She’d chosen to embrace her hearth magic and become a kitchen witch, a choice that made my task more difficult but not impossible. Channeling her blood magic into the hearth magic with a unity ward would provide the desired results, but her dreams of becoming a doula would remain unfulfilled. Even with one of my wards, I’d advised her against it. I’d yet to have a ward fail, but after a lengthy conversation during our initial consult, I convinced Jennifer that the risk far outweighed the reward when it came to delivering babies.
I wouldn’t want that on my conscience, and neither would she.
After prepping the area on her back, I laid down the stencil and got to work. Jennifer was a Warder’s dream, quiet as a mouse and still as a statue. Without any forced small talk, I was able to lose myself in the work, which meant stronger bonds and cleaner lines. While I outlined the design, I wiped away the excess ink and blood from the tattoo site. I switched out my liner for the shader and prepared to fill in with black ink. My foot hit the power supply, the soft hum of the machine signaling we were about to begin again.
But the shakes started before I could. Needle poised to begin shading, my grip on the machine loosened as the first of the small tremors worked their way from the tips of my fingers up to my elbow. Something—or rather someone—had tripped the alarm.
“Someone’s here.” A countdown started in my head—a minute, maybe less. After setting the shader down, I did a quick wipe and bandage job on Jennifer’s back. “We have to go. Now.”
“What?” Jennifer pulled at her shirt, a small whimper escaping as the movement tugged at the tape surrounding the sensitive skin on her back. “The ward, it’s not finished.” Her eyes were wild, her voice filled with fear.
“I set the ward in the outline. The shading is just aesthetics.” I grabbed her jacket and purse and shoved them into her arms, then turned her toward the emergency exit. “Lars can fill it in at the shop after this blows over. Now get the fuck out of here.”
I didn’t have to tell her twice. Once she knew she wouldn’t be a freak among her own kind and no longer live in relative hiding, a new fear of the Magistrate had likely set in. The fear of getting caught with me was enough to light a fire under her ass and send her running like an Olympic sprinter toward the door.
Footsteps echoed, followed by the sound of something being knocked over and crashing to the floor. The Magistrate’s men busted through the back door and made their way from behind the lanes out onto the floor.
There was one thing left for me to do before I made my escape.
“Fire, fire, burning bright; block me from the Magistrate’s sight. Leave no trace for them to find; not on the ground, not in their mind.” With a snap of my fingers, I set off another spell that had been cast into the ink.
Witch Fire.
Designed to disappear once the ink was set to skin, the spell was one of Grim’s specialties and the number one reason why the Magistrate had yet to get their hands on yours truly. It had taken years for me to master it, and I’d only just started to store my own stock after running out of Grim’s. While still in the jars, the inks contained a spell that would turn them into an incendiary device, activated when one of the safety wards on the building were tripped. Lighter fluid and a match could have similar results, but that would be arson and left a chance that a piece of evidence could be discovered among the ashes. Witch Fire burned clean.
No trace of me, my client, or the fire.
The Magistrate and their goons probably knew it was Witch Fire. They’d have to be idiots not to, but they couldn’t prove anything. There was nothing left to connect me or anyone else to the scene.
Grim had trained us well. Lars and I took all the precautions, followed Grim’s advice, did everything exactly how he did it, and it worked.
For a while.
The sounds of footsteps and shouting grew louder—the henchmen were closing in. Snatching my liner and shader off the tray, I shoved them in my pack and hauled ass out the emergency exit.
Chapter Three
“I DON’T LIKE IT.” LARS set up his tray, prepping for his next appointment as I filled him in on the previous night’s events. “They’re getting too close. We need to reschedule some appointments. Lay low.”
“Grim would—”
“Grim’s not here, Del.” Lars spared me his tired lecture about unnecessary risks probably because he saw my pained expression at the curt reminder my mentor and the only family I’d ever known was gone.
The bell above the door chimed, interrupting our conversation.
“Did you run a Groupon and not tell me or something? I mean seriously—what the hell?” Still grumbling about the unusual number of walk-ins we’d had, I made my way up to the front desk to greet the customer.
Lars followed.
The moment the guy walked through the door I had a bad feeling.
“Can I help you?” I shifted my gaze to Lars for a quick confirmation he was picking up the same sketchy vibe, something he affirmed with a short nod. Hip cocked to one side, I leaned against the desk, doing my best to mimic Lars’s casual demeanor despite all sorts of warning bells going off in my head.
“I hope so. A friend gave me your card, told me you’re the best.” Dressed in a knee-length, black leather coat that coordinated with his dark hair, perfectly worn jeans, and boots, it was pretty obvious he was used to his good looks distracting people from noticing what he was.
But I wasn’t fooled so easily.
He was a witch, and his aura was all over the place. It flared from red to black with bursts of green. Being a Warder meant auras weren’t my specialty—I knew just enough to be dangerous, and what I knew told me the stranger was too. Fear, anger, death—all of it radiated from him like a flashing sign that read danger. The guy was trouble with a capital T.
“I appreciate the compliment, but I’m pretty booked up.” I offered an apologetic shrug. “I can put you on the waiting list if you want.”
Lars reached around the counter and pulled out an old spiral notebook—the waitlist. We booked who we wanted, when we wanted, which meant we didn’t really have a waiting list. We never bothered to digitize it, but it came in handy for circumstances like this, when having a guy’s name and number for more than a good time was a good idea.
“My contact info is on the back.” Tall, Dark, and Stranger slid my business card across the wooden counter.
The Warder’s mark emblazoned on the front flickered like static on the television—something that wouldn’t happen if the card was genuine. It did look like my business card though.
Once upon a time, when Grim first opened his on-location, after-hours tattoo business, he charmed some of his regular business cards with the Warder’s mark. If your intentions were true and you were a legitimate client, the mark appeared when you slid the card across the counter. Only a handful remained in existence, and all but two of them had made their way back into my possession after Grim died. Considering I knew who held the other two cards, there was no way this guy got hold of one. Even if he had, the way his aura flashed, the Warder’s mark wouldn’t have appeared.
“If you have any cancellations, just give me a call.” He hung around at the counter, like he was waiting for something else to happen. “I’ll clear my schedule.”
“Well, that’s typically how a waiting list works.” With a pen from the mason jar/pen cup, I jotted down the witch’s contact information on a new page and slid the card back to him.
“I....” The guy paused, seemingly at a loss for words. “It’s just, you know, the mark.”
“What mark?” We all knew damned well what mark, but I turned to look at Lars with my best confused face firmly in place.
“Not a clue,” Lars shrugged. “Listen, buddy. We’ve got your number, all right?”
Without another word, the guy walked out of the shop, his aura flaring red as the bell chimed and the door closed behind him. Lars and I waited, watching him get into his old Chevy truck and drive off.
>
“Subtlety isn’t your strong suit.” I slid the card he left behind back and forth across the counter, staring at the defective Warder’s mark. “We’ve got your number.” My attempt to mock Lars was half-hearted at best. “Now he knows we’re suspicious.”
“That was kind of the point.” Lars moved around to the front of the counter, staring me down. “So, like I was saying, you need to lay low for a while.”
“Lars, we’ve been through this before. They come snooping around, and we always—”
“No.” His tone was firm, and he had a serious look in his eyes I hadn’t seen since he broke the news about Grim. “No, Del. I made a promise to keep you safe. You’ve made it damn near impossible, taking too many risks, but this time I am putting my foot down. I’m rescheduling your appointments.”
“You are, are you?” Arms folded across my chest, I met his glare with one of my own.
“I’m in charge of your schedule.” His attitude shifted from dead serious to cocksure. “I’m the one who sets everything up. You can’t do it without me and you know it.”
The front door opened and closed without the jingle of a bell to signal someone’s arrival. I glanced at my watch, and both hands pointed at twelve. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. There was only one person it could be. Caught up in another of Lars’s lectures, we’d both lost track of time.
“If you have complaints about your work environment, young man, you should address them with the labor board and file a grievance.” The Magistrate Footman. He came every Tuesday at noon, like clockwork, to pick up the tithe. “There seems to be something wrong with your bell. You should have it repaired. You wouldn’t want someone to walk in unannounced.”
Yeah, like he did.
Lars stormed off to the back room to get the Magistrate’s tithe, a cut of the last week’s business. Ten percent off the top. We paid or the Magistrate came down on us. I hated what the Magistrate had become, but I wasn’t looking to take them on. That would be suicide. So, we paid our tithes, never missed a single payment.
When Lars came back, he had an overstuffed envelope in one hand, the other clenched in a fist. Ten percent off the top hurt. Running the shop had gotten more expensive over the years. Even Grim had begun feeling the pinch when the Magistrate raised the tithe from eight percent and there were three of us working then. Ten percent of our income went to the Magistrate, and Lars was none too happy about it. Knowing you were powerless to stop it... Well, that just made it worse.
“One more thing.” The Footman set a briefcase down on the counter and unlocked it. The latches sprung up with a click as he opened it to put the envelope inside. “We’ve received word there’s a Warder working in Providence. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“A Warder?” Lars looked at me, his face neutral, but I knew his tells. He was nervous. “In Providence? I thought they were extinct.”
“Yes, their numbers have dwindled, but we can’t ignore the tip. We have to look into it, and a tattoo studio seems a likely place to start. Don’t you agree?” The Footman turned his attention from Lars to me. He removed his fedora, revealing a bald head and no eyebrows, and set it on top of his briefcase before giving me the once-over.
“I guess so.” I stifled a shiver. The no eyebrows thing was creepy, even for a Footman. “But between you and me, if I had that kind of power, I wouldn’t be working in this shop tattooing mortals all day. You know what I mean?” With a wink and a smile, I aimed for levity but probably missed the mark.
“Yes, because you’d be dead.” The Footman smoothed the lapel of his black trench coat, then worked his hands down until they reached the belt around his waist and pulled it tighter. “You’ll call, of course, if you hear anything.” With a snap of his finger, he produced his business card and handed it to me, his blue eyes locked on mine.
“Of course. We’ll report any suspicious activity. Anything else would be—”
“Treason. Anything else would be treason. And we all know what happens to traitors.” The Footman fixed his hat back on his head, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out of the shop like any other Tuesday.
“Right. Treason.” Time seemed to slow down, the sound of my heart hammering away in my chest deafening me to everything else.
The door clicked shut behind the Footman. This time the bell rang, and time slammed back into place. I rushed forward, hands trembling as I flipped the sign in the window around to read Closed and locked the door.
“Treason.” Chest heaving, on the verge of hyperventilating, I turned around, the glass door the only thing holding me up.
“They’ve been close, Del, but never this close.” Lars came over and closed the blinds in the large front window.
“There’s a tattoo convention in Savannah. Maybe they still have a vendor booth available?” The words left a bitter taste in my mouth. Running wasn’t something I’d ever planned on doing.
Of course, dying wasn’t either.
“I’ll make some calls.” Lars whipped out his cell phone and moved into action. Within a matter of minutes, he had a vendor spot reserved, my hotel and flight booked, and my appointments rescheduled.
Lars was right. I couldn’t do any of this without him, but to avoid suspicion, he wasn’t coming with me. With the imminent threat gone, my heart rate and breathing returned to normal. If the nausea would also pass, I’d be right as rain. As it was, I managed to stay on my feet and keep the coffee and donuts I’d eaten for breakfast in my stomach where they belonged.
The shop and Providence were all I knew, all I had left of Grim. He’d left Something To ‘Ink About—and Lars, by default—to me. He was so sure I could take care of them.
His confidence had obviously been misplaced.
I screwed up, landed on the Magistrate’s radar, and was about to go on the lam. But I’d still be alive, and that was the one thing he’d made me promise, over and over again before showing me how to do my first ward.
“You got to know when to hold ‘em. Know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run.”
“Grim, that’s a Kenny Rogers song.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true. Promise me, Del.”
“I already did.”
“I want to hear you say it again. This time, be convincing.”
“If the Magistrate gets close or if I get into trouble, I run. I don’t play the hero. I keep myself alive. I promise, cross my heart.”
“I almost believe you, kid. Now, the secret to warding is in the ink....”
After we buried Grim, I worked twice as hard at the shop, with daytime and nighttime appointments to keep his business and memory alive. I’d been cocky and reckless, and managed to end up right where I’d promised him I wouldn’t be.
Chapter Four
DRESSED FOR THE WARMER climate awaiting me and not the bitter cold that held Providence in its grip until long after spring officially arrived, I scurried back inside. “The car’s all loaded up.”
“Guess that’s it, then. You better get on the road so you don’t hit traffic once you get into New York.” Lars leaned on the doorjamb, blocking the doorway, which given his size wasn’t unusual, but he was off, a little skittish. Neither of us were big on long goodbyes, but he seemed in a hurry to get rid of me.
“I thought we’d go over to Dunkin’, grab a coffee before I split.” After swinging my backpack around, I dug through the front pouch until I came up with the gift card Lars had put in my Christmas stocking. “My treat.” I bated him, waving the plastic card and wiggling my eyebrows. The haggard expression he wore softened a little and some of the tension in his hunched shoulders seemed to melt away. That’s when I knew I had him. Hook, line, and sinker.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s go.” He grabbed his leather jacket off the coat rack beside the office door and swooped out. Draping an arm over my shoulders, he steered me toward the back door.
Lars was strictly a Honey Dew man. He’d once shouted “Death before Dunkin�
�!” when I’d come in carrying two cups of coffee and half a dozen donuts. That was before he knew the coffee pot in the office was broken, but you get the idea.
“Ah-ha—I knew it.” Ducking out from under his arm, I moved to stand in front of the door. “Something’s up.”
“Nothing’s up. Why would something have to be up?” He twisted the ends of his mustache until he looked like one of those hipsters from the barber shop on the East Side. Fidgeting with his mustache and beard was Lars’s number one tell. “My only friend is leaving town for who knows how long. If she wants to treat me to a cup of bitter coffee to wash down my bitter tears, I’ll let her.”
An attempt to pluck at my heart strings wasn’t just the wrong play. It all but ensured I wasn’t getting into my car until I figured out just what the hell he was up to.
“You are so full of shit. Spill it, Lars, or so help me—”
A knock, followed by three more in rapid succession on the glass front door, stopped my interrogation before it even got started. After a pause, the knocking began again.
“Nothing’s up, huh?” I dodged right, managing to avoid being scooped into one of Lars’s infamous bear hugs, and slipped past him.
“Damn it, Del.” Lars stomped after me, still trying to get a hold on me. He was fast for a big guy but not fast enough. “Why can’t you just get in the car and get the hell out of here?”
I was at the door, hand on the lock, when he caught up to me.
“The sign says Closed. They can come back tomorrow.” He pressed a hand against the door, putting all his weight behind it.
“Who’s out there, Lars? What’s out there you don’t want me to see?” I turned the knob, unlocking the door and pulling on the handle with all my might. Lock or no lock, I wasn’t opening the door unless he wanted me to.
'Ink It Over: A Touch Of Ink Novel Page 2
