Angel's Ink

by Jocelynn Drake

  Other races knew about this little catch in the use of magic, but not many liked to talk about it. Among humans, it was largely seen as a myth. Warlocks and witches had found messy ways around it. Throw a body in front of a speeding car and the person is killed by the impact with the car, not magic. Push a body off a bridge and they drown in the river, not by magic. But pull all the blood out of a body through the pores with a spell and you’re fucked.

  “It’s getting late. I’ve got to get going,” I muttered as I walked toward the front of the house. “One of these days you’ll have to tell me how you got your hands on the angel feather in the first place.”

  “Same way most people do. You know someone,” Atticus Sparks said softly, his rumbly voice following me through the living room.

  “Or you go get it yourself,” I chuckled as I pulled open the door and left Sparks’s small depressing house. Walking back down the street, I nodded to the werewolf pack on the porch as I passed while I pulled out my cell phone. I called for another taxi to take me back to my own shop on the other side of town.

  Fear knifed through my stomach and sped up my heart so that it coursed through my veins. I had been sure that Sparks would know how I could get out of this mess. Atticus Sparks had always seemed to me to know exactly what items needed to be mixed together in order to accomplish whatever wish a client might have. Now I needed to accomplish the impossible for a second time, and I was beginning to realize that it would take a miracle.

  Or a warlock.

  Chapter 15

  Papa Roach singing about betraying the ones you love was the first sound to greet me when I pulled open the front door to my parlor later that afternoon. Rather than taking the taxi to the shop, I had the driver take me to where I’d left my car, near Sparks’s old shop, which I then took to Asylum.

  The heat of the day had left me feeling sweaty, sticky, and more than a little grimy. Given my fight with Simon, my scuffle in the alley with Gideon, and standing in Sparks’s disgusting home, I felt as if I were wearing a coating of the filth of the world. I would rather have taken a shower before I picked up a needle, but I would have to do with sterilizing my arms and face with the soap we had on hand. When I crawled into my own apartment tonight, I would be able to turn on water hot enough to strip away the layers of dirt and lies. For now, I had to get to work.

  When I entered the main tattooing room, Trixie was sitting in one of the tattooing chairs while she picked at a salad with a black plastic fork. She grimaced at the salad, looking less than enthusiastically at the wilted lettuce and collection of vegetables.

  Leaning against the doorway, I shoved my hands into my pockets and smirked at her. “I always warned you that that vegetarian shit was going to kill you. Hamburger with everything on it is the way to go.”

  She gave a little jump at my voice. “Go to your grave,” she snapped, and then turned grimly serious. “I didn’t hear you enter or see you on the monitor. You powerful enough to get around the security system?”

  My smirk disappeared at her question. “The music is loud and you’re distracted. If you had been looking up, you would have seen me on the video monitor. Nothing has changed, Trixie.”

  “I know that nothing is supposed to have changed, Gage, but it feels like it has. The warlocks—”

  “The warlocks are dangerous, and that’s why I always thought it best to keep you and Bronx in the dark about my past. TAPSS knows a little, just enough to be wary of me, but at the same time keep a close eye on the shop. Beyond that, there’s nothing that you or Bronx need to worry about. We’re still friends, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said and nodded, dropping the salad on the countertop with disgust. “One big fucked-up family.”

  “And that means that Bronx and I would do anything to help you,” I said, circling back to her own problems, which had caused her to sleep in the tattoo parlor for part of the early afternoon hours.

  “I know. You guys are great, but there’s nothing for you to worry about. Everything is fine. I will be staying in the apartment upstairs for only a couple more days, I swear.”

  “Stay as long as you want. It’s not a problem. My concern is what’s chased you out of your own apartment. Tell me honestly, Trixie, was it a spider? I’ve got a troll on staff I can send over to squash it.”

  Peals of her laughter filled the parlor, signaling that we were doing okay. It was what I needed—the normalcy. I needed to know that everything was still solid between Trixie and me despite the fact that I was some freak of nature among the humans. I needed to know that she still felt comfortable enough around me to laugh.

  “You’re an asshole,” she said around the last of her chuckles.

  “It’s the whole reason you love me,” I murmured, leaning down to kiss the top of her head as I walked past to go into the back room.

  “So you like to think.”

  I washed up, removing as much of the dirt and grime as I could. Standing in front of the mirror, I ran my fingers through my hair, sending it standing on end in all directions. It wasn’t the normal style I went for, but at least it passed for a style, versus the disaster that it had been before. I looked a little bruised and tired, but it didn’t appear as if I was fighting for my life. Sure, there were warlocks who wanted me dead and the grim reaper was counting down the hours until he could collect my soul, but I still had a job to do and time to think of a way out of this mess.

  “You been busy?” I asked as I came back out to where Trixie was relaxing in the chair.

  She gave an indelicate snort. “Molasses.”

  “It’s not like you wanted it to be busy while you were by yourself.”

  “Appointments for future ink would have been nice,” she complained. “As it was, I did one modest tattoo and two smaller tattoos while you were gone. I’ve got three more consultations on the books for later in the week. On the other hand, the phone didn’t stop ringing for you. Your messages are over there.” She absently waved her left hand toward a stack of little pink message notes piled neatly on the counter.

  Leaning my hip against the counter, I picked up the messages and nearly choked, but managed to hold back the laughter. There were twelve messages and nine of them were left by females. For each of the females, Trixie had written in her swirling, delicate scrawl either “stripper” or “whore.” Apparently, despite the knowledge of my warlock upbringing, my dear Trixie was feeling in a catty mood.

  I softly drew in a steadying breath and only spoke when I was sure that I could comment without laughing. “You got most of these right, but I think you underestimated the stripper count.”

  “You would know, you’re their favorite,” she said in a supersaccharine voice that did earn a soft chuckle.

  “It’s nice to know that you think so highly of me,” I said, stepping around her to walk toward the front of the parlor.

  “Gage . . .”

  “No, ink is ink. I’m not the type to judge. If some chick wants a butterfly just above her pussy because it might draw more clients, then what do I care?”

  “Gage, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “I know,” I murmured. Settling on a stool behind the glass case, I spread the messages out in front of me while I grabbed my planner from under the counter. It was only when I opened the calendar that I realized it was the eighth of the month. No wonder so many strippers had called me at once. They had a rush of cash from the excess business they enjoyed following the release of government money. They also tended to travel in packs when they got their tattoos done, and apparently a couple of groups were looking for some fresh ink. Once I got some of them scheduled, the rest would come in around the same day and time to get their ink done, assuming they all had an idea of what they wanted.

  Since they worked nights, not one of them had been inked by Bronx. They had mixed feelings about Trixie. Some allowed her to handle the intimate tattoos, while others only allowed her to do the simple ones on the lower back or the shoulder. But it all
started the same way, each of them requesting me and my list of skills. My potions were also cheaper than cosmetic surgery, though the effects weren’t as long lasting. I handled as many as I could. After a while, they could no longer wait and had to get back to work, so they were forced to settle for Trixie’s gentle hand.

  After about an hour on the phone, I had everyone who’d called me scheduled for tattoos or consultations in the next week or two. I kept my schedule open for the next few days in case I once again needed to jump out of the shop and hunt down an ingredient or pin Tera down for a tattoo.

  Tera.

  What was I going to do about her? How was I going to tell her I had messed up on a colossal level that I couldn’t even begin to explain? If she never discovered my mistake, never discovered I had made her immortal, then I had a shot at getting her tattooed a second time with the excuse of touching up the original. I wouldn’t need to go over much of the old tattoo with the new ink to undo the spell. If she was completely ignorant, then I was in the clear. I could undo the damage I had done and she would never have to know. If I was lucky, only I would have to live with the knowledge that I had saved the life of a young girl from the ravages of cancer, ripping her from the cold grasp of death. I would be the only one who knew that I had personally delivered her back into the hands of the grim reaper as he waited impatiently on the sidelines.

  “Trix, did you find that information sheet I asked you to dig up for me?” I called from where I was still seated at the glass case in the front room.

  “Bottom shelf,” she called back as she walked over to pick up a bottle of yellow ink from the cabinet. She was preparing to ink another one of her regulars, who had come in while I was on the phone. “It’s right next to the MP3 player. That Tera chick, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s her,” I murmured to myself as I doubled over on the stool to locate the sheet of paper. My hands were shaking and a knot had grown in my throat as I picked up the cordless phone to call her number. I just needed to dial the phone and kick off a simple, innocuous conversation, checking to make sure that she didn’t have any trouble with her tattoo. I would then ask her to come back in to let me check it over in a day. With any luck, that would be enough time for me to find out what I needed to undo her immortality and also find the ingredients. It was simple.

  There was no answer.

  I dialed the number three times and each time I got her voice mail, but I didn’t leave a message. My throat completely closed up in panic. She wasn’t there. What if I didn’t get hold of her in time? What if she had discovered my mistake and was gone for good? Then I was officially fucked and the reaper had my soul.

  “You okay, boss?” Trixie inquired when the tattoo machine suddenly fell silent.

  “Just peachy,” I said through clenched teeth as I continued to stare straight ahead, toward the front door. I hadn’t a clue as to what I was going to do. I had her phone number and address, but I was hoping to keep this civil. Drawing a deep breath, I closed my eyes as I slowly released it, suddenly wondering how far I would go to protect my own soul. Kidnapping? Murder? But then, wasn’t it murder if I tattooed her a second time, stealing away her immortality so I could hand her over to the grim reaper? I didn’t know.

  With my nerves as settled as I could get them, I dialed her number for a fourth time and left an innocuous message on her voice mail telling her that I was just checking to make sure the tattoo had turned out okay. I also asked her to stop at the shop tomorrow evening. My fingers were tightly crossed.

  As I ended the call and retuned the phone to its charging cradle, I smiled as I saw a large, hulking mass lumber up the stairs to the parlor. I had been so consumed with Trixie, Tera, and my own problems I hadn’t even noticed that the sun had set at long last. Bronx had arrived at the shop, brightening my mood. If it was possible, there was an added level of security now hovering in the air with the presence of a large troll, relieving some of the latent tension in my shoulders.

  “Bronx,” I said with a weary grin as I leaned heavily on the glass case.

  “Rough day?” he asked as he started to walk past me.

  “Hardly,” Trixie answered before I could. “He hasn’t done shit all day.” I shook my head as I bent over and picked up the MP3 player. It was hers, but there were still some strange songs on there that she usually didn’t play at the shop. I quickly shuffled through the music until I finally landed on the sound track for Phantom of the Opera and pushed play.

  “Bastard,” she snarled at me through narrowed eyes as I pushed away from the seat, leaving everyone stuck listening to the opening to the musical. I wandered into the back room to look through some of the ingredients and run through for the hundredth time what Sparks had told me. There had to be someone who knew what I needed to undo the mess I’d made with Tera’s soul. Someone other than a warlock or a witch. Several minutes later, the music fell silent for an extended period of time before it changed over to Led Zeppelin. I always found it amusing when Bronx and Trixie had a moment of camaraderie and joined forces against me.

  But our joking and laughter was interrupted when Trixie rushed into the back room minutes later, her face a stark white as she stripped off her ink-smeared latex gloves. “Help me!” she demanded in a harsh whisper as she paced right past me toward the back of the room so that she was hovering near the rear door that led to the alley. “They’re here.”

  No hesitation. No questions. I rushed over to the trapdoor in the floor and kicked my bag off it before I lifted it up as silently as I could. Standing in the opening, I whispered a couple of words and waved my hand in the air, hoping that I’d wiped away most of the defensive measures wrapped around the basement.

  “Go down the stairs and sit on them. Do not touch the floor. I will come get you when the coast is clear,” I directed, moving aside enough for her to descend the wooden staircase. I would be leaving her alone in the darkness in a somewhat dangerous place, but it was better than leaving her out in the open up here. “And don’t use any magic,” I called softly after her as I closed the door.

  Dusting off my hands, I briskly walked back out into the main tattooing room to find Bronx looking at me with one raised eyebrow, his mouth closed in a tight, firm line. “Could you see to that client, please? I can see that the outline is already finished.”

  “Hey, what about Trixie?” the man demanded at the same time the bell to the front door sounded, indicating that someone had entered. I spun around in a flash and grabbed the arms of the chair as I leaned in so close that my nose was an inch from his. I stared deep into his eyes, burrowing into his thoughts. “There is no Trixie,” I commanded in a low, hard voice.

  The man made no other sound as I turned back around and started toward the front of the shop followed by the sound of latex gloves being snapped on by Bronx. My only comfort was in the way he was sitting; he had a perfect view of the security monitor, allowing him to keep an eye on the progress of the conversation I was about to enter into. Considering that Trixie dove for cover before this person or persons even entered the shop didn’t bode well.

  Before slipping into the lobby, I waved my hand and several candles in jars popped into existence on the countertops, their wicks lit. I was hoping their perfume would mask Trixie’s unique scent, still hovering in the air, but I wasn’t going to get my hopes up. Sighing, I didn’t bother to look around at Bronx. In less than two minutes, I had used magic twice in front of the troll. So much for keeping my secret tightly guarded. If the warlock guardians didn’t come storming in to kill me any second now, I didn’t know what it would finally take. All I knew was that I had to find a way to protect Trixie from whatever trouble she currently found herself in.

  Pasting a smile on my lips, I stepped into the front room and was faced by three tall, lanky men with pale blond hair that reminded me of Trixie’s. They had the same vibrant green eyes and pale skin stretched over high cheekbones. Not only were they elves, but they were obviously from the same clan as Trixie. My co
ncerns were the swords strapped to their backs and the knives hanging from their belts. Citizens couldn’t walk around heavily armed like that unless they were in some kind of official law enforcement capacity. This significantly complicated matters.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  “We’re here looking for Rowena Lightheart,” said the one standing closest to me.

  “Sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.” I was happy that I could answer honestly as I watched the other two elves poke around the lobby, looking closely at stuff and putting me on edge.

  “We have been asking around the area and she is using glamour to disguise her identity. She would have brown hair and eyes. She is also going by a different name. We have reason to believe that she’s working here. Do you have an employee by the name of Trixie?”

  “Trixie?” I repeated skeptically. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “More than a few of your customers would argue otherwise,” he pressed through clenched teeth.

  “Look, it’s just me and my coworker, Bronx—a troll,” I added with emphasis, hoping that the presence of a troll would keep them from pushing this into violence. “There are no Rowenas or Trixies tattooing here.”

  “Sir!” said one of the other elves, capturing our attention. We both looked down to where he had pulled up the rug, revealing the pentagram inscribed into the hardwood floor. “It looks like an antiglamour spell.”

  “That’s complex magic for a tattoo artist,” the lead elf continued, taking a step closer to me.

  “It was from the previous owner of the building. I don’t know how it got there.”

  “Maybe, but considering the magic running through it, you obviously know how to use it.”

  I gave a little shrug, as if what he was saying wasn’t of much importance to me. “A little self-defense isn’t such a bad thing in this kind of neighborhood. A person has to know who they are dealing with.”