Inked Destiny (5 page)

“Do you have a bathrobe I can borrow?” She’d arrived at Eamon’s estate in nothing but his shirt, the clothes she’d been wearing when she was abducted no doubt bagged as evidence in the Harlequin Rapist case by now.

“I can do better than a bathrobe.” One last lingering kiss and he left the bed. He crossed to folding closet doors, the wood polished and expensive, the swirling designs carved into it turning the functional into elegant artwork.

He pulled them back, revealing several feet worth of woman’s clothing, grouped by occasion, from casual shirts through elegant eveningwear. “I arranged for the beginnings of a wardrobe.”

Her heartbeat sped up, dismay crowding in. Everything in that closet would be far more expensive than what she would have chosen to buy or wear.
Now it begins
. The changes she’d known would come, the expectations she wasn’t sure she’d be able to accept or tolerate or accomplish.

She glanced at Cathal, who grimaced and said, “Lucky you. Clean clothes. Now I’m sorry we didn’t swing by my place on the way here.”

“Mine too.”

Surrendering the warmth and comfort she gained with the touch of her skin to Cathal’s, she left the bed, and he did the same, heading for the bathroom.

At the closet she liberated the most casual of the shirts, though the rich texture of the fabric confirmed her suspicion about cost. Hiding her discomfort in humor, she said, “For a second there, when I saw the clothes, I thought maybe you were a cross-dresser like Derrick.”

“That’s a show you won’t see here.”

She laughed, but uneasiness about the future had her suddenly craving a return to normal, where normal held no worries about magic, where it was defined by days spent at Stylin’ Ink, sharing insults with Derrick and Jamaal and Bryce, easy camaraderie mixed with teasing as they created art that would last only for the lifetime of its human canvas.

Eamon tugged a pair of designer jeans from a hanger. “Let’s get this over with, Etaín.”

She took them from him. For a different occasion, she’d enjoy wearing nothing beneath the clothing and knowing he and Cathal were aware of it. But to meet with Parker and the captain, she needed all the armor she could get. “Panties? Bras?”

“In the dresser. Top left-hand drawer. I’ve got craftsmen working on additional furniture.”

Her footsteps faltered. But with Cathal’s emergence from the bathroom wearing dark pants and a slightly wrinkled shirt, she left discussion about living arrangements for later. She continued to the dresser, hastily choosing silky strips of blue lingerie before getting dressed.

“Let’s do this,” she said, though her heart gave a stuttering, skipping beat at seeing Parker.

She balled her hands into fists, shoving them into her pockets.
Eamon had told her he believed it was the nature of her gift to want to see everything, to know everything, and she’d lost control of it. She would have stripped her brother’s mind if Eamon hadn’t used a spell to stop her as Parker embraced her, glad she’d been saved from the Harlequin Rapist.

Disapproval cemented the captain and Parker in place. Neither offered a smile or a hug. She hadn’t expected otherwise, yet that traitorous emotion of hope left her vulnerable.

An ache spread through her chest in a slow, treacherous wave. Cathal’s hand settled at the base of her spine, driving the pain behind a wall of resolve.

No regrets
. There was nothing about the way she lived her life that she had to apologize for…and yet, in the same room with the man she still thought of as Dad, a part of her still craved love unconditioned on conforming to his expectations.

She let Cathal guide her to the couch, didn’t protest when he encircled her wrist, tugging her hand free of the pocket and clasping it as he sat.

Anxious to get this over with, she said, “I can guess what brings you here, Parker. What about you, Captain?”

There was censure in his expression. Hard intolerance in the presence of a man he’d convicted based solely on what his father and uncle were. Killers. No doubts there, though without her, the authorities had nothing.

“I wanted to make sure you are okay, even if the company you keep remains a concern.”

“I’m good.” She didn’t have the stomach to launch an accusation at him, that he’d had something to do with her being scooped up and confined in a small, windowless interrogation room. That he’d suggested it might break her so she’d become the prosecution’s golden witness in a case against the Dunnes.

She focused on Parker. “I won’t sign off on a lie. How do you
want to spin this?” They could hardly include the terms
psychic-bond
or
magic-infused tattoos
in the official report.

“There’s enough evidence to get a death sentence anyway, so let’s keep your statement simple. Tell me everything that happened prior to your rescue.”

She did, adding her signature to the end of Parker’s written account. “Now for the tricky part.”

Cathal’s hand tightened on hers, an apology sliding into her through the contact or through the connection created by the ink on his forearms, she didn’t know which. “Not necessarily. For purposes of the report, I’ll sign a statement saying I had a tracker on you.”

A truth, though a misleading one. With the inked eye touched to his palm she saw a memory and knew the tracker was actually on the Harley.

Cathal’s determination poured into her like molten steel. It was all the warning she got before he said, “Given my father and uncle, you’ll understand why calling the police wasn’t a first choice when I discovered the woman I’m going to marry had been abducted.”

Silence exploded through the room like a bomb, sending shockwaves through her as well. She turned toward Eamon to gauge his reaction but his expression was the calm of a glassy sea.

Parker was the first to speak, a furious, “No fucking way, Etaín.” But she didn’t refute Cathal’s statement. Didn’t argue he was nothing like his father and uncle.

Cathal’s hand left hers to take up the pen she’d placed on the coffee table after signing her statement. He made quick work of writing his own and placing his signature on it.

“I’d like to speak with you, Etaín,” the captain said. “Alone.”

Eamon took Etaín’s hand in his. “That won’t be possible this evening. I believe we’ve concluded the necessary police business. Liam will show you out.”

With the mention of Liam’s name, Eamon glanced toward the
doorway, drawing Etaín’s attention there as well, to see eyes dancing with suppressed laughter, and more.

Shhhadow walker. Assassin
. The words came hissed in the same sibilant voice she’d heard in her nightmare, as if her gift now had a voice and didn’t always require the press of her palms to skin. The label given to Liam tightened her chest as shards of ice slid into her bloodstream with the question,
Why would Eamon need a killer in his employ?

“Do you intend to let this man dictate what you can and can’t do, Etaín?” the captain asked, demand in his voice, but concern too, worry for her future. And at the moment she was a little concerned about it too.

Dragging her gaze from Liam she said, “No,” and was cut off from elaborating by the ring of the captain’s cellphone.

He removed it from his pocket, checking the incoming number before answering it. The caller did most of the talking. When the captain spoke again he said, “I’m with her now. Let me get back to you.”

Lowering the phone he said, “That was Oakland PD, there was an armed invasion at a biker bar. Twenty-seven dead, one survivor. He’s not expected to either regain consciousness or live. They’ve requested your help.”

“No,” Eamon answered. “I won’t allow you to put her in danger again.”

Imagined coils tightened around her chest, suffocating her. Cathal reclaimed her hand, his shock nearly overriding the fear drenching her, numbing her lips as she felt the phantom pull of a gun’s trigger. Not a bad dream, but something else. “When did it happen?”

“A little over an hour ago.”

Icy cold invaded her limbs, coming with the sense that she’d lived it real-time, not as some premonition of impending events. “Was it the bar where the Curs hang out?”

A cop face met her question. Answer enough. “Why do you ask?”

She squeezed Cathal’s hand in an unnecessary message not to mention the dream, now nightmare reality. “I was there a few days ago, doing what Parker asked me to do.”

“Then you’ll know some of the victims.” He stood, Parker doing so as well. “I’ll escort you to the hospital unless you intend to let Eamon dictate what you will or won’t do.”

“I’ll go.”

“You won’t,” Eamon said. “
Think
, Etaín, just how dangerous touching the dying might be
to you
.”

But she wasn’t worried about herself. Not as she flashed back to the scene of the slaughter and felt the phantom burn at her wrists, a tight circle of it that climbed upward into the vines on her arms. Searing heat coming with an awareness that someone nearby wore her ink—coming with the sickening dread that they all wore it, her, the killer, and Vontae—and worse, because of it, the killer she’d been in the dream had sensed Vontae.

Guilt sank gut-twisting roots inside her.
Magic both attracts and repels
, Eamon had told her once, and this seemed horrifying proof of it. “It doesn’t matter. I have to do this.”

Preempting further argument, she told the captain, “I’ll touch the remaining survivor. I’ll get the memories and draw them. I swear it.” The words brought with them her mother’s warning.
Never make an oath you aren’t willing to pay dearly for if you break it
.

“Let’s go,” the captain said.

Eamon’s hand settled around her upper arm in an unwavering restraint. “Etaín will follow shortly. I will ensure she keeps her pledge but there are matters we need to discuss first. What hospital?”

“Highland General.”

The captain’s expression when he met her eyes conveyed the message he wasn’t leaving until he heard what she wanted. It would have warmed her heart except this had everything to do with solving a crime, and had the additional benefit of getting her out of
both
Eamon’s and Cathal’s company.

He never contacted her just to find out how she was doing. It was
always
because he needed her to touch a victim. And it wasn’t any different with Parker.

Cathal ended the tense moment, siding with Eamon. “A few minutes won’t matter, Etaín.” His hand tightened on hers and she could feel his fear
for
her. “It might be better if you don’t walk into the hospital with your father and brother. Not after all the hype about your involvement with the Harlequin Rapist taskforce.”

He had a point there. News media speculation had her as psychic artist or bait, but so far they didn’t have her face or know she’d nearly been a victim.

“We’ll follow you,” she told the captain.

“Soon or there won’t be any point in coming to the hospital.”

“I’ve made you a promise,” Eamon said. “I’ll see that it’s kept.”

Both the captain and Parker stiffened, as if hearing more in Eamon’s words than she did. And then she stiffened too, wondering what he’d said to them before returning to the bedroom to tell her they were waiting.

The moment they left the room Eamon said, “I mean to keep you safe, from yourself if necessary and by whatever means are required. Ignorance is deadly, Etaín. You cannot remain so any longer.”

More words followed, spoken in what must be the language of magic, what water and fire would sound like if they had a voice. She felt as if some barrier was being brought down, saw it in a sudden luminescence, not surrounding Eamon but emanating from him, making him otherworldly, breathtaking in a way that was
more than heart-stopping gorgeous or beautifully handsome, in a way that was beyond compelling, reminding her of tales of the shining folk, the stories her mother used to whisper to her at bedtime, or sometimes as they traveled by bus, leaving old names behind and taking up new ones.

Four

W
hat the fuck,” Cathal murmured, but there was reluctant awe there, unwilling appreciation.

Eamon took her unresisting hand and carried it to his face, using the back of her knuckles to push the golden waves of hair aside to reveal a pointed ear tip. Her heart skipped a beat then raced wildly, denial swelling in anticipation of what came next, though it didn’t prevent him from saying, “You’re on the cusp of change, Etaín. This is what you’ll be, if you survive.”

Somehow she spoke through the throbbing pulse at the base of her throat, the words miraculously not sticking to a suddenly dry tongue in an equally dry mouth. “Guess I’d better learn the Vulcan salute then.”

“Elf, Etaín.” Said with just enough edge to dare her to face and accept the truth, to warn against denial or deflection.

And oh yeah, the temptation was there to do both of those. But she was no fool to think she could either run or escape from herself, not with all that had happened to her since meeting Eamon.

“Lord,” she said, as if tentatively picking up a pebble in a streambed lined with them.