Inked Magic (18 page)

He gave a low whistle. “Hot date tonight?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

He laughed, making his good looks even more pronounced. She wondered how he managed to spend all day working with her brother, Mr. Humorless. Mr. Conform or You’re a Low Life, a belief he got from the captain. Then again, Trent was a Fed. So he must fit the mold, too, even if he knew how to lighten up.

“So where are we going?” she asked.

“Quinn’s at a hotel in the Castro.”

Her eyebrows lifted at that. “A gay FBI agent?”

“No. Castro District was a safe place for him to hole up. That’s all.”

“Works for me. I’ve got to stop at a friend’s place. His apartment is in Corona Heights.” Still, she was curious. “So what gang did this guy infiltrate?”

“Aryan Brotherhood.”

Her hands closed in automatic self-defense, fingers covering her palms at the prospect of applying ink to someone who’d managed to
successfully pass himself off as an AB member. She focused on something else. “Do you guys have any leads on the Harlequin Rapist, besides the tattoo?”

“The hotline rings constantly, but the tattoo is our best shot. By far.” He glanced at her. “After the story broke about the visit to the hospital, Parker and I came clean with the rest of the taskforce—without mentioning your name or admitting your relationship to him. We talked to the profiler.

“Now that we know the escalation of violence is the result of Tyra seeing the tattoo, the profiler thinks it’s possible the next victim will be black, kind of a do-over to rebuild his confidence. He’s only solidified his signature and started alternating between the different victim types in the last couple months. Before then, almost all of the women were black. The profiler also said that if the news media finds out who you are and starts showing your picture, it might actually make you safer. You’d be high risk for the rapist then. And this guy goes for low.”

Uneasiness rippled through her. A need to flee as memories of those years with her mother came unbidden, bringing with them her mother’s favorite refrain as they moved from one place to another, to remain uninvolved, invisible to those around them.

Parker and Trent might not have mentioned her by name, but they’d told a bunch of cops skilled at investigation. Her involvement wouldn’t remain secret for long, and if—
when—
they caught the Harlequin Rapist and found the tattoo on his arm, she’d be asked to help more often, exposing her gift in an ever-widening circle.

Chill bumps multiplied on her skin. Her heart skipped into a fast beat, then a faster one when the car accelerated and took a corner sharply enough to bang her into the door.

She glanced at Trent and saw his attention alternating between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. “Problem?”

He made another turn. And another. Heading away from the Castro, then back toward it, taking a different route before finally answering, “I picked up a tail. I wasn’t positive at first. Young couple. Guy
and a girl. Probably wannabe reporters who recognized me as taskforce and now want to get a shot of you. That’s the trouble with the fucking Internet. Everybody’s after their moment of fame and it doesn’t matter if someone else’s life goes to shit because of it. Fucking idiots. I brought the Mustang because it’s not my usual ride and it’d take digging to trace the plates. Obviously I should have gone for tinted windows.”

He glanced over and read her concern. With a visible effort he relaxed. “Don’t worry. I lost them. They never got close enough to photograph you.”

She knew that. She had a sixth sense when it came to cameras pointed at her. Always had. Her mother was the same way. “Where’d you first see them?”

“Oakland side, near the Bay Bridge. This is just a fluke sighting. I didn’t see the car on your street.”

Some of the worry left her. “Good.”

“You might want to consider staying with friends until interest in you dies down. Your first name is different than the one you grew up with, but it’s just a matter of time before someone makes the connection between you and Parker and the captain. Then you’re going to have reporters camping out in front of Stylin’ Ink and your apartment.”

“They won’t find the apartment. There’s nothing connecting the address to me. If they show up at the shop then I’ll head to LA or Vegas. After the fund-raiser.”

“Heading out might be a good idea anyway if we don’t catch this rapist, in case the profiler is wrong about the likelihood of your being a target. Hotel’s up ahead. I was planning on going in with you, but I think it’d be smarter to drop you off. Quinn’s in Room 213. I’ll call him and let him know you’re on your way up. You have cab money? Enough to get you wherever you need to go after Quinn and then back home?”

“I’m good.”

He stopped close to the hotel entrance. As she was getting out, he said, “Thanks for doing this. I know you and Parker—”

“Let’s not go there. I’ll send you my bill if your friend doesn’t cover it.”

E
amon prowled around his office, moving from one piece of furniture to another, only occasionally glancing down at the human diners on the terrace. Necklaces, rings, hair ornaments, and earrings covered every surface.

The sight of so much glittering wealth would make a Dragon drool but nothing caught his eye. Nothing seemed a suitable gift for Etaín, though all would look more beautiful for being placed on her.

With a sigh he cleared his chair, scooping up the treasure and dumping it on his desk in a careless pile. Amusement found him, saving him from true aggravation.

As a distraction against her absence, this wasn’t working. And if he were really so foolish as to present her with a priceless piece of jewelry at this point in their courtship, he’d soon be reduced to ordering Liam and Rhys to capture and bring her to him.

He steepled his hands, touching his fingertips to his mouth. Knowledge was the gift he needed to give her, but as he’d already discovered, being with her distracted him from pursuing any purpose but pleasure. And beyond that, she was more guarded than he’d expected, and much less hungry for information than he’d hoped.

A soft brush of magic announced Rhys’s presence, presenting a welcome interruption until he saw the expression on his second’s face. “Tell me.”

“She slipped away again.”

“How?”

“It’s the bigger picture that’s more important. Two men stopped by the tattoo shop earlier today. She spoke with them outside. Earnestly, I’m told by the humans watching her, and who recognized both men, though it took them a while to determine how they knew the faces.
The men are FBI agents and on the taskforce trying to locate the Harlequin Rapist.”

Uneasiness filled Eamon. For the most part he didn’t pay attention to human-on-human crime unless it touched someone he was ultimately responsible for, but the topic of this particular predator came up repeatedly among the wealthy and privileged dining at Aesirs. “What did they want of Etaín?”

“They passed her a piece of paper, but after they departed, she went back to work and remained for several hours, finishing up with a client before leaving to visit other shops. Nothing seemed amiss. She returned home and was there for only a few moments before one of the men arrived. She left her apartment, dressed for an evening out and with a suitcase. They followed the car back to San Francisco but either she or the driver became suspicious. The agent purposely lost them.”

Eamon kept his fingertips touched to his lips in an effort to affect calm against the emotions battering him. “A date with the intention of being gone several days?”

“Based on what they witnessed outside the shop, neither of those following her thought she was romantically or sexually involved with him. I’ve stationed humans at all the places where she might reappear.”

Rhys’s exhale was warning enough that another unpleasant revelation was imminent. “I read up on this rapist before coming to you. There are rumors of an artist, possibly a psychic, visiting the hospital and the latest victim.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. She met the taskforce agents there. It took seeing the men a second time for the couple I have watching her to feel certain they should recognize them, and to start actively trying to determine their identities. Knowing what’s being said on the news makes me suspect she’s been taken to a safe house. There’s an additional reason for protective custody. She’s a fit for one of the victim types this Harlequin Rapist chooses.”

Eamon rose from his chair and began pacing. His emotions running the gamut, cycling from anger to worry to fear with each pass around the office.

If she’d been removed from his territory and was discovered . . .

If something happened to her . . .

Rhys forced the chaos of thought and ceaseless movement to a stop by stepping in front of him then going to one knee with his head bowed. “This failure is mine for not anticipating the skill set necessary in keeping her watched. I will accept the full punishment for her disappearance.”

Eamon took a deep, even breath, drawing on the level of control necessary to survive as spell-caster and Elven lord. “I took the risk so I bear the responsibility. Ignorance is rarely rewarded and often punished. Find out everything you can about her life among humans.”

“And her current location?”

Eamon looked down at the diners, among them humans whose acquaintance had been cultivated by those in his service. “That would require calling in favors. I think the risk of drawing attention to her by doing so is too great. If you’re correct, and she’s been placed in protective custody, then I will have to put my faith in the FBI agents to keep her safe for the moment. Regardless of where she is now, I believe she’ll return for the fund-raiser.”

Q
uinn ushered her into Room 213 without her having to knock. Clothing covered everything but his hands and head. His scalp bristled from hair punching through formerly shaved skin.

He would have looked good bald, she thought. And not many men did.

She guessed he was in his early thirties. He could pass for an ex-con. He had the look, the honed muscles of a prison stint turned into gym sessions.

“Where do you want to set up?” he asked.

“Show me what you’ve got first.”

He grinned. “Now there’s an invite. Too bad all the work’s above the waist.”

He stripped off the shirt, tossing it onto the dresser. Three jagged lightning strikes done in red streaked down the sides of his neck. Swastikas, three leaf clovers, the number 666 and initials AB were the predominant images on his chest and arms. The ink color on some of them a clear indication they’d been done behind bars. It made her wonder if Trent had leveled with her about Quinn being undercover from the start rather than recruited in prison.

She moved around him. There was more work on his back, the same symbols in addition to an eagle, its wingspan spreading from shoulder
to shoulder. Not an easy cover job, though in his favor, the work wasn’t dense.

The tattoos were more lines than filled-in areas, some of it crude, some done by talented artists. She wouldn’t have been able to stand any of it on her skin.

Seeing it, she was glad she’d be with Cathal later. After hours spent inking Quinn, she’d be ready for a different kind of touch.

“Why not laser this shit off?” It’d be painful, much more painful, and a hell of a lot more expensive, but worth it.

“I’m not a good candidate.”

“Based on the Kirby-Desai Scale?”

“Yeah. I went in for a consult. It was my first stop after being officially arrested, charged, convicted, and shipped off to prison where I reportedly got shanked by another inmate and bled out.

“The guy I saw said my score put me in the questionable range for successful removal, and it’d take more treatments than I had time for. You think you can do this in one session?”

“I don’t know.” She walked around him again, seeing the skin as a large canvas marred by ugly spots that needed to be hidden.

On the next pass she cleared her mind, opening it to inspiration. As she continued to circle, an image flowed in. Merging and melding and obliterating what was already there, turning it from something shameful into something empowering.

“Sit,” she said. “On the corner of the bed.”

“Jesus. Glad to. I was starting to feel dizzy.”

Locked on to the image she wanted to capture, she couldn’t spare the concentration for a response, or the time it would take to sketch everything out on paper first.

She opened the kit and dug into it, pulling out a box of markers. “Stay as still as possible,” she told him, waiting for his nod before touching the tip of a pen to him and transferring the art in her mind to the canvas of his skin.

When it was done she stepped back to give it a critical once-over. “You can look in the mirror.”

“I’ll hold out and be surprised. Trent says your work is incredible.”

She wondered when Trent had seen any of it, then shrugged the question off. He probably based the praise on the drawings from Tyra’s memories.

“You should move around a bit while I get set up. Stretch out. Get some water. Go to the bathroom.”