Inked Destiny

Eight

The dense fog was shades lighter than Eamon’s mood after a sleepless night. He’d lost control of the situation with Etaín, again, and it had nearly cost her life for the second time in a single day. Perhaps now she’d begin to shun involvement in the human world.

Eamon grimaced. He was not a man to engage in whimsy or to purposely delude himself. When Liam had called to report Etaín’s nearly dying at the hospital, it had taken everything in him not to rush to Cathal’s home and demand entry. He’d refrained, barely, and only because there was wisdom in Etaín’s so-called breathing room.

Today he intended no such restraint. He had no recourse other than to join Etaín in her folly, despite the risk to all of them if his presence caused her existence to be discovered by Elven spies or other supernaturals.

He’d given them a night together. A night to calm and consider the things he’d revealed though he harbored no illusions they’d return to his estate unless the situation were truly dire.

He closed his eyes against the pain that thought brought with it, stabbing him with the rejection implied by her actions. She was important, not just to him personally but to those he ruled.

The wet embrace of fog against his skin as the speedboat moved through the dense gray of seeming nothingness soothed him. Courtship was not a seamless dance even among Elves.

He would see to this task and then he would go to Etaín. He’d erred, numerous times, but there had also been hours of enjoyment in each other’s company, unparalleled pleasure as well. He began hardening in anticipation of being with her, fantasy assuaging the ache in his chest caused by the emotional distance between Etaín and him.

The reprieve lasted until reality intruded with a deeply drawn breath, the scent of ocean and fish and diesel causing him to open his eyes. Seconds later voices sounded in the fog and the outline of a fishing vessel came into view.

In the driver’s seat Heath adjusted their course, the deep red of his aura a strike of bold color against the unrelenting grayness. “It’s a fifty-six-footer by the look of her. That’d make the captain Garret.”

Familiar tension filled Eamon. Of all his duties, this one, monitoring and passing judgment on those who were changeling, was the one that left him feeling powerless despite having immense power.

Fear for Etaín clawed its way into his heart again and he fought against curling his fingers into fists, though he would gladly use them to strike out physically at any danger that couldn’t be battled with knowledge or magic. Had she started hearing voices? Or would magic’s will simply manifest as it had when she’d lost control of her limbs, the eyes on her palms seeking Parker’s bare skin to feed on memories that would increase the appetite for them rather than sate it? Or would magic strike as it had done in that moment of weakness at orgasm, when she’d grabbed at his power without any awareness of it?

Thoughts of the damage she might do prior to his reaching her, and worse, the guilt she’d feel because of it, flooded his veins with ice, nearly paralyzing him with one of water’s deadly aspects. He combatted it with fiery determination. He could do nothing until he saw to this responsibility, and then he would go to Etaín and remain with her.

He stood as Heath maneuvered the speedboat to the rear of the fishing vessel, easing alongside a ladder extending down to the water. When they were close enough, Myk, his fourth, standing guard in Liam’s place, climbed upward, his waist-length hair the same dark color of ancient trees.

Impatient to get to Etaín, Eamon followed, though he knew Myk would have preferred him to wait until he could verify there was no threat. The boat’s captain waited, offering a slight bow of his head when Eamon stepped onto the fishing vessel, murmuring, “Lord,” in greeting.

“The ocean is treating you well today, Garret?”

“I believe it will be a satisfied group that’ll step onto the dock when we get back.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Eamon scanned the deck. There were easily thirty men, women, and children onboard, no small number of them watching, curious about the arrival of visitors.

He needed no permission, but he asked anyway. “May I move about the vessel and speak to your guests and crew?”

Worry filtered into Garret’s expression. He glanced toward the opposite end of the boat, where his changeling son, Farrell, worked at a bait bar.

“Of course, Lord,” he said, knowing Eamon was there to judge how well Farrell was dealing with the magic.

Eamon didn’t go directly to the changeling. Those brief moments at yesterday’s fund-raising event notwithstanding, it was rare for him be out among humans who were ignorant of the supernatural world. While it was true that en masse he had no love for them, individually they weren’t objectionable. Over the course of his life he had even found some of them to be interesting.

Amusement rippled through him. Cathal might yet fall into that category.

Eamon paused at a family group with five children, the youngest little more than six. “Did you catch anything?”

The girl ducked her head shyly. Her older sister answered, “She caught a striped bass but it was too small so we threw it back. I caught a halibut that’s twenty-six inches long.”

Their three brothers chimed in, bragging about their catches and softening Eamon’s smile. It was hard not to react to the young. Among Elves, children weren’t easily conceived, making each of them a treasure.

He felt a tug in the vicinity of his heart as one of the boys excitedly began reeling in a fish. It would please him to have a son—or a daughter. A small copy of Etaín—or completely differing in looks, it wouldn’t matter.

He moved on, stopping next to an elderly couple. The woman was bundled up but shivering, the rod in her hand shaking.

“Can I have the captain get you a cup of tea or coffee?” he asked, placing his fingertips lightly on her shoulder and subtly tracing the sigils of a warming spell.

Her trembling stilled. She sighed in relief. “I’m fine, thank you. That’s the trouble with getting old, the cold creeps up on you more often and bites harder.”

Eamon looked at her age-lined face and suppressed a shiver of his own. Humans might breed easily, but their lives passed quickly and at the end they were often reduced to the helplessness of their first years.

He didn’t envy them, despite their control of this world.

He continued on, aware Farrell watched his approach though he pretended not to. The boy was twelve, small for his age but wiry, and like all changelings at the beginning of the process, the aura surrounding him was more humanlike than Elf. Thin color instead of deep, rich tones, the predominant hues of blue and purple indicating a connection to water.

The bait bar was near a father with two boys who looked to be about fifteen or sixteen. Sullenness radiated from one boy, a surly demeanor that didn’t change with the tug on his line.

He drew his line in as Eamon neared. A small silver body coming over the railing as Eamon was footsteps away.

With no warning the boy shouted, “This trip is fucking lame!” and swung the fish, slamming it down on the deck with a force that sent scales and fish guts flying.

Debris landed on Eamon’s pant legs as magic pounded against his senses. A wild, raging mass of it possessing Farrell’s form as the changeling leapt from his position and attacked the boy.

Against a changeling’s strength and fury, the larger boy didn’t have a chance. Fists and kicks drove him backward, knocking over coolers and sending ice and fish along the deck so both boys went down.

A toss into the ocean and the sullen teen would drown before any of them could reach him. That was the power of magic, the danger of water.

Eamon entered the fray along with the human boy’s father, emerging a moment later with Farrell in his grip, though the changeling continued to thrash and kick, controlled by elemental magic until Eamon shielded him from the water’s voice with a spell.

Farrell sagged like a puppet with cut strings. He kept his head bowed, trembling, the contact transferring more scales and guts and water to Eamon’s clothing.

This was the hope Eamon believed Etaín might offer his people, that with her ink she could quiet the dangerous voice of magic, possibly even rechanneling it, making the relationship between it and the Elven in this world parallel to the one in Elfhome.

Garret arrived, fear on his face at how Eamon might judge his son.

“Lord,” Garret said in a voice that wouldn’t carry to the humans. “There was provocation and just cause.”

The human boy’s father said, “I apologize for my son. His behavior was inexcusable. Farrell can’t be blamed for reacting to it.”

“Not for reacting,” Eamon agreed, “but for his actions he will be held accountable.”

Eamon turned Farrell, hands locked on scrawny upper arms. He shook the boy so he looked up, fear in his expression where seconds earlier there’d been raw, unfettered, and unreasoning power.

Magic’s voice was quiet. For now. But Eamon couldn’t risk leaving the changeling, not surrounded by so much water, not when there was a strong likelihood the human teen would provoke another attack. “Gather anything of importance to you and get in the speedboat.”

“Yes, Lord,” Farrell whispered.

Eamon released him, turning toward Garret. “You and your wife may visit him at Aesirs when you bring clothing and whatever else you see fit to. He’ll work and live there.” Where the wards would keep him safe for a time, and where he would also remain close to his family.

“We’ll come this evening, Lord.”

Farrell cast a quick, shamed glance at his father then did as Eamon ordered. Eamon followed moments later, climbing down to the waiting speedboat, this time with Myk following him.

“You have all the fun,” Heath said, straight-faced and yet still failing to suppress his amusement at the sight of Eamon’s wet and fish-spackled clothing.

“It’s a perk of being Lord,” Myk said, dropping lightly into the boat, as irreverent in his way as Liam was.

“Aesirs,” Eamon said, command and destination both. Rhys could take charge of Farrell, leaving him free, in turn, to take charge of his future consort-wife.

Truth time,” Etaín said, unlocking the spare helmet and offering it to Cathal.

He took it with a flashing smile. “I’m not afraid of letting you take me for a ride.”

She laughed, moving in, pressing the front of her body against his. “Oh I know that. In fact, I’d say you’re a big fan of woman on top.”

“Definitely.” His arm snaked around her waist. “Continue this conversation and we’ll get an even later start.”

“Tempting.” She exhaled, the sound of it marking the end of levity. “Really tempting. I dread this.”

Her skin felt stretched thin, her nerve-endings already jangling and her heart rushing in anticipation of visiting Vontae’s family and being in the presence of so much raw emotion.

“I’m afraid,” she added in a whisper. Afraid of losing control the way she had with Parker, of forcing answers and in the process stripping minds without Eamon there to stop her.

Cathal’s arm tightened at her waist. He rubbed his cheek against hers. “You don’t have to put yourself through this. I told you I’d cover the bill if we pull Sean McAllister in and give him a list of all the people you’ve tattooed who are likely suspects. He’s good at what he does. It wouldn’t take him long to locate them and see what they’re up to. Someone will pop as a high probable and you can turn the name over to the police, let them handle it from there.”

“Or I could be sure first, by getting close enough to take a memory that’ll give Ordoñes something to work with.”

The ease with which she accepted doing just that had her chest constricting as Cathal’s emotional no slammed in her, though he refrained from saying the word out loud.

“Let’s head to Sean’s boat,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear in an attempt to persuade her. “I’ll even let you drive.”

She accepted his attempt to lighten the mood. “Big of you, considering we’re taking my bike.”

Stepping away from him, she picked up her helmet, not completely able to shed the seriousness. “I need to get the hard part over with first. Then swing by the shelter to ask Justine what she remembers. There’s a lot I don’t.” She met his gaze squarely. “I was high a lot of the time, early on, when the call to ink arrived and things became difficult at home.”

Not that they’d ever been easy, thanks to the captain’s wife and daughters. But stir in arguments with him and fights with Parker, along with the heavy, heavy weight of disapproval, and it had gotten easier and easier to blow off curfews, and the repercussions from that had, in turn, fostered greater rebellion.

“Vontae was early on, but I tattooed a shit-load of people back then, anybody willing to offer up a patch of fresh skin. Sometimes I did it stoned out of my mind, transferring the surreal things in my head onto various body parts.”

She wasn’t proud of it. But shame didn’t cling to her either. There wasn’t much point in it though she regretted the ink now, regretted other things from that time in her life, not the least of which was the inability to get beyond it when it came to the captain and Parker.

She couldn’t change the past, even if it apparently was coming back to haunt her. The best she could do was damage control. Starting now.

“After Justine, then I’m game to involve Sean. Mmm mmm. He gives the eye candy at Aesirs a run for the money. Yummy, Johnny Depp in the role of pirate. If I didn’t already have enough man trouble I’d be tempted.”

“I’m glad that was man, singular, not plural.”

“How do you know I’m not talking about you? Eamon hasn’t joined us yet, therefore, no plural.”

Cathal laughed, touching the garage door button. It rolled upward. She put on the helmet, afterward pushing the Harley out and straddling it.

He joined her on the bike and she liked the feel of him at her back. With a roar they took off, leaving luxury and blue skies for a small house smothered by the fog that still clung to the Bayview-Hunters Point district.

It didn’t surprise her when Liam appeared, emerging from wet gloom to join them without speaking, as if he’d been waiting for their arrival. Shadow walker. Her voice, not the—

She shelved thoughts of the supernatural, or tried to. A glance down at the eyes on her palms and she was reluctantly glad for Liam’s presence, though despite Cathal’s desire for Eamon’s continued absence, she wished it was Eamon who’d stepped out of the shadows instead of his assassin.

Cathal took her hand in his. “It doesn’t have to go further than just paying your respects.”

“I used to crash here sometimes, when I was fourteen. Me and about five other kids.” Four would go on the list. The fifth had OD’d at sixteen, the same year the captain’s version of scaring her straight had worked.

At the door she knocked. It was opened by a rawboned man in his fifties, light enough skinned that the tattoos on his neck and arms popped.

OG. Original gangster. Her palms buzzed, reminding her he wore a little bit of her ink. Tiny footsteps above his heart along with the word Janelle, the name of one of his kids born in the days she’d hung out with Vontae.

“Long time, Tyrone.”

He glanced at Cathal, but his gaze lingered on Liam before returning to her. “You’ve traded up since last time I saw you.”

“That’s one way to look at it. Okay if we come in?”

He stepped out of the doorway. “Most everyone’s either over at the funeral home or talking to the preacher about services. Mama’s here though.” Vontae’s grandmother.

“You know why it happened?” Etaín asked as Tyrone led them down the hallway, toward a kitchen she remembered as being a place of warmth and laughter as well as stern lectures.

“Your daddy send you to ask? Cause we already had cops stopping by. Plenty of cops.”

“I came on my own.”

“If you say so.”

“I was at the hospital last night with Kelvin. He didn’t make it.”

“You going to get out of the life, then you got to stay far away from it.” She heard a warning in that message.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Not going to. What went down is the MC’s business.”

MC. Motorcycle Club. Meaning the Curs.

“You a member now?” He wasn’t when she was a teen.

Tyrone didn’t answer.

They entered the kitchen. “Mama, Etaín’s here. You remember her?”

“Of course I remember her.”

The old woman pushed up from her chair, the smoke from a cigarette on the edge of a saucer curling upward. She was rail-thin, the way Etaín remembered her, except now, with adult eyes, she saw the way age and the weight of kids and grandkids who’d ended up in gangs, in prison, and on drugs had shrunk her, bending height and hunching her back with it.

Her hands gripped Etaín’s upper arms. “Look at you, all grown up.”

“What passes for grown up anyway. Some people might argue it.”

Momma Leeona smiled, as Etaín had meant her to. “I appreciate your coming by,” she said, pulling Etaín into a hug.

Guilt slid into Etaín like a hot knife, coming with the memory of Vontae on the floor of the bar, reaching for a gun. “He was a friend.” Once. Time hadn’t changed that.

“Eat something?” Vontae’s grandmother asked, the counter crowded with food.

“Cathal and I had something a little while ago.”

Etaín paused to introduce her companions. Momma Lee said, “We can move into the living room.”

“This room’s fine. I always think of you sitting in here.” She sent a glare at the cigarette, though god knew, she’d done a lot worse when she hung out here.

Momma Lee laughed and reclaimed her chair, sitting heavily despite her slight frame.

Etaín sat across from her, Cathal moving into place behind her, his hands on her shoulders as she said, “We can’t stay for long. We’re on our way to the shelter. I need to talk to Justine.”

“She was by here last night.” Momma Lee picked up the cigarette. It trembled as she carried it to her lips. “I can’t even turn the TV on. Seems like every time I do, they show pictures of bodies being brought out in black bags. And I wonder if that one’s got Vontae in it, or that one or that one. Or if maybe it’s Lomas or Roddy or Ahman, or somebody else that used to come around here and sit at this table like you’re sitting.”

Shame crawled into Etaín, that she hadn’t called Detective Ordoñes or any of the Oakland cops she knew and asked for the names of the victims. “The police will find out who did this.”

“Maybe. But not before other people’s babies get killed.”

“Is this the start of a drug war?” she asked, drawing on what Melinda had said at the hospital.

Vontae’s grandmother shrugged. “You ask me, this trouble has to do with Anton.”

“Mama,” Tyrone said at the same time Etaín asked, “Anton Charles?”

“Yes. How do you know him?”

“From the shop where I work. Stylin’ Ink.” She hesitated, adding, “I saw him a couple of days ago.” Leaving it there, without mentioning being with him in the bar where Vontae and the others died.

“There’s bad blood between him and some of the other Curs.”

“Mama, you don’t want to be messing with Anton’s business. Or with the club’s either.”

“I’ll say what I’m going to say, Tyrone, and pray to Jesus maybe it’ll make a difference this time. Violence always begets more violence. I’ve been preaching it at the kitchen table since before you were born and I’m not going to stop now.”

She took a draw on her cigarette, using it for fortification. Etaín could see the sheen of tears, see her fighting to hold them in. Smoke erupted from Momma Lee’s nostrils, reminding Etaín of the Dragon’s exhalation.

“Vontae.” Momma Lee’s voice cracked on the name. “Vontae and a couple of the other Curs, they were close to Anton. I heard them talking in this very room—”

“Mama—”

“They were excited about Anton being back, going on and on about him taking over the club and how he had big plans and they were going to be part of them. Got real quiet whenever they realized I was hearing them. I said my piece, and they said yes ma’am real polite then went off to do what they wanted to do anyway.”

Etaín thought back to how the others had acted around Anton. Respectful, giving up the pool table when the two of them decided to play. One of the guys even hustling to rack the balls.

She glanced at Liam. He’d entered the bar and she’d known by the touch of his magic to hers he was part of the world her mother had been running from. And then all hell had broken loose, thanks to Eamon’s arrival, and she’d learned that not only had Liam been sent to watch her, but that Anton’s brother owned the place.

“You think this was Curs killing Curs?” she asked, pride and shame keeping her from asking if Anton and his brother were among the dead. She’d find out soon enough, with a call, then realized she already knew the answer when it came to Anton, given Tyrone’s interruptions.

Momma Leeona seemed to fold in on herself more. “That’s what I think. Same as I think other families are going to be affected like this one. Violence begets violence.”

Etaín let the conversation drift to the past. There’d been good times mixed in with those she regretted. Not enough of them to fill hours of conversation, but enough so the visit didn’t seem rushed, or dishonest.

“We should probably head to the shelter,” she finally said. “Is there anything you need?”

Vontae’s grandmother reached across the table, taking Etaín’s hands in hers. Etaín jerked with the contact. Sweat broke out with the sharp burn of pain in her wrists where Momma Lee’s fingertips rested, and with the unmistakable sensation of an alien awareness invading her reality.