Ink Witch (Kat Dubois Chronicles Book 1)

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  Garth sprang up from behind his desk near the back of the room and hustled to the window, slamming his hand over mine to stop the dinging.

  He looked at me and blinked several times, then his lips spread into an unsure grin. “I almost didn’t recognize you like that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Are you going to let me in, or what?” I asked, gesturing to the locked door with my chin.

  Garth released my hand and let me in. I followed him back to his desk.

  “Gah . . .” I dragged a rolly chair over from the desk in front of his and plopped down. “I hate every single thing that I’m wearing.”

  “You look nice,” Garth said, sitting at his desk and typing on his laptop. He clicked his mouse a few times, then settled back in his chair with his arms crossed over his broad chest. “So to what do I owe this visit?”

  Resting my forearm across the corner of his desk, I leaned in and locked eyes with him. “Where are the files?” I sat back. “I can’t do my part until you do yours . . .”

  He frowned and reached for his mouse, pulling up a new window on his computer. “I sent them to you an hour ago.” He looked at me. “You didn’t get them?” He went back to scanning the screen. “The combined file size was pretty large, but it doesn’t look like it bounced back.”

  I exhaled heavily and pulled my phone from my coat pocket. Sure enough, there was an email from the SPD. There was also a string of texts from Nik and one from Mari telling me the supposed location of her off-the-books shipment—Harbor Island. “No, no,” I told Garth, pocketing my phone. “It’s my fault. I just haven’t checked my phone in a bit.” I started combing my fingers through my hair, forgetting I’d pulled it back in a rare bun, and ended up pulling a few chunks free. “Damn it,” I grumbled, taking down the whole thing.

  “Everything alright?” Garth asked, a little wary.

  “Yes,” I snapped, then sighed. “No.” I shook my head, laughing under my breath. Damn you, Nik . . . “Everything’s really not alright.” For whatever reason, he’d always been able to get under my skin, and his admonitions had cut pretty deep.

  “Well . . .” Garth turned his wrist over to check his watch. “I had an early shift today. I was technically done thirty minutes ago, so if you want to head down to the Goose and grab a beer . . . ?”

  I perked up. “Dear God, yes.” I stood and looked down at him, still seated in his desk chair. “Are you ready?”

  He chuckled. “Just give me a minute, alright?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Feel free to grab a coffee while you wait.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “I think there might still be a few donuts back there, too.”

  I was already on my way.

  Again, he chuckled. That deep, softly rumbling sound—and the fact that I’d caused it—eased my chip, just a bit.

  As I took a bite of apple fritter, I realized something truly terrifying. I liked Garth. Like, he was a cool dude. He was interesting, and he cared about missing street kids—the kind most people considered pests and wanted to get rid of. He was a genuine good guy. And he was a fragile, short-lived human. A surefire path to heartbreak and devastation.

  But I still wanted to grab a beer with him, despite knowing I shouldn’t. Knowing I was asking for trouble. Nik was being an overprotective dick, I was sad and pissed, and Garth was being nice to me. It was a rare thing for me. A dangerous thing.

  “Ready?” Garth asked, hand on my shoulder.

  I jumped and turned around, half-eaten fritter to my chest.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” He smiled, causing little crinkles at the corners of his coffee-brown eyes.

  “S’okay,” I said around a mouthful of donut.

  He chuckled again, and I wanted to punch myself for thinking it was cute. I mean, this guy was at least ten years my junior. But then, I was getting to the age where hooking up with anyone my own age was pretty creepy, considering that I looked like I’d barely graduated from high school. It was getting harder and harder to shake the pedophile ick factor with anyone who didn’t make me feel like Mrs. Robinson.

  “You swear you’re over twenty-one?” Garth asked me, eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to get suspended for drinking with a minor using a fake ID.”

  I snorted, amused that his train of thought hadn’t been far off from mine. “Trust me, bud. I’m good.”

  9

  I drink too much. I know it, but it’s hard to say no to the blissful numbness the bottle provides when I’m guaranteed to have zero side effects, at least health-wise. It’s my favorite medicine, and for a good long while, it’s been the only way I’m able to let my guard down enough to sleep with someone. Sometimes, it’s the only way I can fall asleep. If only the dreams didn’t kick in when the booze wore off. I’d probably smoke cigarettes, too, if they didn’t make my hair smell like an ashtray and inspire me to spend half my day in the shower or brushing my teeth. Trust me, I’d tried.

  “So,” Garth said, watching me knock back my fourth shot of tequila, “bad day?” We’d been at the bar for maybe ten minutes. From the look on Garth’s face, I was impressing the hell out of him with my gusto. Or was that shock? We’d grabbed street tacos from the food truck out front, and the Mexican food had inspired me to stick with a theme—tequila and Coronas. Oh yeah, did I mention I was sipping on a beer as well? Garth was being a smart human and sticking to beer alone.

  I laughed bitterly, then took a bite of one of my tacos—shredded pork belly with cilantro-lime slaw, hot-hot salsa, and extra guac. Better than a frozen pizza, that’s for damn sure. “I’d tell you just how bad,” I said after swallowing. I glanced at him sidelong. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

  Garth laughed.

  I eyed him as I took another bite. He thought I was joking. That’s adorable.

  “I’m going to hit the head,” Garth said, standing from his stool. “Be right back.”

  As he made his way to the back of the room, I caught the bartender’s eye at the far end of the bar—it was a different one from the chick who’d been serving us—and pointed to my empty shot glass. I watched him refill it, grabbing the bottle before he could take it away. “Just leave it,” I said, looking into his Caribbean-blue eyes. His Nejeret eyes.

  Not even an ounce of shock shone on his ageless face. A handsome face, even with that cruel twist to his mouth and the challenge glinting in his aqua eyes. Or maybe because of those things. Regardless, it was an unfamiliar face as well. This Nejeret wasn’t part of Clan Heru.

  “I haven’t seen you around before.” My lips spread into a slow grin. “Does Heru know you’re working in his territory?”

  He released the bottle but didn’t answer.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  With a blink, he was looking at me again. He nodded. “Rogue Hunter.” It had been my title back when I’d been working as one of the Senate’s pet assassins, chowing down on revenge with a side of hefty paycheck.

  My smile widened to a grin. “Does Heru know you’re here?” I repeated. “Show me your papers.” Though the Senate’s way of tracking and regulating Nejerets was easily forgeable, at least it would give me this one’s name. Of course, even if he had residency papers granting him permission to work and live here, there was no way for me to verify their authenticity without calling up Heru himself. And that wasn’t going to happen. I was out. Done. He was still involved in Senate shit, and I wanted no part of that.

  Besides, they were all better off without me.

  “Don’t have any,” the bartending Nejeret said.

  My eyes narrowed.

  “Don’t need them. I work for the Senate.”

  I scoffed. “Why would they station anyone on Cap Hill? I’m the only one who lives—” My eyes widened, and my lips parted as realization struck. He was here to keep an eye on me, the wild card. The loose cannon. The ex-assassin with too much time on her hands.

  That cruel twist to his mouth broadened to a sly grin, and damn my neglected li
bido to hell if I wasn’t equal parts turned on and pissed. How long had he been spying on me? And why? Just to make sure I didn’t turn on the Senate themselves? Did he know I was investigating Ouroboros? Or the missing Nejerets? What about the street kids? Did he know that Nik was in town, staying with me? Nik hadn’t wanted the Senate to know either of us were involved in the case—because he didn’t trust that they weren’t involved on the other end.

  What if Nik was right? What would that mean for Mari? What if the Senators who’d sent her to Ouroboros were really involved in some sort of a hidden faction—a shadow Senate?

  My blood chilled as I continued to stare into the Nejeret’s eyes. Without warning, he plucked the bottle from my loose grip and replaced it on the counter behind him, swapping it out for a two-thirds-full bottle of Grand Centenario from the second-to-top shelf. He set the new bottle on the bar, met my eyes, and said, “On the house.”

  I uncorked the bottle, filled two shot glasses, and offered one to him, my not-so-sneaky way of checking if he’d spiked it with something. He clinked his glass against mine and tossed back the shot. I did the same. “Don’t think this gets me off your back,” I said, throat burning. I took a swig of my beer. “We will have a little chat. I want answers.” I flicked the bottle with a fingernail. “But this’ll buy you an hour or two.”

  He picked up my empty shot glasses, leaving only one behind, locked eyes with me, and licked his lips, that wicked grin returning. “I look forward to it.”

  My belly gave a little tingly flutter, and I crossed my legs on the stool. Now I was looking forward to our chat, too, and not for the words that would be exchanged. I cleared my throat, averted my gaze, and nodded to Garth, who was just returning from the bathroom. “Grab my friend another beer.” As an afterthought, I added, “Please.”

  “You got it,” the Nejeret bartender said and turned to fill a pint glass at the tap. He set it on the counter, then retreated to the other end of the bar.

  “So . . .” Garth sat and took a swig of beer, draining his first pint glass and sliding it out of the way. “What was that all about?”

  I held my finger up to my lips. “Shhh . . .” Reaching for the tequila bottle, I leaned closer to Garth and whispered. “He’s got really good hearing, you know, because he’s like me.” I filled the shot glass, emptied it, and filled it again, then met Garth’s dubious gaze. “A witch.”

  His eyes didn’t widen, and he didn’t laugh. Instead, he leaned in a little and spoke so quietly that I wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the classic rock blaring throughout the bar without my Nejeret senses. “I know what you are . . . Nejeret.”

  Shit. Balls. If he shared even that name with the wrong person—if the wrong person overheard him and reported it to the Senate—they wouldn’t hesitate in issuing a kill order, and whoever had taken my and Mari’s places would hunt down Garth and silence him, for good.

  “I have to go,” I said, hopping off my barstool. I couldn’t ever see him again; it would only put him in danger. I slapped a wad of cash on the bar and made a beeline for the door.

  Garth’s hand closed around my arm. “Kat, wait . . .”

  I twisted my arm, yanking it free. “Stay away from me, Garth, and keep that word to yourself. Trust me, it’s better for your health,” I said, before turning and stalking out of the bar.

  10

  “Hey! Ink Witch!”

  I stopped in my tracks, barely a dozen steps out of the bar, and spun around to glare at the Nejeret bartender. “What?” I snapped. I really hated that nickname.

  The Nejeret’s wicked grin was back, as was the challenging glint in his cerulean eyes. “What about our chat?” he said as he strode my way.

  Frustrated and irritated after that little scene with Garth, I turned and continued down the sidewalk.

  His quick footsteps told me he was jogging to catch up. He planted his hand on the brick wall in front of me just before the corner of the building, intending to block my retreat, but I ducked under his arm, barely missing a step. His next move was to grab my arm, just as Garth had, and pull me a few steps into the alley between the bar and the salon in the next building over.

  I froze, giving his hand a pointed look, then raising my gaze to meet his. “I’m not in the mood to chat anymore.”

  He stepped closer and stared down at me, interest lighting his eyes. “Then what are you in the mood for?”

  With the adrenaline pumping through my veins, making my heart race and exaggerating the rise and fall of my chest, I was itching for a fight. Or a fuck. Either would do. I stood on tiptoes and brought my lips nearer to his ear. “I don’t think you can handle what I’m in the mood for.” I dropped my heels, locking eyes with his.

  The corner of his mouth lifted, exaggerating that cruel twist to his lips. “Try me.”

  I tilted up my chin just a fraction of an inch, and in the next heartbeat, his lips were on mine and my back was against the brick wall. His lips were soft, but his tongue was greedy and his rough stubble scratched my face. He tasted like tequila, mint, and just a hint of cigarettes. There was nothing gentle about him or his kiss—it was rough, cruel, and just a little painful when he bit my lip. It was exactly what I’d needed.

  One of his hands tangled in my loose hair, yanking my head back even as he deepened the kiss. His other hand glided up my rib cage under my shirt, shoving my bra up and out of the way. He palmed my right breast, pinching the nipple between two fingers. When he twisted it just a tad too far, I arched my back and whimpered from the intoxicating mixture of pleasure and pain.

  His leg slipped between mine, and my hips rocked against him, creating a blissful friction.

  Someone gasped, a kid giggled, and a woman said, “Disgusting!”

  The bartender—I still didn’t know his name—broke the kiss, leaving me breathless and blocking my view of the alley mouth and whoever we’d disturbed with our little show. “I’m renting a place upstairs,” he said into my hair. “Want to—”

  I nodded.

  He grabbed my hand and practically dragged me to a metal door further down the alleyway. He fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, then pulled me in through the doorway to a dingy stairwell that smelled faintly of mildew. We never made it any further than that.

  He unbuttoned my jeans and yanked them down without bothering with the zipper, then spun me around and, hands on my wrists, placed my palms on the smudged wall. His fingers slipped into the front of my underwear, and I dropped my head as he deftly found my most sensitive place. Damn, but this was exactly what I needed. No frills. No strings. No emotions. I craved a momentary reprieve from the insanity dragging me back into a world I’d extricated myself from years ago.

  I could hear the clink-clink of metal on metal, then the sound of a zipper. A second later, the bartender pushed down my underwear, his other hand moving from between my legs to curl around the front of my neck, and the hard length of him slid between my thighs. He kicked my feet apart, spreading my legs as wide as my jeans would allow, and I arched my back, offering him a better angle. It did the trick. He slid into me in one rough motion.

  “Oh fuck,” he breathed.

  I gasped at the pressure, at the relief, and rested my forehead against the wall.

  “Do you know what it’s like?” he asked, pulling out and slamming back into me. “Watching you on the nights you go home with someone?”

  “Pervert,” I said, grunting when he moved his hips in that jerky motion again. A slow burn thrummed to life in my belly, stoking hotter with each of his thrusts.

  He leaned into me, pressing his chest against my back and curling his arm around my middle. His hand dipped lower, and I gasped when he pinched that swollen bundle of nerve endings. “I wondered . . . what it would feel like . . . to be them . . . to be inside you . . . fucking you.”

  “Well now”—an inferno roared low in my belly, seeking a way out—“you know.” I ground against his fingers as the pressure built to blissful he
ights within me.

  “You’re a little whore . . . aren’t you?” His breath was hot against my cheek. “A dangerous little whore.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out his words even as I reached for sweet release.

  His fingers stilled, and his thrusting slowed.

  “No,” I whispered. I was so close. So very close.

  “Open your eyes, Kat,” he said. “Look at me. Look at me and tell me you’re a little whore, and I’ll let you come.”

  I gritted my teeth, reaching for that glittering bliss, but he knew exactly what he was doing. He moved just slow enough to keep me on the edge—to hold me on the cusp of orgasm without letting me topple over the edge.

  “Look at me, Kat. Tell me what you are.”

  I opened my eyes and glared at him. I was desperate for that moment of ecstasy. But my pride was non-negotiable. “Fuck you.”

  “I think you’re already doing that, sweetheart.” His breath was hot and sticky against my cheek, and I wanted nothing more than to have his hands off me. His mouth away from me. His dick anywhere but where it was right now.

  “Not anymore,” I said a moment before I jerked my head back, enjoying the crunch of his nose smashing against the back of my skull. It was almost as satisfying as sexual release. Almost, and maybe just a little bit more.

  His hands flew to his face and I yanked up my jeans as I spun around, kneeing him in the groin, then raising my boot to kick him against the other side of the stairwell. “Fucking bitch,” he said through a groan, blood seeping down his chin beneath his hands.

  “Maybe,” I said, pushing the stairwell door open. I stood in the doorway and glared at him. “But I’m nobody’s whore.” I walked out into the alleyway, donkey-kicking the door shut behind me. Guess it was a fight I was looking for after all.

  ***

  I jogged the five blocks to my shop, disgust and regret a lump of lead in my stomach. I never should’ve let that shithead Senate Nejeret put his hands on me in the first place. I slowed to a walk when my boot touched my native curb. I couldn’t wait to get out of my clothes and back into something normal. Something clean. Something that didn’t smell like him.