by Strong, Jory
“Fuck,” Cathal said. “I didn’t—”
“Know?” Eamon’s smile was as sharp as a blade. “Ignorance is dangerous, if not often deadly.”
“What did you promise?” Etaín asked, the race of Cathal’s heart beating against her back marking the deepening of his anger and resistance, though not his regret, considering what the alternative would have been.
“I promised you’d tattoo him, putting ink on him with the same meaning as what I wear.”
Oh yeah. No escaping that one.
“A bond with you whether I want one or not?”
“Do you dislike the idea so much, Etaín? I told you from the very beginning I wanted more than just sex.”
Was there a hint of pain in the words? A chord of it strummed through her chest. If he’d warned her in the beginning, then she’d also warned herself, known as she lay in his bed, looking at paintings by Cezanne and Van Gogh and Cross and Lemmen that being involved with him would ultimately lead to heartache. Into expectations she wouldn’t be able to meet—and that was before things supernatural added weight to the equation.
And yet, even now, she couldn’t hate him. Couldn’t forget the tenderness, the gift of knowledge he’d given her so she was able to touch Cathal’s cousin and take away Brianna’s memories without suffering as she had on the first visit.
What they needed was space, breathing room. “We’re leaving,” she said, not driving the point home she and Cathal wouldn’t be back tonight, though she shivered at having Liam follow them out of the house, a dark assassin there and then gone.
Five
Frederico Perera stood at the head of the casket, his wife at his side, the two of them accepting condolences while their daughters moved among Jordão’s friends, eyes wet and puffy from so many tears.
His eyes too were wet. There was no shame in crying at the loss of a child.
The room was awash in the scent of flowers mixed with expensive perfumes and colognes. The smell of it choked him, a man already struggling to breathe through the tight constriction of his throat.
If not for the hand on Margarita’s back, the oft-spoken words of encouragement, his wife would have collapsed beneath the weight of her grief, and he with her, not to pray, but to rail against God in the pain of his loss. Their firstborn was dead, killed in America by a sniper’s bullet.
“Courage,” Frederico murmured to Margarita. “We will get through this.”
The words he spoke were for himself as well as his wife. And he repeated them many times as the number of those gathered swelled and receded like a cold tide emphasizing the desolation he felt, the guilt at having accepted the post in San Francisco.
It was a minor position, not a stepping stone to a more important one. He was little more than a paper pusher for his government, and almost equally insignificant to the man who’d gotten him the position, one that came with diplomatic immunity and pouches that could not be searched by the American authorities.
He was nothing but a glorified mule, better paid than those who carried bundles of drugs on their backs, but a mule all the same. He accepted the label without shame, taking pride instead in the fact that what he did meant greater wealth for his family.
When the last of those who’d come to view, to grieve, to offer what comfort they could, trickled away, only a single visitor was left in the room.
“Go home,” Frederico said to his wife, pulling her into a hug along with their two daughters. “I will join you later.”
They left, giving the man no more than a fleeting acknowledgment as they passed him, even in their pain sensing the stranger was not someone to become known to.
“He will see you now,” the man said.
Frederico nodded, turning toward the casket to look down on the face of his son. A sob welled inside him, threatening to split open his chest and spill his heart onto the floor.
He leaned down and kissed Jordão’s forehead. “You will be avenged,” he whispered against cool skin before straightening and following the stranger to a dark sedan.
They drove in silence on streets high above the favelas. The lights visible in those violence-infested areas the police themselves were afraid to enter, became one of many facets, part of the glittering jewel that was Rio de Janeiro.
A wall surrounded the sprawling home that was their destination. But it merely served as a warning against entry and the men patrolling it with machineguns.
The sedan parked amid a collection of exotic automobiles. He followed the stranger into a room of opulent luxury.
His guide stopped just inside the doorway while Frederico continued, approaching the man sitting across from another with a chessboard on the table between them.
Eduardo Faioli rose from the couch, offering a hand, clasping Frederico’s when he took that hand. “I am sorry for the loss of your son.”
Frederico calmed as he met the steady gaze of the man who had lifted him from the ranks of the common, though it had been done through others in Eduardo’s employ. He had not been sure he would gain the audience he’d requested. And he feared what had happened in San Francisco might lead to torture and death, and not his own first, but his daughters, his wife, his sisters, and aging parents.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Sit,” Eduardo said, indicating a nearby chair as he settled into the one he’d risen from.
Frederico sat, waiting as Eduardo turned his attention back to the chess board for a moment, moving the black knight before looking again at Eduardo without introducing his companion. “You had only the one son?”
Eduardo would already know the answer of course, but the question served as the opening to negotiations. “Yes, he was my only son and also the only grandson.”
“A tragedy. You believe perhaps it had something to do with the business conducted on my behalf?”
“No.”
“Ah, then you wish a favor of me?”
“I want my son avenged.”
Eduardo nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would see the same done were it my son. But how can I help you? My associates tell me there have been no arrests. No reason given in the news for this tragedy and no suspects named by the police.”
“It’s a personal matter. I know who ordered my son killed.”
He had not been ignorant of Jordão’s faults, faults worsened because his son did not fear the authorities in America. When the police had told him of the other boy’s confession, and he’d heard the full extent of Jordão’s behavior, he’d been sickened. But even knowing his son held some of the blame for his own fate, it did not diminish the suffering or lessen the desire for revenge.
“Who do you wish me to strike against?” Eduardo asked.
“The Dunnes.”
Frederico paused, torn between fear of being denied his request and fear of reprisal should he remain silent about the possibility of dangerous complications.
The greater fear prevailed. “One of the American agents told me the Dunnes are suspected of being mafia.”
Eduardo nodded. “Irish mafia.”
Relief at having released the secret trapped the breath in Frederico’s chest. “Are the Irish a concern?”
Eduardo laughed. “They are hardly worth bothering with. Their glory days are long past, set in a different era.”
He glanced at his silent companion, watched the movement of a white rook and countered it with the move of a black bishop. “A life for a life? Perhaps a son for a son? Is that the nature of the revenge you seek?”
He would have the entire family killed but…Let another father know the pain he knew. “Yes.”
“Very well. The day will come, in turn, when I will require a large favor of you.”
An icy chill swept through him. Silence filled the space between them for a heartbeat, and then a second before he responded, “I understand.”
“Excellent.” To the man he played chess with, Eduardo said, “Use the Mexicans for this.”
* * *
Etaín
couldn’t remember a day ever having felt so endless. Dream and nightmare and dream again. This morning she’d woken up in Cathal’s arms with nothing more to worry about than getting to the shelter fund-raiser and doing her part as both tattoo artist and organizer. And now…
She squeezed Cathal’s hand as they approached the hospital entrance. “I don’t think I could do this without you.” An admission, coming from her, that was tantamount to another woman screaming I love you in a crowded room.
He halted, turning her to face him, a hand going to her waist, his lips covering hers in an all-too-brief kiss. “Let’s get this done, then we can go back to my place.”
She’d draw there. This wouldn’t really be behind them until she’d handed off the results. Already she could feel the impending press of hospital walls.
They tightened when she stepped through the door into antiseptic-scented space. The captain stood next to a dark-suited Hispanic detective.
“Gustavo Ordoñes,” the man said, giving a slight nod rather than offering a hand. “If you’ll come with me, your friend can wait for you here.”
“No. He stays with me.” Maybe Eamon wouldn’t have to worry about the police asking for her help after this.
Detective Ordoñes accepted her terms with a graceful shrug, turning and leading them into the bowels of the hospital.
“The surviving victim’s wife is with him. We’ll clear her out, but you’ll be quick, right? I don’t want her detained for long. He’s gone code blue once and been revived. It was touch and go. I wouldn’t bet on the doctors being able to do it a second time.”
“His name?” Etaín asked, stumbling when Ordoñes answered, “Kelvin Hughes.”
“What was he doing at the Curs hangout?”
This time it was Ordoñes whose footsteps faltered. He glanced over his shoulder. “You know him?”
“Yes.” Grief clamped its fist around her heart. “I know him.”
He’d turned his life around. He wore a tattoo meant to give him strength in the face of temptation. She’d inked it into his skin years ago, when he’d gotten out of prison and had nowhere to go but the homeless shelter.
She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, thinking about his coming by Stylin’ Ink with his wife and a brand-new baby. Just checking in with you, he’d said, to let you know your work’s still good.
They reached the intensive care unit. A uniformed officer stood nearby, as if there was concern a masked gunman would show up to finish the job started at the bar. He let them pass without asking questions, but his face held curiosity.
Melinda Hughes didn’t turn her head when they entered the room. She sat, hunched forward, her husband’s hand clasped in hers. A monotonous beep marked what remained of life, along with the forced respiration of equipment meant to sustain it.
Etaín squeezed Cathal’s hand then allowed it to drop away as she approached, tears stinging her eyes at the remembered feel of a baby in her arms and the panic that had accompanied it, the laughter at her expense and merciless jibes by her coworkers as well as Kelvin.
“I’m sorry,” she said, stopping next to Melinda.
“Etaín.”
Melinda reached out and Etaín took the hand, the other woman’s grief slamming into her, joining her own and driving her to a crouch. Voice thick with emotion, she asked, “Why was he there? Why?”
“Fool.” Tears slid downward, dropping onto the white sheet. “I told him not to go around there. I told him to give up on Toney, that nothing he said was going to stop his brother from hanging with the Curs and selling dope with them. But he wouldn’t listen and look where it got him! Now Ayana is going to grow up not knowing her daddy.”
Wrong place, wrong time. But there was no comfort in that.
“Was this over drugs?”
Melinda jerked her hand from Etaín’s, taking her grief but leaving the sting of anger and betrayal. “Is that the only reason you’re here? To get answers for the police? I already told them what I knew. Kelvin was done with that kind of trouble. I thought you believed in him.”
“I didn’t know it was him until I got to the hospital. I would have come anyway. I’m sorry, Melinda. Sorry for you and him and Ayana. Sorry this happened.” She braced herself against the bombardment of emotions but still reached out and covered Melinda’s hand with hers. “I’m here to do what I can to help.”
“How?” Melinda asked, hope, that traitorous emotion, sliding into Etaín where their skin touched. “He’s already in the arms of the Almighty. The doctors say he’s gone, only his body doesn’t know it yet.”
Etaín glanced at one of the monitors, saw the flat line of a brain with little activity and guessed that beneath the bandages covering most of Kelvin’s head and face he’d taken a bullet to the brain. There was no good way to handle this, no good way to honor her promise to the captain without further exposing herself, something she hadn’t wanted even before Eamon and his revelations.
“You know what they’ve been saying on the news about me?”
“That stuff about you being psychic? That same stuff the police have been denying?”
“Yeah. That stuff. That’s why I’m here.”
Hope dissolved into the raw hunger for justice. “I’m not leaving this room.”
“You don’t have to.”
Etaín stood, grateful Melinda was predisposed to believe because Kelvin had believed in the transformative power of the tattoo. She glanced at Cathal standing with the captain and Ordoñes.
She’d known by the lack of a handshake or a question about why she didn’t have a sketch pad that the captain had clued Ordoñes in, giving him a ticket to the show. Right now she didn’t have enough energy to get mad over it, and at least the three men served a purpose, blocking anyone else from seeing her use her gift.
She moved to the opposite side of the bed. Taking Kelvin’s hand between hers, she felt an immediate connection, would have known blindfolded that he wore her ink.
Her forearms tingled. The eyes at the centers of her palms woke in a way they hadn’t previously, sending her heart into a skittering near-panic.
Concentrate. Just concentrate and get this over with. Kelvin couldn’t be harmed by her gift, not now.
“What happened at the Curs hangout?” she whispered, just once as she used the knowledge she’d gained from Eamon, her focus razor sharp, a camera zooming in on the relevant scene.
Cigarette smoke filled his mouth and lungs. Damn but it felt good, even if he was trying to quit on account of the baby.
He took another drag, savoring it the way Toney was savoring the weed. Melinda was gonna kill him if he came home smelling like reefer.
One more draw and he felt the heat against his fingertips, the burn of paper at having smoked all the way down to the filter. Man, what a pussy he’d become. Used to be he’d roll his own, not worrying about lung cancer. Not worrying about nothing. And now…
He had a wife and baby girl, a good job in times when a lot of folks couldn’t find work. He dropped the butt, grinding it into the asphalt behind the bar with his foot. Smiling inside at what he had in his life. Not this and he didn’t miss it. This was nothing compared to life with Melinda and Ayana.
“What the fuck!” Toney said, reaching for the gun he packed, body jerking and going down.
A glimpse of a masked figure. No! No!
Inky blackness served as transition from the memory, and across the screen of it, gold lines formed, taking the shape of script, I shall overcome, the words chosen by Kelvin but interlaced with the hidden symbols she’d dreamed before using the hand needle and tattooing them across his chest.
Wasssteful. The sound of the sibilant voice accompanied a burst of pain in Etaín’s chest, followed by nothingness and then light so bright it was blinding.
Etaín opened her eyes, wondering if this was dream or afterlife.
She stood in sunshine filtered through ancient trees. It was like the forest she’d often imagined, never sure if it
was forgotten childhood memory or something else altogether.
Magic. If it had a smell, it was in the air in this place. In the very soil she touched, bare feet against rich loam.
It took her a moment to notice the absolute silence, and with that silence came a nameless fear. She moved, afraid she couldn’t, and felt only the tiniest of relief when she discovered she could.
Turning, she expected to find fire in the center of this forest, as she always had in the strange imaginings. Magic’s primordial birthplace, Eamon had called it, though there were differences here, not the least of which was the milky green lake now in front of her.
It looked as if someone had ground up emeralds and saturated the water with them. But even as she thought that, what had been diffuse became an infinite number of particles coalescing in the center of the lake, freeing the dark blue of water until the surface was nothing but, and then that surface was broken by an emerald-green Dragon’s head, and that head was followed by neck, by a winged torso, though the entirety of the creature didn’t emerge from the water.
You arrive early.
This was the same voice she’d heard before.
A wassste if I allow you to remain.
As if she had any fucking intention of staying.
Disresspectful.
Nostrils flared and Etaín saw the fire she’d expected to find here. It burned across the water, its heat reaching her though the flames stopped just short of her feet, a warning, a lesson. She could suffer in this place, perhaps even die in it. Fear trickled in, making her aware of the silence again, the absence of a heartbeat.
Yesss. You understand now.
“What do you want?”
You will soon discover your purpose. Pupils narrowed. Sooo your mother saw true about the need for the bond with a human.
Old, old pain came to life with a vengeance, nearly smothering her in the questions of a child abandoned at eight. “And when was that?”
