Bloodline (5 page)

A door opened, and Cavan snapped, “Bow.”

Fuck that
. “He’s not my king.”

But the blow behind his knees sent him crashing to the ground, and he threw out his hands to save himself from face-planting. Bare feet came to a halt next to him.
Lovely toes
. Inigo looked up past white pants and a loose white shirt into a perfect face and gulped. He wasn’t into long hair, but maybe he’d make an exception. Straight dark hair fell to the guy’s shoulders. His eyes were a deep turquoise, his skin a flawless cream, and Inigo’s gaydar pinged loud and clear. He adopted his want-to-fuck grin and waited for the answering smile.

He didn’t get it. Which pissed him off. He was good-looking too. Tall, dark, and vampire handsome. The lover who’d sketched him and repeatedly told him he was gorgeous was long gone, but sometimes Inigo took out the drawings to look at himself.

No more than once a year.

Okay, twice a year.

Sometimes more.

The king held out his hand, and Inigo heard the sucked-in breaths from all around the room.
Don’t touch the vamp. He has cooties
. He let the faerie haul him to his feet and waited for the flare of lust to heat his groin, the desire for blood to excite his brain and push out his fangs. Nothing happened.
Hmm, that’s strange
. The king let his hand drop. Inigo was six-two, and this guy had to have another four inches on him, plus he was all muscle. Why weren’t faeries light and fluffy? They sounded as though they should be.

But they
were
like catnip to vamps. Everything he’d ever read confirmed that, so his fangs’ lack of interest gave him a clue something was up—apart from his cock, obviously. Though he suspected his other head wouldn’t have said no if an invite to bed was on the cards.
Because I’m an idiot. Well, I’m not, but my cock is.

“I’m Oberon the Seventh. Faerie king.”

“Inigo MacIntosh. Tattoo king.”

Oberon laughed. “Indeed. And the reason for your presence at my court.”

“To give you a tattoo.”
Oh hell, talk about stating the obvious. Say something else so he doesn’t think you’re a dummy
. “Don’t faeries know how to tattoo?” Inigo wanted to slap his hand to his head.
Think before you open your mouth, moron
. “I’ve never tattooed a faerie. I was under the impression ink won’t stay on your skin.”

“It will when you add a special ingredient,” the king said.

“I hope you’re not going to tell me that secret ingredient is blood taken from a vampire’s cock using a heavy gauge needle.”

“If only,” Cavan muttered.

Oberon chuckled and signaled to one of the guys who brought over a scroll, not a needle.
Phew.

“This is what I want,” Oberon said.

Inigo unrolled the curled-up paper to reveal a brightly colored image that looked like a cross between a bird and a dragon with wings outstretched. Nothing complicated about it.

“You want me to tattoo this exactly, or you want me to improve it?” Inigo sensed everyone in the room stiffen and added, “I mean add a touch more detail.”

“More detail within the design is acceptable,” the king said.

“Okay. Let’s get started.”

Of course, what he should have said was “return me to Demonink at once.” Not that they would have, but in agreeing to do the tattoo, he’d put his head farther into the lion’s mouth. He could almost feel the teeth scratching him.

As he turned to follow Oberon out of the room, he spotted a bare-chested, dark-haired guy in torn jeans standing on his own by the door, his head down. Round his neck and wrists were thick bands of metal that looked suspiciously like iron. Faeries were to iron what vamps were to silver. Big-time allergic.
Being punished then?
The guy stumbled from the room, pulled by a chain attached to the band at his neck. Cavan and his buddies stuck to Inigo.

Everyone they passed either dipped their heads or curtsied. Inigo opened his mouth to make a crack about them recognizing his vampiric superiority, and then thought better of it. Which made a change. He was a foot-in-the-mouth kind of guy. He even refrained from striking up a conversation with Ryn. Better not advertise his hopes that the faerie might help him.

They ended up in a small room on an upper floor. A padded treatment couch had been set up near an open window. A black swivel chair sat on one side of the couch, and next to it there was a table for him to lay out his equipment.

“Sit in the corner,” Oberon snapped.

I can’t tattoo from there!
But it was the dark-haired guy wearing the iron who dropped down. He sat with his eyes closed, his head back against the wall, one leg bent. Inigo could see metal around his ankles too. Almost as though he sensed Inigo’s gaze, he opened his eyes and looked straight at him. Inigo’s cock shot to attention.

Not now
. As if his cock would listen.

“Anything else you need?” Oberon asked, and Inigo concentrated on his own problems.

“It would be easier if I could reproduce the image on a thermal fax.”

The king raised his eyebrows. “Thermal fax?”

“It’s a machine that allows me to make an exact copy of the drawing that I can transfer onto your skin. I could nip back to my shop. Wouldn’t take long.”
Like forever.

“You’re supposed to be an artist. Why would you need to do that?” Cavan asked.

Bastard.

Inigo gritted his teeth. “It’s the way it’s done, and I was trying to save time.”

He wasn’t being awkward or unreasonable, but he’d been hoping they’d let him go back because there was no way he’d fall for some dust again.

If he’d been in the studio, because he was being asked to reproduce a specific design, he’d have used the thermal fax to make a stencil. He didn’t have a big enough stencil sheet with him to hand copy the whole image, so he had no choice but to mark certain points and free draw. Not something any inexperienced tattoo artist ought to attempt, even if it was more artistically satisfying. But because doing it freehand would take him longer, it would give him time to think of a way to escape, opportunity to lust over Mr. Trouble in the corner, or alternately, longer to contemplate dying.
Great.

Oberon stripped off, and one of his lackeys rushed to pick up his clothes.
Whoa, he’s hung like a—big guy. Stop looking
. Inigo concentrated on setting out his equipment on the table.

“Give him the liquid,” Oberon said.

One of the faeries stepped forward and handed him a little metal flask, flat and a couple of inches square. The moment Inigo touched it, he almost dropped it. He burned his fingers juggling the thing and barely managed to set it upright on the table.
Silver
. So being in Faerieland hadn’t solved that issue.

“Not good with silver,” Inigo said.

Oberon glared at the faerie who’d handed it to him. “Idiot. Bring the whole bottle.”

“But—”

“Do it,” Oberon yelled.

The faerie scuttled off.

Note to self. No one argues with the king.

“Are your hands damaged?”

Inigo flinched when Oberon caught his wrist and twisted it to look at his palm. Several red patches were already beginning to fade.

“I’m fine.” He pulled his hand free.

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why he could survive in sunlight yet not touch silver, but some tiny part of his brain—the sensible bit—told him it was safer not to ask, and for once, he listened. He wouldn’t be staying in Faerieland unless he ended up as a pile of ash, so it wasn’t relevant. They were hardly likely to tell him the truth if it
was
the case that vampires could live here and walk in the sun. More likely, they’d put a spell on him to make him impervious to UV rays. Or could be it was that faerie dust. But if that was true, could a faerie do that on the other side? He wouldn’t know if they had because he never went out in daylight. Vamps could be walking around in the sun, and he’d be unaware.

“Sire.” The guy came back carefully carrying a large glass container with an ornate metal stopper. It was half-full of a semiclear, reddish-amber liquid. He set it down on the table.

“All of you get out,” Oberon said.

“Sire.” Cavan stepped forward. “He’s a vampire.”

“Oh my God, am I?” Inigo gasped and slapped his hands on his cheeks. “Is that why I licked the blood off your face? You taste much better than you look.”

He heard a chuckle from elsewhere in the room and saw Ryn grinning. Cavan gave a low growl, and the guy sitting in the corner smiled.

“I’m quite capable of dealing with a vampire,” Oberon snapped.

Cavan glared at Inigo before he followed the rest out. The wooden door slammed shut. The guy on the floor hadn’t moved.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Inigo said.

“None of us likes you.”

“I find that incredibly hurtful.”

Oberon raised one eyebrow.

“Well I do,” Inigo said. “What have I done to upset anyone?”

“Existed?”

He sighed. “Lie on the couch and let your arms hang down. I need your skin to stay stretched and taut because I have to free draw, though I also need you to be comfortable. The more still you keep, the better. All I’m going to do to start is draw an outline of the shape you want so you can check it’s the right size and position before I go any further.”

Oberon lay facing the guy on the floor while Inigo perched his arse on the swivel chair that looked spookily like the one in his shop. The faerie had a large but perfectly proportioned body—broad shoulders, slim hips, and a pert bum, plus the smoothest, creamiest skin Inigo had ever seen. Not a mark, not a spot, nothing. He cleaned the king’s back using rubbing alcohol, shaved it even though it seemed hairless, then cleaned it again.

Once he’d taped down the sketch on the table, he picked up his pen and began to draw.

“Why do you want the tattoo?” Inigo asked.

“Faerie kings have the same tattoo done once they come to the throne. It’s a requirement before coronation. All my ancestors bore the mark.”

“Did they get vampires to do the work?”

“They employed the best artists regardless of species. You are currently perceived as the best in the country.”

Damn. I should have retired sooner.

“And you’d better be,” Oberon said in a tone of voice that made it quite clear what would happen if Inigo cocked up, deliberately or not.

“Who’s he?” Inigo nodded toward the guy in the corner.

“An amusement.” The king gave a short laugh.

The guy sent the king a look of such pure loathing that Inigo stopped drawing for a moment.

“What did he do?” Inigo wished the question back even as it came out. “Fuck up a tattoo?”
Please think that’s funny.

Oberon smiled but didn’t answer.

“When did you come to the throne?” Inigo asked.

He wondered if Gabriel had tattooed this guy’s father or maybe his grandfather.
Oh fuck, is that why he disappeared?

“Six months ago.”

Time passed differently on this side. Maybe Gabriel had disappeared after tattooing this king’s father. Not wise to pursue the thought.

“And how are you enjoying it so far?” That had to be the most inane question he’d ever asked.

“Wonderful.”

“Going anywhere nice for your holidays?” No,
that
was the most inane question he’d ever asked.

“Shut up or you’ll lose the ability to speak too.”

Inigo pressed his lips together and shot a look at Little Jack Horner.
He can’t speak?
The guy’s eyes were closed.
Shit, he’s gorgeous
. Another time, another place…

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, Inigo stood, arched his back, and rolled his shoulders. “Okay, I’ve done the outline. You want to stretch and take a look?”

Oberon swung his legs off the couch and walked over to the wall. Inigo blinked as the stone shimmered and turned into a mirror. Oberon looked over his shoulder. The dragon-bird covered his entire back, the wing tips reaching down over his triceps, the claws nestling against his lower spine. It was a bigger design than the one on the scroll, so it would take him more time and keep him alive longer.

The king’s mouth curved in a smile.
Thank fuck for that.

“That ink will wash off, so you can’t shower until I’ve tattooed the outline.”

Oberon stretched his arms and flexed his shoulders.

Inigo lifted the glass container to the light. “What is it? Blood?”

“Why is that your guess?”

“Because faerie blood makes tattoos stay on vamp skin, and vamp and human blood keeps a tattoo on a werewolf. Stands to sense this would be another sort of blood. And a rare one at that because I’ve seen no tattoos on any faerie here.”

“You’re right. It is blood. You need to add one drop into each color.”

“Can you take the stopper out for me?”

Oberon smiled. “Oh yes, the silver.” He levered it out and laid it at the side.

Inigo thought about asking him what creature the blood was from, but decided Oberon would have told him if he’d wanted him to know. He was intrigued, though. He used a dropper to put the liquid in his black ink and picked up his gun.

Oberon started to climb onto the couch and then got off again. “Micah. Get up here.”

The guy on the floor slowly eased himself upright. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his skin was sallow.

“You can test it out on him, just in case,” the king said.

“Just in case what?”

Oberon shrugged. “I have enemies.”

What? A sweet guy like you?
Fortunately, he managed to keep that unspoken.

“Strip,” Oberon snapped.

Inigo’s hand was on his zipper before he realized the king wasn’t talking to him. The other guy peeled off his pants and stood there naked.
Don’t look
. No chance of that. Inigo’s lust barometer shot off the scale mentally and physically, and he stuck his hands in his pockets. His poor dick, having finally given up and returned to resting mode, now began to swell again. He had no idea what was going on here, but him having an erection was not good.