Ink Exchange (Wicked Lovely 2)

Irial folded a trembling Summer Girl into his arms. The vines that clung to her skin wilted under his touch. She was so filled with terror and loathing that he briefly considered sharing her with the others, but he was still selfish enough to want her to himself. Keenan’s special girls were always such a nice treat. If Irial was careful, he could draw enough desire and fear out of them to stave off hunger for a couple of days. A few times, he’d been able to leave them so addicted that they returned willingly to his arms for regular visits—and hated him for making them betray their king. It was quite satisfying.

Irial held the girl’s gaze as he told his court, “Their regents did this, brought us to this when they killed Beira. Remember that as you offer them your hospitality.”

CHAPTER 4

The tattoo shop was empty when Leslie walked in. No voice broke the stillness of the room. Even the stereo was silenced.

“It’s me,” she called.

She went back to the room where Rabbit would do the work. The paper with the stencil of her tattoo waited on a tray on the counter beside a disposable razor and miscellaneous other items. “I’m a little early.”

Rabbit stared at her for a moment but didn’t say anything.

“You said we could start tonight. Do the outline.” She came over to stare down at the stencil. She didn’t touch it, though, strangely afraid that it would vanish if she did.

Finally Rabbit said, “Let me get the door.”

While he was gone, she wandered around the tiny room—more to keep from touching the stencil than anything else. The walls were covered in various show and convention flyers—most faded and for events long past. A few framed photos, all black-and-white, and theater-size film posters were intermingled with the flyers. Like every other part of the shop, the room was impossibly clean and had a slight antiseptic scent.

She paused at several of the photos, not recognizing most of the people or places. Interspersed among them were framed pen-and-ink sketches. In one, Capone-era thugs were smiling at the artist. It was as realistic as any photograph, skillful to the degree that it seemed bizarre to see it hanging amidst the snapshots and posters. Rabbit returned as she was tracing the form of a stunningly beautiful man sitting in the middle of the group of gangsters. They were all striking, but it was him, the one leaning on an old twisted tree, who looked almost familiar. The others clustered around, beside, or behind him, but he was obviously the one with power. She asked, “Who’s this?”

“Relatives,” was all Rabbit said.

Leslie’s attention lingered on the picture. The man in the image wore a dark suit like the other men, but his posture—arrogant and assessing—gave him the impression of being more menacing than the men around him. Here was someone to fear.

Rabbit cleared his throat and pointed in front of him. “Come on. Can’t start with you over there.”

Leslie forced herself to look away from the image. Fearing—or lusting on—someone who was either old or long dead was sort of weird anyhow. She went to where Rabbit had pointed, put her back to him, and pulled her shirt off.

Rabbit tucked a cloth of some sort under her bra strap. “To keep it clean.”

“If ink or whatever gets on it, it’s not a big deal.” She folded her arms across her chest and tried to stand still. Despite how much she wanted the ink, standing there in her bra felt uncomfortable.

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely. No buyer’s remorse. Really, it’s starting to border on obsession. I actually dreamed about it. The eyes in it and those wings.” She blushed, thankful Rabbit was behind her and couldn’t see her face.

He wiped her skin with something cold. “Makes sense.”

“Sure it does.” Leslie smiled, though: Rabbit wasn’t fazed by anything, acting as if the oddest things were okay. It made her relax a little.

“Stay still.” He shaved the fine hairs on the skin where the tattoo would go and wiped her off again with more cold liquid.

She glanced back as he walked away. He tossed the razor into a bin, pausing to give her a serious look before coming behind her again. She watched him over her shoulder.

He picked up the stencil. “Face that way.”

“Where’s Ani?” Leslie’d rarely been at the shop when Ani didn’t show up, usually with Tish in tow. It was like she had some radar, able to track people down without any obvious explanation how.

“Ani needed quiet.” He put a hand on her hip and moved her. Then he spritzed something lightly on her back where the ink would go—at the top of her spine between her shoulders, spanning the width of her back, centered over the spot where Leslie thought the wings would attach if they were real. She closed her eyes as he pressed the stencil onto her back. Somehow even that felt exciting.

Then he peeled away the paper. “See if it’s where you want it.”

She went to the mirror as quickly as she could without running. Using the hand mirror to see her reflection in the wall mirror, she saw it—her ink, her perfect ink stenciled on her skin—and grinned so widely, her cheeks hurt. “Yes. Gods, yes.”

“Sit.” He pointed at the chair.

She sat on the edge and watched as Rabbit methodically put on gloves, opened a sterile stick, and used it to pull a glop of clear ointment out of a jar and put it on a cloth-covered tray. He pulled out several tiny ink caps and tacked them down to the drop cloth. Then he poured ink into them.