The Tattooed Heart (Messenger of Fear 2)

“Hello.”

“Hello, Mara,” Messenger said.

I did a poor job of hiding what was in my heart. The residue of shock and utter disgust was on my face.

Messenger turned off the music—well, for us at least—and did something he did on occasion, but not often: he looked at me. He looked into my eyes and I must have looked pathetic.

“I didn’t know such things existed,” I said.

“Nor did I before becoming a messenger,” he said. “Demons can conceal themselves from human eyes.”

“Are they all . . . I mean, are all evil people . . .”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, humans are quite capable of evil all on their own. The incubi are a special problem. They are rare. So I am told. And they are disliked, even among demons, not because others of their kind despise their evil, but because they spend too much of their time with humans, and too little time in obedience to their masters.”

I shook my head. “You’ve been revealing things to me slowly. You’ve been trying to spare me.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. “You need to understand, Mara, that your duty as a messenger gives you great powers, but your mind and soul are not protected. It is not just the wicked who end up in the Shoals.”

“You’re telling me I need to be strong.”

Apparently that was so obvious it didn’t require a response.

“I’ve seen the Master of the Game. I’ve now seen a demon incubus. Is that the worst of it? Or is there more?”

He kept up that steady stare.

“Ah,” I said. I sniffed because at some point I had started to cry and my nose was running. I was in the middle of A&F, talking to a boy who should have been one of their models, and what I saw in my mind was the face of the incubus. And what I had in my heart was the knowledge of the cruelty he had inflicted on Graciella. The demon had systematically attacked her ego, her sense of herself. E

ach new verbal attack, each new calculated humiliation, was like an ax blow to a tree; no one blow would topple her, but with each cut she was weakened, awaiting only a stiff breeze to knock her down.

“I guess I’d better find a way to be strong,” I said.

He liked that answer. No, he didn’t say so, or high-five me, or even really change his expression, but I could tell.

I had the odd thought that until then I had found Messenger frightening, disturbing, infuriating, and yes, Oriax, wherever you are, attractive, but now I was starting to like him. Not like like, but as a human being. He was looking out for me. He was caring for me. And maybe that was just a part of his duty, but I didn’t think so, and I flattered myself that he at least did not dislike me.

He waited, eternally patient.

“Okay,” I said. “Graciella.”

And without warning, we were on the side of a two-lane highway. Night was falling. There was very little around—a few scattered trees, a lot of grass, a lone trailer, and a well-composed, rustic-looking little building with what I supposed was a tin roof. There was a porch with four-by-four columns. Next to the highway was a sign with a sunburst logo and the name Authentic Coffee Company.

There was a gravel parking lot with six or eight cars and pickup trucks, and one long, white limousine.

A semi came tearing past, too fast for the relatively narrow road, and as it passed and its howl faded, I heard music coming from inside the lonely coffee shop.

We went inside by the unusual (for us) method of simply walking in through the open front door.

Inside was a remarkably pleasant room, nothing like the usual corporate coffee shop. This had wood-paneled walls, a brick fireplace, and a rocking chair in one corner. I immediately thought that this was the very sort of place I’d love to come to do homework.

But that was an unwelcome thought as it brought a sense of loss and loneliness with it. Would I ever be able to go back to that life? Did my mother think I had run away or died? Did my friends miss me? I knew now that we had the power to move easily through time, and I told myself that when my apprenticeship, and my time as the Messenger was done, I would be able to slip unobtrusively back into my old life.

But if time was meaningless, what was I to make of Messenger’s longing for his Ariadne? I had no way of knowing his circumstances, I did not know what evil he had done that had led him to be punished by being made a messenger.

Maybe in his case his old life was lost. Maybe he had somehow destroyed that old life. But my life had not been destroyed. Yes, I had done a terrible thing, for which I richly deserved this doom, and indeed had brought it on myself. But my life was intact. I hoped. I could go back.

I hoped.