by Jory Strong
She laughed at herself. “Never mind. Overactive imagination. It comes with being an artist.”
Yet a few steps later she knew it hadn’t been. Her breath caught at seeing the symbols carved into the wooden doors, images that spoke to a core, subconscious part of her, some of the sigils recognizable from her dreams though she had no frame of reference to give them meaning beyond what she herself had assigned them.
Her heart raced, not in anticipation but with deep-seated wariness. The urge to turn back, to suggest they go somewhere else for dinner was strong.
She fought it, refusing to flee from the unknown. She stifled misgivings with curiosity. The symbols carved into the wood held the subtle promise of revealing more about the gifts that defined who she was and how she lived her life.
The doors opened. As they passed through the entranceway, stepping into hushed luxury, the hair on the back of her neck rose. The scent of fire and water filled her nostrils even as it felt as though cold blue flames licked along the intricate vines tattooed on her forearms.
Both smell and fiery sensation lasted only an instant, then were gone. A maître d’ stepped forward, staring at her until seeming to suddenly recall his duties. “The usual requirements?” he asked Cathal.
“Yes.”
The maître d’ turned, leading them deeper into the restaurant. He was tall, hair flowing in a solid black wave and stopping halfway down his back.
Bryce’s entreaty to scope out the men for Derrick’s sake grounded Etaín to the world she lived in as opposed to this one. It gave her a place to retreat to until she had time to think about the bells, the symbols, and the weirdness as she’d entered Aesirs.
She looked at the waiters. Not an ugly one among them though their physiques varied. Something for everyone, depending on taste, they glided through the restaurant, living confection that made her mouth water as surely as chocolate did.
“I’m starting to think I made a mistake suggesting we eat here,” Cathal murmured.
“Feeling threatened?”
His hand settled lightly on her back, bringing carnal heat and a tightening of her nipples. A stroke to her spine turned her focus solidly back to him.
“Should I be?” he asked, confidence shading nearly into arrogance. A subtext that said, They can’t give you the things I can. They can’t do what I can do for you.
Etaín laughed, making a sweeping glance around the restaurant, eyes lingering on a few of the waiters before giving him an answer. “Probably not,” she said, ceding that much to Cathal.
They moved beneath an archway, their destination becoming clear then. Glassed doors, manned like the front ones by men in suits, led to an enclosed terrace. Another layer of privacy.
As she passed through the doorway, bells tinkled again. Not as loudly as when she’d entered the restaurant. This time they blended with the sound of surf, and along her forearms it felt as though the vines were streams, flooded and rushing after a hard rain.
The sound and sensation passed within steps. A low bridge crossed a shallow waterway where koi swam in an endless circle around the dining area.
It was shades of an elaborate Japanese garden, with a decorative brazier at the center of it burning incense as if in offering to an ancestral deity. Elegant. Beautiful. But those descriptions were not what lodged in her mind as she took in the scene.
The water. The sky above and plants in their bed of dirt. The glowing red charcoal and sinuous, thin-smoke scent of rising incense. Containment. The word settled inside of her with absolute certainty and brought the same deep-seated wariness that approaching Aesirs had.
She refused to let it take hold and control her. There were far more terrifying things than the unknown. Things she feared. Things she’d seen and experienced.
The tables were small and placed in cozy, private settings, each of them semisurrounded by an arrangement of living plants. All of them occupied except for one.
The maître d’ led them to it, pulling out Etaín’s chair for her as though she were dressed in fur and jewels instead of jeans and a faded shirt. She draped her jacket over her lap rather than surrender it.
Somewhere along the way they’d picked up a waiter and server, or perhaps both had followed unobtrusively from the start since the maître d’ carried no menus. The server balanced a tray on one hand, placed the two glasses of water on the table before departing.
The waiter stepped into the place the server had vacated. He had the same look as the others she’d seen, except up close he seemed so much older. Not in face or form, but in the weight of his gaze as he offered her a menu, the sigils on the red-sun earring he wore adding to her curiosity.
She reached out, but for all his seeming maturity, when her hand was a needle’s width from his, he released the menu and it dropped to the table, striking the water glass with enough force to turn it over if Cathal hadn’t prevented it.
“My apologies,” the waiter said, taking a step backward and passing the remaining menu to Cathal before turning and leaving the terrace.
He didn’t hurry and yet there was purpose in his stride. Fluid movement and controlled grace, more the walk of a man who owned the space around him than of one who merely worked in it.
Etaín opened the menu and noted the lack of prices. She laughed and said, “I guess if you have to ask what a selection costs, then they’ve let you in by mistake.”
Cathal’s smile sent a rush of heat through her. “Something like that. Order what you want. I’m good for it.”
The purr in his voice was like the hot, wet lap of a tongue over sensitive flesh, a promise he was good for a lot of things. “I bet you are,” she said, wondering again which she’d regret more, giving in to desire, or resisting it.
Eamon stood in his office, captivated by the sight of the changeling visible through the glassed ceiling of the terraced dining area. Her aura was deep gold, more Elven than human though her ears were still rounded.
They’d be sensitive now, an erogenous zone he already longed to tease with lips and tongue and the stroke of his fingertips. She’d stepped through his wards and taken his breath away with the touch of magic to magic, and then he’d seen her.
Mine. It was a decision made in a heartbeat. She would be his wife-consort and magic-bound mate.
It was rare to come across a foundling—and she had to be that to be so openly in his territory, unannounced and without permission. It was rarer still to find a changeling possessed by magic that felt old, so very old. As if she’d been created in Elfhome, the world their ancestors had long ago been banished from.
Shifting his attention to her companion, Eamon frowned as he read the body language between the couple, the subtle signs of sexual interest and the intention to act on it. They hadn’t been intimate, yet. He read that as well and knew he couldn’t afford to wait, to approach her elsewhere.
Cathal’s presence was an unwelcome complication. Involvement, especially with a family like the Dunnes, was something any supernatural would try to avoid.
It was hard enough to hide their existence without drawing the attention of law enforcement, and with it all the trappings of secretive agencies and their surveillance paraphernalia. The ability to use glamour to mask longevity had been stripped away by the coming of age of photography and the power of mass media.
The Elven had taken the custom of wearing their hair long as an added precaution to shield the distinctive tips of their ears. Even so, the danger of discovery mounted with technological advances. Cell phones with cameras, the Internet, they made all supernaturals prisoners to the desire to remain hidden from the humans who overpopulated and controlled this world.
There were Elven lords who thought nothing of moving their entire households to a separate holding every twenty years or so, arranging for a recorded death, and eventually cycling back to the first of their lodgings with a different identity, posing as a grandson or granddaughter. There were others who carved out homes in the wilderness. But even that no longer guaranteed
privacy, not with satellites and drug runners, the war on terror, and civil strife that spilled over into jungles and villages, bringing United Nations attention because of genocide.
He had no desire to leave San Francisco. It was the jewel in the territory he’d claimed for himself.
Uncharacteristic impatience moved through him as he waited for his second to return and report on the woman below. Rhys opened the door and stepped into the office, joining him at the window. Eamon said, “She’s beautiful enough to make a man lose his concentration and embarrass himself by becoming awkward around her. I wouldn’t have expected it of you, though, not where a changeling is concerned.”
“She’s not just changeling and it wasn’t her beauty I reacted to. She’s seidic.”
Soul seer. And more.
The shock of it was like dropping into arctic waters, only to be immediately pulled from them and thrust into a roaring fire. “You’re sure?”
“She wears the symbols on her palms.”
Eamon saw the warring emotions on his second’s face—fear that argued the foundling should be killed versus the knowledge of what making her part of their clan could mean for them, not the least of which was being able to use her gift, her sight and ink, to help their young survive the changeling years.
“I intend to make her my consort-wife. Were you able to gather any information about her?”
“No.” A slow flush of embarrassment rose in Rhys’s cheeks at having to admit his failure.
Another day Eamon would have lingered and enjoyed the opportunity to tease his second. “Never mind,” he said, heading toward the door and by extension, the restaurant, where he rarely made an appearance among patrons who came to see and be seen. “I’ll soon know everything there is to know about her. That is, I believe, the purpose of courtship, even among humans.”
Three
Cathal wasn’t used to silence from a woman he’d shown interest in. Not unless it came as a result of a thorough fucking or a pointed look demanding it.
By now most would have spilled their life stories, their hopes and dreams, plagued him with questions about the musicians he’d discovered and launched into stardom, or hinted at a desire for him to do the same for them, and if not that, for an introduction to the famous.
Etaín’s quiet had a different quality to it, neither expectation nor hope, as if she’d already labeled him a potential one-night stand but hadn’t yet decided whether or not to act on the attraction.
Did she guess it served as a challenge? He studied her face. Probably not. She seemed as willing to check out the waiters for her friend as to find out what he might have to offer her.
He covered her hand with his, the touch making him imagine shrugging off his shirt and pressing her palm to his chest. When the tip of her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip, he wanted to suggest they forego dinner altogether.
She smiled as if guessing his thoughts. “If you weren’t interested in a tattoo, what brought you to the shop?”
His gut told him that getting to know her well enough to tell her the real reason would take longer than it would be safe to wait. The flyer he’d seen taped to the front door of the shop provided the perfect excuse for introducing himself to her, and for a continued claim to her time.
“I was in the area and you’re involved with the fund-raiser for the homeless shelter. I decided to stop in and volunteer to provide music, bands or a DJ, unless you’ve made other arrangements.”
He stroked his thumb over hers and the sensual caress made her nipples tighten against the front of her shirt, spilling fantasies of having his mouth on them into his mind. “I had no idea there’d be a reward for doing a good deed, but meeting you qualifies as one.”
“Smooth,” she said, her smile making his cock press harder against the front of his pants. “You left it a little late. The fund-raiser is this Saturday.”
He shrugged. “I just found out about it, but there’s time enough to make arrangements and get the word out. Four full days is plenty, and I’ve got assistants I can assign to work on it.”
“Justine makes the final decisions when it comes to the fund-raiser. I’ll have to run it by her but I think she’ll be thrilled by your offer.”
“And you?”
“Definitely thrilled.”
Her nearness, her scent, and the feel of her hand beneath his threatened to cloud his mind. He forced himself to remember a purpose beyond getting her into bed, the need to learn if she was related to a cop.
“Did you grow up in San Francisco?” he asked.
“For the most part.”
Her vague answer frustrated him, and not solely on his uncle’s account. “Parents? Brothers and sisters? Or are you an only child?”
“Sisters I’ve never been close to. A brother. I see him sometimes, when it suits him. Their mother isn’t my mother. Father . . . If you meet yours here often enough to have a standing reservation, then you’re ahead of me there.”
She shrugged, turning the conversation by saying, “I’m going to swing by the shelter later this evening. I’ll talk to Justine and put my vote in for live music. Any idea who you’re volunteering for this?”
“Not yet. There are a number of bands waiting for a slot to open at the club. They’ll leap at the chance to do this if I call.”
“All on the hope you’ll stop by or hear they’re really good?”
“Yes.”
She studied him for a long moment. “So what does it take for you to pick up the phone and open doors for a band?”
Disappointment stabbed him, a dangerous emotion considering he needed leverage, and delivering musicians into the hands of partners who promoted and managed careers was easy. “Are you asking for yourself? Are you in a band?”
“No. Curious. Salina, who voted in your favor at the shop, is in one.”
He smiled, relieved despite his intention not to be. “So I already owe her a favor. Is the band any good?”
“I don’t know. She’s been after me to come hear them play but I haven’t yet.”
“What if we make it a date?”
“Just like that? That easy?”
“I think you’ll find I’m very easy.” He dropped his gaze to where her nipples were visible against her shirt. “Extremely easy in fact.”
She laughed. “You’re a man. Of course you’re easy.”
“And you’re very cynical.”
He turned her hand over to reveal the eye inked into her palm. There was something about the design, about her, that kept him hard and hurting, anxious to have her stroke and kiss his flesh.
His cock didn’t protest the idea of seducing Etaín as a way of ultimately gaining her help. If this were a hotel restaurant he doubted he’d bother with going any further than the first available room.
Better that he convince her to do what his family wanted—willingly—so she’d stand a chance of surviving it, than to leave it to his uncle and father. That’s what he told himself, but his conscience gnawed at him. And the only way he could suppress it was with images of Brianna, and the casket he’d walked away from before it was lowered into the grave.
“Stylin’ Ink wasn’t what I expected,” he said.
“You expected flash on the walls and bikers hanging out in the waiting room?”
“Something like that. Though this is an expensive district, I probably shouldn’t have.”
“We’re mostly a custom shop. There’s some flash in the reference binders, but even the tourists usually want their work personalized. The clientele varies, depending on the artists. Derrick attracts the extremes, gay guys and total homophobes. Jamaal draws a lot of the office-worker crowd. Bryce took over the shop a couple of years ago. His specialty is portraits.”
“And you? Do you like drawing portraits?”
“Devotion art almost always. Memorial art, yes, but it’s a lot harder sometimes.”
“And the difference between the two?”
“Not all artists make one. For m
e, devotion art is having something like your mother’s or girlfriend’s face drawn over your heart while she’s alive to appreciate the gesture. Memorial portraits depict someone who’s dead. If they died a while back, I don’t mind it so much. A fresh event is a lot tougher to handle, when getting the ink is a way to process the grief. Emotional pain translated into physical pain.”
“Catharsis.”
“Yes.”
“Do you draw outside of producing skin art?”
“Not often.”
Cathal backed off at the tone in her voice, different, firm. As clear an indication not to push further as was the way she’d deflected any probe that might lead to talk about her family.
He traced the eye on her right palm and felt a shiver go through her, one that resonated in him, like an echo and amplification of lust. His thoughts blurred, but whatever he might have said next was interrupted by the arrival of a blond man at their table.
Competition.
The word blazed through him and was confirmed when the stranger merely nodded, making no pretense at what had brought him to the table and where his interest lay. Etaín. And by the expression on her face, she wasn’t immune to the blond, or resistant to the attraction.
Like calls to like, Etaín thought, the idea coming from nowhere but settling in with surety as the tattoos along her forearms felt as though they were alive, writhing and rippling and soaking in this man’s presence. Not bells this time, but raging fire and stormy seas.
The maître d’ and servers were mouthwatering, but this man was stunning. Tiny stones set in intricately marked silver glittered from his ears. Dark blond hair flowed down his back in twisted waves and his eyes were the blue of deep sea.
In every way he was as breathtaking as Cathal, as commanding. Sex incarnate, but perhaps coming with a greater risk.
His attention flicked to her upturned palm and she tensed at seeing something in his expression, recognition maybe, or satisfaction. “I am Eamon. Welcome to my place.”
He didn’t offer a hand in greeting. Solidifying her suspicions that he knew, that somehow he had strange gifts of his own.
