Inked Destiny (6 page)

The gesture relaxed Eamon. His expression softened. “Yes, this is my territory. Among supernaturals, you hold what you claim, or you lose it.”

“And I’m one of those things you claim? I think I already warned you I wouldn’t become one of your possessions.”

“Not a possession, Etaín. You’ll be my wife-consort.”

“Will I?”

“Don’t pick a fight you can’t win. And ultimately won’t want to.”

“And Cathal?”

Eamon shrugged. “A complication, in many, many ways. But if you mean, what about your human lover’s bold declaration he intends to marry you? I have no objection to it.”

“Big of you,” Cathal said, the distinct growl in his voice warning things were about to escalate.

She squeezed Cathal’s hand in a request to remain calm though her own vanished when Eamon said, “Everything changes as of now, Etaín.”

The edict scraped over nerve-endings made raw at having just experienced her father and brother’s disapproval. “We’ll see.”

“The outcome is a foregone conclusion.”

“Says
Lord
Eamon.”

“Yes.”

“We don’t have time for this. We need to get to the hospital.”

Liam stepped into the room as if her comment had summoned him. Seeing Eamon, his appearance changed too in a shimmer of magic. Sheer human beauty slipped away to leave him radiant and shining, breathtaking even without the pointed ear tips visible through the long braids of hair.

Eye candy. That’s what she’d thought each time she’d stepped into Aesirs and seen the men working there. Now she knew differently.

Demonstration apparently completed, Eamon reworked whatever spell he’d brought down. In a blink he looked human again. An instant later, so did Liam.

She could feel Cathal’s fierce need to escape, to step back into
some semblance of normalcy. Fear trickled in, her own worry he’d change his mind and take back the
no regrets
. She couldn’t blame him, not with tight panic swelling inside her, this on top of the nightmare reality of the slaughter. She needed breathing room too, a chance to process this new twist despite having dealt with supernatural stuff since the call to ink at thirteen.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Eamon’s grip prevented her from standing. “Liam, my third, will accompany you without making his presence known unless it’s necessary. He’s capable of keeping you safe from threats you wouldn’t recognize.”

“From other…?” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say Elves.

“Elves are not the only supernatural beings in existence.”

It gave her pause, but she forced herself to focus on the most urgent. “What makes you think I’m in danger? I’ve lived in San Francisco since I was eight and as far as I can tell, you’re the only…person…who’s noticed me.”

Eamon’s smile made her think of the thin blade of a knife. “Because of your ill-advised promise, those answers will have to wait. Liam will accompany you to the hospital. When you have finished there, he will bring you back to the estate, where you will remain, for your own safety, until you have transitioned from changeling to full Elf and have learned what you need to know of our culture.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Refusal is not an option.”

“Fuck that, Lord Asshole,” Cathal said. “We’re out of here.”

Cathal’s fury burned hot while she wrestled with what to make of a lover turned icy dictator, though she was equally resistant to Eamon’s casual assumption of total control. She stood, Cathal rising at the same time, her eyes meeting Eamon’s, heated with an unspoken promise of absolute resistance to taking orders. “We’re leaving now.”

“Have you considered what might happen to him if you die? Or
worse, and let me assure you, there are far worse things than being killed outright.”

No other emotion could be sustained in the icy encasement of fear. “Why should anything happen to him if I die?” But she had only to glance down at the arms now encircling her waist, to see the tattoos she’d placed on Cathal and feel the ever-present hum of connection to know how Eamon would answer the question.

He moved in, expression tender rather than arrogant, and because of it she didn’t try to evade his touch, or resent the possessive, assured way he once again cupped her cheek, his thumb feathering across her lips.

“I am not accustomed to explaining myself,” he said in the same soft tone he’d used earlier, in explaining his use of a spell against her.

“Get used to it, Eamon.” Rough against his soft.

“Perhaps it will be necessary to some extent.”

Not exactly a whole-hearted embracement, but then she probably couldn’t expect one from
Lord
Eamon at the moment, and she couldn’t let the lack sidetrack her. “What does my dying have to do with Cathal?”

“His fate is linked to yours, Etaín. With enough study, I could
possibly
find a way to break that bond through a means other than his death. But it wouldn’t be easily done, nor would it be without a cost. If you perish, there is a good chance you will take him with you.

“The magic chose him. I accept the choice though I wouldn’t have made the same one. It arouses me to share you. Others would not feel as I do. Most would eliminate him immediately. Many would slaughter any human who wore your ink, with or without cause.”

“You say that as if there could be cause.” The words came out as a whisper, accompanied by the desperate desire to hear Eamon say there was no justifiable cause, but even thinking it, she relived
that instant of getting out of the car and with the wave of a silenced gun, directing four masked men in an assault on the bar where the Curs hung out.

Eamon shrugged. “If that’s not cause enough for concern, by royal decree those who are like you,
seidic
, soul seer, are supposed to be turned over to the queen. It is luxurious captivity, though a completely isolated one. It’s a prison there is no escape from, Etaín, and one Cathal would in all likelihood be permitted to share with you, until it ended in assassination.”

By someone like Liam? Perhaps even
by
Liam if Eamon couldn’t have her.
Eamon’s attempt to stop her from helping the police after twenty-seven people had been slaughtered was a glimpse at how ruthless he could be.

“You didn’t turn me over to your queen.”

“No. Go to the hospital, Etaín. I won’t have you foresworn by further delay. When you get back, I’ll share more of what you need to know.”

“And will she be free to leave again?” Cathal asked, bringing the conversation full circle.

“Etaín needs to get control of her gift. She needs to start disassociating herself from the human world. Our lifespans are measured in centuries, not decades. Yours will be too if she survives the transition. Something for you to consider, I’ll allow you some say as to whether or not your family members are brought into my household. But they will fall under my rule, a fate your father and uncle might come to view as worse than death.”

Etaín couldn’t begin to get her head around the kind of lifespan Eamon was talking about, and didn’t have time to. She concentrated on the simple, an edict in close proximity to words like
allow
and
my
, all just another way of saying “no,” which was an answer she didn’t find acceptable.

Cutting to the chase, she said, “I’m willing to accept you’re trying to keep me safe, Eamon, but I won’t be made a prisoner. Either
you give your word I can come and go as I please, or I won’t come back here after I’m finished at the hospital.”

“Have you already forgotten what nearly happened the last time you touched Parker?”
Have you already forgotten what you nearly did to me?
Though pride probably kept him from saying that in front of Liam.

She shivered. “I haven’t forgotten. I understand there are things I need to know. I understand I’m a danger to others. I get that, Eamon. I’m trying to be reasonable here, to find a middle ground where we can all be happy, and happy is not going to be me locked away from my friends with Cathal popping in for conjugal visits. I need space. My own apartment. Time spent with just Cathal at his house and club. Time spent with you here and at Aesirs. You get the picture. I’m not going to let you become my jailor.”

“Nor do I wish to become your jailor, Etaín. But what I said earlier stands, I will keep you safe, from your own choices if necessary.”

“Then we’re at an impasse because I’m not coming back here until you drop the attitude.” It made her heart ache to say it. “My being in a relationship with you doesn’t give you the right to lay down rules where I’m concerned.”

“Perhaps not, but being Lord of this territory does.”

“Then we’ll leave your territory as soon as Etaín is finished at the hospital,” Cathal said. “She’s promised me a week, destination undefined, remember?”

The air around them became the frigid of Arctic waters, Eamon’s silent reminder that he was a being of power and magic. “Do you really have so little regard for her life and your own?”

“I’m willing to take my chances if Etaín is. Better that than the scenario you’re laying out.”

“I’m willing,” Etaín said. Cathal was absolutely safe from her touch, that much she was positive of. And maybe distance would help bridge the seeming impasse caused by Eamon’s concern.

Eamon’s hand tightened where it still rested against her cheek. Externally everything about him might be reminiscent of ice, but there was heat in his expression, not roaring flame but enough fire to promise all the barriers to what he wanted could and would be burned away. “One week, Etaín, starting now because you gave the oath while ignorant of what you are and will become. As I remember it, your promise to Cathal allowed for my presence, and I will be present where I can safely do so without drawing attention to you. At the end of seven days, if you’re still alive, it’ll be my will that prevails.”

“Don’t count on it.”

He shrugged, sparking her temper with the gesture. His hand left her face. “Longevity and the ability to wield magic are the reasons Elves value oaths so highly. This evening you and Cathal have used that to your own advantage, but you’ll find such a weapon is a two-edged sword. Ask Cathal what promise he gave in exchange for my use of magic to create the bond that allowed us to rescue you from the Harlequin Rapist.”

“Fuck,” Cathal said. “I didn’t—”

“Know?” Eamon’s smile was as sharp as a blade. “Ignorance is dangerous, if not often deadly.”

“What did you promise?” Etaín asked, the race of Cathal’s heart beating against her back marking the deepening of his anger and resistance, though not his regret, considering what the alternative would have been.

“I promised you’d tattoo him, putting ink on him with the same meaning as what I wear.”

Oh yeah. No escaping that one.

“A bond with you whether I want one or not?”

“Do you dislike the idea so much, Etaín? I told you from the very beginning I wanted more than just sex.”

Was there a hint of pain in the words? A chord of it strummed through her chest. If he’d warned her in the beginning, then she’d
also warned herself, known as she lay in his bed, looking at paintings by Cezanne and Van Gogh and Cross and Lemmen that being involved with him would ultimately lead to heartache. Into expectations she wouldn’t be able to meet—and that was
before
things supernatural added weight to the equation.

And yet, even now, she couldn’t hate him. Couldn’t forget the tenderness, the gift of knowledge he’d given her so she was able to touch Cathal’s cousin and take away Brianna’s memories without suffering as she had on the first visit.

What they needed was space, breathing room. “We’re leaving,” she said, not driving the point home she and Cathal wouldn’t be back tonight, though she shivered at having Liam follow them out of the house, a dark assassin there and then gone.

Five

F
rederico Perera stood at the head of the casket, his wife at his side, the two of them accepting condolences while their daughters moved among Jordão’s friends, eyes wet and puffy from so many tears.

His eyes too were wet. There was no shame in crying at the loss of a child.

The room was awash in the scent of flowers mixed with expensive perfumes and colognes. The smell of it choked him, a man already struggling to breathe through the tight constriction of his throat.

If not for the hand on Margarita’s back, the oft-spoken words of encouragement, his wife would have collapsed beneath the weight of her grief, and he with her, not to pray, but to rail against God in the pain of his loss. Their firstborn was dead, killed in America by a sniper’s bullet.

“Courage,” Frederico murmured to Margarita. “We will get through this.”

The words he spoke were for himself as well as his wife. And he repeated them many times as the number of those gathered swelled and receded like a cold tide emphasizing the desolation he felt, the guilt at having accepted the post in San Francisco.

It was a minor position, not a stepping stone to a more important
one. He was little more than a paper pusher for his government, and almost equally insignificant to the man who’d gotten him the position, one that came with diplomatic immunity and pouches that could not be searched by the American authorities.