by Mark Carver
INDELIBLE
by Mark Carver
Books by Mark Carver:
THE AGE OF APOLLYON
BLACK SUN
SCORN
INDELIBLE
CYN
BEAST (with Michael Anatra) – coming Fall 2015
THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES (short story series)
COLONY ZERO (multi-author short story series)
INDELIBLE
Copyright 2014 Mark Carver. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, places, locations, and corporate entities are either
the product of the writer’s imagination or are used in a satirical and/or non-literal
manner. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Aaron Morenz, my brother-in-ink.
I would like to thank Brian Barnes, Peter Bridgens, Vicki Sampson, James Foster, Roy Giles, and Steve Michaud for their valuable input on what life is like with facial tattoos.
And special thanks to my old college roommate Hilton Howard Hobby III for letting me use his handsome mug on the cover of this book.
CHAPTER 1
The book smacked onto the table next to Toby’s plate.
“Crap. Pure, utter crap.”
Toby looked up from his filet mignon and smirked. “So you liked it?”
Cameron snorted as he collapsed in the chair across the table. “It was like Martin, Rothfuss, and Rowling had some kind of sado-masochistic orgy together.”
Toby paused mid-bite, then dropped his fork in exaggerated disgust.
“Thanks for that image. You just ruined a sixty dollar steak for me.”
“Come on, man.” Cameron leaned forward and gestured towards the book. “You can’t tell me that thing was good. I mean, how does garbage like that get printed?”
“I don’t know,” Toby answered, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “I didn’t read it.”
“What?”
“I only read biographies. Lincoln, Gandhi, Whitney Houston. I thought I told you that before.”
Cameron shrugged.
“Besides,” Toby said as he tapped the book with his finger, “it’s garbage like this that pays your rent.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Cameron sounded like a despondent teenager. He looked like one with the way he slumped in his chair.
Toby licked his teeth for a moment, then decided to break the news.
“And you’re about to get a whole lot of rent money, because the studio just greenlit the movie adaptation.”
Cameron’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding? For that?”
He pointed at the massive book like it was a defendant on trial.
“Yep,” Toby nodded, “and they want you to design the Ravenblade.”
“You mean that wimpy dagger he uses at the end to kill the witch?”
Toby nodded again. “But it’s your job to make it not so wimpy, and watch the money roll in as the fanboys duke it out on the nerd forums about whether or not the movie version matches what’s in the story.”
“Man, I don’t know,” Cameron groaned.
“Sure you do. You’re one hot tamale, my friend, after you made that twisty, corkscrew double-bladed sword for that movie with What’s-his-face in it. That thing still sells out at all the conventions.”
Toby noticed a small smile pulling at the corners of Cameron’s mouth, and the hustler spark inside him caught fire. No one is immune to flattery.
“And with this one,” he continued, “you can go nuts. You’ve got the rep; you can take liberties that other designers can’t. You can’t make it a huge broadsword or anything, but you can make it the most wicked dagger anyone’s ever seen. And I know you can do it. You got skills, son.”
Cameron stared vacantly at the white tablecloth covering the table.
“Listen, my friend,” Toby said with a serious tone, “I came to you with this because I like you, and I think you’ve got what it takes. You’re a rising star, but you’ve got to be smart about it. This business is brutal, and the people who make it happen don’t wait.”
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled heavily.
“And you know, if you really don’t want it, I’ll have to look at other options. Say, perhaps, Sha – "
“All right,” Cameron blurted, “I’ll do it. But only because it’s you doing the asking.”
He pointed at Toby. “And if I take a hit because the movie sucks, I’m going to poison your koi fish.”
Toby tossed his napkin over the barely-eaten steak and rose to his feet.
“Don’t worry, my man. Either way, you’ll be making a nice stack of paper on this.”
Cameron stood up, and Toby reached out to give him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Cameron winced, and Toby frowned in surprise.
“You getting soft there, buddy? I barely touched you.”
Cameron shook his head. “I got a new one yesterday.”
Toby’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Come on, let’s see it.”
“Here? This is a classy place.”
“Yeah, I’m surprised they even let you in the door.”
Cameron snorted again and rolled up his right shirt sleeve. Toby nodded with approval as he studied the ornate Japanese dragon tattoo.
“Not bad.”
“Hurt like a mother, though,” Cameron said as he pulled the sleeve back down.
“What’s that, three now?”
Cameron nodded.
“You better be careful,” Toby said with a wag of his finger. “Don’t go to any of those sketchy places. You know what happened to Tommy Lee.”
“He became a douchebag?”
“Yeah, a douchebag with Hep C.”
Cameron shrugged into his denim jacket. “Come on man, I make weapons for a living. It’s good for my image.”
“The tattoos or hepatitis?”
Cameron chuckled. “See you later.”
“Stay cool, bro.”
Toby waved for the waitress to bring him the check and Cameron headed for the exit. He stepped out into the bright California sunshine and for a moment, he forgot about everything.
****
The drive back out to South Pasadena took thirty minutes longer than coming in to LA because of the noontime traffic. Cameron had hoped that by some stroke of luck the Pasadena Freeway would be clear, but of course it wasn’t, and the glare from the sun and the symphony of car horns only added to his irritation.
He fumbled with the radio dial, trying to find something that would fit his mood and make him feel better at the same time, but all he found was gangsta rap, country music, and right vs. left talk show hysterics. He flicked off the radio and ran his fingers through his hair. He stared at the chain of red lights in front of him, and for some reason, a thought popped into his head.
What if I could make a blade out of red metal?
No, that wouldn’t work. Blades are supposed to be silver, or gold if the storyline called for it. They’re not lollipops.
An angry horn sounded behind him and he jumped.
“I’m going, I’m going!” He glared at the driver in the rear view mirror as he crept forward.
You’re lucky I don't have my Wrathskull battle axe with me, prick…
After an agonizing forty-five minutes, he extracted his car from the freeway traffic and took the off-ramp to South Pasadena. He heard Conan baying with excitement inside the house as he pulled into the driveway. He’d only been gone for four hours, but in dog hours, that was more than a day.
Cameron grabbed the mail from the mailbox and jogged up the driveway to the front porch. As he sifted through his keys, he glanced towards the house next door.
Mrs. Goldstein’s geraniums were dead. If there was anything in this world that Mrs. G
oldstein cared about, it was her precious flowers. Sometimes she would talk to them like children.
Cameron heard the door open. It wasn’t Mrs. Goldstein. It was a young woman in her late-twenties. Cute and bouncy, like a former cheerleader. She was wearing a blue and yellow jogging outfit that looked like it had been painted on her body.
Cameron watched her, puzzled and intrigued. The woman glanced at him and threw him a polite smile as she sprinted down the driveway and jogged down the street.
Cameron raised his eyebrows as he looked at his keys. His face felt warm.
Mrs. Goldstein has a daughter? How come she’s never been here before?
Conan’s howling was becoming more impatient.
“Okay, buddy,” Cameron called as he slipped the key into the lock. “Hey, big man,” he said as he stepped into the house.
Conan ambled up to him as if he just realized that Cameron had returned. Cameron had heard something about canine Alzheimer’s somewhere, and for a thirteen-year-old beagle, Conan was definitely pushing his luck.
The dog nuzzled his leg and Cameron bent down to scratch behind his ears.
“Come on buddy, I’m always coming back. Haven’t you learned that by now?”
He stood up and dropped his keys into the lobotomized metal skull that sat on a shelf next to the door. Like a butler satisfied that his master had returned safe and sound, Conan shuffled off towards the kitchen.
Cameron started to follow him, but he stopped. He sniffed once and his face twisted with disgust.
“Conan!” he cried, batting the air with his hand. “Not cool, buddy!”
Conan looked back at him with a bored expression, then continued on his way. Cameron rushed past him, eager to find some clear air. He dropped the bundle of mail onto the slate countertop and opened the fridge, snatching up a bottle of Cheez-Whiz and a pack of Ritz crackers. In thirty seconds, he wolfed down five cheese-smothered crackers. Conan watched him like a disapproving mother.
Cameron washed down the crumbs and salt with several gulps of orange soda, then turned his attention to the mail.
Convention invitation, pre-approved credit card offer, cell phone bill, convention invitation, monthly newsletter from Metalworkers United.
Cameron tossed the envelopes onto the counter with disinterest.
“Hungry?” he asked the beagle, who answered by simply walking towards his empty food bowl and plopping down next to it.
A few minutes later, he was happily stuffing his muzzle with Tasty Chow while Cameron munched on a rising-crust frozen pizza with equal enthusiasm.
After finishing the pizza, Cameron tossed the empty box into the dangerously full trash can, then grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed towards the living room. He picked up a small remote from the coffee table and aimed it at a tower of sound equipment.
Like a hurricane, the pummeling sounds of heavy metal shook the walls, and Cameron sank into his Italian leather sofa. He took a swig of beer and closed his eyes, letting the soaring, violent majesty of Blind Guardian assault his senses and fan the flames of his imagination. He could almost taste the blood in the air and see the sparks flying as gleaming swords clashed and battle cries were shouted towards the heavens.
He opened his eyes again. He saw his drab living room, the IKEA-inspired furniture, the black electronic entertainment boxes. The walls were decorated with more than two dozen knives, swords, and axes, but they would never be used. They were just toys.
In ages past, men like him forged swords out of raw steel for kings and warriors. Now they were pretty little things for collectors to catalog and trade.
He took another sip of beer.
Man, the 21st century sucks.
A flash of movement outside caught his attention, and he glanced out the window.
There she was again, coming up the street from the other way. She must have made a circuit of the entire neighborhood, at least an hour.
Cameron sipped his beer and glanced down at Conan.
“I’ve seen this movie before,” he said flatly. “She’s a serial killer.”
Conan stared up at him for a few seconds, then turned and meandered towards the kitchen.
Cameron raised the bottle to his lips, then stopped and wrinkled his nose.
“Conan!”
****
Cameron angrily swatted the mosquito away and burrowed his face deeper into the pillow.
The little bastard didn’t give up. It continued to circle around his head, dive-bombing his ears.
Buzzing…buzzing…buzzing…
Cameron jerked his head off the pillow. A strand of saliva tethered his mouth to the fabric, then snapped. He blinked twice as his eyes tried to focus. It wasn’t a mosquito that was making that noise. It was…
He reached towards the nightstand, grunting as he stretched the skin on his newly-tattooed shoulder. His hand fumbled with the cell phone for a moment and flipped it open.
“Yellow?” he mumbled as he rubbed his eyes.
“Happy Beltane, sweetheart!”
Cameron winced. “Hi Mom. Thanks, you too.”
“Remember to light a Beltane fire. Over in Scotland they’ll be having a wild celebration.”
“Yeah. Thanks Mom, I’ll do that.”
“You sound groggy. Did I wake you up?”
“Uh…yeah, actually.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Well, you shouldn’t be in bed this late anyway. It’s almost lunch time!”
“Mom, I’m on Pacific time. It’s three hours earlier than New York.”
“Well, regardless, it’s the early bird that catches the worm.”
Cameron rubbed his eyes. “Yeah Mom, you’re right.”
“Okay, I’ll let you go now, sweetheart. I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Beltane.”
“Thanks Mom, that’s real sweet.”
“And don't forget to tell your girlfriend, too. That’s part of the custom: you have to wish everyone that you know a happy Beltane.”
“My girlfriend? Mom, what are you talking about?”
“You know, that girl that was in those pictures in that email you sent me. My downstairs neighbor June Allston showed me how to work the computer.”
“Mom, she wasn’t my girlfriend. We weren’t even really together. I haven’t seen her in like two months.”
“Oh well that’s good. I never felt right about the prospect of my son marrying a Japanese.”
Cameron struggled to suppress the rising tide of exasperation.
“Mom, she isn’t Jap… We weren’t getting married, anyway.”
“Well sweetheart, I keep telling you to stop wasting time on these foreign girls. You need to listen to your mother and find yourself a proper lady from the old country.”
“Mom, a Scottish girl in America is considered a foreigner too.”
“Well you know what I mean. You keep playing around with those California hussies but I’m telling you, it’s all empty calories. You’re a McConnell, Cameron, and you’ve got red blood in your veins, and nothing but a red-blooded girl is going to make you happy.”
Cameron massaged the bridge of his nose, attempting to keep the headache at bay.
“Okay, Mom, whatever you say.”
“Oh, that reminds me. Uncle Aiden’s been doing some serious work on the family history. He says he’s uncovered some interesting tidbits about your father’s ancestry.”
That William Wallace was his 9-greats-grandfather?
“Really, Mom. I’d love to hear about it sometime. But I can’t today; I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Ok, sweetheart, I know you’re busy. Don’t let me keep you from your work.”
“Thanks, Mom. B – "
“I told all the girls at the bridge club that you designed that sword from that film with that handsome actor in it. What’s his name? Anyway, they were all very impressed. Do you think you could get a picture of you with him? Maybe the two of you shaking hands?”
“Mom, he’s really b
usy, doing other films and things. He doesn’t have – "
“Well, that’s okay. Maybe later.”
Cameron didn’t bother to smother his sigh. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Happy Beltane. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom. Bye.”
Cameron slapped the phone closed and rolled over.
Why?
He turned over again and hugged the pillow.
He felt a presence.
One eye popped open and focused on Conan staring up at him.
Cameron groaned his refusal and turned his head to face the other way. His cheek smeared the cold puddle of saliva across the pillow and he sprang from the bed like a spider.
“All right, all right, I’m up!”
CHAPTER 2
Cameron’s fingers made a dull squeaking sound as they wiped the condensation from the mirror. He stared at his reflection and studied the new tattoo on his shoulder for a couple of minutes, feeling exhilarated, masculine, and regretful at the same time. It certainly was a badass tattoo. But was it as badass as it could be? Should he have chosen something edgier, less curvy, less colorful, more colorful, something else entirely?
A small voice piped up inside his head.
You made your choice. Now buck up and live with it.
Cameron exhaled slowly, and he knew the voice was right. His eyes were drawn away from the tattoo on his shoulder, down to his forearm emblazoned with a rather weak rendering of the first knife he had ever designed. There was also a spring-break inspired Chinese character on his left shoulder that was supposed to mean “strength,” but who knew with those things.
His eyes started to roam over the white, virgin skin that remained so blatantly un-tattooed, as spotless as a sacrificial lamb, if one didn’t count the dozens of freckles that seemed to afflict redheaded people, as if their fiery crowns didn’t make them stand out enough.
Cameron didn’t see the tattoos that he had; he saw all the tattoos that he didn’t have. It had only been two days since he had gone under the needle, and the results still stung, but something inside him felt the hunger for more.
Exhaling loudly, he shook his head to clear his mind, then snatched the towel from the rack.
After shaving and preparing breakfast for himself and Conan, he stepped out the back door onto the neglected patch of grass that constituted the backyard. It existed solely for Conan to do his business, and Cameron wisely kept to the slate stone path that wound around the sparse tufts of grass pebbled with the petrified remains of Conan’s meals.
