Inked Magic (46 page)

“Excellent.” Eamon rose from his seat. “I believe it’s now time to check on my intended.”

H
e sat near a grocery cart full of junk, whimpering when he saw her, then shoving his knuckles into his mouth to keep from doing it again. Whore. Slut.

She was with the dark-haired man, but in spite of it, in spite of what she’d done to Kevin, he still wanted to be with her. She was so, so beautiful. Golden like the sun, warming the snake between his legs so it started waking.

He hunched his back. Drawing his knees against his chest so he could hide the growing bulge at the front of his pants.

Just a little while longer. He just had to wait a little while longer and they’d be together.

Kevin wouldn’t be there and that made him sad. But a part of him, a small guilty part was glad he didn’t have to share
her.

He could keep her as long as he wanted that way. Kevin wouldn’t say when to let her go like he had with the others. And when he was done . . .

He shied away from thinking about ruining her face and caving in her skull. He’d keep the promise he made to Kevin, but not right away.

The artists had started tattooing, and on a short stage a couple of musicians were warming up. He watched her as she moved around, talking to lots of different people. He wished he could get closer but he didn’t dare.

He hoped the black girl would come. When he saw her at the tattoo shop he hadn’t paid attention to what car she got into, or if she rode the
bus.

He didn’t like the black ones as much. In New York he only chose ones that looked like
her
. But maybe he’d stay in San Francisco long enough for one more, for Kevin, and because of the golden thread that went from her to the black girl.

He saw the blond-haired man from the fancy restaurant heading toward
her. And when he reached her, she went willingly into his arms, kissing him back while the dark-haired one watched.

Whore! Slut! She was just like his mother.

He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his knuckles to keep from making another sound. She wouldn’t act like this anymore. He’d punish her and love her at the same time. And then he’d make sure she never did it again.

She’d live in his memory then. Only there.

He just had to wait now. For the right time to take
her.

E
amon reluctantly allowed Etaín to escape his embrace. He wouldn’t have been able to tolerate any of this if he didn’t know it was his people she would touch, and at the end of this day, her true education would begin.

He extended his hand to Cathal, memories of the night before stirring anticipation for the future. Cathal’s handshake was firm, his gaze steady, though a hint of color appeared beneath the dark stubble on his cheeks.

Eamon managed to suppress his amusement, but only barely. Her magic clung to Cathal like a rich, heady perfume and he could well imagine Cathal’s reaction to learning of it.

If he was a man to desire other men, he’d find Cathal irresistible. As it was, he found Cathal . . . a problem with only one apparent solution. Acceptance.

Cathal released Eamon’s hand and took Etaín’s, pulling her into a hug. Seeing her return Eamon’s kiss was all it had taken for fantasies to spiral out of control, expanding on the reality of the night before and bringing with them a hard dick and a whirl of conflicting thoughts. Not regret, the sex had been too incredible for that, but he wasn’t convinced sharing her for the long term was really possible, not when he wanted her with him at his club, and afterward in his home each night. “You’ll be tattooing soon?”

“In just a few minutes. Justine and the other volunteers have everything under control. Most of the artists are already here, plus a few I didn’t think would show up until later. So we’re in good shape.”

She smiled and he felt it in his heart. “Thanks for the music,” she said, initiating a kiss that said other things as well. “It’s the reason why we’ve got so many people showing up this early.”

“My pleasure.” He heard the huskiness in his own voice, the private bubble they were in expanding so he became aware of Eamon again, close enough that a step would have Etaín trapped between them.

It wasn’t a comfortable intimacy.
Yet
.

He escaped it by saying, “I’m going over to the stage area. Be thinking of where you want to go after this. Anywhere in the world. You’ve promised me a week.”

A nearby chuckle made him look to the right, at a black man with braids reaching to his shoulders and eyes laughing openly at Eamon who said, “Leave. Find Rhys. Let him endure your company for a while.”

Etaín watched Liam go, then Cathal after a final kiss. “Probably time for me to start putting on some ink.”

Eamon stopped her before she could take a step, shackling her wrist. “You’re going away with Cathal?”

The twitch in his cheek would have given him away even if the tone of his voice failed to deliver the message.
Lord
Eamon was not happy about it.

“You’re invited.”

She expected him to relax and smile, to see this as a positive step. If anything his expression became more intense.

“Did you promise to make this trip?”

“Yes, and I won’t break it.” She tugged at her captured wrist. When he didn’t release it, she said, “Let go, Eamon. I can get off on dominance games in the right situations, but this is not one of them.”

“We’ll talk about acceptable destinations later.”

Her temper flared at his choice of wording. She suppressed it, giving him the benefit of the doubt, because even though sharing her turned him on, working out the details of it would no doubt come with some aggravating moments.

A lot of them
, she was beginning to think, glad to have the fund-raiser to concentrate on for the remainder of the day.

She gave another tug and said, “Why don’t you go bond with Cathal over some tunes.”

It coaxed a startled laugh out of Eamon, followed by a smile. And just like that, the tension between them was gone. “Somehow I don’t think he’s quite ready to spend time in my company.”

He gave her a brief kiss then released her. “Do what you need to do. I’ll stay close, but out of your way.”

Jamaal’s arrival drew her away from Eamon.

“You did good, girl,” Jamaal said, nearly crushing her in a hug. “Even if the place Anton’s brother owns got trashed thanks to you being there. That the guy who came after you?”

“Eamon. He owns Aesirs.”

A laugh erupted. “Damn, you’re something else when you decide you’re tired of doing without. Where do you want me to set up?”

“Your choice.” She pointed to a station at the far end. “That’s where I’m going to be.”

“I’ll grab the one next to it. Bryce and Derrick are going to be here early, soon as they finish the clients they’ve got with them right now at the shop.”

Etaín looked at the rapidly swelling crowd. A lot of them were there just for the music, but they’d end up buying hotdogs, hamburgers, and soft drinks—a last minute add because of the live bands.

“Should have put a cover charge in place,” Jamaal said as they headed toward the workstations.

“Next year.”

A line had already formed by the time she looked up from laying out her supplies. Surprise hit her first, then consternation at
having at least twenty people—none of them former clients, none of them with a reason to pick her—waiting when there were other artists available.

“You’re famous now,” Jamaal joked.

She laughed, relaxing. Better this than a crowd of reporters. She gave a come-on wave to the man at the front of the line.

He practically bounced forward in his enthusiasm, putting his ticket on her table and claiming the empty seat.

“Which design?” she asked. All the shared ones were on display where the money was being collected and the release forms signed. And while some of the artists had stencils exclusive to them or their shop on their table, she didn’t.

The man bit his bottom lip, enthusiasm sliding into nervousness as he leaned forward, expression earnest. Unnervingly so. “Please. You choose.”

Her answer was immediate. “No.”

His skin, his choice. She had no trouble with artists who went with the flow of a client’s request, but from the very start she’d never put randomly chosen art on anyone.

She picked up the ticket and handed it back to him. He looked stricken.

“I can’t,” she said, trying to gentle her refusal. “Not in good conscience. You can write the cost off as a donation if you don’t go through with this today. But if you choose to go to another artist, I would seriously suggest you go back and look at the designs, and decide if you want to be wearing one of them for the rest of your life. Lasering it off later will be expensive and very painful.”

There was the slightest tremble in his voice when he said thank you and left. Another man immediately took his place. He was sweating, but when she asked him for a design, he answered promptly. “Number seven.”

She pulled a stencil from a box containing numbered folders and showed it to him. “This one?”

“Yes.” He pushed his sleeve out of the way and touched the place where his upper arm met his shoulder. “Right here.”

“That’ll work.”

She set the stencil aside and pulled on latex gloves before opening an antiseptic wipe. But the moment her hand curled around his arm to steady it, her gift woke.

An overwhelming sense of
wrongness
came with it. The tattoo he’d selected didn’t belong on his skin. None of the ones offered here today did though she could catch the barest glimpse of one that might be right. And knew with a certainty she couldn’t explain except with one word—magic—that to fully see the image would require her to open the eyes on her palms and fully see
him
.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wondering how she could possibly explain the refusal. “Do you mind if another artist does this?”

The ease in which he left, and the fact he
didn’t
go to another workstation should have made her suspicious. But it took a few more aborted starts, and finally a woman leaning forward, whispering, “Please, Lady, don’t send me away like the others,” before she understood what was going on, and understood too, in a small way, why her gift had reacted to all of them.

“Eamon’s responsible for your being here,” she said, and the fear spiking into her from where her hand rested on the woman’s forearm was answer enough. She didn’t need the accompanying glance to the place Eamon now stood with Liam and Rhys to confirm it.

Anger pulsed into her to match the woman’s fear. This felt like shades of the argument outside the bar, with Eamon using words like
tolerate
and
allow
, as if he were Lord to her as apparently he was to those standing in line.

She left the station. Liam and Rhys scattered as she approached.

“Why?” she asked, not bothering to interpret Eamon’s actions as a way of supporting the shelter. He had money enough to make a donation.

“Your gift is changing, you’ve admitted as much. My people have some small measure of protection against it.”

His answer mollified her somewhat but only because it showed concern for others. “First, you should have discussed this with me before ordering them to show up. If you had, then I would have told you I can handle doing this. And second, send them home. They’re all going to be a no. If you doubt it, then I’ll go down the entire line and touch each one of them.”

She turned away and he grabbed her wrist as he had earlier. “If not them, then no one, Etaín. Don’t waste your gift here.”

His tone and his words were too close to the argument she’d remembered with the captain’s appearance at the news conference, too much like the fight she’d had with Parker. She couldn’t contain either the fury or the hurt though she managed to keep her voice low to avoid creating a scene.

“I’m done with you for now. Maybe permanently unless you back the hell off and experience a major attitude adjustment. This is what I do. This is who I am. Accept it or get out of my life. I can find the answers I need about my gift later on my own. For now I’m going to go into the shelter on a little timeout. When I come back, I am going to resume work, and the only ones standing in my line had better be people who don’t have anything to do with you.”

She jerked her arm and he let her go. She hadn’t been sure he would, though when she turned around she saw Jamaal standing, correctly reading her body language and ready to come to her aid.

“I’m good,” she said as she passed him, “just going to take a little break.”

Another time he would have snorted and pointed out she hadn’t even lifted the tattoo machine yet. He would have joked about how fast she went through men. This time he gave a small nod and directed a scowl in Eamon’s direction.

Rhys and Liam drifted to Eamon’s side like a pair of bad omens as Etaín stalked away. “Do you wish me to follow her?” Liam asked, wisely holding his amusement and muzzling the urge to say
I advised you against being here
.

Eamon sighed. “No.” She was safe here and he didn’t fear she’d run. There was no point in compounding problems brought about by a temper and patience more frayed than he’d realized.

The depth of her fury and the promise he heard in her voice when it came to cutting him out of her life surprised him, concerned him, s
cared him
, though he would never let it come to that. Getting better acquainted with Cathal seemed like a far safer activity than remaining in Etaín’s sight.

“Release them from their duty,” he told Liam before finding Cathal near the stage.

The cautious need to forge a workable relationship with him became a more urgent one at seeing the
seidic
tattoos lying dormant along Cathal’s forearms. When he’d decided to leave her apartment and allow them the previous day and night together, he’d suspected she might put her ink on Cathal.

Seeing the tattoos, he wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not. He doubted Etaín understood what she’d done, or what it meant for Cathal. An infusion of magic and a permanent bond would form between them, a connection that would extend Cathal’s life beyond the short span of a human’s—or in all likelihood, kill him if she died.