Ink Exchange (6 page)

“We could just finish it tonight—”

“No. This one will take a couple sessions.” Rabbit was quiet as he wiped her skin. He slid his chair back; the wheels sounded loud as they slid over the floor, like a boulder being pushed across a metal grate.

Weird.

She stretched—and almost blacked out.

Rabbit steadied her. “Give it a sec.”

“Head rush or something.” She blinked to clear her vision, resisting the urge to try to focus on the shadows that
seemed to be walking through the room unattached to anything.

But Rabbit was there, showing her the tattoo—
my tattoo
—with a pair of hand mirrors. She tried to speak, and might have. She wasn’t sure. Time felt like it was off, speeding and slowing, keeping pace with some faraway chaos clock, bending to rhythms that weren’t predictable. Rabbit was covering her new tattoo with a sterile bandage. At the same time, it seemed, his arm was around her, helping her stand.

She stepped unsteadily forward. “Careful with my wings.”

She stumbled.
Wings?

Rabbit said nothing; perhaps he hadn’t heard or understood. Perhaps she hadn’t spoken—but she could picture them—dark, shadowy swoops, somewhere between feathers and slick-soft aged leather, that tickled the sensitive skin at the backs of her knees.

As soft as I remembered.

“Rabbit? I feel weird. Wrong. Something wrong.”

“Endorphin rush, Leslie, making you feel high. It’ll be okay. It’s not unusual.” He didn’t look at her when he spoke, and she knew he was lying.

She felt like she should be afraid, but she wasn’t. Rabbit had lied: something
was
very wrong. She knew with a certainty that seemed impossible—like tasting sugar and having it called salt—that the words he said didn’t taste true.

But then it didn’t matter. The missing hands of the chaos clock shifted again, and nothing else mattered in that moment, just the ink in her skin, the hum in her veins, the euphoric zinging that made her feel a confidence she’d not known in far too long.

C
HAPTER
5

Although Rabbit had told him where to find her, Irial hadn’t approached the mortal yet; he’d had no intention of doing so until he saw if she really was strong enough to be worth the effort. But when he felt their first tenuous link fall into place, felt her euphoria as Rabbit’s tattoo machine danced across her skin, he knew he had to see her. It was like a compulsion tugging at him—and not just him:
all
the dark fey felt it, tied as they were to Irial. They’d protect her, fight to be near her now.

And that urge was a good one to encourage—their being near her would mean they’d taunt and torment the mortals, elicit fear and anguish, appetites and furies, delicious meals to sate his appetites once the ink exchange was complete. Where the girl walked, his fey would follow. Mortals would become a feast for king and court—he’d caught only slight drifts of it so far, but already it was an invigorating thing.
Shadows in her wake, for me, for us.
He drew a deep breath,
pulling on that still-tenuous link Rabbit was forging with his tattoo machine.

Irial rationalized it: if he was going to be tied to her, it made sense to check in on her. She’d be his responsibility, his burden, and in many ways a weakness. But despite the reasons he could list, he knew it wasn’t logic leading him: it was desire. Fortunately, the king of the Dark Court saw no reason to resist his appetites, so he’d co-opted Gabriel and was on the way to her city, seeking her presence the way he had sought so many other indulgences over the years. He leaned back, seat reclined all the way, enjoying the thrill of Gabriel’s seemingly reckless driving.

Irial propped one boot on the door, and Gabriel growled. “She’s fresh painted, Iri. Come on.”

“Chill.”

The Hound shook his shaggy head. “I don’t put my boots on your bed or any of those little sofas you have everywhere. Get your boot off there before you scratch her.”

Like the rest of the Hounds’ steeds, Gabriel’s wore the guise of a mortal vehicle, shifting so truly into that form that it was sometimes hard to remember when it had last looked like the terrifying beast it truly was. Maybe it was an extension of Gabriel’s will; maybe it was the steed’s own whim. All of the creatures mimicked mortal vehicles so well that it was easy to forget that they were living things—except when anyone other than the Hounds tried to ride them. Then it was easy to recall what they were: the speed at which they moved sent the offending faery—or mortal—
hurtling through the air into whatever target the beasts chose.

Gabriel steered his Mustang into the small lot beside Verlaine’s, the restaurant where the mortal worked. Irial lowered his foot, scraping his boot on the window as he did so; the illusion of its being a machine didn’t waver.

“Dress code, Gabe. Change.” As Irial spoke, his own appearance shifted. Had any mortals been watching, they’d have seen his jeans and club-friendly shirt vanish in favor of a pressed pair of trousers and conservative oxford-cloth shirt. His scuffed boots, however, stayed. It wasn’t the glamour he usually wore, but he didn’t want the mortal to recognize him later. This meeting was for him, so he could watch her; it was not one he’d prefer her to remember.

“
A face to meet the faces that we meet,” but not my face—not even the mask I wear for the mortals. Layers of illusions…
Irial scowled, unsure of the source of the strange melancholia that was riding him, and gestured to Gabriel to don a relatively unthreatening glamour as well. “Pretty yourself up.”

Gabriel’s appearance shift was more subtle than Irial’s: he still wore black jeans and a collarless shirt, but the Hound’s tattoos were now hidden under long sleeves. His unruly hair appeared to be neatly trimmed, as were his goatee and sideburns. Like Irial’s, Gabriel’s glamour was not his usual one. Gabriel’s face was somehow gentler, without the dark shadows and hollows that he usually left visible for the mortals. Of course, the glamour did nothing for the
Hound’s intimidating height, but for Gabriel, it was near conservative.

As they got out of the car, Gabriel bared his teeth at several of the Summer Court’s guards in a taunting smile. They were, no doubt, minding the mortal since she was friends with the new Summer Queen. The guards saw him as he truly was and cringed. If Gabriel were to start trouble, they’d inevitably suffer serious injury.

Irial opened the door. “Not now, Gabriel.”

After a longing look at the fey who lingered in the street, Gabriel went inside the restaurant. In a low voice, Irial told him, “After the meal, you can visit our watchers. A bit of terror so near the girl…It’s what she’s for, right? Let’s see how the initial connection holds up.”

Gabriel smiled then, happily anticipating a spot of trouble with the Summer Court guards. Their presence meant that neither Winter nor Summer Court would harm the girl, and no solitary fey would be foolish enough to try to engage in any sport with a mortal who was under such careful watch. Of course, it also meant that Irial would have the great fun of stealing her away without their noticing before it was too late.

“Just the two of you?” the hostess, a rather vapid mortal with a perky smile, asked.

A quick glance at the chart on the hostess station showed him which tables were in his mortal’s section. Irial motioned to a table in the far corner, a darkened section fit for romantic dinners or stolen trysts. “We’ll take that table
in back. The one by the ficus.”

After the hostess led them to the table in question, Irial waited until she—
Leslie
—walked up, her hips swaying slightly, her expression friendly and warm. Such a look would work well if he were the mortal he appeared to be. As it was, the shadows that danced around her and the smoke-thin tendrils that snaked from her skin to his—visible only to dark fey—were what made his breath catch.

“Hi, I’m Leslie. I’ll be your server tonight,” she said as she placed a basket of fresh bread on the table. Then she launched into specials and other nonsense he didn’t quite hear. She had too-thin lips for his taste, darkened only slightly with something pink and girlish.
Not suitable for
my
mortal at all.
But the darkness that clung so poignantly to her skin was quite fit for his court. He studied her, reading her feelings now that they were linked even this slightly. When he’d met her she’d been tainted, but now she positively crawled with shadows. Someone had hurt her, and badly, since he’d first seen her.

Anger that someone had touched what was his vied with awareness. What they had done—and how ably she resisted the shadows—these were what made her ready to be his. Had they not wounded her, she’d be inaccessible to him. Had she not resisted the darkness so successfully, she’d not be strong enough to handle what he was about to do to her. She’d been damaged, but not irreparably. Fragmented and strong, the perfect mix for him.

But he’d still kill them for touching her.

Silent now, obviously done with her lists and recommendations, she stood and stared expectantly at him. Aside from a quick glance at Gabriel, her attention was riveted on Irial. It pleased him more than he’d expected, seeing the mortal look at him attentively. He liked her hunger. “Leslie, can you do me a favor?”

“Sir?” She smiled again but looked hesitant as she did so. Her fear spiked, showing in a slight shifting of shadows that made his heart race.

“I’m not feeling very decisive”—he shot a glare at Gabriel, whose muffled laugh turned into a loud cough—“in terms of the menu here. Could you order for me?”

She frowned and looked back at the hostess, who was now watching them carefully. “If you’re a regular, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember—”

“No. I’m not.” He ran a finger down her wrist, violating mortal etiquette, but unable to resist. She was his. It wasn’t official yet, but that didn’t matter. He smiled at her, letting his glamour drop for a fraction of a moment, showing her his true face—testing her, seeking fear or longing—and added, “Just order whatever you think we’d like. Surprise me. I enjoy a good surprise.”

Her waitress facade slipped a little; her heartbeat fluttered. And he
felt
it, the brief surge of panic. He couldn’t taste it, not yet, not truly, but almost—like a pungent aroma wafting from a kitchen, teasing hints of flavors he couldn’t swallow.

He opened the black-lacquered cigarette case he favored
of late and drew out a cigarette, watching her try to make sense of him. “Can you do that, Leslie? Take care of me?”

She nodded, slowly. “Do you have any allergies or—”

“Not to anything on your menu. Neither of us does.” He tapped his cigarette on the table, packing it, watching her until she looked away.

She glanced at Gabriel. “Order for you too?”

Gabriel shrugged as Irial said, “Yes, for both of us.”

“Are you sure?” She watched him intently, and Irial suspected that she was already feeling something of the changes that would soon roll over her. Her eyes had dilated ever so slightly when her fears rose and faded. Later tonight, when she thought of him, she’d think he was just an odd man, memorable for that alone. It would be a while until her mind would let her process the extent of her changing body. Mortals had so many mental defenses to make sense of the things that violated their preconceptions and rules. At times those defenses were quite useful to him.

He lit his cigarette, stalling just to watch her squirm a touch more. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, once more being completely inappropriate for the guise he wore and for the setting. “I think you’ll bring me exactly what I need.”

Terror surged, tangling around an unmistakable blaze of desire and a bit of anger. Her smile didn’t waver, though.

“I’ll put your order in, then,” she said as she took a step backward, pulling her hand free of his grip.

He took a drag on his cigarette as he watched her walk
away. The dark smoky line between them stretched and wound through the room like a path he could follow.

Soon.

At the doorway, she looked back at him, and he could almost taste her terror as it peaked.

He licked his lips.

Very soon.

C
HAPTER
6

Leslie slipped into the kitchen, leaned on the wall, and tried not to fall to pieces. Her hands shook. Someone else needed to handle the odd guest; she felt frightened by his attention, his too-intense stare, his words.

“You okay,
ma belle
?” the pastry chef, Étienne, asked. He was a wiry man with a temper that flared to life over the oddest things, but he was just as irrationally kind. Tonight, kind appeared to be the mood of choice, or at least this hour it was.

“Sure.” She pasted a smile back on her face, but it was less than convincing.

“Sick? Hungry? Faint?” Étienne prompted.

“I’m fine, just a demanding guest, too touchy, too everything. He wants…Maybe you could figure out what to order—” She stopped, feeling inexplicably angry at herself for thinking, even for that brief second, of having someone
else order
his
food.
No.
That wouldn’t work. Her anger and fear receded. She straightened her shoulders and rattled off a list of her favorite foods, complete with the marquise au chocolat.

“That’s not on the dessert menu tonight,” one of the prep cooks objected.

Étienne winked. “For Leslie it is. I have emergency dessert for special reasons.”

Leslie felt relieved, irrationally so, that Étienne’s rum-soaked chocolate decadence was available. It wasn’t as if the customer had asked for it, but she wanted to give it to him, wanted to please him. “You’re the best.”

“
Oui
, I know.” Étienne shrugged as if it were nothing, but his smile belied the expression. “You should tell Robert this. Often. He forgets how lucky he is that I stay here.”