So many had died that day. I should have died. Would that have been justice after I had let Shaianna kill without mercy for so long?
It would seem, the restless gods weren’t yet done with me.
“Lookin’ pensive there, Master Vance. Might you do your broodin’ in the kitchen and help me whilst you’re there?” Molly leaned against the rail beside me, furiously wiping her hands on her apron. The salty air whipped her red locks about her face. She shoved them back with her fingers.
A smile lightened my lips. “I might.”
“Reckon we’s got ourselves a thief aboard. Made some fine spirits and brought them with me, I did. And yet they’ve a gone. Whisked away in the night, along with my hand mirror. You wouldn’t know nothin’ ’bout that?”
“Spirits?” I shrugged. “Had I the inclination to steal from you, Molly, I would be more interested in the silverware you stole from Fallford’s possessions.”
“T’was right.” She huffed and flicked her moppy curls of hair from her forehead. “He’d ’ave wanted me to ’ave it.” She saw my grin and scowled at me, as though by looks alone she could scold the grin off my face. “Cap’n Tassen says nobody really knows what befell the dragon. How it came to turn to stone. Is that what you think? Nobody knows?”
“Dearmad.”
“Was a dragon, no matter what’s you call it.”
I let my gaze wander back out over the endless sea. The morning light seemed softer here, but farther out, in the direction we sailed, the skies were laden with gray clouds.
“What is this world we’re in, where dragons and beasts can drive a people from their homes? It comes, with no reason, no warning, and turned to stone. Like them’s monsters in the spire.” She eyed me side-on, knowing I had secrets. Molly didn’t seem the sort to let secrets die.
“Monsters?” I asked, not quite succeeding in sounding suitably surprised.
“Hundreds of little disfigured creatures. Did yah not hear? They found them down there, ready to be sprung.”
“No, I stayed away—stayed at the harbor.”
Brea’s spire had become a monument to the thousands of lives lost—a reminder so we may never forget the past. But I couldn’t stand to look at it. Wherever I went in Brea, she had watched. It had taken a weak to clear the debris from the harbor. I’d focused on the repairs and then hopped aboard Tassen’s ship with just the dagger and a single gem in my pocket. Neither of which I would ever part with. I will remember.
Tassen hadn’t yet asked for payment, but he would. I’d find a way to pay him for passage, but first we had to land in Lanskewly. A new continent, new people, a new life.
“Well, I’m sure glad to be leaving.” Molly sniffed and nodded at her own conviction. “Too many ghosts in Brea.”
“I hear that.” I leaned on the rail, gave her a few moments to ask whatever was really on her mind, and then prompted, “Go on, say it. Whatever it is you want, ask it.”
“Did you kill him?”
I looked her in the eye and saw honest rawness there. Had I killed Fallford? I had bought Shaianna to his door, the same as I had to Agatha’s, and Calwyton, and, in the end, Brea. But I’d been played. I may not have been a good man, but I wasn’t a bad one either. I’d made mistakes, but I’d tried to put them right. “No, I didn’t kill Fallford.”
She glared back, reading every fine line, scar, and scratch on my face. She didn’t trust me, and I couldn’t blame her for that. “But you were part of all this. A big part.”
I had wondered if I hadn’t obeyed the sorceress in that alley, if she may never have become real and solid. If she had never been brought to life, thousands would still be alive today. But the truth would still be out there, hidden, buried—waiting to be found. I’d wondered over and over whether I could have stopped her sooner, just turned the dagger on myself in the beginning. But I wouldn’t have. I hadn’t yet become the man who could do such a thing. She’d taught me what it was to live, even if her lesson had been fleeting. There cannot be life without death.
Sometimes I cursed my selfish idiocy and wished I’d realized what fate had been trying to tell me, and other times I yearned to have her back, just for a few moments. I missed her like I missed a piece of myself I hadn’t known existed. And I feared what she had left me with—the tingling in my hand, over the scar, and the mark on my back. I had seen Anuska turn mage and suspected that same fate lurked in my future.
“Vance? You were part of this madness? Tassen tells me it’s not proper to ask. Says to leave you be. You helped it end though, didn’t you?”
I leaned my arms on the rail and closed my eyes. Sea spray dampened my face, cooling the healing cuts and grazes. “She was the true hero, not I. She lived with the horror of the truth inside her. She discovered what it means to live—to be alive—and she gave it up.”
I could still hear her laughter if I listened hard enough. Opening my eyes, I watched sunlight sparkle on the rippling ocean waves.
“Where is she now?”
I couldn’t help the crooked smile that tugged on my lips. “Forever watching over Brea.” I pushed off the rail and swept my arm around Molly’s narrow shoulders. “Come, let us see if we might find the light-fingered thief you speak of.”
She shrugged off my teasing embrace. “I’ll have those light fingers of his and wear them as a necklace.”
I didn’t doubt it. “Tassen might have a few things to say about his cook wearing severed fingers.”
“That captain has a lot to say.” She huffed, stomping across the deck. “Not much of it be useful.”
I laughed and cast one last glance out to sea. I heard the whisper in the wind, saw the rise of ocean waves, and wondered about the stirring below still waters. I would never forget the good in Shaianna. The laughing woman, the sorceress, the assassin, the woman with many names. So much more than shadow and dust, she would live on in my memories, and that would surely be enough.
For now.
The End
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Pixi Poison
Lee Dignam & Katerina Martinez
Pixi Poison © 2017, Lee Dignam & Katerina Martinez
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All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Pixi Poison
On the cold streets of Ashwood, a vampire and a werewolf do battle. Hope hangs in the balance.
Pixi Poison lives on a border territory between vampires and werewolves, acting as a peacekeeper and ambassador between both species. But when a pack of werewolves comes crashing into her turf, insulting her authority, it sparks a conflict that sees Pixi chasing the respect she believes she deserves from people who see her as an outsider.
If she is to get what she wants from the people she believes she belongs with, she’s going to have to learn a tou
gh lesson she may not be able to accept.
Get ready to read a dark, gritty, violent story, but be warned—this is explicit, vulgar, and not for those looking for a light, casual read.
Chapter One
The tattoo machine buzzed like a fat, winged insect. There was no mistaking it for what it was; a vibrating brick with a needle on it. But in Pixi Poison’s hand, this monstrosity became an instrument of artistry the likes of which weren’t common in the Crow Heights Projects of Ashwood. She shifted in her squeaky, rolling stool and arched her head to examine her work, pulling Fang away from Darryl’s large, square back and wiping the skin down with a damp paper towel.
She stared at the dark, detailed landscape shot of the Ashwood skyline, a crescent moon rising up from behind the Venture Tower, and decided the moon needed more work. Darryl didn’t flinch when she put the needle down on his already inflamed skin again. The man was a beast. Four hours he’d been sitting on the chair, leaning his chest against the backrest.
Overhead, a train rumbled by, causing the small tattoo parlor to shake on its foundations. Carefully stacked bottles rattled on the shelves, and the windowed door separating the tattoo room from the small waiting area trembled on its hinges. If this had been any other place, paint or dust may have fallen from the ceiling. But not here. Pixi made sure of that.
When the rumbling stopped, Darryl asked, “Gets annoying, doesn’t it?”
“Used to,” Pixi said, “I don’t much mind it anymore.”
“Can get used to most anything these days.”
Pixi added a little shading to the moon, bringing it to life on Darryl’s dark skin. Tattooing the inside of a bullet wound scar wasn’t easy, but it made for a great natural, texturized crater; just the right size and depth.
“You got kids?” she asked.
“Three.”
“What are their names?”
“Samarah, Yasmin, and Shemar.”
“Nice names.”
“They’re nice kids.”
“Wife?”
Darryl nodded. “In prison.”
Again, Pixi arched her head to inspect her work. She ran another paper towel down his back to wipe away the excess ink. His skin glistened, making the city skyline seem to almost sparkle. Before she got to work finishing off the lettering on the back piece, her eyes caught the time on her laptop. 1am. It was well past the witching hour and he was here, getting a tattoo instead of sleeping with a gun under his pillow and a baseball bat leaning next to his nightstand.
“That’s a shame. Who’s watching the kids?” she asked.
“My brother.”
“Who’s watching your brother?”
Darryl turned his head around to try and catch Pixi’s eye but, she planted her gloved palm on his ropy shoulder and shoved him back against the chair. “Keep still,” she said.
“What’s with all the questions?” he said, in a tone suggesting she had asked one too many.
“Just being friendly.”
Her nose detected the hint of blood in the air before her eyes did. There was a trickle of it on his back, tracing a jagged, crimson line across the cityscape. She must have nicked him with the needle when he turned around. Pixi’s jaw began to throb dully, and a sharp, fine pain stuck her right temple. She licked her lips and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to press he tongue against his skin and lick the blood clean. He wouldn’t notice.
He also wouldn’t notice if she sank her fangs into his collar and drank deeply from his veins, but he’d been sitting here for four hours already. She didn’t doubt his constitution would hold for another four hours if it had to, but it wouldn’t survive her drinking from him, and then she’d have to carry his unconscious ass back to his place.
Good luck explaining that one to his brother and kids.
“I think we should call it,” she said. “Just gotta finish the lettering, maybe a couple little details, but you’ve gotta get out of here.”
“You can finish,” he said.
“Nah, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Pixi ignored him, shut the tattoo machine off, wiped Darryl’s back clean again, and rubbed petroleum jelly into the inflamed skin. When she was done, she removed her black, latex gloves, tossed them in the trash, and cracked her neck and her knuckles, shaking the stiffness off. Her joints wouldn’t have been stiff if she had gone for a drink before opening the shop, but she’d woken up later than normal tonight and hadn’t wanted to be late for her only client, and she was the kind of vampire who didn’t drink every night.
It kept her focus sharp and deadly.
Darryl stood up for the first time in four hours and stretched, his back clicking loudly a number of times. He approached the tall mirror and turned his torso around to check out his new tattoo. She had highlighted windows, peaks, and the moon using lighter ink which would stand in stark contrast against the deep brown of Darryl’s skin, but this wasn’t the only tattoo on him. Among others, a large skull grinned from his shoulder. Beneath the skull were the names of his children in a cursive script. Sitting between his pectorals was a large, ornate crucifix, with Christ stretched on it staring longingly at the floor.
The letters RRR sat curved along the base of his neck. They stood for respect, reputation, revenge; code among gang members.
She caught herself in the mirror’s surface— her skin was starting to take on a grey from her lack of feeding. It was something that was only noticeable to her, but give it another night or so and people would start to ask unwanted questions. She had narrow, angular features to her face and her black hair, streaked through with bright purple dye, was caught up in a high ponytail which allowed it to stay out of her face whilst she worked. If it weren’t for her long legs, she really would look like a pixie next to this freight-train of a man.
“Come back to finish it tomorrow,” Pixi said.
“Why couldn’t you finish it tonight?” he asked.
“Because I got someplace to be, and you’ve gotta be with your kids.”
Truth was, Pixi didn’t trust herself around him. She had smelled blood, had seen it, and now it was all she could think about; an itch she couldn’t scratch. If he didn’t leave, and she lost control, his six feet of tough muscle wouldn’t save him from meeting the reaper and then those kids would be left without a dad.
In the Heights, that was a death-sentence for most kids.
She stood from her stool and started cleaning down her workspace. Darryl approached with a wad of notes; four hundred dollars in tens, fives, and previously crumpled up ones that in their lifetimes had probably been stuffed in more than one G-string. Though not by his hand. He didn’t seem the type.
Pixi stared at the money, then back at Darryl. “Keep it,” she said.
“Naw, man, take it.”
“Keep it. Buy your kids food and toys or some shit, okay?”
“You sure?”
I’m undead—what do I need money for? Rent. Bribes. Weapons. Vehicles. Stuff. All these things came to mind, but the one thing that didn’t was food, and learning he had three kids to feed had tugged on her heartstrings. Especially since she had almost taken payment of a different kind from him.
Pixi pushed his hand away. “Owe me a favor instead.”
Darryl nodded. “Alright,” he said, “A favor.” He waited until Pixi tacked a strip of cellophane to his back. Then he put his shirt on and slipped a puffy jacket over his shoulders. “Peace out, Pix,” he said.
“You too,” she said.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
She gave him a smile, because it was the human thing to do. “Can’t wait to finish it.”
He left, and the front door jingled as he opened and closed it. Pixi turned to her tools again and finished cleaning them, throwing the tattoo gun into the sterilizer she had bought second hand from a dentist who had lost his license and packing the ink bottles back into their corresponding boxes. When she was done packing, she pulled the plastic sheet off the chair Darry
l had been sitting on, grabbed disinfectant spray, and sprayed every surface anyone had touched.
The building rumbled again as she was cleaning. This time, the lights flickered lightly. Picture frames on the walls, with Pixi’s various certificates of health and sanitation in them, rattled on their hooks. A bottle of black ink slipped off one of the shelves and fell on a table. She picked it up and put it back on the shelf next to the other ink bottles.
The train passed, the rumbling stopped, and Pixi shut her laptop down before locking the door to the back studio and heading for the front door. She spotted Darryl outside, crossing the street with his hoody up, rushing to get home to his family. Hopefully she’d see him again tomorrow. Out in Crow’s Heights, you just didn’t know.
She stepped into the cold, frigid night and dropped the metal shutters that would protect her place of work from at least the casual burglars. Then she turned into the street and looked up into the dark, overcast sky. The full moon peeked out between gaps in the clouds. It would rain again tonight. More than once. That meant the best bet for her to find someone to drink from would be at a dive bar; the last place she wanted to go to. The worst part was, even at a busted old watering hole like Jimmy’s, one of the only places she would even consider hunting in at this hour, pickings would be slim.
It was late.
Another grumbling, screeching train caught her attention when she came upon a crossing at the end of the block. She looked up as she walked, catching the way sparks illuminated the train’s undercarriage in showers of blue and white. There would be people in there; anxious people waiting to get home, and dangerous people looking to make a buck at someone else’s expense.
Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 69
