by Strong, Jory
He sat as well, distracting her with thoughts of sex when the sheet fell away, enough moonlight remaining to reveal the erection against a taut stomach. A tug on the comforter by Eamon hid it from view, refocusing her on the tablet in hand as Cathal muttered, “Asshole.”
“That’s Lord Asshole to you,” Eamon said. The twitch of very kissable lips would have derailed her for a second time if not for the tension running through Cathal and his lack of response.
“How long have you been back?” she asked Eamon.
“Only a few hours.”
“Before I came up to bed, Liam told me you’d gone to investigate a disturbance in the wards around the city. Did you find anything?”
“Nothing definitive.”
Cathal turned the bedside lamp on, her uneasiness growing at the increased tension in him. She stopped herself from reaching out, from touching him, afraid, very, very afraid she wouldn’t be able to control her gift. That she’d rifle through his mind to find the answer to what was bothering him.
Something must have happened. Not here, unless she’d slept through it.
At the club seemed more likely. When he’d arrived home…
Delight shivered through her despite a sudden surge of insecurity. Maybe being totally immersed in his own world, in everything normal, had led to him having regrets about this, about them. It would explain the fierce lovemaking. The underlying violence and desperation.
She bit her lip, the small pain clearing her head. Later, when she and Cathal had a moment alone, she’d ask him what was going on, why the change from when the three of them were together in the hot tub.
Selecting an emerald-green pencil from the box, she drew the sigil without commenting on its origins. When it was done, Eamon leaned forward, his chest touched to her shoulder as he traced the intricate design with an elegant finger. “It represents servitude. You saw this on one of the humans who are part of our world?”
He meant the ones who’d been in her line at the shelter fund-raiser, the very same humans they’d fought about before she was taken by the Harlequin Rapist.
“I saw it in a dream.” Truth? Lie? What could she call it other than a dream? “How is it used?”
“At its core, it signifies an oath-bond. For you, most sigils are things to be applied in ink. That is what makes the seidic unique, and why Elves typically wear no tattoos. The seidic are rare and few have access to them when they exist at all. In this world, at the whim of the queen, the seidic are used to punish or reward.”
“But for some reason, you immediately thought I’d seen this sigil on a human. Why?”
“An aside first, Etaín. Because we don’t typically have access to the seidic, whose gifts include the ability to enhance magic or deny it, and even to gift it with the application of their ink, we compensate with magical focal points, things usually crafted for a single purpose. The earrings I wear are such items.”
Etaín touched a fingertip to the stud Eamon wore in his left ear, moved on to the ones above it, along the rim, smiling at the way his gaze heated as if remembering the feel of her tongue and lips on them. “You made them?”
“Not the base pieces of jewelry. Metal work and stone craft aren’t my gifts, but the specifications, yes. They’re bound personally to me and useless to anyone else. The majority of Elves who are able to claim and hold territory are spell-casters. It’s because of that ability, humans can be made part of our world, and their lives extended.”
“Hundreds of years added just by wearing a spelled piece of jewelry?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. It requires a blood-oath given in a witnessed ceremony. It entails an acceptance of responsibility matched to a pledge of obedience.”
“Why servitude?” Cathal asked, a growl in his voice, and she didn’t blame him, not when the word obedience set her teeth on edge.
Eamon shrugged, a gesture almost guaranteed to end the peace if Cathal’s behavior hadn’t already announced a change to it. “Few humans are touched by magic.” Meaning, in essence, they’d never be considered equal.
Not a thought for relationship harmony. She glanced down at the pad in her lap, the emerald green a reminder of the Dragon. “What about between Elves, or between Elves and something not human? Would the sigil be used?”
“It could be.” His tone said it wouldn’t often be.
Her mother wore no jewelry, nor did she wear the mark in ink, but Etaín shivered, realizing she couldn’t be certain her mother didn’t bear the Dragon’s sigil of servitude. Like the emerald green she wore, until the ordeal of the Harlequin Rapist was behind her, she’d been blinded to the truth of the marks she’d put on Cathal.
She hadn’t seen truly until she stood in the shower with him, the rivulets of water streaming down his arms turning the design into a circle in her mind’s eye, so she recognized that her mother wore the same pattern around her wrists, hidden by the entwining of other sigils—and even then she hadn’t made the connection as she did now.
Her father was seidic. Her mother had the gift of sight, she was now positive of it.
Even in paradise there are politics, and some pairings are viewed as a threat by those in power. Your mother found her way to my lake already heavy with child. She and I made a bargain, and on these shores you were born.
“What has you frowning so fiercely,” Eamon asked.
“I was thinking about my mother and the sigil.”
“You believe she wears it?”
“I think it’s possible she might be bound to the Dragon.”
“For your mother’s sake, I hope you’re mistaken. It would mean the magic controls her rather than the other way around.”
“If the Dragon isn’t real,” Etaín said, though sitting in Cathal’s bed, surrounded by the everyday things of a normal world, the absolute certainty she’d felt faded as she thought about the emerald-green water rippling toward the center, like dissolved magic condensing and solidifying into an avatar that never completely emerged from the lake.
Given the stakes, she tried to tell Eamon in detail about the dream, but the tightening of her throat and freezing of her hand when she might have drawn what she couldn’t say, was warning enough, and struggle would only make her lack of control obvious.
She applied the magic lessons that had left her an exhausted lump on the couch. Imagined the sigil that would divert and channel magic away from her in a harmless loop, but freedom to speak was returned to her only when she changed the subject completely. “I need to go to Stylin’ Ink in the morning.”
“I’ll accompany you. Cathal?”
Was there command in Eamon’s voice? Cathal couldn’t be certain.
His gaze strayed to the clothing he’d been wearing, eyes lingering on the pocket where the dead gangbanger’s phone was. What the fuck should he do with it?
Taking it to the police was out, given the dead body and his failure to call them. Taking it to his father could lead to a blood bath, though he realized he’d have to visit his father too, because guilt would chew him up if Brianna was targeted for revenge and someone got to her.
Hand it off to Eamon? Like a good little obedient human would?
He suppressed a snarl. That left Sean, and a lot of dancing around the truth about where the phone came from and why it might be important.
“No. I’ve got some meetings I couldn’t reschedule. Afterward I’m going to meet up with Sean to see if he and Quinn have gotten anywhere on the drawings Derrick delivered.
“Heath, my fifth, will accompany you as bodyguard,” Eamon said, yanking the string of paranoia that existed in Cathal because of his father and uncle.
The suspicion in his gut burned hotter. Why now and not before? Because Eamon knew about the gangbanger? Because he knew Cage’s boat was moored near Sean’s?
The magic chose him. I accept the choice though I wouldn’t have made the same one. Eamon’s words, spoken to Etaín. Only now Cathal considered that with him out of the way, Eamon’
s options expanded.
Regardless, she’d be safe with Eamon and the guards. Safer still away from him now that it seemed just as likely the drive-by in front of the shelter was meant to take him out, not Anton.
The wrap of Etaín’s arms and press of feminine curves allowed him to escape the darkness of his thoughts. What he needed was some breathing room and he’d have it in a few hours.
For now…
He captured her mouth, content to lose himself in her.
Nineteen
Derrick stood at the garage entrance. The smell of grease and oil, the blast of Mexican music and the sound of power tools along with shouts in Spanish all bringing back memories. The earlier ones were almost sweet, but the later ones, painful, though he straightened his spine, not allowing them to be more than just a scratch against his toughened emotional fortitude.
Never again! I refuse to be that needy again!
He steadfastly refused to look at the workbench where a particularly horrifying example of neediness had happened on his last visit here, when he’d tracked Emilio down after he’d been a no-show for their date.
I’m not that weak person anymore.
He touched the drawing in his pocket as proof of it. Etaín needed him and here he was.
Emilio looked up just as Derrick found him among the overall-clad mechanics. His smile was cocky, as though he’d known it was only a matter of time before Derrick came around again.
Oh please! Derrick nearly rolled his eyes. Emilio was such a boy compared to Quinn.
He strutted forward, hips swaying to let Emilio get a good look at just what he was missing. This was the new Derrick, confident, strong, loved.
Now that caused a crazy fluttering in his chest because Quinn hadn’t spoken the words yet. But it was there. He absolutely knew it was.
And if Quinn hadn’t said them, Etaín had. If anything, she was a much harder case than Quinn. Much, much more guarded emotionally.
“Miss me?” he asked when he reached Emilio.
“Looking good, Derrick, looking good.” Emilio’s eyes dropped in a once-over that lingered at the crotch of very tight jeans.
Derrick preened. Not that he was interested of course. But he’d dressed to get answers and answers he’d get if there were any. Now for the flattery.
“You’re looking divine, absolutely delicious yourself.” There was a modicum of truth to be found in the compliment, though really, baggy grease-stained overalls did nothing for anyone. The boots on the other hand…
Heavy, rugged, manly. He might personally prefer heels when he wanted to look good, but he appreciated other footwear and what it said about the wearer. Put a naked Quinn in those same boots, polished to look like a soldier on leave or a policeman ready for some off-duty action…
Oops, there was a downside to tight pants but…
Use it baby. Use it.
He gave his jeans a tug and nearly laughed at the way Emilio’s chest puffed out. Cocky rooster thought the hard-on was for him.
“So what brings you around?” Emilio said.
This was the tricky part. This was where experience or having a taste for books with private investigator heroes would have come in handy. He bit his bottom lip, worried that maybe this was a mistake, one that would lead to Quinn being pissed or getting in trouble with Sean.
Emilio glanced over Derrick’s left shoulder, at the spot where a window allowed people in the office and waiting area to see into the garage. “Look. Whatever gives, my boss is going to come in and cap my ass for not working in about thirty seconds.”
“Okay. Okay.” Deep breath. “You know a guy named Marc Ruiz?”
“I know a couple of them.”
Derrick pulled the picture out of his jacket, unfolding it and showing it to Emilio. “This Marc Ruiz.”
“Why are you asking?” Was that a yes?
“I’m helping a friend. She’s trying to track down some guys she put art on. It’s for a book project, but it’s all hush-hush right now.”
Emilio looked down at the picture. “No. Don’t know him.”
How much to say without making this sound like a police investigation? Mentioning the rap sheep was definitely a no-no, but LA seemed safe enough. “My friend said he was a gang member in LA, it was the same one I thought you told me you had cousins in.”
“Like I said, I don’t know him.”
“Okay, okay.” Emilio sounded defensive, it might mean he did know but it might also be because the teen who’d been sweeping the floor at the other end of the garage was now a couple of steps away, the broom abandoned for a cellphone, and Emilio didn’t want anyone thinking he’d give out information about a gang member.
The teen fired off a burst of Spanish at Emilio. Derrick understood the gist of it, something along the lines of, “Boss just noticed you got company. Better send your boyfriend away.”
“Thanks, Drooler.”
Derrick shuddered. Drooler. What a street name. Pathetic. And the art visible on his hands and neck practically screamed gangbanger, or wannabe.
Derrick folded the sketch and returned it to his pocket. “See you around.”
Emilio stopped him from turning with a hand on his arm. Once there would have been a little zing but now, nothing. No tingles. No regret. No heat.
“You with someone?”
“Definitely taken.”
A delicious shiver went through him. Taken, that word embodied sex with Quinn.
The hand fell away. “Too bad. We had some good times together.”
It didn’t stop you from breaking my heart and tossing me away like trash.
No! Said and done. Over with.
The new Derrick did not dwell on past mistakes or past hurts. The new Derrick left without a backward glance, though he felt eyes drilling into his back.
* * *
Sheer joy, there was no other way to describe it. It exploded in Etaín’s chest and spread outward the moment they pulled to a stop in front of Stylin’ Ink.
Bryce was visible through the glass, standing behind the counter, hand twirling in a hurry-up motion that whoever he was talking to on the phone couldn’t see. He smiled when he caught sight of her, and she returned it, feeling it all the way to her soul.
The men in the car with her were forgotten until Eamon stopped her with firm fingers around her wrist and a softly spoken command. “Wait. Allow Liam and Myk to exit the car first.”
Even that brief delay was almost more than she could stand. She couldn’t give this part of her life up. She’d slowly wither and die inside.
Back doors opened by beautifully lethal guards indicated a lack of danger. Eamon released her to get out of the car, Myk only barely managing to precede her into Stylin’ Ink.
“We’ve got ourselves a princess in the house,” Bryce called out, coming around to enfold her in a tight hug.
Her arms snaked around his lean waist, her grip as fierce as his. “Princess? You trying to ruin my kickass reputation by tagging me with that prissy nickname?”
“Kickass, yeah, if that means somehow managing to walk away after terrible shit has gone down.” He trembled despite the tough talk, whispering, “Fuck, Etaín! Fuck!”
Guilt grabbed her by the throat, choking her words off as effectively as the Dragon did. She closed her eyes, cheek pressed to his until she was able to speak. “I should have come back to the fund-raiser, at least for a few minutes.”
“Forget that shit. You had busted up ribs.” His arms loosened immediately, a small jolt going through him. “You good?”
She hugged him tighter in demonstration. “I’m good.”
As good as she was going to be considering she was a freaking near-Elf who visited with a Dragon that may or may not be real.
Jamaal joined them, hands covered by blue latex, his arms bare, showing off muscles and art and making her face heat with the remembered image of DaWanda above him, her breasts in his hands.
There was a buzz against her senses, the nearly over
whelming awareness that he wore more than one of her tattoos. When he grabbed her up in a fierce hug, she balled her hands into tight fists against the thin material of his shirt, shivering not just at the prospect of invading his privacy, but at stealing his memories.
Fire slid through the ink on her arms and into her wrists. She would have wrenched herself away had she not been frozen in place, at least long enough to hear the Dragon’s sibilant voice. Sssafe. My gift.
As fast as the searing heat had come, it winked out. She tightened her grip on Jamaal, heart thundering. There had to be a way to prevent the hijacking of her body, though true anger and fear at the loss of control was obliterated beneath relief.
Jamaal was safe from her. She half expected the sigil representing servitude to blaze across her retinas.
He released her. Bryce said, “I cleared your schedule for the week.”
She gave Eamon props for not immediately telling Bryce she wasn’t coming back to work. Her throat clogged when reality settled in, that losing this might not happen by Eamon’s decree but by her own choice.
How could she continue to come here if it put those she loved at risk? How could she continue to apply ink when loss of privacy might be the least of the danger her tattoos presented?
Bryce interrupted the painful introspection with hands on her shoulders. “Thought you said you were good.”
She blinked away unshed tears. “It just feels like forever since things were normal.”
He moved behind the counter. “Speaking of normal, one of the shelter workers came around with your phone.”
Fishing it out of a drawer, he handed it to her as Jamaal went back to his workstation. Longing swelling with the hum of his machine, creating a hollow emptiness at the prospect of losing this. Somehow she had to find a way to keep this as part of her life and make it safe for everyone.
Even if it meant servitude?
A glance down at inked wrists, and the sigil shimmered in her mind as if already on her skin and entwined with the bands her mother had done. She blinked, clearing the mark from her sight before powering up the cellphone.
See but remain unseen.
