To The Man Who Keeps Me

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Jocelynn Drake

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

THE HAMMER OF a gun clicked as it was cocked.

That small, distinct sound sent a shiver through me despite the summer heat shimmering off the sidewalk. My heart skipped. I froze with my right foot on the bottom step leading up to the tattoo parlor—so close to sanctuary, and yet I didn’t have a chance. The front door was locked. I was trapped, hanging helpless in that second waiting for the gunman behind me to finally speak or send a bullet screaming through the back of my head.

“You fucking lied to me, Gage!” snarled my assailant. The voice sounded familiar, but it wasn’t until I slowly turned around that I realized why my life was hanging by a thread. I had tattooed the man just a couple of weeks ago and apparently he wasn’t pleased with the result.

Russell Dalton was a large, beefy man full of muscles and a layer of fat around his waist from too many Big Macs and not enough core exercises. He was loud, obnoxious, and cheap. In my opinion, he had gotten what he paid for, but then it looked like he wanted to take his anger and frustration out on my hide, as he remained in the shadows of the alley beside the parlor.

“I never lied to you,” I replied calmly, holding my hands open and out to my sides to show that I didn’t have any weapons. In this world, you couldn’t be too careful. I resisted the urge to look up at the sky, knowing that it was not long after noon—hours away from when the hulking Bronx would be able to get to the tattoo parlor. Damn trolls and their weakness for sunlight. I was on my own for now, but then it was better that way. Just the two of us and no one watching.

“You promised me good luck,” Russell accused. “Since I got this damn tattoo, I was fired from my job, my car was stolen, and my wife wants a divorce. That ain’t good luck.”

“You paid me fifty bucks for a shamrock tattoo the size of a quarter on the bottom of your foot.” Balling my hands into fists, I let my foot fall from the step and turned around to fully face my attacker. “That was barely enough to cover the cost of the ink and my time and expertise, not to mention the leprechaun hair that I threw into the mix. Do you know how hard it is to get that shit?”

In all honesty, I had a contact at a popular beauty parlor across town and for a price she was kind enough to grab samples of hair for me. It wasn’t that hard to get my hands on leprechaun hair. The only problem was that it so easily turned bad if you weren’t careful. Obviously, my stockpile had taken an unexpected turn. I made a mental note that if I used it again I needed to cut the spell with water from a spring snowmelt or fuzz from a white rabbit to counter the negative energy from the leprechaun hair.

Unfortunately, this cheap-ass dirtbag hadn’t paid enough for me to take those kinds of precautions. Hell, he shouldn’t have gotten the leprechaun hair at that price, but I had been in a generous mood. Sometimes I can be a real dumbass when it comes to my clients, but then, my motto was you get what you pay for.

“You have to fix it!” Russell snarled, ignoring my question. “You have to make everything right again!”

“And let me guess, you want this work done for free?” I sneered.

“Damn right for free! You’ve ruined my life!”

I took a step forward, and to my surprise, Russell slid half a step backward into the alley. That worked for me. I didn’t want this on the street should someone walk by. “If you want good luck, it comes with a price, and the kind of luck you’re looking for is extremely expensive. You blew through my front door demanding lottery-winning luck while waving fifty bucks in my face. You got what you paid for. Buyer beware, buddy.”

“You fucking asshole! You’re not the only tattoo artist in Low Town! I don’t need you!” he shouted, shaking the gun at me.

I took another step toward Russell, backing him farther into the alley. “Yeah, but I’m the best and that’s why you came to me instead of some broken-down backroom operation with dirty needles and shady ingredients.”

“You’re obviously not any better!”

I had had enough of this shit. Keeping my eyes locked on his, I let the gym bag on my right shoulder slide off and hit the ground with a heavy thud. As I expected, he jerked the gun toward the bag. Taking advantage of his distraction, I edged forward and slammed both of my hands into the hand gripping the gun, knocking the weapon to the ground. Still holding his right hand, I twisted it at an awkward angle while dropping to my knee, putting Russell on his back in the dirty cobblestone alley. Before he could get his wits about him, I slammed my elbow into his face, feeling his nose fracture beneath my forearm while the back of his head hammered into the brick-covered ground.

“Asshole,” I muttered. Standing, I dusted off my jeans and stepped back. “Don’t show your face around here again or I’ll tell the cops what kind of tattoo you really came in my shop for.”

Sucking in a deep, cleansing breath, I summoned up a smattering of the energy that swirled around me, begging for my touch. I raised my left hand toward him and clenched my fist, as if I was grabbing his shirt, before throwing out my arm. Russell slid violently down the alley until his head clanged into the side of a Dumpster.

My breath froze in my chest and I watched the sky for the telltale flash of lightning that would streak across seconds before the appearance of a guardian. I wasn’t supposed to be using magic, no matter how minute. And the guardians were itching for an excuse to put my ass in a sling. I didn’t need to push my luck, but Dalton had gotten under my skin. I was an excellent tattoo artist and I didn’t need his kind of bad karma mucking up my business. After a couple of seconds and no lightning bolt, I relaxed. For now, I remained under the radar and intended to stay there.

A large hand appeared from out of nowhere and wrapped around my throat, picking me up and slamming me against the alley wall of the tattoo parlor. A sharp-featured face leaned so close that I could easily make out the silver eyes with a hint of green. Black hair flowed around his face, putting his features in dark shadow despite the bright sunlight.

“Gideon,” I choked out as I held on to his hand, trying to loosen his grip before I suffocated. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” he said in a menacing voice as he raised his wand and dug it into my cheek.

My heart pounded in my chest far harder than when I was facing the barrel of Dalton’s gun. I’d always known I could stop a bullet, but I wasn’t prepared to stop any spell that this warlock was itching to throw in my direction. Apparently, someone had been watching. Fuck.

Gideon’s sneer turned into an evil grin. “You’ve been warned more than once that you have been forbidden to perform any of the magical arts. As I recall, you were the one who turned your back on us, saying that you didn’t need us or magic.”

Gritting my teeth, I pressed my hands into the wall behind me and kicked Gideon in the chest with both feet, shoving him violently away from me. I immediately erected a protective barrier as I slammed into the ground. A wicked flash of energy that shot from Gideon’s wand was deflected by the shield, briefly lighting up the alley.

“Before I left, the council agreed that I could use magic in acts of self-defense,” I shouted before Gideon could come up with another spell that would crash through my meager defensive shield. I had always been good at magic, but there was more to it than just being naturally attuned to the energies in the air. Being a powerful warlock took decades of study and I had stopped more than a few years ago. I didn’t stand much of a chance in a magic fight against a warlock like Gideon.

He picked himself up off the ground and dusted off his black pants and shirt. Gideon even took the time to shake out his cloak before turning to me. In this day and age, the cloak looked a little ridiculous, but I was no fool. That thing was woven with enough protective spells that the warlock wouldn’t be caught dead without it.

“I saw the fight,” Gideon said calmly. “The man was already down.”

“But not unconscious. I had to be sure that he wouldn’t follow me into my shop where I would still be alone and defenseless.”

“We all know you’re never defenseless.”

I shrugged, fighting back a smirk. “Relatively speaking.”

“You used magic, when you were not permitted, in dealing with this human. You broke your agreement. You’re coming with me.”

“Not today.” I shook my head as I dropped my protective shield and leaned against the wall so my shaking knees wouldn’t have to fully support my weight. “Bring me before the council and they will see that it was self-defense. An unarmed man against one with a gun. The council would be forced to find in my favor. Think about it, Gideon. I know you and everyone else in the Ivory Towers is eager to see me dead, but do you really want to waste the council’s time? They won’t look kindly on it.”

My only warning was a low, frustrated growl before he rushed across the alley and slammed my head against the wall. “I will let you go this time, renegade, but we are watching you. We will catch you eventually.”

“Try all you like.”

Gideon gave a little snort as he stepped away from me. “Why you’ve chosen to live among these useless flesh bags is beyond me.”

“That’s why,” I said in clipped tones. I refused to view humans as little more than chattel.

Gideon frowned at me one last time before he disappeared completely, heading back to the Towers, I was sure. Each continent was dotted with gleaming towers made of white marble and granite that stretched above the clouds. These were the elusive Ivory Towers, their exact locations known only to the witches and warlocks who lived in them. And me. I knew where they were and had managed to escape with that knowledge, not that it was doing much good now.

Sliding down the grimy wall, I took a deep breath as I tried to slow my racing heart and my trembling hands. I had come too close this time. That self-defense argument was starting to run a little thin and I had a dark suspicion that Mr. Dalton might have been given a little shove in my direction in hopes of pushing my buttons into using magic. It had worked. I didn’t like being threatened and I didn’t like it when my abilities were questioned. Sometimes I had too much ego and not enough common sense.

If Gideon had had his way, I would have been whisked away to the council in the Ivory Towers, found guilty, and executed, all within an hour.

Pushing back to my feet, I paused for a second as I gazed down the alley and saw Dalton’s chest rise once with a heavy breath. Then I picked up the gun in one hand and my gym bag in the other. This neighborhood was getting more dangerous by the day.

2

STEPPING INSIDE THE air-conditioned arctic of the tattoo parlor, I kicked the door shut while dropping my bag, along with the gun, on the floor. I twisted around and slid the dead bolt back into place and glanced around the parlor. The lobby had dark hardwood floors covered in ancient area rugs with worn floral patterns. An old ceramic fireplace stood against one wall, its mouth covered to hold in the heat during the winter and the cool during the blistering summer months. The wall was covered in plastic flip boards that held common tattoo designs we had done in the past to give potential clients some suggestions should they need them. But in most cases, clients didn’t much bother with the flip boards, preferring to rely on the knowledge of the artist. A counter with a clear glass case stood before the doorway to the actual tattoo work space. It held a variety of old books and pictures depicting tattoos from the earliest of days, when only sailors were among the clientele. They had been handed down to me by the man I had apprenticed under when I decided to open my own shop.

A faint hint of antiseptic hung in the air from where Bronx had sterilized most of the surface areas in the back before closing up the night before. Underlying that was the smell of stale magic, which always made me smile a little. It was a distinct smell that only the experienced magic user could pick up, and I had more experience than I was willing to admit to anyone.

I leaned down and threw back the largest of the area rugs near the center of the room, revealing a pentagram deeply etched into the wood floor. Stepping into the center of the pentagram, I closed my eyes but still hesitated. I reminded myself that this type of magic fell under the self-defense clause. Besides, it was a rune spell and the guardians couldn’t pick up on that kind of magic very well. Energy flowed around me, beating against my skin while trying to push its way into my brain. I started a low chant while keeping my arms lifted slightly at my sides. Magic energy coursed through me for a few seconds before shifting throughout the front room and flowing to the back room and down into the basement, completing my bidding.

After a second, I dropped my arms back to my sides and narrowed my eyes as I stared at the front door. A slight blue glow that only I could see clung to the opening. The spell was a small one, allowing me to see through anyone’s glamour as they entered my tattoo parlor. You never knew who was going to walk through your door and I wasn’t taking any chances. I had to recast the spell every day before opening the shop, but it was a small price to pay. Besides, security systems didn’t come cheap, and getting one that included magical defenses was even more expensive since it involved finding a warlock or a witch willing to do a little menial labor. Not fucking likely.

The deglamour spell had proved itself time and time again, and very few could sense it when they walked through the door. Bronx had before I hired him—I remembered seeing him open the door and pause at the threshold. I had been sitting behind the counter at the time, and I remember seeing the troll narrow his eyes at me before he stepped boldly into the room. I doubted whether he could tell what the spell was exactly, but he knew it was there. I simply smiled and shrugged. The Asylum Tattoo Parlor wasn’t in the greatest neighborhood, and I had every right to protect myself and any colleagues. Bronx never said a word about the spell and I think that was part of the reason I hired him. That, and he had some of the most impressive shading skills and creative line work I had ever seen. His potion-stirring skills hadn’t been the strongest when he had been hired, but he proved to be a fast learner.

However, the greatest revelation had come from Trixie. She had given a little shudder when she stepped into the tattoo parlor, but by her expression, I could tell that she had simply waved it off as a cold chill. The spell had instantly stripped away the glamour spell she had been using, leaving it as little more than a hazy shadow over her tight, lithe form so that I could see she was truly an elf. I had never told her that I knew exactly what she was and had no intention of mentioning it. She was cloaking her true presence for a reason and I had no desire to go digging into something that wasn’t any of my business.

Besides, Trixie was good for the parlor. Her long slender legs, revealed by a pair of short shorts during the summer, and her dainty tank tops filled out by perky breasts and topped off with a gorgeous face drew in more than a fair share of repeat male clients. Her sweet, outgoing personality and her skill with a needle made her an amazing package I preferred not to lose, so her secrets were her own.

Stepping out of the pentagram, I kicked the rug back and made sure that the corner lined up with the bit of masking tape on the floor I used as a guide to ensure that the rug hadn’t been moved. No one needed to know about the pentagram. As far as anyone else was concerned, I was just a tattoo artist and didn’t know shit about real magic.

I grabbed my gym bag and slung it over my shoulder. The front door was locked and the spell was back in place. It was time to get to work.

In the main room of the tattoo parlor, I flicked on the lights and let my eyes travel over the white counter space, the three large chairs, and the rainbow of ink bottles that lined one wall. Everything was neat and tidy, ready for another day. But then, Bronx was very organized and neat when he worked. He had no problem cleaning up the shop before he left at the end of the night. The only one who might have been more organized and clean conscious was a vampire, but I preferred not to have one on staff. I didn’t need to worry about a staff member taking a nip at someone while in the middle of a job.

I crossed the room and headed down a narrow hallway to a windowless back room. This was where we completed some tattoos while offering clients privacy should the tattoo be in a place that was more than a little revealing. There were other, darker reasons for using the back room for tattooing, but then I always figured it was the decision of the tattoo artist to go down that path. I didn’t ask too many questions, particularly since I used this room the most often of the three of us.

Shutting the door behind me, I went over to the floor-to-ceiling wood cabinet that covered one wall and pulled it open. Thousands of bottles, vials, plastic containers, and yellowing envelopes filled it. This was where we kept the main ingredients to stir into the potions needed for the majority of the tattoos people came to get. Sure, some customers just wanted a little ink. But most wanted something extra. They wanted the tattoo to do something for them, and whether it was a burst of good luck, a dollop of true love, or even a hex on an ex, we could get it done—for a price.

After scanning the vials for a second, I pulled down the one that held the leprechaun hair and glanced at the date on the side. It wasn’t that old and shouldn’t have gone bad on me already. It had to be the source of the hair that was less than … prime. In my limited experience, some leprechauns were just plain evil, running more toward their cousins the imp and the hinky-punk than their more compassionate faerie cousins. I had to be careful stirring with this ingredient or I was going to end up shot. Good luck spells were fairly common, though I generally relied on the leprechaun hair only for the cheap asses.

All the same, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Lana’s number down at Curl Up & Dye. After a few minutes of mindless chatter and harmless flirting with the stylist, I got her to promise to bring me down a new tuft of leprechaun hair, from a different source this time, in the next couple of days. For now, I was stuck with what I had and we needed to be careful with it.

Slipping my cell phone back in my pocket, I walked over to the back of the room and pulled up the trapdoor in the floor with only a whisper of a creak. Most of the time, a chair was left on the trapdoor to make it look like it was unused, but I suspected that my coworkers were aware of my occasional disappearances down into the basement.

Despite the overwhelming darkness, I easily grabbed the pull chain on the single bare bulb in the basement and jerked it on before touching the dirt floor. Lined up along three of the walls were additional wood cabinets holding more volatile and rarer items. Some I had been lucky enough to inherit, while others were purchased on the black market. All of them were for my exclusive use, and they were what made me the most successful tattoo artist in town. When you wanted something done right and had the cash to pay for it, it was all about the ingredients in the ink rather than the design on the skin.

On the one bare stone wall was another pentagram spray-painted in black. This one held the power to attack any intruders. I glanced over the items one time and did a quick check on the spell to see that it was still intact and cast by me. No one had been down here without my knowledge. The same tension that coiled in my stomach every day I walked into the shop finally unwound and I breathed a sigh of relief. The basement held other spells, cloaking special items from view, protecting both them and me. There were things down here that people would kill for and ones that were an automatic death sentence for possessing without being a witch or a warlock.

Overhead, I heard the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut followed by the heavy pounding of heels across the hardwood floor. I knew that cadence. Trixie was in early.

Hurrying up the stairs, I shut the trapdoor behind me and dropped my bag on it to keep it partially hidden from view. It was time to get to work.

“Is there a reason a gun is lying on the floor?” Trixie asked casually as I met her in the main tattooing area.

Shit. I’d forgotten about the gun. It was now sitting quite obviously on the floor, beside the front door where I had left it. Not exactly the best thing to leave lying around a tattoo parlor where any of your more unstable customers could pick it up.

“Rough afternoon,” I muttered, but the words didn’t come out sounding as indifferent as I had hoped; then my eyes fell on Trixie’s outfit for today. Instead of her usual shorts, she wore a pair of jeans with some strategically placed holes and tears. Her top was a black leather bustier that accented the swell of her breasts and left a broad swath of her flat stomach bare. Her long blond locks were pulled back in some twist thing that allowed some thick strands to frame her face. As she turned to drop her bag on the counter, I could easily make out the butterfly-wings tattoo between her shoulder blades. Somehow, they seemed to sparkle in the light as she moved.

Clenching my teeth, I ducked my head as I walked out into the lobby and picked up the gun. She was going to be the death of my sanity. I positively ached to touch her, to run my hands along skin I knew would be as smooth as satin, and bury my nose in her neck to drink in her sweet scent. I knew better than to mix business with pleasure. It NEVER worked out. Never.

To make matters worse, Trixie had gone out of her way to disguise the fact that she was an elf when it was well-known that some of the best artists in the industry were elves. They had the patience and the natural talent to not only learn to stir a good potion, but to also learn the art. Trixie was hiding, and that wasn’t good under any circumstances. It had been on the tip of my tongue to ask her about it on more than one occasion, but I wasn’t exactly sure how to start that conversation without giving away my own abilities and dark past. Among humans, the only ones who could identify a glamour spell were warlocks and witches. My hands were tied.

For now, I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open, content with her working five nights a week.

“What are you doing here so early?” I asked as I came back into the tattooing room with the gun. I opened one of the cabinets on the far side of the room with the toe of my worn black boot, removed the magazine from the bottom of the grip, and threw the gun and magazine in with the others that I had collected over the past few years. This was a somewhat dangerous business even under the best of circumstances. Luckily, having a troll on staff helped to keep the scuffles to a minimum.

“You said today was inventory day. I thought I would come in early and help,” she said with a bright smile.

I made some nondescript noise in the back of my throat as I kicked the cabinet door shut, mentally plucking the wings off the butterflies that took flight in my stomach. After working with her for roughly two years, I would like to think that I could get through a workday without acting like a hormone-filled idiot.

My shift at the Asylum usually ran from the middle of the afternoon until midevening, while Trixie came in a few hours after me. Bronx didn’t show up until a couple of hours after the sun set and stayed until a couple of hours before dawn. Oddly enough, these were typical hours for tattoo parlors. No one worked mornings. Who the hell wanted a tattoo first thing in the morning with their coffee?

“Are you ever going to do anything about those guns? Or are you just collecting them as mementoes of your past conquests?” Trixie continued.

One corner of my mouth lifted before I could stop it and I shook my head. “Would you rather I called the cops so I could hand them all over like a good boy?”

“And then try to survive the barrage of questions that would accompany that armory?” she scoffed. “I’d like to stay below the radar of all the local law enforcement.”

“Agreed. I’ve got some contacts. I’ll start asking around to see what I can get for them. We could use some new equipment,” I said, letting my eyes skim over the work area while carefully avoiding Trixie. We could always use some fresh ingredients, and some of the tattooing equipment was starting to get worn in such a way that we were making personal modifications just so it kept working through a tattoo. I had made some nice cash from this business over the past few years, but it was obvious that it was time to start reinvesting.

Walking over to the counter opposite where Trixie was currently perched, I turned on the small television linked to the security camera that looked over the lobby of the parlor. It allowed us to see who came through the door when we were all busy with a chair. It wasn’t completely foolproof—some creatures didn’t show up on camera—but it caught most who wandered through our door.

“So are you going to tell me what happened?” Trixie prodded after a moment of silence had stretched between us.

I shrugged as I turned to face her. “Nothing important.” I finally raised my eyes to look at her again, feeling as if I had better control over myself following the initial shock of her outfit.

“Nothing important, but it involved a gun,” she said, crossing her arms over her bosom. “Come on, Gage. Spill it or I’ll get Bronx to sit on you when he comes in and we’ll crush it out of you.”

“Russell Dalton caught me on my way into the parlor this afternoon. Seems he’s a little pissed regarding the results of his tattoo.”

“Dalton? I don’t remember him.”

“Came in a couple of weeks ago wanting a good luck charm. He had only fifty bucks on him.”

“Oh, that idiot!” she gasped. She dropped her hands back to her lap and shook her head at me. “I still can’t believe you took that one.”

I sighed, once again forced to question either my sanity or my decision-making process when it came to clients. “I was feeling generous.”

“So, I’m guessing the tattoo hasn’t worked like he wanted.”

“I put a shamrock on the heel of his left foot. Do you honestly think anything good could come of that?”

“Not really. But then, I wouldn’t expect things to go all that bad for him either.”

“Yeah, well, neither did I, but they did. Lost job, car stolen, and wife wants a divorce.”

Trixie let out a low whistle as she leaned back against the set of cabinets above the counter that wrapped around the far wall. “That’s odd.”

“Not really. I put a leprechaun hair in the ink.”

“It go bad?”

“That or it was bad to begin with,” I said with another sigh. This wasn’t how I expected my day to go. “I’ve already called for some fresh, but it’ll be a few days. Just be careful and cut the mixture with something else to counteract it if you happen to use the hair between now and then. Pass the word along to Bronx if you see him before I do.”

“Got it, boss,” she said, hopping down from her perch on the countertop.

“Shall we get started?” I asked, trying to ignore the jiggle of her breasts as she landed lightly on her toes.

“Do you want front room or back room?” she inquired, looking over her shoulder at me as she walked toward the front glass counter and bent down so that I could catch the perfect roundness of her rear in the tight jeans. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was doing it on purpose. But she was just switching on the music like we did every day.

“Back room,” I bit out, turning to look for the pair of clipboards that held the list of supplies we kept on hand. The front room held the random necessary items such as paper towels, latex gloves, petroleum jelly, needles, and ink. The processing of the items in the front room took less than thirty minutes and an order form was quickly filled out.

The back room possessed all the unique ingredients that we used in our potions. Each container needed to be checked, opened, and assessed as to whether the contents were still good or if we needed more. The back-room check could take up to three hours to process and the order form was even trickier because not everything could be purchased at the local ingredients shop. Some things had to be acquired through a series of back-alley transactions and black-market connections.

“If you need any help, just give a shout,” she offered as I turned toward the back room again.

“I’ve got it.”

“Gage …”

I stopped and turned half around to see where she was standing, one hand on the glass top of the counter in the lobby. “Thanks for not getting shot.”

“No problem. I hear the job market is a killer right now.” I winked at her, a wide, devilish grin crossing my mouth.

“Asshole,” she mumbled under her breath as she turned back toward the stereo she was fiddling with. I didn’t miss the smile that graced her lovely face. Before I could escape into the back room, Beethoven was blasted through the four speakers that were spread around the main tattoo room. I suppressed a laugh when I heard Trixie cursing Bronx’s taste in music. By the time I had shut the door, she had hooked up her own MP3 player to the speakers and Dropkick Murphys was filling the air. Trixie had a thing for both punk bands and bagpipes.

3

ASIDE FROM NEARLY being shot in the alley, it was proving to be a slow night. Trixie and I finished the inventory in record time as the parlor remained dead for the first few hours of the night and I passed the next hour on the phone lining up sellers for the few hard-to-get items that I needed to put back in stock. Nothing that had to be acquired through the black market, but not all were through the most reputable channels. Just people who were willing to take some risks for the right price. One of the things I had learned quickly when I opened this shop was that in order to get the necessary and best resources it was all about the connections you made.

I had finished up my phone calls when Bronx lumbered through the front door and shrugged off the massive black leather trench coat he wore despite the heat. But then, even with the sun down, most trolls had a lingering fear of their skin being exposed to the sunlight. Hanging it on the coat stand near the front door, he grunted once at me in greeting before scowling up at the speakers still blaring the Dropkick Murphys throughout the parlor. I smiled as I leaned down behind the counter and picked up Trixie’s MP3 player. I skimmed through her hundreds of artists and albums until I finally settled on a “Best of” Pink Floyd collection. It was a nice in-between band that both Trixie and Bronx could live with for the next couple of hours before the bickering began about music choice.

“Killjoy,” Trixie grumbled behind me from where she was lying back in one of the chairs with her arm thrown over her eyes.

“It can’t be that bad if it’s on your MP3 player,” I replied as I stepped back so that Bronx could enter the back room.

As I moved back to my position in front of the glass case, the front door flew open and four people rushed inside. By the horrified, panicked expressions twisting their faces, I knew they weren’t in the market for new tattoos. In fact, a couple of them gazed around the lobby for a second, looking confused as to where exactly they were.

“What’s up?” I asked, coming around the glass case to approach the front window where the four people were huddled together, staring down the street. I was trying for easygoing, but my question came out tight and tense. The door opened again and two women darted inside. Beyond the front window, I could see more people running up the street and slipping into any store that was open.

“One of them is down at Cock’s Crow,” one woman whispered. As she spoke, she backed away from the window so that she was nearing the shadows of the far corner of the lobby.

One of them.

At that utterance, it felt as if every muscle in my body tensed painfully. The world lived in daily terror of seeing one of them. Damn warlocks. Fucking witches. Because of them, fields had been dug up for enormous mass graves during the Great War. Because of them, both unicorns and dragons were now extinct, while others dangled on the cusp. Because of them, we all lived in fear.

“Gage?” Trixie’s unsure voice snapped me from dark thoughts, jerking my head around to find her standing in the doorway between the lobby and the tattooing room. She had turned off the music, blanketing the shop in silence. Bronx stood behind her, a heavy hand on her slim shoulder.

“Bronx, take these people out the back door and direct them down the alley.”

“The tunnels?” the troll asked, dropping his hand from Trixie.

“If they want, but I think this is just going to be an isolated incident,” I said with a frown. I knew the warlocks and witches were aware of the tunnels, because I had learned about the tunnels from them. The only good thing was that they didn’t know all the entrances or where all the tunnels led. They had been built under all the cities and into the countryside over the past couple of centuries as a means of escape.

I glanced back out the window, looking down the now empty street toward the Cock’s Crow bar. Right now, nothing was happening on the street, but I could make out a form hovering near the entrance to the bar. It wasn’t over yet. “Take Trixie with you to the tunnels.”

“I’m staying,” she declared, snapping my eyes back to her. I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to tell Bronx to flip her over his shoulder and carry her out of the shop. I wanted her safe and nowhere near another warlock or witch if I could help it. I knew why someone had appeared down at Cock’s Crow and I didn’t think anyone else would be affected, but I didn’t want to take chances with her safety.

Turning back toward the people gathered in the lobby, I raised my voice. “Everyone follow Bronx! He’ll show you how to get safely out of the neighborhood. Don’t come back until you hear on the news that everything is clear.” I looked out the window again, staring down the street as I listened to the thunder of feet across the hardwood floor toward the back room. Their whispers were rough and tinged with fear, which only made me angrier. These monsters didn’t deserve to be feared. They were bullies, mocking everyone with their powers.

When the slam of the back door echoed through the silent shop, I pulled open the front door and stepped onto the first concrete step so that I could better see what was happening. I held open the door with my right hand while I leaned against the doorjamb. The night air was silent and thick, as if even Mother Nature was holding her breath, waiting for the evil to leave our midst. The only small relief I could find in this was that for once they weren’t looking for me.

“Why do you think they’re down at the Cock’s Crow?” Trixie asked from over my shoulder. I hadn’t heard her approach. I looked around to find her standing in the open doorway just behind me, staring down the street.

“They’re looking for Dolan,” I said, wishing she would at least go into the back room where no one could see her.

As if cued by some higher force, the warlock standing in the open doorway of the bar stepped aside in time for a large creature to come stumbling out into the middle of the street followed by a witch. Despite the dim light, I could see their arms extended toward the minotaur, keeping him under the point of their wands.

“Why?”

“He … He’s been selling fix out of the bar.”

“What?” she nearly shrieked.

Jerking around, I grabbed her arm and prepared to shove her back inside the parlor. “Keep your voice down. I really don’t want them coming here.”

Trixie winced, her eyes darting to the window to check that no one was approaching us. “Sorry.” I released her with a grunt and turned back to where I had been just moments before, my gaze locked on the three figures in the middle of the street.

“How do you know?”

“I make it my business to know what kind of neighborhood I’m in. It makes it easier to protect yourself.” Rather, it made it easier to judge whether a warlock or a witch might have a reason to stop in this part of town and happen across me. Per our agreement, only the council and my assigned guardian/parole officer, Gideon, were supposed to know my exact location. I knew Dolan’s illegal activities might draw the attention of the Ivory Towers, but I had been secretly hoping they would go after the supplier rather than the dealer.

“Dolan was always so nice. Why would he sell fix?”

“The money’s good.”

“It’s murder,” she growled.

“On both ends.”

Fix was a high-end drug, one of the few potent enough to affect the larger creatures such as trolls, ogres, and minotaurs. However, for humans, it was almost instantly lethal. Yet I had heard whispers that a few dealers had found a way to mix it with cocaine so that humans could use it. It wasn’t because the owner of the Cock’s Crow was dealing drugs in our neighborhood that Trixie was so upset. Hell, there wasn’t a bar within a thirty-mile radius that didn’t specialize in a little something.

No, Trixie was pissed over the source of fix. It was made exclusively from pixie livers. Thousands of pixies were trapped, ripped open, and harvested throughout the year simply for their organs. The pixie livers were dried and pounded into a fine powder, to be used later in a variety of ways.

Sadly, the warlock and the witch weren’t at Cock’s Crow because of the murder of countless pixies. They weren’t even there because scores more creatures died every year from the use of fix. They were there because the drug dealers were cutting into their supply of the potent organs. There were more than a dozen potions that benefited from the use of pixie livers, not to mention a few charms and countercurses. The Ivory Towers didn’t appreciate the competition.

A bloodcurdling scream ripped up the street as the minotaur buckled to his knees under a double blast of energy from the wands of the witch and the warlock. Dolan fell onto his back, writhing around on the asphalt in agony as the assault continued.

“He deserves what he gets,” Trixie muttered. The hand she’d laid on my shoulder had clenched when his screaming started. I wasn’t sure that I agreed with her. I thought that he deserved to be stopped, but the warlock and the witch had no business being the ones to mete out punishment. They were no better.

“You should go inside,” I bit out through clenched teeth. I was tired of this. Everyone along the street was cowering inside in fear, terrified that if they were seen they could suffer a similar fate simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was stepping down to the second step when Trixie’s hand tightened on my shoulder and she started to pull me back toward the shop.

“No, Gage!” she said in a harsh whisper. “Get back inside. Please, they might see you.”

I stopped on the second step, just above the sidewalk, still staring at the warlock and the witch laughing at the whimpering Dolan. There was a brief pause before Dolan’s pain-filled scream rang out again and then abruptly stopped. I flinched at the silence, knowing he was dead.

Trixie increased pressure on my shoulder, turning me slightly back toward the entrance of the shop while placing her other hand against my cheek. “Please, Gage, come inside where it’s safe. There’s nothing you could have done. They would have killed you too. Please, come inside. Please.”

It was the waver I heard in her final “please” that had me closing my eyes and releasing the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I leaned my cheek into the palm of her hand for a couple of seconds, letting her soft touch push the last of the fiery anger out of my veins. She was right. There was nothing I could do, and if I had tried, I would be dead and she could very well be in danger as well.

“I’m coming in,” I murmured, opening my eyes. Trixie dropped her hand from my cheek, but didn’t release her hold on my shoulder until I stepped over the threshold of the shop. As I shut the front door behind me, I heard the back door open when Bronx returned. Pulling Trixie against my chest, I tightly hugged her. “They’ll be leaving soon. We’ll be safe.” My lips brushed against her temple as I spoke. Her scent wrapped around me, helping to ease the last of the tension still humming in my frame. I didn’t know whether I was trying to reassure her, or was simply clinging to something good and wonderful for a few moments in an effort to blot out the horror of our reality.

As I released her, Trixie looked up at me, a faint smile lifting her lips. “Thanks.” I watched her walk back into the tattooing room where she patted Bronx’s arm before disappearing from sight. Gazing back out the window, I found that the warlock and the witch had taken the time to set the bar on fire before disappearing. With any luck, everyone had escaped through the back exit before it was too late.

I moved back behind the glass counter and restarted the MP3 so that the first notes of “Comfortably Numb” drifted through the shop as the world started up again. We had two choices: ignore what had happened or die at the point of a wand. Those who still lived chose to ignore, but no one ever forgot.

Settling onto the stool, I watched as Bronx dropped onto his own stool at his workstation. The troll silently began organizing his area in the far corner, pulling together a collection of paper plates and ink caps and checking to make sure that he had an ample selection of tattooing needles still neatly packaged in their sterile casings. At the same time, Trixie pulled open one of the drawers and withdrew a large number of greasepaint sticks, tubes, and containers that she carried over to Bronx. Because of the thickness of his skin, Bronx could not be tattooed, which had always made him feel uncomfortable considering that he worked in a tattoo parlor. So at the start of his shift each night, if Trixie wasn’t busy with a client, she would use greasepaint to cover him in a series of designs and images that could pass as tattoos. Despite their constant arguing over music, the two actually worked quite well together.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” she inquired, lining up her colors along the nearby counter. Sometimes, it was just easier to pretend that certain things never happened.

Bronx pushed over a stool on wheels for her to sit on. “I want white ivy with green leaves all along my right arm.”

Trixie arched one thin blond eyebrow at him in surprise and even I was taken aback. After more than two years of this process, Bronx had begun to run out of fresh ideas and simply let Trixie draw whatever she was in the mood to draw on him. He had even come to tolerate her preference for flowers and butterflies as long as she stopped drawing hearts and rainbows on him.

“Anything on the left arm?” she inquired.

“Nothing.”

Leaning against the door frame, I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the troll in the sleeveless shirt and spiked pale blond hair. I had known Bronx slightly longer than I had known Trixie. Trolls, from my experience, were naturally reticent creatures, preferring to keep to themselves. No one would ever accuse them of being chatty, but I had gotten pretty good at reading Bronx’s moods. Something was bothering him and I wasn’t sure that it was tonight’s spectacle down the street.

“Is there a special reason for the ivy?” I asked.

“Got a feeling.”

“Oooo … Do tell,” Trixie purred as she settled on the stool next to Bronx.

The troll clenched his jaw as if he fought the words, but even the hardened creature wasn’t immune to Trixie’s charm. Hell, she could get a serial killer to confess his sins while sitting in the tattoo chair if she just batted her eyes and asked him in her sweet, come-hither voice. “Something dark is creeping toward us,” he reluctantly said. “Like a vine that’s going to wrap around us and choke … someone.”

“Like tonight’s …” she offered, letting her voice drift off.

“No, that wasn’t it.”

“Maybe the darkness has already passed,” Trixie suggested. “I mean, Gage was shot at today and he survived.”

“I wasn’t shot at,” I corrected quickly as Bronx turned his head to look at me. “Disgruntled customer, nothing more. Just avoid using the leprechaun hair for the next few days until I get some fresh.”

“No, that wasn’t it,” Bronx replied, again turning his head to stare straight at the wall before him. I was afraid to ask more about the shadow that lingered in his golden eyes.

We all remained silent as Trixie patiently traced out a thick line curling down the length of his arm with a Q-tip and a container of white greasepaint. The elf had a knack for not only creating great beauty, but she also managed to work very fast. Within an hour, his right arm, from shoulder to wrist, was covered in a curling vine of ivy with thick green leaves highlighted in black to give them more depth. It was an exquisite work of art and it was a shame that he would wash it off before he left at the end of the night.

As Trixie cleaned up her greasepaint, the first of our customers for the night started to roll in, life once again trickling into our small part of the world. The first few were a handful of teenage humans looking to pop their tattoo cherries. They were giggling, indecisive, and squirmy in the chair when the needle was applied to their skin for any length of time. The two guys finally decided on some tribal bands around their flexed biceps, while the two females chose some tasteful and simple designs on their lower backs. All in all, as clichéd as they come, but for some, that was how the addiction started. Between the buzz of the needle and the sensual play of pleasure and pain, at least one of these kids would be back for something more intricate and interesting.

The hulking Bronx was more than a little intimidating under most circumstances so he was given the brash, cocky male, while I gave the most nervous female to Trixie. I took the remaining female first, knowing that if she was left to watch her friends, she would chicken out before she could get her tattoo. The second male wouldn’t survive the ribbing of his friends if he chickened out, so I felt safe leaving him on his own for a while.

Humans came and went for the rest of the evening. Half scheduled appointments for later dates since one of us needed more time to draw a specific design, while others wandered in wanting something quick and simple. Sadly, less than half required us to go to the back room to mix up a little something extra for the ink. Tattooing in itself could be a lucrative business, but it was the potions added to the ink that made this venture truly worthwhile. For some reason, people were in no rush to get spells done tonight.

Until the drunken satyrs stumbled and fell through the front door. Asylum catered to all kinds of creatures, just so long as they could fit through the door and could be tattooed. Vampires were impossible to tattoo unless you used garlic in the mix, and then they tended to whine and scream through the entire process. Trolls, gargoyles, and ogres couldn’t be tattooed at all due to the thickness of their skin. But everyone else, we would ink.

Swaying and boisterous, the satyrs on their little hoofed feet clomped through the parlor, bumping into each other. Normally, I wouldn’t tattoo anyone that obviously intoxicated, but in general that was the only state in which you found satyrs. There was no helping it, and I wasn’t about to pass up what was likely to be a very nice deal.

“What can I do for you gentlemen this evening?” I asked politely as I leaned over the glass counter to look down at them. At just over three feet tall from hoof to horn, they were easy to overlook, but that was generally something they used to their advantage.

“We want tattoos!” declared one as he threw his hairy fist into the air. The others joined in this cheer, their low voices rumbling around the room.

I suppressed an urge to roll my eyes and forced myself to keep a smile on my lips in the face of their obvious proclamation. “What kind of tattoos were you looking for?”

“Virility tattoos!” another shouted.

“Yeah, big dicks on our arms so that women will be attracted to us!” added the third satyr. I couldn’t help it. My face fell into my hand and I shoved my fingers through my short brown hair.

“Gage!” Trixie hissed from somewhere in the tattooing room. I glanced over my shoulder, finding her standing in front of the security television, but she was glaring at me while shaking her head. I didn’t know if she was more opposed to tattooing a penis on someone or the idea of being ogled by satyrs, which was inevitable if I let them into the back room. I decided to go with the penis reason and chose the route of tact and negotiation.

“You know, there are more subtle symbols of virility that can be tattooed on your arms. Items that could draw a woman close to you without being so obvious,” I countered.

“Like what?”

“Like what …” I repeated. I glanced wildly over my shoulder, looking for a little help from my two companions in the back room.

Trixie gave a huff before she started ticking items off on her long fingers. “A stag with antlers, the full moon, the oak tree, holly, the bull or even the minotaur, and the eye of Horus.”

The three satyrs looked from one to the other, quietly weighing each of the options that Trixie had listed for them, but I could tell by the tone of the conversation that not one of the choices had particularly won them over.

“You could also go with a mushroom or some particular flowers that have phallic undercurrents,” Bronx added, to my delight.

The head of one of the satyrs popped up, excitement lighting his beady black eyes. “Don’t some mushrooms have aphrodisiac qualities?”

“Possibly,” I hedged. Hallucinogenic? Sure. Deadly? Of course. Aphrodisiac? I had no idea.

“That’s what we want! Mushrooms on our upper arms.”

“You got it,” I said, somewhat relieved that the three of us weren’t going to be drawing dicks on the arms of satyrs that evening. I had a feeling something like that would follow me into my nightmares later.

“Now, we don’t just want tattoos,” said what appeared to be the soberest of the trio. “We want more.”

“An actual increase in virility,” I supplied.

“More than that. We want to draw women to us.”

“Allure.”

“Exactly.”

“Then that’s going to cost a little extra.” I mentally went through the potential list of ingredients that I might use, starting with the most expensive, before I quoted my first steep price. I fully expected the satyrs to hem and haw at the asking price, but they said nothing. All three reached into the little pouches hanging around their waists and slapped two gold coins apiece onto the counter. At today’s going exchange rate for gold, and the quality of the product, I had no doubt that I had been overpaid by a lot.

“Now, gentlemen, you know I can’t properly give you change for gold.”

“Keep it,” one said with a wave of his hand. “A tip. Can we get started?”

“Let’s go,” I said, motioning for them to step into the back room. As I suspected, their mouths immediately dropped open at the sight of Trixie. I quickly stepped in front of my coworker to stop the stampede as she backed into the far corner of the cabinets, effectively trapping herself.

“Trixie, could you go to the back room and draw up a design or two for these gentlemen while Bronx shaves down the area they want tattooed?” I asked quickly. She was already sidling out of the room before I finished the question. I threw a sympathetic look at Bronx, but the trio was less likely to cause problems with a troll wielding a razor. I followed Trixie into the back room where I started pulling down items for the potion.

“You’re fucking insane!” she snarled in a low voice the second I shut the door. “Satyrs! Virility tattoos for a bunch of satyrs? Aren’t they enough trouble on their own without your help?”

“They spend most of their time at strip joints and harassing prostitutes. I don’t see them going after a bunch of soccer moms at the local bake sale.” I pulled down another container. “I’m not making it that potent anyway.”

“You do realize that certain fey creatures do react to natural aphrodisiacs,” she snapped. “What if some poor unsuspecting wood nymph or sprite ran across these three? They could be helpless.”

“Oh, please! Every wood and water nymph I’ve known has been more oversexed than these three and far more dangerous. Helpless, my ass.” I threw some herbs into the mortar bowl and started to crush them into a fine powder with the ceramic pestle.

“Exactly how many nymphs have you known?” Trixie demanded in a surprisingly sharp voice that drew my eyes back around to her. She sat at a small drawing desk, glaring at me. “And how well did you know them?”

“Come on, Trixie. You know what I mean,” I groaned as I focused on pounding the ingredients.

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“You’re starting to sound like my mother,” I warned. At least, it’s what I imagined my mother would sound like. I honestly had no idea how she would sound in a conversation like this. I had been dragged from my home by a warlock at age seven and returned for only a few months when I was sixteen. Family was not something I had a lot of experience with.

A bright flush stained Trixie’s cheeks and she turned away from me. Her sweet voice softened. “Please, Gage. This is dangerous.”

“No, just a waste. You can’t mask what a satyr is no matter the potion. You might be drawn in by the potion at first, but the innate curiosity has to be there in order for the person to succumb to anything. If the person isn’t even a little attracted, nothing is going to happen. I’m just not that good. No one is.”

“Promise?”

I turned from the counter to find her staring at me from where she sat at the drawing table. Half of a sketch of a tall, phallic-shaped mushroom sat on the drawing paper before her.

“I’ll even cut it with nightshade juice so this will have practically no effect on the fey,” I said with a sigh. I was a complete pushover when she looked at me with those wide eyes. It didn’t help that I also knew she was fey and felt more than a little vulnerable around these tattoos I had promised.

“Thank you,” she murmured before returning to her drawing.

“Just draw two designs and then hurry back. I want to get these three out of here so I can call it a night.”

“Any way I can get out of this one?”

I snorted as I walked toward the door with my mixture and a tiny wooden spoon. “Not a chance. The pay is more than worth the twenty minutes it’s going to take you to do this.”

“Bastard,” she muttered, but not with her earlier vehemence. I was at least partially forgiven.

While Bronx was shaving away the bristly hair from the area on the arms of the satyrs where the tattoos would go, I selected three small plastic caps and spooned in a bit of the potion that I had mixed up. I then squirted in black ink. The potion didn’t need to go into all of the colors unless you were weaving a more complex spell and then it was different potions in different colors so that the spell created an interesting tapestry of power on the person’s skin. In this case, the outline of the mushroom tattoos in black was the only part that actually needed the potion.

I was pulling out the needles and scooping out dollops of petroleum jelly to put on small Styrofoam plates, which would help to control the bleeding during the tattooing process, when Trixie reluctantly entered the room to show off her two designs. One mushroom was short and thick, while the other was tall and narrow. I kept my comments to myself as the satyrs argued over the merits of each design. In the end, all three decided on the long and narrow design, but with a variety of color combinations so that each one would be slightly different.

With our customers settled in their respective chairs, we three set to work quickly. The steady buzz of the tattooing machines filled the air, but was nearly drowned out by the constant chatter and bawdy comments made by the three satyrs. Despite Trixie’s close attention to her one client, all three took turns trying to hit on her, even from across the room, mindless of what anyone was saying. And may the gods bless Trixie, she kept her comments to herself and silently worked on her customer. I knew that I would receive an earful later. But then she knew that this was part of the business. While Bronx and I would defend her against any type of physical threat in a heartbeat, she had seemingly grown accustomed to the occasional rude comment and had told us more than once not to bother calling a halt to it.

In less than half an hour, the three satyrs were tattooed and bandaged up with the appropriate care directions in hand. I only hoped that they paid some attention to the care of the tattoos, otherwise they would be back in for a repeat job and I was in no mood to put up with them again.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, I put one hand behind my neck and massaged the tense muscles there as I turned to face Trixie. I opened my mouth to apologize to her for what she’d had to endure for the past thirty minutes, but she held up one pale hand, halting the words in my throat.

“Did we make enough from them to make the night worthwhile?” she simply inquired.

“And then some.”

“Then it was worth the hassle, though I am not looking forward to their eventual repeat visit for another tattoo. As long as they pay well and the work can be done quickly, I can tolerate it.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to shave the little buggers,” Bronx groused as he stood and reached for a broom that was leaning in the far corner. Until now, I hadn’t noticed the heavy sprinkling of short hairs that covered the floor around his chair. Satyrs were naturally hairy bastards, and the few I had tattooed had proved to be a waste of time since most didn’t bother to keep the area of the tattoo shaved so people could see the art.

Glancing up at the clock, I silently cursed, dropping my hand back down to my side. It was already after one in the morning. I should have been out of the shop more than two hours earlier. Trixie would stay on for another hour or two before heading home, and then Bronx would close the shop around four. Business would remain relatively light, but there were enough nocturnal creatures in the world that it was worth Bronx’s while to keep the late hours.

I was starting to head to the back room for my bag when a young woman with straight brown hair and wide brown eyes slowly pushed through the front door. She kept her jacket tightly wrapped around herself, as if for protection rather than warmth on this summer evening. Her eyes swept over the place once as she crossed the threshold before they finally settled on me. Her lips were pressed into a thin, frail smile, while lines of worry crisscrossed her brow. This was not the look of someone excited about getting a tattoo.

Glancing over my shoulder, I found Bronx watching the security television before he looked up at me and pointed to the vine on his arm. Yeah, that was the feeling I got too. Trouble. Something bad had just walked through my front door in the guise of a helpless young woman. I didn’t exactly have the word sucker stamped across my forehead when it came to the damsel-in-distress types, but I also wasn’t a cold-hearted bastard like so many in this world. I could at least hear her out. And then Bronx would gently show her the way back to the front door.

4

THE YOUNG WOMAN slowly crossed the room, as if still not sure that she wanted to be there. Her hesitance gave me ample time to check her out. There was no glamour clinging to her, no spells to set off any alarms in my head. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a scared human. Common enough. Not everyone was a fan of needles.

So I formed my lips into an open, reassuring smile, hoping to put her somewhat at ease. It won me a weak smile in return as she reached the counter.

“Hi,” she began with a little wave. “I was told to ask for Gage.”

Something sank in the pit of my stomach when she said my name. It wasn’t as if it was the first time someone had come in asking specifically for me. Hell, most of my business came via word of mouth and referrals from former clients. This little bit of trouble shrouded in fear had come looking specifically for me though. I would have felt safer if she had just opened her jacket and revealed a bomb strapped to her stomach. At least it would have been easier to smile through.

In my own defense, I am proud to report that I didn’t flinch and my smile didn’t waver when she made her request. “You’ve found him. What can I do for you?” I said, leaning forward on the glass case.

“I was told that you were one of the best tattoo artists in the area and that I should come to you. I was hoping to get some ink,” she explained, focusing on the obvious because fear seemed to have her locked into place a few feet from me.

“Sure, what kind of tattoo were you looking for? Do you already have something in mind?” I silently prayed that she hadn’t come to me looking for a bit of artistic direction as well. Guessing what kind of tattoo would fit a person’s unique personality was like trying to guess what kind of person they would marry. It was intimate, and I wasn’t currently privy to that kind of information. The young, bubbly, and brash teenagers were a little easier to guess, but I knew by looking at this young woman that she wanted something that would carry meaning for her for the rest of her life. It was going to be an emblem of who she was and/or what she believed.

“I know what I would like,” she said, allowing me to suppress a sigh of relief. “I want wings.”

“Sure, what sort of wings? I can show you Trixie’s back,” I offered, motioning toward the back room where the other artist was currently relaxing. “She’s got a great set of butterfly wings between her shoulder blades.”

The young woman looked away from me and frowned as she shoved her hand through her stringy brown hair. Her pale face was gaunt and her eyes were underlined with dark circles. Something was wrong here that I was missing. “Can we sit down?” she asked, looking over at the wooden bench, which ran the length of one wall of the parlor nearest the doorway to the back room.

“Of course.” I motioned toward the wooden bench, waiting for her to precede me.

She sat down a couple of feet away from me, dangling her purse between her legs while twisting the strap around her clenched hands. She didn’t look up at me and didn’t speak for nearly a minute, as if she was carefully weighing her words.

“My name is Tera, and I’ve heard a lot of great things about your work,” she finally said in a hushed voice, as if she was sharing some secret. “I’ve thought about it for a long time and I’ve decided that I want a pair of angel’s wings drawn on my back.”

“How big were you thinking?”

“My entire back.”

“Your whole back?” I dumbly repeated. This was not what I was expecting.

“From the tops of my shoulders to my lower back,” she confirmed.

“Have you gotten a tattoo before?”

“No.”

“Are you sure you want something so big to start with? Most people start with something smaller before getting such a large tattoo.”

“If it’s the needle you’re worried about, don’t. Needles don’t bother me.” Her voice hardened for the first time, giving me a flash of some unseen inner strength. “The pain won’t bother me either. I’ll be fine.”

“The other thing you have to consider is that tattoos are permanent, regardless of those stupid commercials and other so-called cures. You’ll have to live with this very large tattoo for the rest of your life.” In general, I wasn’t in the business of trying to talk someone out of a tattoo, but I believed a person should make an informed decision before jumping into such a big commitment.

“I can’t think of anything better,” she whispered, hanging her head down so that her hair blocked her face. However, I didn’t miss the quick motion of her hand sweeping up to her eye to catch what I was willing to guess was a tear.

Placing my elbows on my knees as I leaned forward, I cupped my right hand in my left, massaging out some of the tension that had settled there. I was beginning to guess where this was going and it was becoming increasingly harder for me to say no to this woman, which was going to be my downfall in the end.

Tera heaved a heavy sigh, as if she was finally prepared to bare her soul to me. “Look, Gage, I have to tell you the truth. I don’t have a lot of money. I can scrape together about two hundred dollars. I have a feeling that that won’t even begin to cover what I want, but this is my only chance. I’m dying. I’ve been diagnosed with terminal cancer and the doctors are saying that I’ve got anywhere from days to a few months. I haven’t been the best person in the world. I’m not some mass murderer or rapist, but I haven’t made the smartest of choices in life. I know I’m not going to get wings when I die, so I would like them now, even if it’s only for a day or two. Will you help me?”

Sucking in a deep breath, I lowered my head into my hands, digging my fingers into my hair. What the hell was I supposed to say? Sure, she could be conning me, but I doubted it. There was something about her, some darkness seeming to hang about her that reeked of death. She might not have terminal cancer, but I was willing to bet that she was telling the truth when it came to the fact that she was dying.

I dropped my hands and sat up so that I could look over at her. “Tera, I can guess at some of the things you’ve heard about me, and I honestly can’t help you with the cancer if that’s what you’re hoping.”

To my surprise, she gave a little chuckle and sat back against the bench, looking relaxed for the first time since coming into the parlor. Of course, she had already shared her dark secret with me, so what was there to be nervous about now? “I know that. Trust me, if a tattoo artist had found a cure for cancer, do you think anyone would actually be dying of it right now? I know that you can’t do anything about my situation. You can’t even extend my life. I want to die knowing that despite what God thought of me, I still got my wings. I’ll go to hell with my angel wings.”

I turned my head and looked over at the brave woman who was begging for my help to jump out on one last adventure before her breath left her body for the final time. Her two hundred dollars wouldn’t cover the time it would take to draw up the design and get half of it inked, but I would take the money because I didn’t want to injure her pride any more than it already had been by having to admit the truth to me. I’d take the job because I knew about thumbing your nose at the authorities just a moment before you were sure that you would cease to exist.

“So when do you want to start?” I asked, forcing a smile onto my lips.

Her brown eyes finally lit up with some of the energy she had been missing when she first came into my shop. “You’ll do it? Wonderful! I want to do this as soon as possible!”

“I need some time to get the design done. I’m assuming that due to the narrowness of your frame you want the wings to look like they’re folded on your back.”

“Yes, that would be perfect.”

“And color?”

“Just black ink. I think I’m pale enough to make the feathers look snowy white.”

Her enthusiasm was starting to become contagious. Most people who came in had been tattooed a time or two, resulting in a very blasé attitude about the whole process, or there was just the annoying, slightly intoxicated youth looking for that official badge of adulthood. But Tera was different. She might never have the chance to show the tattoo to the world, but she would know it was there; it was her way of trumping the great puppeteer in the sky. She had won my respect.

“All right,” I said, pushing to my feet. I extended my hand to her and she eagerly took it in both of hers. “Come back by tomorrow around six o’clock and I’ll have a design for you to look at. If you like it, we’ll get started then.”

“Awesome! Thank you so much!” she gushed for a second before sailing out the front door.

As I stepped into the back room again, I found two sets of eyes pinned on me in a mixture of worry and surprise. They both could easily have overhead all of the conversation despite the music that was still playing. The tattoo I had just promised to complete cost closer to a thousand dollars and I was doing it for a fraction of the price. I was happy to help people out when I could, and I cut friends a deal on occasion simply because I knew they would come back, but I wasn’t in the business of charity, and it was extremely rare for me to be drawn in by some sob story.

“Boss, you know that I don’t interfere in your business choices,” Bronx started in his low and steady voice, bringing a frown to my lips. “But this doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“What’s the problem? She’s dying. It’s not as if I can do any more damage, right?” I snapped.

“Could the ink make her condition any worse?” Trixie demanded. “Or maybe the stress on the body during the tattooing process might aggravate her weakened condition.”

“I don’t see it being a problem. She knows what she’s getting into, and hell only knows what she’s already been through. Getting a tattoo couldn’t possibly be worse than some of the tests and treatments she’s already suffered.”

“Who do you think recommended you to her?” Bronx inquired.

I just waved my hand aimlessly as I started to walk to the back room where the potion components were stored. “Heaven only knows. I’ve tattooed so many people over the years. It could be anyone.”

“Maybe you should ask her when she comes back tomorrow.”

I paused before disappearing down the narrow hallway and looked over at the troll’s grim expression. “You know, you’re starting to sound really paranoid about this one. You got something you want to tell me?”

“Wish I did,” he muttered as he eased himself down into the tattooing chair he used.

Truth be told, I wished he had something more to tell me as well. I thought I knew all there was to know about this particular client. Hell, I knew more about her than I knew about most of my clients. I tried to tell myself it was just the fact that she was dying that was bothering me, but there was something niggling in the back of my brain that wouldn’t let the tension ease from my shoulders.

Before grabbing my bag, my eye caught on the enormous glass-fronted wood case that held hundreds of different potion components. With the right combination of herbs and rare ingredients, I could guarantee someone a varying degree of good luck, I could make them more attractive to a certain person, or I could even hex a person’s ex for the right amount of money. Damn, for the right amount of money, I was positive that I could do far worse, but I tried to avoid getting myself into that kind of trouble, no matter how much green or gold was flashed in front of me. Karma could be a bitch.

Yet, as I stood there, it wasn’t the first-floor cabinet I was picturing, but my wall of cabinets in the basement that was flashing across my brain. In seconds, I was running through the catalog of items, weighing the use, effectiveness, and strength of each one. What was I hoping to accomplish? I knew without a doubt that I couldn’t cure her, but what if I could buy her a little more time? What if I could give her months versus days? Would they be days of agony or happiness because she had experienced more life than she had expected to?

It was only the pounding of Trixie’s heels on the wood floor that made me realize I had been standing transfixed before the cabinet for several minutes, lost in thought. I quickly bent down and grabbed the strap of my bag before shouldering it. My mind was still rattling through ingredient after ingredient. It was a puzzle my brain couldn’t let go of. There was something I could do. I was one of the best tattoo artists in the region, if not the country. I had a past that no other tattoo artist could claim. After all the centuries of torture, bloodshed, and death caused by the warlocks and the witches, there had to be something positive that one warlock-in-training could do to help someone without looking for something in return.

“You okay?” Trixie asked, poking her head in the door.

“Yeah, just thinking about the designs I’ve got to get done tomorrow. It’s too late tonight to sit down at the desk. I’m dead on my feet.”

Trixie arched one eyebrow at me for a second before shaking her head as she backed out of the room and headed into the tattoo parlor. I had to admit that I kind of felt the same way. What the hell was I doing? There were some things in this world that couldn’t be changed, but I wasn’t sure that I was ready to admit defeat on this one yet.

5

AFTER THE LATE hour I’d finished the previous night, it was a little difficult to pull my sorry ass back into the parlor before three o’clock the next day. It meant skipping the gym and packing a quick lunch/dinner, but at least I didn’t have an unexpected run-in with any gun-wielding maniacs in the alley beside the tattoo parlor when I arrived in the afternoon.

I went through my usual routine of checking the spells and resetting everything before I trudged down into the basement and reset the spell there. Trixie wasn’t expected for another five hours and Bronx wouldn’t be here until another hour or so after that. The parlor was mine for a while, allowing me to work in peace.

In one far corner was a designer’s desk with a bright overhead lamp. Sitting down in the ergonomically correct chair, I snatched several pieces of paper and started sketching the wings that I had seen dancing through my brain all night as I slept. This project consumed me like nothing else before. I had had clients come to me with some interesting concepts and art, but there was something different about this. I needed it to be perfect in every detail.

As I worked on the art there was something else eating at me that finally drove me down into the chilled basement of the tattoo parlor. Normally, I worked on all my designs in the windowless back room with the ingredients. But this one had taken on a secretive quality. I felt the need to be close to my personal ingredients, as if they were calling to me, wanting me to use them in the ink when I had already said that I wouldn’t. This was just supposed to be a tattoo of angel wings and yet I felt as if I needed to do more, as if I had to do more. I didn’t know if it was about trying to save one lost soul before it was taken too early. Maybe it was about trying to do something good with all my years of study when all the other warlocks and witches had only looked out for themselves.

After a couple of poor starts, I got down a design on paper that I managed to finish in just over an hour. I decided to go with an exceedingly simple design instead of something with heavy detail. I didn’t want to distract from the sheer purity of the lines. The wings would break from her back and pour forth like a white cascade.

I took the design upstairs and checked the clock one last time. I still had a couple of hours until Tera was due to arrive, and to my surprise, I felt myself growing nervous. I had been tattooing long enough that I was never nervous before starting a piece of work. I had done more than a dozen tattoos in a single night and still gone on to have drinks with friends later. Tattooing was my life, and yet I was suddenly faced with what would probably be the last great act of this woman before she died; I was nervous about screwing it up for her.

Shaking my head at my strange feeling, I started to tidy up the windowless back room where I would be tattooing Tera. Considering that she would be forced to lie on her stomach with her back fully exposed, I thought she might appreciate a little extra privacy instead of being on display for any other customers who might come in. While I knew the tattoo would take close to two hours to complete, I figured that I would be able to finish it before Trixie came in the door and officially opened the shop.

As I prepped everything I needed, I took a long look at the plastic cap that would hold the black ink for her tattoo. It was a large, but simple, thin line tattoo. I wouldn’t need more than a single cap of black ink. Mind swirling and conscience screaming, I tightly grasped the cap in the palm of my hand as I stomped down the stairs to the basement where my hidden ingredients beckoned me.

“Fine! I’m here!” I shouted to no one as I stood before the cabinets. I set the cap down on one of the counters of the largest cabinet before I started pulling open one glass door after another. It was only when I reached the one with the heavy padlock on the front that my mind grasped what I was searching for. My heart pounded and my mouth went as dry as the Sahara. I had never thought to use it. Part of me had convinced myself that it wasn’t real, but then I had acquired it from my mentor and he wasn’t one to lie about the veracity of a particular item. Every potion maker had to understand the potency and capabilities of every item he used. The only problem was that due to its extreme rareness no one knew how this item would react. But this once, I was willing to take a chance as the ingredients that I needed suddenly filled my brain.

Walking back over to the first cabinet, I reached inside and on the second shelf picked up a small vial. With a toothpick, I fished out a few particles of pollen from a white lily that had been sitting on a church altar during Easter mass. I wasn’t the type to go haunting churches and cemeteries for the really interesting ingredients, but sometimes a person had to take some chances to get the good stuff. At least I had waited until everyone left mass and cleared out of the church before I made my own personal collection. The white lily has always been a symbol of rebirth and purity. There was a cleanness to it that appealed to my brain, as if I could use these particles of pollen to wash away Tera’s sins.

Replacing the container in the cabinet, I closed the doors and carried the cap, with one finger over the opening and one below the bottom, to the cabinet with the padlock. Carefully setting the cap down, I fished my keys out of my pocket and, with the infrequently used lock making a slight screech, opened it. The wooden doors groaned as they were opened. Dragging over a stepladder, I climbed up to the last step so that I could reach the top shelf. I removed several items before I could reach a carefully sealed mason jar in the very back that seemed to glow with its own perfect light. The jar contained a single white feather that looked as if it was large enough to come from a giant eagle or condor. After coming down the steps, I walked over to my workbench and grabbed a pair of metal tweezers and a pair of wooden tongs. With shaking hands, I opened the jar and partially removed the feather by grasping it with the wooden tongs. I drew in a deep breath and held it as I used the tweezers to pull a single wispy frond from the feather and curl it in the bottom of the plastic ink cap. It was only after the feather had been replaced in the jar and the lid properly resealed that I started breathing again. I quickly put everything back where it belonged and locked the cabinet.

According to my mentor that feather had come from an actual angel. In fact, if he was to be believed, the feather had come from Gabriel himself. Other than my mentor, no one knew I possessed such a unique artifact, and I had always promised myself that I would never use it. It seemed to be too dangerous to ever use. And in truth, there had never been a call for anything so pure and perfect to be used in a tattoo, but at the moment it seemed to fit. I was drawing angel wings for a dying woman. What was more fitting than to have the ink first touched by the bit of a feather from a real angel? It had to do some good, right?

Placing my thumb back over the opening to the cap, I carried it up the stairs and kicked the trapdoor closed with a heavy bang. Setting the cap on the table, I grabbed a small piece of plastic wrap and placed it over the cap so that its contents would be protected until I could finally add the ink.

A knock on the front door suddenly woke me from the doze I had fallen into while stretched out in one of the tattoo chairs. I rubbed my eyes and stumbled out to the main waiting area. Tera was peeking through the front window around the stickers and signs, trying to see if anyone was actually inside. I waved at her as I crossed the distance to the front door and unlocked it for her.

“I saw the closed sign and thought maybe you had forgotten about our appointment,” she said as she stepped inside.

“No, I just can’t open the parlor until I’m done with your tattoo because I won’t be able to work on you and man the front desk and phone at the same time. The shop probably won’t officially open until Trixie gets here later tonight.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so much trouble.”

I waved her off as I led her to the back tattoo room. “It’s why I had you come in so early. The shop usually doesn’t open until around seven during the summer. Most of my customers are the nocturnal sort.”

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

“Not really if you’ve got a troll on staff,” I replied with a smirk. “Bronx tends to keep the peace with just a look.”

“I can imagine,” she murmured as she stepped into the windowless back room. There was a large, cushioned table in the center of the room surrounded by some small tables on wheels so I could easily move my supplies and tattooing machine around without forcing the subject to switch positions. There was one stainless steel sink against the far wall where we would sterilize some of our equipment that wasn’t simply disposable. On the opposite wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror that allowed the customer to easily see the new piece of work. I knew that it was intimidating being closed up in a windowless room with a total stranger and a pulsating needle while being half dressed, but it was part of my job to set her at ease.

Pulling around one of the stools on wheels, I patted it for her to sit down while I walked over to another table in the corner and grabbed my drawings. I held them up to her. Each was only one wing. I would make a mirror-image copy of the second wing so that it would be symmetrically perfect on her back.

“For the first one, I chose to go with long, slender feathers because your frame is so small and narrow,” I explained. “I wanted to create the illusion of them flowing down your back. The second image is of somewhat shorter wings that stretch more across your shoulder blades.”

A slow smile spread across Tera’s face as she looked at the two designs. She lightly held the paper by her fingertips, as if she were afraid of harming the design. “I love the first one. It’s perfect. Exactly what I had in mind.”

“Excellent. I’m going to go and start getting these copied out to the right size so that the ink outline covers your back. That will give you a chance to get out of your shirt and bra. I just need exposure to your back, so feel free to hold your shirt to your front. Or not,” I said, winking at her as I left the room in hopes that the teasing would take some of the tension away from the lines surrounding her mouth and eyes.

It took nearly half an hour to get the wings the right size and evenly spaced, let alone straight on her back. I had been forced to wash away the ink copy twice before I finally got it centered as perfectly as possible. Two-sided tattoos were a bitch to do, as they required that each side perfectly matched up with the other. However, they were usually some of the most elegant tattoos I have ever seen because of their symmetry on the body.

Through all my cursing and eyeballing of her back from one angle to another, Tera remained still and silent. The perfect little client, but then I suspected she wasn’t going to give me any trouble considering that I was doing this tattoo for so little.

When I was finally satisfied, I told her to lie down on the table while I stepped into the other room and picked up a bottle of black ink. As soon as I returned, I found her lying on the table on her stomach with her shirt arranged in such a way that her breasts were covered as best as possible. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I glared at my hands as they trembled before I removed the plastic wrap from the little ink container. I hesitated for only a second, my mind questioning why I was so determined to do this, then I squirted the ink into the container, covering up the frond from the angel’s feather and the pollen from the Easter lily. It was the right thing to do.

Settling on a low stool with wheels, I took a deep breath as I dipped the needle in the ink and positioned the foot pedal for the tattooing machine under my toe. “Okay, I’m just going to do a short line to make sure that you can tolerate this,” I warned her before pressing on the pedal. The buzz of the tattooing machine filled the air and the tension oozed out of my body. I drew the first line and Tera didn’t even flinch. She’d passed the test. I grabbed a glob of petroleum jelly and smoothed it over the area that I was going to be working on and then continued to follow the blue outline on her shoulder, working my way down her back.

As I tattooed her, we talked about nothing at all. We discussed the weather, places we had grown up, and bad relationships. We laughed and joked as I worked, allowing me to completely forget about the dangerous potion I was permanently embedding in her flesh. I reminded myself that I couldn’t kill her, cancer was already doing that job, and quickly.

By the time I’d finished the first half of Tera’s back, Trixie had stuck her head into the room, so we took a short break.

“How’s it going?” my coworker asked with a cheerful smile.

“She’s a trooper,” I replied, setting the tattoo machine on the nearby table so I could pull on a fresh set of gloves.

“Putting up with your crude humor and lewd jokes, huh?”

“No, he’s been a perfect gentleman,” Tera said, defending me.

Trixie gave another snort of disbelief. “Give him time. He’s only half done with your back.”

“Thanks, Trix,” I muttered, turning my attention to Tera, who was looking at me over her shoulder. “I’m going to go help Trixie open up the shop. That will give you a chance to change your position on the table so that you’re facing in the opposite direction. It’s easier for me to reach that part of your back without dragging all the equipment around.”

Tera nodded and I followed Trixie out of the room, shutting the door behind me. We walked silently into the main room, where Trixie started to fiddle with her MP3 player, searching for tonight’s music before she settled on some Three Days Grace.

“How long you been at it?”

I glanced up at the clock. “Nearly two hours. Took me thirty minutes to get the fucking outline on her back properly. The tattooing is going quickly. It’s a simple design. I should be done with her in about another thirty to forty-five minutes. Can you handle things alone for that long?”

“Sure.” Trixie paused for a moment, staring at me with a frown on her face. I knew I wasn’t going to like what was on her mind. “I know it’s way too late, but I still feel bad about this one.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea. It’s a feeling, and I’ve learned to trust my feelings. They’ve kept me alive this long.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just tattooing angel wings on the back of a dying girl. I don’t see the harm.”

“Nothing in the ink?” Trixie inquired.

I frowned at her. “What could I possibly have put in the ink that would help her?” Evading her question wasn’t much different from outright lying to her. Despite my intention of helping Tera, I didn’t like myself much at that moment.

She sighed as she walked to the front door to flip the sign over to OPEN. “Nothing, I’m sure.”

“I’m going to get back in there. Hold down the fort. I shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Be careful,” Trixie whispered at my back as I headed down the hallway, my heavy footsteps echoing off the hardwood floor so that Tera had ample warning of my approach. When I opened the door, she was settled on the table with the shirt properly tucked around her.

“Ready for the second half?” I asked as I grabbed a pair of fresh gloves.

“Ready.”

As I placed the first line on her lower back, she flinched. The tissue there was a little softer and the needle dug in more than when we had been doing her shoulders. I wanted to work my way up, getting the worst part of the tattoo done first. I continued working until she let out a little grunt, causing me to pause.

“It hurts more this time around, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, but that’s just how it works. When you do two halves of a tattoo, the second half always hurts more than the first half.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Does it feel like I’m kidding?” I resumed inking her back. I tried to quickly work my way up to where I knew she had been more comfortable during the first half.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Sorry, I would have warned you, but you’d have spent the entire first half of the tattoo worrying about completing the second half. You’ll get adjusted.”

Tera gave a soft little laugh as she settled her chin on her folded hands in front of her. “Besides, it’s not as if I can stop now. It would look ridiculous—a single angel’s wing on my back.”

“Actually, at this point, it’s a wing and a half, so that would look even sillier. You have to grit your teeth and stick it out now.”

I looked up when Tera sighed and found that her eyes were closed. “I’ve been through worse. This will pass too,” she murmured.

I had nothing to say to that, so I went silently back to work, finishing the tattoo as cleanly and quickly as possible. It took me another thirty minutes to complete it and wipe it down, removing the excess ink, blood, and petroleum jelly. I gave her a chance to walk over to the large mirror and stare at the image. Her eyes were shining as she gazed over her shoulder at her back. It really was an impressive work of art. The wings actually looked as if they would rise off her back and carry her into the heavens. But that was an illusion created by the puffy skin that resulted from cutting into the flesh. It was just a tattoo, even if it was one of my better ones.

While she was still standing, I pulled off a large piece of plastic wrap and placed it against her back before taping it down with medical tape. “This is to protect that tattoo for the next several hours.”

“I feel like a leftover,” she joked, her mood instantly becoming lighter than air.

“Keep it covered until tomorrow. Don’t sleep on your back, and wash it carefully with unscented soap for the next few weeks. Also, no matter how badly it itches, don’t scratch it.”

I closed my eyes as I helped her pull her button-up shirt on and then escorted her to the front room, where Trixie was already working on a client. She hadn’t bothered to come back for any ingredients, so it seemed safe to assume that it was a regular old tattoo with nothing special added. I collected my fee and followed Tera to the door where she gripped me in a tight hug before she left the parlor.

I wanted to say something hopeful or happy or encouraging, but there were no words that I could push past my parted lips. She was one of the few clients who I knew without a doubt I would never see again.

6

THE SQUEAK OF the front door opening and closing accompanied by the door chime echoing above the sound of Marilyn Manson on the speakers caught my attention, but I couldn’t hear any footsteps. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I didn’t let myself look up from the client I was working on until Bronx said my name. The troll was staring at the TV, which was showing the security-camera view of the lobby. No one was on the screen. Fucking vampires. I truly doubted that this was a pleasure visit. They rarely got tattoos and were never in a good mood when it came to dealing with anything remotely human. I guess it was simply a bad idea to get too friendly with something you viewed as food.

“Trixie, can you finish this tattoo for me?” I asked, dragging my gaze over to where she was sitting on the counter. “I need to take care of this.” She nodded and hopped down from her spot. The man I was working on didn’t seem to mind, as a smile crossed his lips when Trixie took the stool I had just vacated. I glanced over at Bronx, who was intently watching me. “Hang back for me.”

I pulled off the soiled latex gloves as I started to walk toward the front of the parlor. Dropping the gloves into a trash can near the entrance to the lobby, I forced an easygoing smile on my face as I stepped up to the glass counter. A pair of men were strolling around the room in black trench coats. One had bright red hair that hung down his back in a thick braid, while the second had shoulder-length brown hair that curled at the ends—both shades looking darker against their ultrapale skin. Their thin lips were pulled down into frowns as they looked over the small shop. I couldn’t make out their murmurs, but I had no doubt that they were critical and highly desultory. Asylum had never been designed for their type. There were a couple of high-end tattoo parlors around the city that a vampire might deign to visit, but I had my doubts as to whether they were actually turning a profit. This wasn’t a business built for exclusivity.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” I asked, struggling to keep my smile in place.

The dark-haired vampire stepped forward and pulled what looked to be a leather wallet from the pocket of his coat. Flipping it open, he revealed a little gold badge that made my blood run cold. There was nothing I could do to keep the smile on my face. They were representatives from the Tattoo Artists & Potion Stirrers Society (TAPSS), and they could make my life hell. All tattoo artists had to pass a series of tests set forth by TAPSS that covered both tattooing skills as well as potion stirring before you were given a license to tattoo. In addition, a parlor had to maintain a separate license that promised to uphold a certain level of quality and cleanliness.

Unclenching my teeth, I forced out the question I had to ask, but I already knew the answer. “What have I done to warrant this unexpected visit?”

“I’m sure that you already know why we’re here, Mr. Powell,” purred the red-haired vampire, as if he was trying to use his voice to get inside my head. Neither of them was attempting to glamour me and a part of me prayed they wouldn’t try to. The other part of me really wished they would.

“Look, Vlad, all my transactions and work have been on the up and up. You can look at my records if you want to,” I offered, throwing up my hands. They both laughed at me as we all knew that records were frequently falsified to hide the true nature of a tattoo or the identity of a client. It was normal operating procedure in the business. Any tattooist worth his salt knew how to protect his clients.

“No one would trust your records.”

I replied with a shrug of one shoulder, as if his opinion didn’t matter to me. “No one has time to run background checks on every client. You have to trust them to tell the truth when they fill out their paperwork.”

“Regardless, we’ve had an extremely dark complaint from one of your former clients.”

“You’ll have to be a little more specific. We do a lot of business every night.”

“Russell Dalton,” the vampire replied, and it was all I could do to not react to the name. I had a feeling this man was going to haunt me until he finally put a bullet in the back of my head, or worse. “I believe you personally gave him a tattoo of a four-leaf clover on the heel of his left foot with a potion earmarked for good luck. Recall him now?”

“Rings a bell,” I sneered. “I believe he told me that he had a complaint about the tattoo while he was waving a gun in my face the other day. I would have offered then to make any reparations he might have requested, but I found myself reluctant to cave to the ravings of an idiot when he was pointing the muzzle of a handgun in my face.”

“Gun or not, you should have fixed the tattoo,” the dark-haired vampire chided.

“Of course, the tattoo and potion that you mixed were basic and there shouldn’t have been a problem to begin with,” the other vampire added as he seemed to glide silently across the floor until he was standing on the other side of the glass counter.

“I would drop this case, gentlemen,” I warned them softly through clenched teeth. “Russell Dalton is a worthless piece of slime who crawled in here one night with fifty dollars to his name, wanting a tattoo that would give his wife an uncontrollable desire to give him a blow job every time he gave her a little pat on the back of the head. I talked him down to a good luck charm and sent him on his way, hoping he would never cross my doorstep again.”

“His potential depravity and initial desires have no bearing on this case. You should have done the tattoo correctly after you agreed upon it,” the vampire closest to me said.

“I did do it correctly, Dracula. It was simple. I used leprechaun hair, which is well within the bounds of use for a good luck charm. It was only after I spoke with Dalton yesterday that I discovered the hair had gone bad. I had had the supply for less than a week. By the standards set by TAPSS, that is still considered a viable resource.”

“Then you should have fixed the problem when it was brought to your attention.”

“Like I said, Lestat, I don’t bow to the whims of idiots waving guns in my face,” I replied in a low growl.

“Let me rephrase it for you,” said the red-haired vampire, drawing my gaze back to his pale blue eyes. “You will fix—” He didn’t even get the chance to finish the sentence as a burst of power threw him across the room so that he crashed against the wall between the front door and the picture window at the front of the parlor. It was all I could do to keep the smile off my face. The other vampire simply stood stunned, his head bouncing from me to where his companion lay crumpled on the ground several feet away.

The antiglamour spell had kicked in. Trixie didn’t feel anything when she used her spell, because she used it on herself. The vamp, on the other hand, had tried to use a form of glamour compulsion on me, which was then thrown back in his face—hard.

“There’s no spellcasting in my shop,” I snapped in answer to the unspoken question of “How?” hanging in the air. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t like being forced into doing anything that I don’t want to do.”

The other vampire overcame his momentary shock and lunged at me with amazing speed. He grabbed me around the throat with one hand, nearly crushing my windpipe so that I couldn’t draw a breath. His long white fangs were bared as he snarled at me. “As my companion was stating before he was rudely interrupted, you will clean up this mess you created.”

“I’m not touching Dalton again.”

The vampire squeezed harder and slammed me into the wall, causing white spots to dance before my eyes. As my vision cleared, I noticed that the second vampire had regained his feet and looked even more pissed than his companion. This was turning out to be a great night.

A part of me relaxed when I heard the heavy thud of Bronx’s footsteps as he approached the front of the parlor. I expected him to execute some wonderful violence as he beat these two assholes to bloody pulps. If anything, I was looking forward to him freeing me from the vampire who was currently clamped on my throat, causing my lungs to burn from a lack of air.

To my surprise, the troll stopped at the glass counter and reached under it to some of the hidden shelves where we kept paperwork, ink pens, and our MP3 players. The troll pulled out a large mason jar of buttons of different sizes and colors, and unscrewed the top. I had no idea that the container had been under there, but then the troll was always full of interesting surprises.

The eyes of both vampires locked on the jar, and they seemed to grow even paler. I thought I even heard one of them whisper “No” before Bronx poured a large handful of buttons into his massive palm and tossed them in the middle of the floor. The vampire holding my throat released me so fast that I slid down the wall to the floor. Dark curses were muttered from each as they knelt on the ground, gathering up the buttons. With lightning-fast hands, they sorted the buttons, stacking them according to size, color, and design so that a rainbow of buttons covered the worn carpet on the floor.

Rubbing my throat, I patted Bronx on the shoulder as I stood. Instead of risking his neck and mine, the troll had decided to go the wiser route and take advantage of a known obsessive-compulsive trait in vampires. Seeds, buttons, and even flower petals: if they could be sorted and organized, the vampire was compelled to stop whatever he was doing and complete the task.

When the two were finished, they carefully eased away from the buttons so that they wouldn’t be disturbed. They both looked frustrated and more than a little humiliated. They also looked eager to take that frustration out of my hide, but right now Bronx was still standing by the glass case with his hand on the top of the jar of buttons.

Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my wallet. I withdrew fifty dollars and threw it at the nearest vampire. “Here’s Dalton’s refund. Tell him to take his problem to another tattoo parlor and to never step into mine again. Case closed.”

“This case may be closed, but it’s not forgotten,” said the dark-haired vampire as he scooped up the money and stuffed it into his pocket. “Dalton told us what really happened in the alley yesterday. You’re going to attract their attention and bring them all down on our heads. We can’t afford that. We will stop you before we come to that crossroads. TAPSS is watching you.”

The two vampires glided out of the parlor while I fought the urge to throw a handful of fucking buttons at their backs. Bronx gave me a dark look but said nothing as he returned to the back room. I sighed as I grabbed the jar and walked into the middle of the room. I picked up the little piles of buttons and threw them back into the jar. At least I now knew it was there in case we had another vampire run-in. In most cases, such a tactic served as little more than a distraction. I was sure Bronx’s presence in the main room had also helped to deter the two vampires from trying to attack me again. OCD or not, they would have gotten to me eventually.

I sat down on the bench and rubbed my neck. I listened to Trixie finish up with the client who had been present to hear the entire altercation in the front room (fabulous), giving him proper tattoo care instructions while collecting her fee. It was only after he left the shop, the door banging closed behind him, that I dragged my sorry ass into the back room, where I was sure there were a few questions waiting for me and only so much that I was permitted to say.

“What happened in the alley?” Trixie immediately demanded, sitting on the side of one of the tattoo chairs.

“Nothing important. He attacked. I fought back and I won. You should be happy about that,” I teased, but I knew that it wasn’t going to get me anywhere with her. I refused to look over at Bronx. His perceptive eyes unnerved me in too many ways. He simply knew things without being told. He watched while others talked, and he remembered things that were better left forgotten.

“Are we going to lose our license?” Bronx asked.

“They aren’t going to touch your licenses. I was the tattooist. I’m the one they’re pissed at. You’re safe.”

“What about the parlor’s license?”

“I don’t think they would go to that extent yet. They just wanted to scare me a little bit.”

“I hope by the bruises on your neck, it worked,” Trixie grumbled.

“Who are they so afraid of?” Bronx demanded, getting to the real heart of the matter.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said with a shake of my head, hating the words as they left my mouth. I hated evading their questions and I hated even more that I was forced to lie to them. Trixie and Bronx were the closest I had to family in this world. My own family had been lost to me in an attempt to protect them from the Ivory Towers. My coworkers deserved the truth, but I couldn’t give it to them if I was going to keep them protected as much as I possibly could. Trixie had her secrets. Let me have mine so I could sleep at night. “I swear to you, if shit comes down, I will handle it.”

Bronx settled on one of the stools next to his tattoo chair, laying his beefy hands on his knees. “You know, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

I flashed him a smile that crumpled from my lips before it could fully form. “This time, it does.”

I had done the impossible and walked away from something that no one was allowed to turn their back on. I knew that it was going to haunt me until someone finally killed me over it, but I refused to drag my friends into my mess if I could help it. And for the moment, I thought the best way to protect them was to keep them as ignorant as possible. The less people knew about me, the better. When there’s a monster under your bed, sometimes it really is best not to look.

7

THERE WAS AN unexpected gift waiting for me when I came into the shop the next afternoon. I paused as I reached to turn on the overhead bank of lights in the main tattoo room and saw Trixie’s body outlined by the light seeping in through the shaded windows. She was stretched out in one of the tattoo chairs with one arm thrown over her eyes, her breathing even as she slept. In the stillness, her beauty seemed to have softened, as if I had just chanced upon Sleeping Beauty after scaling the castle walls to the tallest tower in the keep. Her long blond hair cascaded from the head of the chair in a golden waterfall, while her pale skin glowed in the dim afternoon light. Her beauty was nearly heart stopping.

When she was moving gracefully about the parlor, perpetually light on her toes, cracking jokes and intent on her work, it was easier to overlook or put aside her beauty and focus on the person. I could remember that she was just a friend and coworker. It was easier to put up that mental barrier against both the sexual attraction and the something more that ached in my chest when she smiled at me. But in the stillness of that vulnerable moment, it all came rushing back to me so that I could barely breathe.

There had been a few times during the past couple of years that Trixie, Bronx, and I had all gone out for drinks at the local bars. I cherished those few memories as I watched her out in public, not as her employer, but as her friend. She was a beam of bright light slicing through the darkness. She laughed, overflowing with joy. And then there were times when she watched you with such intensity you could almost be convinced you were the only person left on the planet. I could feel the compassion that flowed from her heart and it caused an ache in my own chest. She made the world a wonderful place even in the grimmest moments.

But I couldn’t have her.

Clenching my teeth, I flipped on the overhead light, jerking her instantly awake so that I could finally escape her hold. While she was looking at me with a slightly confused and dazed expression, I was able to focus on the bigger question at hand: why was she sleeping in the tattoo parlor when she kept a comfortable apartment just a few miles away? It was time to pack away my sexual urges and simple desires for something else, because it was obvious that Trixie needed a friend.

“In a little early, aren’t you?” I asked with a smile as I tried to break the building tension.

A little smile tweaked the corners of her mouth, but never grew into anything more as she sat up fully and swung her legs around so that her feet touched the floor. She still looked exhausted, and she was having trouble meeting my direct gaze. I had a feeling that she hadn’t been asleep for long when I’d found her. Usually, she worked later into the night than I did and then probably didn’t settle into sleep until shortly before dawn each night. Of course, there was also the problem that had chased her out of her apartment in the first place.

“I thought you could use the help,” she volunteered, but there was a slight waver to her voice.

“Yeah, tell me another one.”

“I know this doesn’t look good. I just needed a place to crash and I didn’t have anywhere else to go …”

“That was safe,” I finished.

Trixie stared down at her fingers, entwined in her lap. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

She hesitated for a long time as she was probably debating telling me the truth or a somewhat believable lie. I frowned and shook my head at her. It was none of my business and I wasn’t going to force her into telling me something she didn’t want to talk about. I also didn’t get a feeling of urgency, which meant that explanations could wait for another time.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my keys, jingling them softly in my hand. “Let’s go. I’ve got a place where you can catch a few more hours of sleep before you’re needed here.”

I walked through the main tattoo area to the back room, listening to her grab her bag from the counter before she followed me, her heels clomping across the old hardwood floor. I unlocked the back door and turned toward a set of old, rickety wooden stairs that led to the second-floor apartment.

“You rent the apartment as well?” Her voice drifted to me as I paused at the door to unlock it.

“I own the entire building,” I admitted as I opened the door with a hard shove. I held it open, allowing her to follow me in. Glancing over my shoulder at her, I blinked twice at the sight of her. She was outside the parlor and her glamour had kicked back in. Gone was the luscious blonde with the high cheekbones and sparkling green eyes. She was now a brunette with deep chocolate brown eyes and a heart-shaped face. Trixie was still a beautiful woman in her cloak of glamour, but I had become accustomed to seeing through it to her true beauty. I pushed the disappointment away and focused on the tiny apartment.

The air in the room was heavy from the heat, and musty. It had been at least six months since I’d last crashed here and that was only because I had spent a late night out drinking at the bars within walking distance of the parlor. It had just been easier to sleep it off here instead of attempting to trek back to my apartment.

Closing the door behind her, I led her through the small apartment, past the couch with the stained cushions, sunk from too much wear, through to the tiny kitchen that barely allowed two people to stand in there at the same time. We turned down the hallway as I pointed out the bathroom and the one bedroom. A mattress and box spring lay on the floor, holding a couple of blankets and a pair of flat pillows. Thick curtains blocked out the light from the window, but a slight part between the two panels allowed a shaft of light to cut through the room. Dust particles danced in the light as it fell across the bed.

“Believe it or not, this place is actually pretty clean,” I said, shoving one hand anxiously through my hair. “I come up here every few months and air the place out, clean the blankets and anything that’s been used recently. I haven’t actually lived up here for a couple of years, but it’s always been a nice fallback place when I can’t make it home.”

“I didn’t know,” she murmured. “Have you ever …?”

“I’ve never done any of my tattoo deals up here. This is just a place for me to crash,” I quickly said. “Hell, it doesn’t even have a TV.”

“I really appreciate this, Gage. I just need a couple of days to get this worked out and then I’ll be back at my own apartment, or at the very least a new one,” she said. “I’ll even pay you rent if you want.”

I waved off the offer. “I don’t ever use this except on the rare occasion. There’s no reason for that nonsense. Just try to keep it somewhat clean and we’re good.”

“Not a problem.”

“When are you going to tell me what the real problem is?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just best if I don’t go back to my apartment for a little while,” she replied, trying to make it sound as if it wasn’t anything important.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“I can handle it. It’s nothing.”

“Well, it’s going to be something when this problem appears on the doorstep of the parlor. I’m going to need to know then,” I warned her as I started to leave the bedroom.

Trixie crossed her arms under her full breasts and leaned back on one foot as she eyed me. “Does that mean you’ll finally get around to telling me why TAPSS is so worried about you catching the attention of someone dangerous? That’s turned up on the parlor doorstep on more than one occasion.”

“It’s something I’ve got under control.”

“And I don’t?”

“A person has to wonder when you’re sleeping at the parlor after-hours. I’m not the one on the run.”

Trixie allowed her arms to drop limply to her sides as she took a couple of steps closer to me. In heels she was nearly taller than me. She dropped her head so that her lips almost brushed against my cheek when she spoke. “Well, then, I guess we both have our fair share of secrets that we’re not willing to share.”

“Someday I think both of us are going to come clean, but I guess today isn’t going to be that day,” I said, as my throat threatened to close up on me while the blood rushed from my head to my pants.

“Thank you for your help, Gage. You’re one of the only friends in this world I’ve got who I can turn to,” she whispered, her warm breath dancing past my ear.

“I find that hard to believe,” I choked out. “You’re a beautiful, energetic, sweet woman. How could you not have other friends who would have your back?”

“That’s just it. I’m only a beautiful woman to them. They don’t care about me. But you do, don’t you? You care.”

A soft sigh escaped me before I could catch it. I lifted my right hand and let my fingertips slip down her cheek, caressing from the line of her jaw to her stubborn chin. She looked different, but I knew I was standing before my Trixie. There was just something in her eyes, the tilt of her full mouth, that reminded me of the woman I had come to know over the past two years. No, I didn’t know her secrets, but I felt like I knew her soul. She was kind and compassionate. She worried about others before herself. She drew a laugh out of Bronx and me when our moods were sour. She eased fears, wiped tears, and laughed freely.

I had loved Trixie for the better part of two years, perpetually watching her from afar because it was simply too dangerous to involve her in my life. The warlock guardians were watching me too closely, and bringing someone into my life only meant making them vulnerable to that kind of danger. I didn’t want the threat of the Ivory Towers to ever touch her life because of me. We all lived under the shadow of the warlocks and the witches, but I knew that she would become a target if anyone knew of my feelings for her.

Even with that quite valid reason dancing through my head, I couldn’t get myself to take a step back from her. I lowered my hand from her face, letting my fingers skim down her arm before returning to my side.

When I finally spoke, my voice was low and rough. “I have always cared for you. I want you to be happy and safe. I will do whatever I can to see to it that you are.”

She leaned forward that extra little bit and brushed her parted lips against mine. My eyes fell shut as instincts immediately took over and I kissed her back with force. I felt as if I had waited a lifetime to touch her, kiss her, taste her. My body grew hard as I raised my hands, running them along her bare arms so that she gave a little shiver as we deepened the kiss, my tongue darting into her mouth to brush against her tongue. She tasted of fresh strawberries, sweet and ripe. My hands lifted and I cupped her face, holding her in place as the kiss became hotter. I wanted her. I wanted her more than anything else I had ever wanted in my life. I wanted to spend hours worshipping her body, exploring every inch and curve, making her moan beneath me.

But I wanted the real Trixie, not this magic-induced facsimile. I wanted to open my eyes and see her golden hair spread out on the pillow. I wanted to be lost in those green eyes I looked forward to seeing every evening. I wanted the real thing.

And in truth, she deserved the real Gage. Not this half-truth that I presented to the world. We both deserved better than what we were getting at that moment. With all the willpower I could summon, I placed my hands firmly on her shoulders, and pushed her away from me a step. Neither of us spoke. Only the sound of our heavy breathing broke the silence of the overly warm apartment.

“We can’t do this, Trixie,” I announced when my brain started working through the haze of sexual desire. “You’ve had a rough night and need some sleep. You’re only going to regret this later.”

“Gage …”

“I’m going to head back down to the shop. Just get some sleep and come down when you’re rested. I’ll be waiting,” I said brusquely, forcing myself to meet her gaze. She didn’t look heartbroken or wounded by my rejection. In fact, she looked as if she could easily see through my ruse as a smile played at the corners of her mouth. Not surprising when I had no doubt that she could feel the trembling in my hands and my erection when I had her pressed against me.

Eager to beat a hasty retreat while I still could, I slid around her and headed for the bedroom door. I was determined to do the right thing where she was concerned. She needed help, not being mauled by me.

“I wouldn’t regret it,” she murmured before I left the room. Her voice was so soft, I wasn’t sure that I actually heard it, or just hoped that I heard those words.

No, I wouldn’t regret it either, I thought. But for now, it wasn’t right.

I shut the front door of the apartment a little harder than I had meant to and tromped down the wooden stairs as fast as I could. I needed to get back to the tattoo parlor where I was safe and the world made sense. I needed to get back to the place where there were invisible boundaries that protected both Trixie and me from having to make these kinds of decisions. I needed to get back to the one place where I felt there were no surprises waiting for me and I was the king of my domain. I needed my shop.

8

SO MUCH FOR no surprises.

I returned to the tattoo parlor and had started to set up the equipment for the day when I heard footsteps creaking across the wooden floor as if someone was pacing in the lobby area. I glanced over at the monitor set up for the security system that overlooked the lobby, but I saw no one. A cold chill ran through me as I knew that it couldn’t be a vampire—the sun was too high in the sky—and I couldn’t think of any other creature who had the ability to be invisible to a digital camera without the use of a series of spells. Walking over to the cabinet that held the guns I had confiscated over the past few years, I pulled out a large black handgun. I had no intention of actually firing it since I didn’t bother to grab the magazine that had been removed. I hoped that waving it around would be enough to scare off the intruder.

Frowning, I stepped into the lobby to find a man standing in the middle of the room, looking down at the watch on his left wrist with a grim expression. He wore a pair of black slacks and a white button-down shirt with short sleeves. His dark hair was starting to recede, giving him a bald spot on the top of his head, and the clipboard he was holding rested on the slight paunch of his stomach. While I didn’t have any clue as to who he was, I could easily see that he wasn’t the threat I had feared. He looked like a census taker or some poor, middle-aged man stuck in a dead-end job selling kitchen knives door-to-door.

“Mr. Powell,” he said in a low, even voice as he looked up at me. His eyes paused on the gun in my hand, causing him to arch one eyebrow as his frown grew a little deeper. “I hope you appreciate that I was willing to wait for you while you had your brief encounter with the elf on the second floor. I don’t have time to waste like that. I’m on a very tight schedule.”

I opened my mouth to ask how he had possibly known what I was doing with Trixie and how he could know that she was an elf, but no noise came out as he continued talking.

“You might as well put the gun away. It won’t help you.”

“Who are you? How the hell did you get into my shop?” I swept around the counter and walked over to the front door to find that it was still locked. I lowered the gun, guessing that he might have sneaked in through the back door while I was upstairs with Trixie, but he had to have been watching the parlor from the back alley to get his chance, and I couldn’t recall seeing anyone in the alley as we ascended the stairs.

“I’m with the Grim Reapers’ Union, local number 23466, and I can get into any place I want, Mr. Powell, locked door or not.”

A snort of disbelief escaped me as some of the tension eased from my shoulders. “Grim reaper? You’ve got to be kidding me.” I had to admit there were a lot of things in this world that were hard to believe and a lot of things I struggled to understand, but I didn’t believe there was a single creature who controlled the life and death of every living thing. Let alone believe there was an actual union of reapers that saw to the demise of everyone on this planet.

“You’re not supposed to know about us, Mr. Powell. We work much better when we remain in the shadows, handling the death of a person when it is their time with no one looking at us. It’s just easier for everyone involved. Much less paperwork.”

“I would imagine so,” I said, still unable to lose the snideness in my voice. A grim reaper? He looked like an accountant or some corporate drudge trapped in middle management. “I thought the grim reaper was supposed to wear a black shroud and carry a scythe and maybe even an hourglass. You’re really destroying all of my beliefs here.”

“I would hate to do that,” he said with an irritated sigh, seeming to finally get tired of my sarcasm.

In the blink of an eye, dark clouds spread across the sky, blotting out the sun so that the earth was blanketed in a false night. The man I had been mocking was gone and an eight-foot-tall black-shrouded creature leaned over me until I was pressed against the wall. In one skeletal hand was a reaper’s scythe that seemed to gleam in some unholy light, while the rest of him was cloaked in thick shadow. On a silver chain around his waist was an hourglass with its sand constantly pouring toward oblivion. I tried to stare into the hood of the shroud to see the creature’s face, but I could see nothing beyond a pair of unblinking red eyes that radiated power. A deep sense of hopelessness pervaded the room until I was nearly drowning in it.

“Has this convinced you of my identity, Gage Powell, or do you need to accompany me on my next visit to reap a soul from this existence?” the creature asked in a deep, resounding voice that echoed throughout my whole frame and rattled my eardrums. Without a doubt, I was dealing with a creature infinitely more powerful than I could ever be. He could squash me like a bug with a mere wave of his bony hand and there was nothing I could do to stop it. And yet I was still holding my gun on him, clasped tightly in both trembling hands. I knew that a shot wouldn’t do a damn thing to stop him, but my brain wasn’t working in any kind of logical fashion. I was looking into the face of death and I just wanted him to back off and get the hell out of my shop.

“I’m convinced,” I replied, somehow managing not to stutter.

The shrouded creature, in the blink of an eye, turned back into the balding middle-aged man shaking his head at me. He sank onto the bench that lined the back wall, settling his clipboard on his right knee. Pulling a white handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped some sweat from his brow.

At the same time, I slid down the wall as my shaking knees gave out on me. The heavy metal gun hit the ground with a solid thud, while I hung my head forward so that my chin rested against my chest. My breathing was heavy as well, while a fine trembling seemed to fill every fiber of my being.

“See? Isn’t this form much easier to deal with when it comes to handling business?” the grim reaper commented.

“Yes, but it’s just a little hard to believe at first blush,” I said, laughing, one part relief and one part hysteria. “I thought the idea of the grim reaper was just an old myth. I would never have guessed there were unions that handled death.”

“Someone has to manage the flow of souls from this world to the next. It’s a very important job.”

“Without a doubt, but how does one go about getting such a job? I have to admit that I’ve never seen a want ad for the position.”

For the first time since he’d appeared, the grim reaper actually gave a small smile. “Another time, perhaps. It’s something of a long story and I’m on a tight schedule as it is. In fact, I should have been out of here already, Mr. Powell.”

“Gage, please. I think after that scare, you can use my first name.”

“Thank you,” he said formally, with a nod of his head as he grew serious again. “Gage, you’ve seriously fucked up.”

“I was beginning to guess as much considering that you’re here. I would think that if you were after my soul, you would have reaped it already and moved on. No time for chitchat.”

“Exactly. This is about one of your recent clients.”

“I hope this isn’t more Russell Dalton shit. I really don’t think I can tolerate another word about that man,” I grumbled, resting my arms on my knees.

“Dalton. Dalton. Dalton,” the grim reaper muttered to himself as he flipped through several sheets of paper on his clipboard before he found what he was looking for. “No, it’s not his time just yet. Though it doesn’t look as if you’ve been much help with his case.”

“I’m not taking responsibility for his death whether it comes today or ten years from now. He dug his own grave.”

“And you threw the dirt in after him.”

“Whatever,” I said with a wave of one hand. “He got what he deserved. If this isn’t about Dalton, then which of my clients do you have a problem with?”

“It’s a young woman by the name of Tera Cynthia McClausen.”

It took me a moment to remember who he was talking about when I heard the entire name, but my stomach clenched when I suddenly focused on the first name. Tera. She had never given me her last name and I had never thought to ask. It would be on the paperwork she filled out, but I never looked that shit over.

My tattoo on Tera’s back had brought the grim reaper to my door, and I had a very good guess as to why he was there. The angel feather. It had done something to mess up the flow of souls. Whatever it was, the grim reaper was calling me out and this was one of the last guys on this planet I wanted to go a few rounds with. There really was no winning.

For now, the best plan was to play ignorant for as long as possible. “What’s the problem with Tera?”

“She was on my schedule to die and you’ve ripped her from my sheet!” he exclaimed, slapping his clipboard against his knee. “I can’t have screwups on my watch. This isn’t the kind of job where you can let souls slip through your fingers. When a person is slated to die, they have to die. Every soul must be accounted for.” As he spoke, he punched the clipboard with one slightly pudgy finger for emphasis.

“What are you talking about? Did I extend her life or something? What’s the big deal if she lives a few weeks or months longer? She seems like a good person, and the world wouldn’t be a particularly bad place if a good person lived a little longer.”

“It’s not a matter of good and bad people, I’m afraid. I also haven’t the time to go into a discussion of morals and the silly concept of right and wrong. It’s a matter of when their time is due. Tera’s time is up.”

“Fine. She has to die,” I said, throwing up my arms in frustration. She was a nice person, but I doubted that I would be able to sway the grim reaper on the matter of death. “How does that involve me? All I did was give her a tattoo before cancer finally took her life.”

“You know what you did.”

“’Fraid not. Please, enlighten me.”

“You made her immortal! I can’t reap her soul.”

My mouth hung open for several seconds and I swear my heart actually stopped in my chest. Immortal. I was up a serious shit creek with this one. There weren’t true immortals in this world. Vampires could be killed with a well-placed stake and the elves were simply a long-living race. Even the witches and the warlocks had found spells to extend their lives by a considerable amount, but everyone died. Tera was immortal? To hell with the cancer that I had been hoping to give her an edge on, I had fixed it so that even all-mighty death couldn’t touch her. Holy hell.

I was screwed. On the one hand, I had death haunting my tattoo parlor, angrily tapping his clipboard of names for the chopping block. On the other hand, if the warlocks and the witches got wind of this massive screwup, they would squeeze me for information on how I did it and then kill me. Unfortunately, I didn’t know which was worse.

Pushing to my feet, I kept one hand on the wall to steady myself, as my legs were reluctant to support me. “Okay. Okay. Let’s just discuss this slowly.”

“Discuss this slowly?” the reaper repeated incredulously. “There’s nothing to discuss. She’s immortal, Gage. In case you’ve forgotten the definition of that simple word, it means that She. Can’t. Die. You’re keeping me from doing my job!”

“I get it. She can’t die. This news is all a little unexpected.”

“Is it? You know what caused this.”

The angel feather. Yeah, I knew what had caused this. “I didn’t expect it to have this kind of effect on her. I’ve never used that ingredient before. Never thought to.”

“So you took a chance with some powerful magic without actually considering the consequences of your actions? What were you thinking?”

I pounded my fist against the wall before taking a few steps toward the balding man, still seated on the gleaming wooden bench. “I thought I would try to help her. It’s like I said, she’s a nice person. This world could do with a few nice people after all the scumbags that I run into on a regular basis. Helping someone isn’t a crime.”

“But making them immortal is a crime against nature, and you’re going to have to pay the price for it.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded warily, halting in my steps toward the increasingly frightening figure.

“In three days, I need a soul. On my checklist, it’s Tera McClausen, but I’m more than willing to change that name to Gage Powell to suit my needs.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Really?”

“You can’t kill me to fill in for someone else. That just can’t be legal in your world.”

“And who are you going to report me to? Until a few minutes ago you didn’t even know I existed.”

I shoved both hands into my hair and tightened my fingers, wanting to pull my hair out in frustration and sheer desperation. This couldn’t be happening. The grim reaper was going to cut my life short because I fucked up by trying to do something nice for someone else. A low growl rumbled from my throat, my eyes scanning the tattoo parlor as if I was trying to find some way of escaping, but you couldn’t outrun death. I could tattoo myself using the same angel feather, but I had no desire to be immortal. I just didn’t want to die in three days. I was hoping to have a little more time. And even if I escaped, that didn’t mean the grim reaper couldn’t start going after other people in my life in an attempt to exact some revenge for screwing up his job.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way.” The man sounded tired and genuinely sorry about the situation. His round shoulders slumped and he sagged a little on the bench where he sat. “After glancing over your paperwork, it looks like you’ve still got a lot that you need to accomplish in this world, but I will reap you if I have to.”

Dragging in a slow, cleansing breath, I unclenched my fingers and dropped my hands back down to my sides. There had to be a way out of this. I had gotten myself into some nasty scrapes in the past and had managed to ease my way out of the messes with a limited number of bruises, scars, and broken bones. I could still fix this.

“You said that you don’t need the soul for another three days,” I started. There was only one way to fix this and I could feel my stomach starting to knot. A bad taste was forming in the back of my throat.

“Yes, three days from today,” he confirmed.

“And you just need a soul.”

“Preferably Tera’s soul, but I will take yours in trade. Only yours.”

“I’m not going to kill some random person off the street just so you can meet your quota,” I snapped irritably. “What if I can make Tera mortal again?”

“Then you are in the clear.”

“And there’s no way to extend the time she has? Three days is so little time before she dies from cancer.”

The grim reaper heaved a heavy sigh, as if he had heard this argument far too many times in his long career of collecting souls from the living. Lines dug deep furrows in his face, signs that this job was weighing heavily on his own soul, assuming that the grim reaper was still permitted to keep his soul. “I’ll see what I can do, but at the very least I need her soul available to me three days from now. Extensions happen, but they are extremely rare. I’ll put in the appropriate paperwork for you.”

A light-headed giggle escaped me. My neck was no longer necessarily on the chopping block, though Tera’s was back on it. But in trade, I might have actually managed to extend her life longer than she originally had in a legal, happy, grim-reaper manner. It was the best I could ask for.

“Okay, you work your magic with death paper pushers and I’ll work on Tera. Hopefully, at the end of three days, everyone will be happy in some way,” I said, trying hard not to look too closely at what was currently left of my sanity. I didn’t think it was a good thing to spend the afternoon examining futures with the personification of death. It only led to panic and bargaining for things you didn’t necessarily think you could accomplish.

Tucking his clipboard under his arm, he pushed slowly to his feet again; some arthritis in the knees was probably beginning to slow him down. “You have a deal. I will see you again in three days.” And then he was simply gone.

I blinked a couple of times, wondering if I had hallucinated the whole thing. Did I really just have a conversation with the master of death in which I argued trading my soul for Tera’s? A part of me felt dirty from the idea of conspiring with another person to end someone’s life, but then again, no one was supposed to be immortal. I was just undoing a mistake I had made. If I was lucky, Tera was completely oblivious to my mistake and I would be able to fix this without her ever being the wiser.

The only major problem was that I didn’t have even the beginnings of a clue as to how in the world I was going to make her mortal again. Causing immortality had been a complete accident on my part. But I knew that an accident wasn’t going to save my ass. I needed help. Serious, experienced help and I needed it now … before the clock ran out on my brief reprieve.

Jogging through the parlor, I burst out the back door and pounded up the wooden stairs to the second floor where Trixie was supposed to be sleeping. I hated to disturb her, but I didn’t have any choice. I had to find a way out of this mess. The elf could catch up on her sleep later. Throwing open the door, I saw Trixie peer out from the bedroom doorway and look down the hall at me.

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“Sure,” she replied, sounding a little taken aback by my sudden appearance.

“Can you open the parlor for me today? Feel free to grab a few hours of sleep and open it late. That’s fine with me. I’ve got an errand to run that I have to do right now.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it. Is everything all right?”

“Not in the slightest,” I muttered under my breath. “One other thing, can you look up the information sheet that Tera McClausen filled out yesterday when I gave her the tattoo? I need to call her.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes—I’ll lock the doors downstairs, but I want you to lock this door behind me. If someone is looking for you, or whatever tale you want to tell me, then you need to try to protect yourself by locking the goddamn door.”

To my surprise, a bright smile graced her beautiful face. “Thanks, Gage. I’ve got it.”

I hoped so. It was bad enough my ass was in the fire. I wasn’t sure that I would be able to protect her at the same time if things suddenly turned ugly. But I could try.

“If you want, you can wait to open until either Bronx or I get to the shop,” I offered as I turned to leave and pull the door shut behind me.

Trixie’s wonderfully light laughter danced through the small apartment before finally sliding around me. “I’ll be fine, Gage. Run your errand. I’m not completely helpless.”

“I know,” I mumbled, feeling more than a little silly for treating her like some witless damsel in distress. For her to have survived this long in this neighborhood, she had to have learned to take care of herself. “Just be careful.”

Closing the door behind me, I descended the stairs, listening for the telltale click of the lock being shoved into place on the door before I finally entered the parlor again. I locked the back door and checked my pockets for my keys and wallet before exiting through the front door. I had only one chance of finding a way out of this. I just hoped that my old tattooing mentor Atticus Sparks was still in the area.

Or at the very least, still alive.

9

THE DRIVE ACROSS town took only a few moments, but the results were not as I had hoped. I turned into a parking lot that was situated just a few buildings from where his shop was located. With a quick glance around to take in the few people wandering the sidewalks, I jogged to the building and skidded to a sharp stop in front of dirt- and dust-covered windows. The sign over the shop was missing, and gazing inside through the dirt revealed an empty storefront that hadn’t been used in what looked to be years.

I stumbled a couple of steps backward, clenching my fists at my sides in desperation as I looked up to the second floor. Sparks had always used the second-floor apartment as his residence. I knew it too well after spending the better part of four years sleeping on a narrow cot in a room the size of a closet while I was going through my apprenticeship. It had been anything but a comfortable period of time for me, and I certainly wasn’t getting laid, but I was busy learning everything that Sparks could possibly teach me about the tattooing world.

“Sparks!” I bellowed up at the second floor, hoping against my better judgment that he might actually have stayed in the building but had moved his shop to another part of town. There was no answer, no movement in front of the windows, which looked just as dirty and empty as those on the first floor. Passersby gave me a wide berth as I cursed under my breath. Sparks had packed up shop and moved on to some other tantalizing spot. At least I hoped that was the case.

“Damn it, Sparks!” I growled, kicking the door to the shop. I could find the old man, assuming that he was still alive, but it would mean using magic, and I was in enough trouble already. The man had never been big on advertising and I didn’t expect to find his name in the white or yellow pages. He lived by the creed that the best kind of advertising was word of mouth, mostly because it was free.

Now I was in more trouble than I had expected. Standing on the sidewalk, I was trying to think of some way of locating where Sparks might have disappeared to when the thick scent of magic started to waft around me. I spun around, my hands extended, barely resisting the urge to call up my own barrier to protect me from whatever was brewing. My skin prickled and a cold sweat beaded across my back and down my spine despite the growing heat of the afternoon sun. Someone was coming. Someone powerful.

The distinct smell of magic was that of a warlock or a witch, but it wasn’t Gideon riding my ass again. No, the black-cloaked figure who suddenly appeared on the sidewalk a few feet from me was Simon Thorn. It didn’t look as if he had aged since I had last seen him. Then again, the Ivory Towers occupants had long ago learned to stretch the years of their lifetimes. I hadn’t seen him since I had given up my warlock studies years ago. I had barely survived the experience, but I did give as good as I got, making him wary of me.

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