Inked Destiny

Twenty-six

Eamon had too much pride to rage at her in front of Myk and Liam in the sedan’s front seat. The hand he’d taken inside he’d released the instant she slipped into the car and perversely she felt its loss like a gaping wound, her anger fading. She’d never been good at holding on to it.

No surprise there, she thought, looking out the window and remembering the times she’d done the same, sitting next to her mother. The prospect of a new city, a new, temporary life, no longer an adventure but an ache she rarely put into words because she already knew the impossibility of staying in one place long enough to make permanent friends. Anger had been pointless when her mother was all she had.

She could call that anger now, using the captain’s revelation about Eamon’s having her apartment cleared out and the threat of denied access to her, but her stomach roiled at the prospect. She didn’t want to cloak herself in that emotion, to use something she no longer cared about to strike out at Eamon with.

Guilt crept in as the icy silence continued, as the distance separating his taut body from hers seemed to grow larger despite the finite length of the seat. Regret came, intensified by memories of those moments preceding their stepping into the kitchen at Aesirs, by the joy of their time at Stylin’ Ink, the closeness, the satisfaction at having him wear her ink.

Her hand crept to the necklace, fingers rubbing over smooth stones. It’d be a lie to say she was sorry for anything she’d done after he’d left to chase Farrell, but she was sorry for this. Another estrangement.

Tears came, the ache of what had happened with the captain joining this one. She blinked them away, mind scrambling for something to say that would breach the gap, not finding it, not with an audience.

She moved away from the window as they got closer to the estate, stopping in the middle of the seat rather than crowding close, reaching out, hating the tentativeness she felt, the vulnerability, scabs still thin over old wounds caused by rejection, loss, and fear of it.

She placed her hand on his thigh, the weight of it there like a feather easily brushed aside. Her chest tightened, nerves stretching taut, urging her to snatch her hand back and resume her study of the passing scenery.

His hand covered hers before she lost her nerve, and with it came hope fiercely embraced instead of warily circled.

“The encounter with the Cur couldn’t wait until I was available to accompany you?”

“I wanted to get it behind me. Behind us. You caught up to Farrell?”

“Yes.”

“He was terrified of me. All your Elves were.”

His hand tightened on hers. Ours. But it’d be a lie to say she felt that way so she merely amended. “All of them except for the bodyguards and Rhys.”

“You’re seidic, Etaín, capable of stripping memories and gifts, reason enough for fear. But a changeling out of control is cause for terror.”

His anger bit her, the calm icy waters parting to reveal it in his voice. She jerked reflexively, a tug to free her hand from beneath his.

“I wasn’t out of control.”

“You used your gift in full view of others. You stripped a human’s memory without regard to consequences.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been ruthless.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Ruthless, yes. But foolish? Not until I met you. Time and time again I’ve allowed—”

“Don’t go there, Eamon. I thought we’d gotten beyond that.”

His fingers tightened on her wrist. “I’ve allowed myself to believe that you could separate the man from the lord, yet understand I am both. I’ve been foolish enough to hope you might consider how your actions reflect on me, and what they mean for all those who’ve bound themselves to me, who could find their lives a lot worse because I’ve tied their future to yours.”

I didn’t ask you do it. I don’t want the responsibility.

A defensive reaction to the pain threading through his voice, to her own guilt at having fled Aesirs, reacting to an order she’d known even then was given out of concern for her, but using it as an excuse to run. To keep running and in the process, add to his worries and put others in danger. The captain. Greg and his family. Anton.

Gifts came with responsibilities, of that she was certain, though the refrain was the captain’s influence, not her mother’s. And the want, the need, they weren’t one-sided.

How Eamon had come into her life didn’t matter. Peordh. Predestination. She wouldn’t change it if she could. She’d change only this, the misunderstanding, the hurt.

“What happened with the captain’s wife, my mother set that in motion. She foresaw the encounter and what would happen because of it. There was a clue for me in Laura’s mind. The Dragon is real, Eamon. It’s real.”

His leaned in, eyes stormy. “The changeling you asked about threw himself into the ocean, the magic a siren song promising him gills and tail if he surrendered to it rather than allow me to catch him and help him gain control of it. He’d be dead now if I hadn’t been close enough, strong enough to reach out with a spell, with my own command of the elements.”

She tugged at her wrist to free her hand and retrieve the picture showing Dragon and woman and sigil. He tightened his grip, reading denial. She stopped, seeing the flash of pain in his expression and it hurt her.

Leaning forward she brushed her mouth against his. “I see the man and the lord, Eamon. I’ll work harder at meeting you halfway. Halfway. I won’t lose the part of myself that’s human. I don’t think I’m meant to, otherwise why would the magic have chosen Cathal?”

His free hand lifted, fingers sliding through her hair. He caressed her cheek, cupping it, the soft touch a blossom of pleasure and hope, an acknowledgement of her point.

“You’ve told me not much is known about the seidic,” she said. “You’ve told me that my magic feels old to you. When I look at the bands my mother tattooed on my wrists, I see the Dragon’s green. When I face it, that green travels up my arm as though the sigils making up its name are written there like inked destiny.”

“Etaín.” Her name held his doubt, his worry, the wealth of his desire as the estate gate slid back as it had the first night she’d come here, revealing Cathal waiting there instead of Eamon.

Eamon released her so she could get to Cathal, but sudden imperative held her. “Trust me to do the right thing,” she said, before taking the freedom he offered. Her arms were around Cathal an instant later, her mouth fused to his.

Cathal couldn’t get enough of her. He was as desperate for her as he’d been after the encounter with the gangbanger, except this was honest, with no agenda other than to celebrate life and love.

His mouth ate hungrily at hers, his cock about to tear through the front of his jeans to get to the place it considered home. His arms tightened on her at Eamon’s approach.

Not jealously. Not possessiveness. But a grab for sanity to keep from stripping her out of her clothing.

Talk would have to wait. Confessions. Neither of them was as important as the touch of skin to skin, the urgent need to be inside her, to share her.

Pulling his mouth from hers, he said, “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” thoughts flashing to his fire and smoke and water-damaged house. Not Eamon’s bedroom but their bedroom. For a while. Maybe permanently. And he found that the thought of living here, where she’d be safer—hell, where he’d be safer—didn’t bother him.

His lips returned to hers, hands settling on her hips, though the will to stop the grind of her cunt against his cock deserted him.

In his mind he said, we need to stop now, but his body refused to yield, relishing the rub and press, the heat and scent of Etaín and the joy of being alive.

Quinn pulled to a stop near the chain-link fence, cutting the engine steps away from an opening in the fence to the right of a No Trespassing sign. Again he contemplated calling Sean. Again he dismissed it.

He pulled his gun from its holster and got out of the car. He’d just take a quick look around, enough to either confirm he was nuts or…

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

The refrain pounded through him with each heartbeat. Racing until there was no break between utterances.

The twist in his gut got tighter with each step, until caution was a struggle.

He heard voices speaking Spanish. Harsh-edged, ugly laughter followed by the sound of someone being hit. A cry of pain, a piteous whimper.

Derrick’s cry. Derrick’s whimper.

Rage poured into Quinn. The red of furious fire burning away years of training, eradicating any thought of stealth.

He raced forward, driven by fierce possessiveness past abandoned buildings covered in graffiti, the sound of violence and agony, the scent of blood reaching him, feeding his urgency and providing a trail. He led with his gun, finger steady on the trigger despite the adrenaline rushing through him and the pounding beat of his heart.

“Please, no!” Derrick screamed, terror peaking, and Quinn promised himself Derrick would never beg again, unless it was in bed with him, and the words would be “Please. Yes!”

“Do it, Drooler,” someone said as Quinn rounded the corner and saw Derrick held between two teens, struggling as a third raised a gun.

Pop. Pop. Pop The rounds left Quinn’s gun in staccato beats, taking the immediate threat to Derrick down, before eliminating the others.

Shoot to kill.

Instinct. Training.

He was rushing forward when something slammed into him.

He took two additional steps before his brain interpreted what his body knew. He’d been shot. Realization came with the delayed impression of a man ducking behind a stripped, abandoned car.

Quinn hit the ground. His hand went to his chest in a feeble attempt to stop the escape of blood, his consciousness wavering. His vision was wet and blurry as Derrick dragged himself toward him on his belly, using one arm while the other trailed.

“No, no, no,” Derrick sobbed, his face was bloody and swollen.

Quinn wanted to scream Run! Get out of here! But a bubble of blood gurgled up his throat and prevented it.

The shooter stepped out from behind the car.

A roar of denial blasted from Quinn’s core. A determination to protect Derrick that held him to life and lent him enough strength to angle the gun upward and get off two shots.

Hits, both of them.

The man went down and didn’t get back up.

Satisfaction tempered the pain of having lost a future with Derrick. He’ll use my cellphone. He’ll make it out of here. Comforting thoughts as Quinn slid into the oblivion that was death.

Etaín seized without warning, the violence of it tearing her out of Cathal’s arms and throwing her to the driveway to flail and thrash, limbs wild and back bowing as though it would snap. He dropped immediately, grabbing an arm, pinning it to the cool concrete as his other hand pressed against her chest in an effort to hold her down.

Eamon was instantly there, kneeling opposite her. Etaín’s hand flashed out, grabbing Eamon’s wrist, her palm pressed to his flesh. Concern for her went to fear of her, a glimmer of expression quickly smoothed to hide its turbulence, but not quickly enough.

“Sire?” Liam said, stepping forward, Heath and Myk immediately flanking him.

“What’s going on?” Cathal managed, and yet he could feel it in the tattoos along his forearms. Magic.

Eamon stiffened, head snapping back, the muscles of his throat taut, his face reflecting struggle, as if he tried to break away from Etaín’s grip but couldn’t.

Terror crawled into Cathal’s throat. Survival instinct screaming for him to break contact with Etaín now, while he still could, demanding he flee because he was only human.

He held tight, denying everything, willing to sacrifice everything, believing in that instant that she needed him now more than ever, that magic, something intrinsically a part of her, had chosen him for more than a save from the Harlequin Rapist.

“She consumes you, Lord,” Liam said, voice urgent, determined. “Order me to kill her!”

The magic blazed a trail for Cage though he didn’t need one, given his close proximity to Quinn. He pushed through the opening in the chain link fence, urgent now with the scent of blood, Kestrel awake and hungry, the sound of a man crying, a body dragging chilling him to his core.

He did not limit himself to human speed in order to reach Quinn. Knew by the soaked front of Quinn’s clothing and pool of blood spreading next to him that only the magic held him to this life and this body.

Cage scooped Quinn up, taking in the three dead, one of whom Kestrel had hungered for outside Saoirse. Pity moved through him when he recognized Derrick, beaten and broken but dragging his body forward in an effort to get to his lover.

There was no time to offer comfort. And reassurance was premature even this close to water.

Cage raced forward, hurling Quinn into the bay.

Behind him Derrick screamed. A heart-wrenching, primal sound of such anguish that it silenced even Kestrel’s demands.

A wordless scream left Eamon and this time Cathal’s head snapped back as pain ripped through him as though he were being eviscerated from the inside out.

“Eamon. Lord. Order me to kill her!”

“No.” Cathal gasped. “Trust her.”

“No!” Liam urged, tensed and coiled like a panther ready to spring. “No! Today’s events demonstrated that the magic controls her, not the other way around. Accept her loss for the good of those who call you Lord.”

Another wave of pain clawed through Cathal. Pulsing simultaneously to what was happening to Eamon. Building, building, then suddenly condensing, shattering in his chest.

Cage watched as the bubbles rising to the surfaced ceased, the body disappearing, sinking.

He caught himself holding his breath and forced an exhale, guilt settling into his chest with the next inhalation.

Brother. The sense of it was stronger now.

He had not been his brother’s keeper here.

It wasn’t too late. Not yet, though he could guess what the magical channeling was doing to the seidic changeling who’d made this possible with her ink. In the end, this might cause her death.

Jacko tried to use the car to get to his feet, but left only a smear of blood against metal next to concrete blocks and rusted axel. His thoughts drifted, sliding into the past with the memory of stabbing a shank into the last guy he’d killed in prison.

What was the motherfucker’s name? His thoughts blurred. He could remember the blood wet on his hand and wrist.

Reality blurred, he looked down and blood gushed out faster, his heart pumping hard at seeing the gut shots, his fingers splayed across his stomach though his intestines were leaking out.

Motherfuck. He dug into his pocket for his phone, hearing Cyco say, “I’m about finished my business. You done?

“Jacko! Jacko!” The shout brought him back. He shivered. Fear coming when he realized he was shaking, so cold now he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Couldn’t actually feel much of anything.

Motherfuck, they weren’t going to find him curled up in a ball. They weren’t going to say he went out like a pussy. When they talked about him, they were going to say he was a man.

“Dead. Guy showed up.” The words were slurred but he kept going, forcing more of them out. “I took him out. Need you to finish Cathal Dunne.” Couldn’t believe the asshole had survived the launcher attack.

“Him. His woman. Anybody else who’s with him.”

“Good,” Jacko said, the phone dropping away as the numbness spread and all awareness ceased.

Etaín opened her eyes to tranquility, if facing a Dragon could be tranquil. It rose from the water, creating a ripple, and in that ripple Etaín saw Eamon on his knees, body bowed, rigid, his image thin, appearing more apparition than solid man while Cathal—

Agony engulfed her at seeing him prone, still, sightless eyes staring at nothing.

There is always a price to pay. He is human, mortal born, not created to be conduit or vessel for magic.

“No!” she screamed, the sound of it reverberating, making her aware of the ebb and flow, the serration of her own heart, still beating while Cathal’s was silenced.

Clever changeling. The sigil of servitude appeared, writ in the air like a fiery brand. It’s what I can offer you now. There’s still time for your human. Take it and return to him, transformed into what you were meant to be.

Trust me to do the right thing, the words spoken before racing to Cathal mocked her now, everything inside her saying no price was too high to pay for Cathal’s life. But those moments when she’d lost control of her limbs, when the ability to speak had been choked off at the Dragon’s will, were too visceral.

This servitude was another name for slavery. And that slavery would extend to him.

Not slavery. The honoring of a promise. The righting of a wrong.

At what ultimate cost? In the water Eamon continued to fade, as if her touch was draining him of magic and gift, his accusation ringing in her ears that the lives of those who depended on him as Lord would worsen because he’d tied their future to hers.

“No,” she said, concentrating on the complex shapes Eamon had painstakingly taught her, building the sigil segment by segment in the hopes it would allow him to get free of her.

Sire!” Liam urged again, enough control finally returning that Eamon was able to speak.

“No.” The answer came from his heart, more gasp than word.

Liam’s face reflected understanding and grief even as he moved to disobey, willing to give his life for his lord’s. But Myk and Heath reacted as well, as if anticipating it, grabbing Liam, risking his gift, struggling though that struggle lasted only moments before Etaín’s body stilled in human death and the flow of magic abruptly stopped.

Eamon felt as though his own heart had been ripped out of his chest. Searing pain spread through him, growing in intensity as moments passed instead of the barely perceptible seconds that had marked his own change, the tattoos on his arms inert, nothing more than ink, giving him no way to call her back.

“Fight, Etaín, fight.”

The lake, the Dragon, the burning sigil and the complex one she’d been building disappeared in a white burst and an echo of pain. Nothingness followed, an inky blackness that drained into the vines on her arms, and in its wake she again faced the Dragon—except this time there was silence. So she was dead now too.

Cage smiled when the water began churning violently, smoke rising from its depths along with bubbles and blackened debris. The thrashing continuing, creating a whirlpool that sucked them back in. A light show of color only he could see as a Dragon battled to regain a human shape, to make sense of facts and divergent realities, though those born in this rare, rare manner were born old.

Behind him Derrick sobbed, the slow scrape of his body marking his determination to reach his lover even now. Quinn had chosen well. Or the seidic had with her ink.

Cage turned away from the water, using his true speed to reach Derrick, offering comfort with a whispered, “He lives, and so will you,” before offering merciful oblivion with a spelled charm he’d gained from Eamon.

In front of Etaín, the water rippled again. Only instead of images of Cathal and Eamon, the slaughter at the bar was replayed and she felt the phantom flare of heat at her wrists and along her arms, burning hot and fierce as Vontae and his killer became aware of each other. I woke and you shared in my awakening. Not your gift to see the endpoint of magic. Mine.

The sigil representing servitude flared between them again. Take it and you can find the killer you seek.

Even to find justice for the innocent, she couldn’t. “No.”

Eamon couldn’t accept that he’d lost her. Physical survival from the change itself wasn’t what he’d feared. Not for her. Not for any changeling. Death came by his judgment.

Too much time had passed. Transformation was marked in seconds, not minutes.

He pressed her palm to his heart as if he could will magic into her, could use it to summon her back, praying in that moment that the Dragon did indeed exist, and that Etaín merely visited at the shore of the lake she’d drawn.

Liam knelt next to him, freed now that the danger to Eamon was past. “Let me attempt it, Lord,” and despite the wild struggle and intended disobedience, Eamon trusted his third, but said instead, “Cathal first,” in the hopes it wasn’t already too late.

Liam reached out and placed his hand above Cathal’s heart. Once, centuries earlier, Eamon had felt the punch of magic that was Liam’s gift.

An explosive gasp signaled Cathal’s regained consciousness.

Etaín staggered and went to her knees as if she were an insubstantial piece of wood suddenly tethered by an anchor tossed into the ocean.

The scene in front of her wavered. The Dragon roared, the sigil of servitude melting into flames encircling her.

So your Elven lord has chosen to save the human. For another of the seidic it would be enough. But not for you. I can hold you here. You were born on the shores of my lake and bathed in its water. You aren’t only of Elfhome and Earth.

Trust. There hadn’t been time to show Eamon the picture. Hadn’t been time to discuss the sigil at the corner of the playing card.

Etaín’s feelings about her mother were as complicated as those she felt for the captain, but in that instant, remembering the feel of the collar-like necklace still adorning her physical body and the way her mother’s hand rested at her throat in the first picture but not in the second, Etaín took a leap of faith.

She drew the sigil she’d seen on the card in the sand. “This binding I’m willing to accept.”

Clever, clever changeling.

Fire rushed toward her, fully engulfing her, though the force of it was met by other magic that tasted of forests and smelled of spring air and sunshine, that danced and entwined, primordial and new, Elfhome. But also the place she called home, a blending of worlds that turned into sunshine traveling down a pathway and illuminating everything around it, becoming the liquid pour of ink into her own arms.