to block the image of DaWanda above him, though she got rid of it by asking, “Where’s Bryce?”

  “Back anytime.”

  She went into Bryce’s office, opening the cabinet where the last shirt and pair of jeans plus an old pair of tennis shoes were stashed to save her from having to cross the bay. “I am definitely going back to my apartment today,” she muttered, shimmying out of elegant and expensive, except for the necklace, then pulling on worn and comfortable.

  Bryce was steps away from the office door when she emerged. “Shit, Etaín, couldn’t you have stayed in the fancy clothes for another couple of minutes? I missed the show.”

  “Take a look at that necklace and you’ll get an idea of what it was like,” Jamaal said.

  Bryce whistled then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Nothing says sexual satisfaction like expensive jewelry.”

  Jamaal laughed. “No surprise there, not the way we nearly had ourselves a peep show earlier today.”

  “Eamon know you don’t give a shit about being decked out in bling?” Bryce said, capturing her in a hug and touching his nose to her neck. He inhaled loudly. “Yeah, smells like money all right. Lots and lots of money.”

  “Plebeians,” Derrick muttered.

  Bryce laughed. “Never clai
med to be a class act.”

  He let Etaín go. “Where are you going that you decided to ditch both your men?”

  “I need to take care of some things on my own. Mind giving me a lift somewhere? It’s not far.”

  No point in doubling back for her bike or taking somebody else’s ride. She was guessing Eamon would arrive shortly, or send Cathal to collect her.

  “Ohhhh,” Derrick said, “now she’s being secretive. Well, we have our ways of making her talk.”

  “Hell,” Jamaal said, “we don’t need to make her talk. Bryce’ll give us the lowdown when he gets back.”

  Bryce dangled his cars keys. “Ready? This has to be quick. I’ve got a piercing coming in.”

  It was quick. Too quick as far as Etaín was concerned. And Bryce was too perceptive, zeroing in on a fear she couldn’t completely swallow and cutting the engine to signal she didn’t have to immediately get out of the car and enter police headquarters.

  “Are you in trouble? Shop bullshit aside, if you want to talk, whatever you say stays with me.”

  “No trouble.” She managed a smile. “Except maybe with Eamon for bailing on Aesirs. Bad memories of this place, that’s all.”

  She opened the door and slid from the car. “Thanks for the lift.”

  He waited, making sure she didn’t have second thoughts before starting the car and driving away.

  Liam appeared at her side. She didn’t even flinch.

  “Lord Eamon will not be pleased.”

  “Probably not.”

  She wiped damp palms against her jeans, the chill of remembered panic and terror pebbling her skin as her heart thundered like waves against a cliff. She wasn’t absolutely certain the captain wouldn’t hold her in the building in some kind of protective custody. Or worse, allow the feds to swoop in for another round of interrogation, a closed-room session to break her so she’d give them cause to arrest Niall and Denis Dunne for murder.

  Her pulse throbbed in her neck. When she became aware of it, she also heard the shortness of her breath.