Inked Destiny

by Strong, Jory

  His eyes flicked to her hands then back up to meet hers. His expression hardened. “Now you’re here, and I’m thinking it’s because you’re working for the cops, seeing as how my cousin picked you up not too far from where your daddy works.”

  “Leave,” Greg said, muscling his way between her and Anton.

  She didn’t know whether it was directed at her or his cousin, but sweat rolled down her back because she could now feel a hint of magic, as though Liam was about to emerge from shadow. She shivered at where that would lead.

  “It’s okay,” she said, fingertips touching Greg’s back. “Anton and I understand each other. Maybe it’d be better if you weren’t in the room for this.”

  “You sure?” Disbelief. Respect. Fear.

  “I’m sure.”

  Still he hesitated, as if torn between doing what felt right and what was important for his own family, his survival.

  “I’m sure,” she repeated, demonstrating it by moving out from behind him to sit in a chair far enough away from Anton that he wouldn’t feel threatened.

  Greg left. Liam slid into view, forming like a genie escaping through a sliver-thin shadow in a corner of the room, shimmering there then blinking away when Anton glanced over his shoulder. “Cops outside waiting for me?”

  “Not that I know of.” She leaned forward, forearms on her knees, hands in a loose clasp. “For the record, coming here was my choice. What the cops asked me to do, I’ve already done.”

  “Seeing what was in Kelvin’s head.” He shoved the gun into his waistband at the middle of his back and sat on the couch, a couple of places and a coffee table’s distance away.

  “You don’t seem freaked.”

  He shrugged. “Had a great grandmother came over from Haiti. Used to tell us kids about voodoo and shit, kept us in line because she was a true believer and we was afraid she’d put a spell on us.”

  He matched his pose to hers, leaning forward also meaning an easy draw if he pulled the gun again. Given the blazing heat in the centers of her palms, she wondered idly who could do the most damage if they went for their respective weapons.

  “What’s going down, Etaín? Why you here?”

  “Because I care what happened to Kelvin and the others. Especially Vontae. I used to run with him, way back when.”

  “Yeah, I heard about you being a wild child.”

  She shrugged. “More rebellious than wild. While you were paying your respects did you hear that Kelvin brought his wife and his baby around to the shop a couple months ago? It hurts to think of him dead because he was trying to do something good and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s a chance of the same thing happening with any drive-by.”

  “You thinking I had something to do with the shootings in Oakland today?”

  “Did you?”

  “You don’t have no fear, do you?”

  “You baited that hook, not me. I was only making a point. Rumor has it you’re trying to take over the Curs and you’ve got big plans.”

  He laughed. “Vontae’s granny ain’t never liked me. You know how the Curs started out? Just a bunch of brothers who liked to ride and wanted to make their own rules.”

  “And now?”

  “Time will tell. You wondering if what happened at the bar is on me? All that killing payback for something I did or ordered done?”

  “You baiting the hook again?”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Naw. Just trying to figure you out.”

  “That’s easy enough.” She turned her wrists, the stylized eyes becoming visible. “All I want is to find out who was behind the slaughter and pass the information on to Detective Ordoñes, so the guilty will hopefully be arrested and that’ll keep the street violence from escalating.”

  His gaze settled on her palms. “Kelvin didn’t see anything?”

  “Nothing that identifies the shooters.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Five.” The police hadn’t offered a number to the public.

  “That a solid number?”

  “If there were more, I can’t know it.”

  “The only way this ends is when those responsible have paid for it.”

  “And jail time isn’t good enough?”

  “It could be.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I know who ordered it done.”

  “But you can’t find him.”

  Anton smiled. “That’s right. I can’t. But I’m betting you can.”

  “Who’s responsible?”

  “He ain’t local so it’s going to take you a little digging to find out which gang he most likely pulled his crew from. Maybe that’s where daddy or big brother comes in, or maybe you play that detective for information.” His eyes flicked down to her hands. “Then you pay some folks a little visit, same as you intended for me, and see what’s inside their heads. Find his crew, find him.”

  “Give me the name.”

  “We in this together or we ain’t in it at all. I’m no snitch. But I’m willing to cut a deal with my friend Etaín, who says she cares about Kelvin and Vontae and the others, meaning my sister too, who wasn’t guilty of anything but trying to earn some money so she could make a better life for herself. You want to give the crew over to the cops, I can go with that. But I want the guy who ordered it.”

  “So you get vengeance and the other families have to settle for jail time?”

  “That’s the way it plays. And I call in some of what’s owed to me and let it be known that the score has been completely settled. The drive-bys over what went down stop or there will be consequences.”

  “You have that kind of juice?”

  He laughed. “You’re sitting here.”

  “Owing you a tattoo. Nothing more.”

  “That’s right, though considering everything, I’ll take a pass on calling in that favor, at least for now.”

  She straightened and he tensed, ready to go for his gun. “You really going to shoot me?”

  “Don’t want to, and that’s for real. Got two strikes and not looking for a third. Especially don’t want one over nothing.”

  “Taking a bullet doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

  He flashed a smile. “See, that’s what I always liked about you, Etaín. You cool. Wasn’t no shit you laid down for Greg. You and me understand each other. Always have. Wouldn’t have spent so much time trying to get in your pants if I was just looking for a good time.”

  His eyes chilled to the same icy nothingness she’d see in Liam’s. “We deal or you leave not knowing what I know. I give you the name. You give him back to me. Or give me his body if that’s the way you’d rather see this go down. Ain’t no other options on the table. What’s it going to be?”

  She could walk away from this. Eamon would say she should walk away. Only she couldn’t forget the burn, couldn’t shake the guilt that because he wore her ink, Vontae was dead instead of his killer.

  “What if I give the police the crew but the guy you want gets swept up when they are?”

  “Then it gets handled on the inside. He goes to prison he’s a dead man walking.”

  “So avoid a third strike. Let the guys already doing time take care of it.”

  “Your answer a no then?”

  She closed her eyes and mental barriers fell, brought down in a juxtaposing of scenes, her own memories of Kelvin coming to the shop with his wife and new baby against what she’d taken from him at the hospital, running parallel to slaughter from a murderer’s point of view, a quick montage blocked by an emerald green curtain and fire-emblazoned sigil. There is another choice. I can give you the killer you seek.

  Escaping the voice, she opened her eyes to see Liam, ethereal, but no less deadly because he hadn’t quite left the shadows. She stood, holding out her hand, eyes meeting Anton’s. Dare and challenge and demand for a show of trust if they were going to deal. “Give me the name.”

  Anton laughed, the flash of it reaching his eye
s. He stood and took the step that brought him within arm’s reach. “Cyco Chalino,” he said, his palm warm and dry against hers as they performed the combination of moves that served as a handshake.

  The apparition that was Liam disappeared, only to reappear in the flesh moments later at Eamon’s side as they both entered the room behind Greg.

  “This guy have a fucking tracking device on you?” Anton asked, standing, ready to draw his gun.

  “Don’t,” Etaín said, putting herself between Anton and the Elves to prevent violence from erupting in Greg’s home.

  Eamon’s demeanor was ice but the anger she sensed in him was as hot as the fire he commanded. He wouldn’t tolerate a threat or insult, not in his current mood and especially not from a human.

  “Let’s go,” he said, extending his hand, imperious command in gesture and tone.

  He was every bit the Lord and she bit back the flash of her own anger. Took a step toward him, undecided on how far she was willing to acquiesce until he tipped the scales by saying, “Cathal is waiting at the estate. There was an attempt on his life.”

  Her throat clogged with sudden emotion then. She took the offered hand, not turning to acknowledge Anton as he called after them, “Be hearing from you soon, Etaín.”

  Twenty-six

  Eamon had too much pride to rage at her in front of Myk and Liam in the sedan’s front seat. The hand he’d taken inside he’d released the instant she slipped into the car and perversely she felt its loss like a gaping wound, her anger fading. She’d never been good at holding on to it.

  No surprise there, she thought, looking out the window and remembering the times she’d done the same, sitting next to her mother. The prospect of a new city, a new, temporary life, no longer an adventure but an ache she rarely put into words because she already knew the impossibility of staying in one place long enough to make permanent friends. Anger had been pointless when her mother was all she had.

  She could call that anger now, using the captain’s revelation about Eamon’s having her apartment cleared out and the threat of denied access to her, but her stomach roiled at the prospect. She didn’t want to cloak herself in that emotion, to use something she no longer cared about to strike out at Eamon with.

  Guilt crept in as the icy silence continued, as the distance separating his taut body from hers seemed to grow larger despite the finite length of the seat. Regret came, intensified by memories of those moments preceding their stepping into the kitchen at Aesirs, by the joy of their time at Stylin’ Ink, the closeness, the satisfaction at having him wear her ink.

  Her hand crept to the necklace, fingers rubbing over smooth stones. It’d be a lie to say she was sorry for anything she’d done after he’d left to chase Farrell, but she was sorry for this. Another estrangement.

  Tears came, the ache of what had happened with the captain joining this one. She blinked them away, mind scrambling for something to say that would breach the gap, not finding it, not with an audience.

  She moved away from the window as they got closer to the estate, stopping in the middle of the seat rather than crowding close, reaching out, hating the tentativeness she felt, the vulnerability, scabs still thin over old wounds caused by rejection, loss, and fear of it.

  She placed her hand on his thigh, the weight of it there like a feather easily brushed aside. Her chest tightened, nerves stretching taut, urging her to snatch her hand back and resume her study of the passing scenery.

  His hand covered hers before she lost her nerve, and with it came hope fiercely embraced instead of warily circled.

  “The encounter with the Cur couldn’t wait until I was available to accompany you?”

  “I wanted to get it behind me. Behind us. You caught up to Farrell?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was terrified of me. All your Elves were.”

  His hand tightened on hers. Ours. But it’d be a lie to say she felt that way so she merely amended. “All of them except for the bodyguards and Rhys.”

  “You’re seidic, Etaín, capable of stripping memories and gifts, reason enough for fear. But a changeling out of control is cause for terror.”

  His anger bit her, the calm icy waters parting to reveal it in his voice. She jerked reflexively, a tug to free her hand from beneath his.

  “I wasn’t out of control.”

  “You used your gift in full view of others. You stripped a human’s memory without regard to consequences.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never been ruthless.”

  He grabbed her wrist. “Ruthless, yes. But foolish? Not until I met you. Time and time again I’ve allowed—”

  “Don’t go there, Eamon. I thought we’d gotten beyond that.”

  His fingers tightened on her wrist. “I’ve allowed myself to believe that you could separate the man from the lord, yet understand I am both. I’ve been foolish enough to hope you might consider how your actions reflect on me, and what they mean for all those who’ve bound themselves to me, who could find their lives a lot worse because I’ve tied their future to yours.”

  I didn’t ask you do it. I don’t want the responsibility.

  A defensive reaction to the pain threading through his voice, to her own guilt at having fled Aesirs, reacting to an order she’d known even then was given out of concern for her, but using it as an excuse to run. To keep running and in the process, add to his worries and put others in danger. The captain. Greg and his family. Anton.

  Gifts came with responsibilities, of that she was certain, though the refrain was the captain’s influence, not her mother’s. And the want, the need, they weren’t one-sided.

  How Eamon had come into her life didn’t matter. Peordh. Predestination. She wouldn’t change it if she could. She’d change only this, the misunderstanding, the hurt.

  “What happened with the captain’s wife, my mother set that in motion. She foresaw the encounter and what would happen because of it. There was a clue for me in Laura’s mind. The Dragon is real, Eamon. It’s real.”

  His leaned in, eyes stormy. “The changeling you asked about threw himself into the ocean, the magic a siren song promising him gills and tail if he surrendered to it rather than allow me to catch him and help him gain control of it. He’d be dead now if I hadn’t been close enough, strong enough to reach out with a spell, with my own command of the elements.”

  She tugged at her wrist to free her hand and retrieve the picture showing Dragon and woman and sigil. He tightened his grip, reading denial. She stopped, seeing the flash of pain in his expression and it hurt her.

  Leaning forward she brushed her mouth against his. “I see the man and the lord, Eamon. I’ll work harder at meeting you halfway. Halfway. I won’t lose the part of myself that’s human. I don’t think I’m meant to, otherwise why would the magic have chosen Cathal?”

  His free hand lifted, fingers sliding through her hair. He caressed her cheek, cupping it, the soft touch a blossom of pleasure and hope, an acknowledgement of her point.

  “You’ve told me not much is known about the seidic,” she said. “You’ve told me that my magic feels old to you. When I look at the bands my mother tattooed on my wrists, I see the Dragon’s green. When I face it, that green travels up my arm as though the sigils making up its name are written there like inked destiny.”

  “Etaín.” Her name held his doubt, his worry, the wealth of his desire as the estate gate slid back as it had the first night she’d come here, revealing Cathal waiting there instead of Eamon.

  Eamon released her so she could get to Cathal, but sudden imperative held her. “Trust me to do the right thing,” she said, before taking the freedom he offered. Her arms were around Cathal an instant later, her mouth fused to his.

  Cathal couldn’t get enough of her. He was as desperate for her as he’d been after the encounter with the gangbanger, except this was honest, with no agenda other than to celebrate life and love.

  His mouth ate hungrily at hers, his cock about to tear through
the front of his jeans to get to the place it considered home. His arms tightened on her at Eamon’s approach.

  Not jealously. Not possessiveness. But a grab for sanity to keep from stripping her out of her clothing.

  Talk would have to wait. Confessions. Neither of them was as important as the touch of skin to skin, the urgent need to be inside her, to share her.

  Pulling his mouth from hers, he said, “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” thoughts flashing to his fire and smoke and water-damaged house. Not Eamon’s bedroom but their bedroom. For a while. Maybe permanently. And he found that the thought of living here, where she’d be safer—hell, where he’d be safer—didn’t bother him.

  His lips returned to hers, hands settling on her hips, though the will to stop the grind of her cunt against his cock deserted him.

  In his mind he said, we need to stop now, but his body refused to yield, relishing the rub and press, the heat and scent of Etaín and the joy of being alive.

  * * *

  Quinn pulled to a stop near the chain-link fence, cutting the engine steps away from an opening in the fence to the right of a No Trespassing sign. Again he contemplated calling Sean. Again he dismissed it.

  He pulled his gun from its holster and got out of the car. He’d just take a quick look around, enough to either confirm he was nuts or…

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

  The refrain pounded through him with each heartbeat. Racing until there was no break between utterances.

  The twist in his gut got tighter with each step, until caution was a struggle.

  He heard voices speaking Spanish. Harsh-edged, ugly laughter followed by the sound of someone being hit. A cry of pain, a piteous whimper.

  Derrick’s cry. Derrick’s whimper.

  Rage poured into Quinn. The red of furious fire burning away years of training, eradicating any thought of stealth.

  He raced forward, driven by fierce possessiveness past abandoned buildings covered in graffiti, the sound of violence and agony, the scent of blood reaching him, feeding his urgency and providing a trail. He led with his gun, finger steady on the trigger despite the adrenaline rushing through him and the pounding beat of his heart.