Ink Witch (Kat Dubois Chronicles Book 1)

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  When Smith opened his mouth and inhaled, preparing to dig further, I cut him off with a raised hand. “I won’t tell you more. I’m sorry, but I can’t.” I met his rich brown eyes. “It’s for your own good, trust me.”

  He shut his mouth. Smart man.

  “Officer Smith—”

  “Garth, please.”

  I nodded. “Garth, does this symbol mean anything to you?” I asked, tapping one of the snakes on the Five of Pentacles card. The external circle of each pentacle was an ouroboros.

  Garth leaned over the table to get a better look at the card and the symbol I was pointing to. “Can’t say it means anything to me, personally.”

  I huffed out a breath and drummed my nails on the tabletop, staring at the tail-eating snake. Why did the damn thing keep showing up?

  “But,” Garth continued, “I’d guess there isn’t a person in this country who wouldn’t recognize it these days.”

  My eyes snapped to his. “Why?”

  “That’s the logo for that company that’s making Amrita. I swear their commercial is on between every show on TV.”

  “I don’t have a TV,” I told him. “What’s ‘Amrita’?”

  Garth’s eyes rounded, like he just couldn’t believe I didn’t turn into a couch zombie along with the rest of America every evening. “Amrita—the elixir of life. You know, the one that claims it can add another fifty years to your life.” His eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “You’ve really never heard of it? It’s on billboards and the sides of buses . . . in magazines . . .”

  I shook my head. “Not ringing any bells, but then, I don’t get out much. So what’s this drug company called?” I pulled out my phone and opened the Internet app. “And how do you spell ‘Amrita’?”

  Garth told me, then shook his head slowly, his eyes squinted in thought. “I can’t remember the company’s name. It’s something strange . . . definitely not an English word. Might be Latin.”

  My phone was working at a slug’s pace, but I didn’t need it anymore anyway. I set it down and looked at Garth, a strong hunch perching on my tongue.

  He frowned. “I think it starts with an O.”

  “Ouroboros,” I said, letting that hunch fly free.

  Garth snapped his fingers. “That’s it. The Ouroboros Corporation.”

  I bolted up out of my chair, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I stuffed my cards back into their little drawstring purse and tucked them away in my messenger bag, then slung the strap over my shoulder, a genuine smile curving my lips for the first time since Nik arrived. Dom was alive, his disappearance was linked to the missing kids, and it all had something to do with this Ouroboros Corporation.

  Finally, I had something to go on. A sleazy pharmaceuticals company that specialized in life-extension drugs; it was about as solid of a lead as I could’ve asked for.

  “Thanks, Garth,” I said, standing beside the table and looking down at him. “This has been insanely helpful.”

  “What—where are you going?”

  I turned away and started across the coffee shop toward the door. “To track down your missing kids.” I glanced back at him. “I hope you’re not a fan of that corporation. They’re involved in this somehow, and I will burn them to the ground.”

  Garth blanched.

  I winked at him. “Figuratively, of course.”

  Once I was out of the room, I uncrossed my fingers. If Dom was hurt in any way, I would stop at nothing to destroy them.

  6

  I tossed back the remaining bourbon and thunked my glass down on the kitchen table beside my laptop, already reaching for the bottle. My eyes never left the computer screen. The rest of the apartment was a dark cavern compared to the glow from the screen. Afternoon had come and gone in the blink of an eye and the click of a mouse, and evening had fallen. Nik was still downstairs, working in my place, and I’d been alone in the apartment, barely having moved since getting back hours ago. I couldn’t, not when my eyes were glued to the screen.

  I checked my inbox for the bazillionth time—I’d emailed Garth as soon as I got home, reminding him to send me the info on the missing kids—before maximizing the browser window again. I now knew pretty much all there was to know about the Ouroboros Corporation. At least, everything available to the public.

  Ouroboros is the pharmaceutical arm of a multibillion-dollar global conglomerate called Initiative Industries, which owns subsidiaries in all branches of industry and commerce. Ouroboros focuses on what they call “life-extension technology and therapy.” In other words, they’re looking for the fountain of youth—eternal life—something they can cram into a pill and bottle up.

  Funny. Nejerets have eternal life. At least, so long as we don’t get ourselves killed. There was zero chance that those two facts weren’t linked, and that left little doubt in my mind that the missing Nejerets hadn’t just been abducted for shits and giggles, they were being experimented on. Apparently, right alongside the missing street kids. These Ouroboros people were their own special brand of sick fucks.

  I took a sip from the fresh glass of bourbon, thoughts of grim reapers dancing through my mind. I would find them, and I would hurt them. It’s what I did best, even if I was retired. This was worth getting back in the game for.

  I’d moved on to reading reviews of some of their products. The most elite was Amrita, a series of injections given weekly for one year, but there wasn’t much information about what the injections actually did, other than “rejuvenate the body and soul,” let alone a price tag. The most popular product seemed to be Amrita Oral, a pill taken twice daily for some undisclosed period of time that was purported to slow the aging process through metabolic and adrenal regulations. It was pricey, though they offered the first month free for anyone who visited one of their many nationwide open houses. They held them weekly in New York City, Boston, Chicago, Dallas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and—what do you know—Seattle.

  Their Seattle open house was every Sunday morning at ten thirty at their corporate headquarters downtown. It was Saturday night. The next one was tomorrow.

  I clicked back to the official website and started filling out the registration form, a requirement to attend. First and last name—I went with Katherine Derby. Date of birth—I shaved off a decade and a half there. Email—easy enough to create a new account for Ms. Katherine Derby. Phone—I hesitated here, not willing to enter the numbers for my cell or the shop phone.

  I stood and went into the kitchen, opening the drawer where I used to keep a stash of unopened burner phones back during my former, illicit career. Although, technically, I had been licensed to kill by the Senate, it still felt like my sixteen years as one of their leashed assassins was about as wrong as a thing could be. All of the old burners were gone, leaving just one antiquated cell phone in the drawer—my mom’s old phone.

  I picked it up and pressed the power button, knowing full well the battery had died eons ago. Nothing happened. But even though the phone was kaput, the line wasn’t. I’d purchased the rights to both her and my cell phone numbers seventeen years ago, just after the bill legalizing the universal privatization of all forms of “intangible property” passed in Congress. I grinned. When I’d purchased her line, I’d registered it to her—Genevieve Dubois—not to me. It was perfect.

  I swapped out her name for my hastily created pseudonym, signed her up for a brand-spanking-new email address, and typed in her phone number. My pointer hovered over the REGISTER button. I’d made it this far at least a dozen times so far, using a dozen different identities. Don’t be a moron, my brain screamed. It’s too risky—I’m a Nejeret; they’re abducting Nejerets . . .

  The apartment door opened, and Nik walked in.

  I clicked the register button reflexively, then closed out the window. Decision made. I was going.

  I gulped down half the glass of bourbon and slid the bottle toward Nik as he neared the table. “Drink?”

  Stopping to stand at the end of table, he spun the bo
ttle around and whistled. “You might be a culinary prude, but your taste in booze doesn’t suck.”

  I snorted a laugh, my gaze trailing down the length of his body. He looked damn good right now. It was the alcohol, I knew it, but I couldn’t stop myself from appreciating his appearance. Tall and lean. Athletic, but not bulky. His thin, faded black T-shirt just snug enough to show some muscle definition across his chest and shoulders. The front hem of his shirt tucked precariously into his jeans, showing off his silver Eye of Horus belt buckle. The black and graying ink staining his arms and neck. I thought his neck piece—a tattoo of the goddess Isis, kneeling, her extended wings wrapping around to the back of his neck—just might be my favorite. At least, of the ones I could see. Who knew what was under his shirt—my eyes traveled lower—and elsewhere. But that Isis tattoo was similar to something I’d been planning for my forearm for a damn long time.

  And then there was his face, all pristine, hard lines and sharp edges. It was perfectly symmetrical except for a slight bend in his nose where he must’ve broken it and been too slow to reset it before it healed. He could still fix it easily, if a little painfully. But then, Nik had never shied away from pain. Rather, so far as I remembered, he reveled in it.

  His dark eyelashes and brows contrasted with his eyes, making his pale blue irises stand out even more, icy and calculating. There was nothing soft or warm about Nik. Especially not the way he was watching me study him.

  “See something you like?” he asked, his striking gaze locking with mine. There was heat in his stare. Heat, and a challenge. I wondered what would happen if I told him, “Yes.” Something, I felt certain. But what? It was impossible to predict.

  I cleared my throat and took another sip of bourbon. “Professional admiration,” I lied. “I like the neck piece. Who did that one?”

  “Someone in Anchorage,” he said, his expression blank, his eyes anything but.

  “A woman?” I asked without thinking.

  The corner of his mouth quirked, hinting at his usual smirk. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “How long did you have to sit for it?”

  “Six hours,” he said, a knowing glint in his eyes.

  I licked my lips. “Just, um, one session?”

  He nodded and turned to head into the kitchen.

  “How much did she charge?”

  Nik grabbed a glass from the nearest cupboard and returned to the table to pour himself a drink. “I didn’t pay her in money,” he said, glancing at me, more than a hint of a smirk now.

  I tried my hardest not to react, but damn it, I could feel the traitorous blood heating my neck and cheeks. I lowered my gaze to stare at the bottle across the table and cleared my throat. “Where are you staying tonight?”

  Nik chuckled, low and quiet, and my stomach did a little flip-flop that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

  I spluttered my bourbon. “I didn’t mean—” I stood partway and reached for the bottle. “You know what I meant,” I said, not quite sure that I knew what I meant.

  Nik’s stare burned into me for a moment longer. “Sure, Kitty Kat. I know what you meant.” He turned and walked back into the kitchen. “I was hoping to crash here again—payment for a day’s work.” He opened the fridge, shook his head, then opened the freezer. “Pizza?”

  I watched him for a moment, gathering my scattered wits. “You don’t want to go back to Bainbridge, do you?”

  Bainbridge Island was the current territorial base of Clan Heru. Heru ruled over the entire Pacific Northwest, including Northern California from San Francisco up, extending all the way to Alaska. He owned the entire northern quarter of Bainbridge, where he, Lex, and their daughter, Jane, lived with several dozen other Nejerets. Nik’s mother, Aset, was among them. Hundreds of others passed through each year, as it was required for Nejerets from other clans to request permission and receive a license of passage or residency, depending on their intended length of stay in his territory.

  Nik was quiet for a few seconds, his head in the freezer and the rest of him unmoving. I took it as an opportunity to ogle a bit longer. “They don’t know I’m here,” he finally said.

  I blinked, surprised. “But you talked to your mom and—”

  “I didn’t tell her I was actually coming back here to help with the search.” He pulled two frozen pizzas from the freezer. “Just that I’d look into it.”

  “So nobody knows you’ve involved me, either?”

  He shrugged one shoulder, then turned on the oven. “Who’s to say the Senate’s not involved in the disappearances?” He tore into one of the boxes. “It’s better for us both if nobody knows I’m here.”

  “Except for me,” I said quietly.

  Nik looked at me, the tiniest smile curving his lips.

  My heartrate picked up, and I broke our stare, focusing instead on my empty glass. “You can stay.” I lifted one shoulder. “It’s only fair, with you filling in downstairs . . .”

  He grunted a thanks. “So what’ve you found?”

  “Hmmm?” About Dom. Right. “Oh, um, it looks like the missing Nejerets are linked to other disappearances. A bunch of homeless kids have vanished from the area as well.”

  “What that cop came to you about this morning?”

  “Garth, yeah.” I nodded and refreshed my inbox, using the computer screen as a way to avoid eye contact with Nik. “I’m just waiting for some files from him right now. Until I get those, I’m in a holding pattern . . .” I purposely didn’t tell Nik about Ouroboros. He was barely involved in this as is, aside from playing messenger, and I didn’t want to suck him in further. He still had people who would be devastated if he died, his mother, first and foremost. I respected Aset too much to get her only son killed. And then there was me . . .

  “No plans for the night, then?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “None that I’m aware of.” I laughed to myself. Really, did I ever have plans for the night? For any night?

  Nik hoisted himself up onto the counter, where he sat, boots dangling. “I could use a few touch-ups. We could trade . . .”

  Frowning, I nodded. As far as ideas went, it didn’t suck. Besides, I relished the chance to get a peek under his shirt—professional curiosity, of course. “Let’s eat,” I said, “then head down to my office.” I was already thinking about what I’d have him work on. I always had a gang of tattoos in the lineup. Unlike Nik, I didn’t just trace over my already-existing pieces, refreshing a static pattern. I liked to change it up. When one piece was faded enough, I just inked something new over the top.

  I laid off the bourbon while we ate, and by the time we’d polished off the pizza, I was sober as a stone. Some might see it as a perk, but the metabolism that comes hand in hand with Nejeret healing can be the most annoying of burdens. When we need to eat, we need to eat. If we don’t, our regenerative ability will turn off until it has enough energy to fuel it, and we start aging or losing weight—rapidly. It’s the only way I’ll ever look any older than my physical eighteen years, however temporarily. On the plus side, our metabolisms also enable us to process alcohol insanely quickly. I could be ass drunk one hour, dead sober the next.

  “Alright,” I asked Nik as he followed me into my private tattooing office. I flicked on the light switch on the wall, then turned on a secondary lamp. “What am I touching up first?”

  He tugged his shirt off over his head, and I stared without blinking. His entire torso was a mass of black and graying ink over taut skin and hard muscles. It was chaotic and beautiful and impossible to take in completely in just a few seconds. I licked my lips, swallowing roughly as my heart rate escalated once more. So maybe it hadn’t been the alcohol fueling my attraction to him upstairs. Clearly, I needed to get laid.

  Nik seemed oblivious to this round of gawking. “My left rib piece is probably the worst,” he said, lifting his arm and craning his neck to get a better look. “It’s nothing complicated—just a list of names.”

  “I can see that,” I said, leaning in close and
breathing softly. He smelled amazing—clean and fresh, with just a hint of something spicy and ancient that reminded me of the incense my mom used to peddle in this very shop. Aroused didn’t even come close to how I was feeling. “Only, um, a few of the names are in English.”

  Nik laid on his back on the narrow, padded bed. “Well, since English didn’t exist for most of my life . . .”

  “Right. That makes sense.” I turned away from him and started gathering up my tools, impressed by how tidily he’d worked in my space. “So, who are they? Or were they? People you cared about? Or people you killed?” I asked, projecting with that last guess. That was the list of names I’d ink into my own skin. It was a long list.

  “Something like that.” Nik’s voice sounded distant.

  “Sorry.” I set the ink and tattoo machine on a rolling table, along with a fresh needle and a few sanitizing wipes. “Didn’t mean to pry. So, why only black ink?” I’d never seen him with anything else.

  Nik laughed under his breath. “I tried color once, back in the forties—didn’t like the look of it as it faded.”

  I could relate. I only rarely incorporated color into my own tattoos, and even then, only as accents.

  “But I do have one piece that isn’t done in black ink,” Nik said, rolling onto his side.

  I sucked in a breath. “Holy shit . . .”

  Nearly his entire back, from his broad shoulders down to his trim waist, was a cascade of hieroglyphs done in some impossible iridescent ink. It shimmered in the light, making his skin look like it had been inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  “Is that—”

  “At?” he said. “Yeah. Made the ink myself.”