Inked Destiny (13 page)

The images accompanying the idea hardened him further, as did her husky, “Let’s shelve the competition until we get back to your place and the clothes can come off.”

Eamon caught the flash of Cathal’s teeth, a quick baring that had his own lips curving upward as he followed her down the steps, content that when she took neither his hand nor Cathal’s, it was simply to improve mobility.

He had not truly
seen
the humans he’d passed upon entering the shelter to find her. Now she forced him to as she stopped to chat with the workers, with the homeless she knew by name, asking questions about others who weren’t there and lingering in rooms that shouldn’t contain even one child, much less seem crowded by them.

If he had a weakness at all when it came to humans, it was the very young. But while there was no escape from this lesson Etaín seemed determined to teach him, and he understood it was a lesson, he wouldn’t undo his earlier successful efforts at courtship by telling her this would change nothing.

She could hold him hostage here during this grace period of freedom. His focus on her, and those she spoke to, would remain unwavering because she was changeling,
seidic
, and he intended to
keep her safe from magic and gift. But at the end of the week, he would set the terms.

If she’s still alive.

He rejected the possibility she’d be otherwise though he couldn’t prevent himself from sliding his hand beneath the thick fall of her hair so his palm rested on the smooth, warm skin of her neck.

“Where next?” he asked, given that they were now at the end of their tour of rooms. “Cathal’s?”

The subtle tensing he felt beneath his hand was warning enough he probably wouldn’t like her answer.

“No. We’re going to visit a friend of his. We could hook up afterward though, at Cathal’s place.”

He elected to be amused rather than aggravated—or far more uncomfortable, hurt, giving her an easy smile and avoiding a reminder that her promise to spend a week with Cathal entitled him to be present too. “I think not, Etaín. So far I’m enjoying this outing among humans. It is proving enlightening, as you no doubt intended. Would you have me cut it short?”

“No.”

He leaned forward, his lips claiming hers in an acknowledgement of just how thoroughly she enthralled him. It was a kiss interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps.

Irritation flared when he lifted his mouth from hers and saw the muscled Cur he’d found Etaín dancing with days earlier, and that hostility was returned. “You still with this motherfucker, Etaín? That the reason you’re not taking calls from your friends?”

Ten

I
t took effort for Eamon not to lash out with magic. No human who called him Lord would dare insult him in this manner or speak to Etaín in such a tone, nor would any Elf. A glance at Cathal and he saw that this man, Anton, had the same effect on him, though apparently the disrespect rolled off Etaín with ease.

“My phone went missing at the fund-raiser yesterday. Tyrone told you I was here?”

“Him and a shitload of other people after I put the word out I was looking for my friend Etaín.”

“Happens I wanted to visit with you too.”

Anton laughed, a quick burst of sound followed by the flat eyes of a man who could kill someone he called a friend. “I can guess what about. You already involved me in police business once in the past week. I’m giving you a pass on it ’cause it didn’t blow back on me. Not going to happen a second time, not with something that involves the Curs.”

Etaín had a bad feeling about why Anton had tracked her down. He confirmed it by saying, “You owe me a tattoo.”

Eamon’s sudden, complete stillness shouted
no
. A chill swept through her as it occurred to her that he might order Anton killed rather than let her honor the promise or become foresworn if she didn’t.

“A memorial tattoo?” she asked, though not in defiance of Eamon. The prospect of adding more of her ink to Anton, especially now, with her gift changing, had ice settling into her core.

Touch him. Look for the answers you seek.

Cold sweat broke out on her skin. She couldn’t be sure if that was her thought, her voice, or something else entirely.

“Yeah, a memorial,” Anton said.

“Faces?” And once again she felt shame at not having learned the names of those who’d been slaughtered.

“My baby sister, she was working the bar, was saving the money to pay for nursing school.”

Etaín shivered at the prospect of being bombarded by Anton’s emotions. “I’ll need pictures.”

“Figured you might. I got a collection of them out front. Funeral for Taneshia is in two days. I want to be wearing the ink by then.”

“My promise doesn’t cover a rush job.” It was an attempt to avert trouble
for
Anton. To make that more palatable, she added, “Where do you want the tat?”

He touched a place on the right side of his chest. In her mind’s eye she saw his skin as a canvas already crowded with art, the ink she’d put on him as well as what others had done.

“Let’s get the pictures.”

Eamon’s continued silence as they walked toward the shelter’s public entrance concerned her far more than a voiced objection would have. She reached out, touching Cathal’s arm. “You mind taking Anton’s phone number for me?”

Cathal pulled his cell from his pocket. Anton snorted. “You got yourself a personal assistant now? Or he part of the boyfriend troubles you was having?”

“
Was
. Past tense.” She hoped that didn’t slide perilously close to a lie.

Anton rattled off his number. Cathal punched it into his phone’s memory as they stepped out into bright sunshine.

A car backfired a couple of blocks away. Anton jerked and reached reflexively for a gun she couldn’t see.

Adrenaline spiked through her, her heartbeat ratcheting up with something more than the fear of what might happen with skin-to-skin contact. “You expecting trouble?”

“Habit, that’s all, baby.”

Liam was absent, maybe lurking in back where the Harley was. But the unmet Myk lounged against Eamon’s car, going instantly alert. He took a step toward them but stilled, probably at some signal from Eamon.

Anton’s Harley was parked several spaces away. They stopped next to it. He opened a saddle bag, reaching in, eyes going wet. He blinked and gave her a hard look. “Tell them to back off, Etaín. Motherfuckers don’t need to be all in my business.”

She glanced from Cathal to Eamon, saying only, “Please.”

They moved, giving Anton and her a little distance, not a lot.

Anton came around to stand next to her, spreading a collection of photographs on the bike seat. “Taneshia’s three-year-old little girl,” he said of the child in one of them. “My mama has her now.”

An image started to form, despite all the reasons why honoring this promise was so dangerous—to him. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’m going to leave that to you. You come up with the art, I’ll wear it. Take whatever pictures you want.”

She pocketed a couple of them and was reaching for a third when she heard Myk yell, “Sire.”

Magic rushed across the ink on her skin, a bomb detonation of it rather than a mild wind as she was slammed into Anton. The two of them hit the asphalt along with Cathal and Eamon, like human bowling pins taken down in a single strike by Myk.

Bullets ripped into Anton’s bike, part of a spray from automatic weapons that pelted the ground all around them, deflected by a
shield she thought had to be there. Otherwise they’d be bleeding. Dead.

A car sped away leaving a sudden hush. A silence that exploded in a rush, like the pop of a balloon.

Sirens could be heard in the distance. Those willing to have their names included in a police report clamored out of their cars, talking excitedly. The pile of masculine bodies on top of her lightened.

Eamon’s eyes held ice. He didn’t ask if she was okay, though Cathal did, hands roaming her body.

“I’m good,” she said, feeling the glassy stare of cellphone cameras pointed in her direction and using him in a vain attempt to shield against having her picture taken.

Justine rushed from the shelter along with a swarm of workers and volunteers, and Etaín felt sickened by the possibility that someone inside might have been hit. “Everyone okay?”

“Yes.”

Relief came with a shiver and the remembered feel of magic blasting over her. It had been no small expenditure of power, as if the shield she knew had to exist covered more than those on the ground behind Anton’s bike.

Yesss. The Earth-bound Elf protects you. He protects what you care about despite the risk.

She could feel the burn of magic from inked wristbands into her forearms like a fiery leash attached directly to the Dragon. This time she confronted the surreal beast and the possibility she was going crazy by asking,
What risk?

Such a large use of magic will draw attention where a simple shield would not have. It will be investigated.

By Elves?

By more than that. Peordh. Predestination. Predetermination.

Peordh?

But the ink on her wrists and arms went cool. “Peordh,” she said, looking at Eamon. “Do you know that word?”

Justine heard and answered, “It’s the name of a rune symbolizing fate.” Adding, “I think it would be better if you waited inside, Etaín, out of sight.”

“Good idea.” Her chest tightened with the knowledge that at least one person had managed a picture of her; she’d felt it. She wondered if the early Native Americans had a similar awareness, if that’s why they’d thought the white man’s cameras stole pieces of their soul.

She didn’t want more media attention. She was lucky the lid seemed to still be on when it came to her being taken by the Harlequin Rapist. But sending the Elves looking for whoever had managed the picture didn’t seem wise.

In the gathered crowd Anton had slipped away, leaving his Harley pock-marked by bullets, its tires flat and seat lined with holes. The remaining pictures lay scattered on the asphalt like litter, but the steely clamp of Eamon’s hand around her arm prevented her from picking them up.

She noticed his car as he guided her past it and into the shelter. It hadn’t escaped the spray of bullets.

Blinds allowed them to see out but not be seen as the first patrol car arrived, lights flashing and siren screaming. There was no point in trying to make an escape, though she contemplated it. A second patrol car arrived, followed by a TV van.

“Peordh,” Eamon said. “Where did you hear the word, Etaín? Why did you ask about it when you did?”

His voice was smooth, cool, water without a ripple in it, but she sensed the riptides beneath the surface and shrugged, preferring no answer than to struggle with a lie.

The hand on her arm tightened while his other cupped her cheek, the heat of it offset by the chill in his eyes and the frost in his voice. “You’ll answer the question I’ve put to you, Etaín.”

Lord
once again, but given what he’d done she gave it a pass, turning her head to place a kiss in the center of his palm. “You shielded the people in here from stray bullets. Thank you.”

He touched his forehead to hers. “It was not a rational decision, Etaín. In the end, it may well cost more than one Elf their lives.”

“Your people?”

“Our people.”
He smiled slightly. “And no. If not for the fact that you didn’t grow up among us, Liam would take offense at the question. As would Myk.”

Mention of the unmet Elf gave her an excuse to continue avoiding talk of Peordh. She turned her attention to the dark-haired man—one as mouth-watering as all the other Elves she’d seen.

“Thanks for the save,” she said.

He gave a small bow. “Lady.”

“Peordh, Etaín,” Eamon repeated.

“It popped into my head.” True enough.

Through the window she saw Justine speak with a policeman, and that policeman speak into his shoulder mic before heading in the direction of the shelter door. Etaín had never been so glad at the prospect of being interrogated. “Looks like they’re ready to talk to us.”

He didn’t say more about the rune. She hoped the reprieve wasn’t temporary. He didn’t protest when the uniformed policeman entered and led her away, but with Liam present, hidden in some obscure shadow, why would he.

Detectives joined the uniformed cop. What she had to say took only a few minutes. She’d seen nothing. She knew nothing. She could only offer a guess, that Anton was the target given what had happened at the Cur’s hangout. But they kept her, making her repeat herself, a stalling tactic she understood as soon as the captain stepped into the room, dismissing the other cops.

She tensed at being alone with him, tried desperately to
blockade her heart against a rush of hope. But that hope crashed easily through the barrier she’d erected when he crossed to her with quick strides, hugging her fiercely.

“Christ, Etaín. Enough of this. Enough. You could have been killed.”

Impossible with Eamon at her side but she couldn’t give her father that reassurance. “I’m okay.”