Elle Jasper - Afterlight

You see, that’s what’s funny about Savannah. The publicized, touristy part — the Savannah you see in travel magazines? It’s idyllic and all historically gorgeous. When people think of Savannah, they think of the Old South, horse-drawn carriages, moss, an original colony with scenic squares, tall church spires, and, strangely enough, Gothic Revival architecture. Maybe even Paula Deen and Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil . The part of Savannah they don’t see, and the part society is blind to? It’s there, in the recesses of the shadows. Dark. Dangerous. Hidden, unless you’re in . Hell, there are parts I’m probably not even privy to — especially now. And if you aren’t careful, you can be sucked right into the pit of despair. There’s always potential to fall into bad shit. I know. I’ve been there. I fell and wallowed in it. And sometimes, when you’re in, you stay in. Or you don’t leave alive. I escaped, but not without repercussions. Big ones.

We finished setting up the shop and cranked up the music, and by then my appointment had arrived, along with four of his buddies, all military. Rather, about to be military, and we get a lot of those guys and gals. Hunter Army Airfield was right here in Savannah, and Fort Stewart was close by in Hinesville. My client this morning was a young guy, nineteen, and he and his buddies were all leaving for Parris Island — the marines’ boot camp — in a week. They all sported buzz cuts and were pumped, big-time. God, they looked . . . too damn young. Just four years older than Seth. While the others browsed the art books and chatted with Nyx, my client, whose name was Zac, shyly walked up to me. Tall, a little lanky, but lean, with a pair of clear blue eyes, he flashed a hesitant smile. He was staring at my arms.

“That is some wicked cool artwork,” he said. “Can I see the rest of it?”

I lifted one brow and smiled. “You’re not as shy as you look.”

Zac’s face immediately turned as red as a ripe tomato. “Oh — no disrespect, ma’am. I’d heard about it and honestly, I just wanted to — ”

I laughed and shook my head. “Take it easy there, Private. No need to get all flustered. I get that same question asked nearly every time my shop doors are opened. I’m always prepared.” I grinned. “Swimsuit top underneath, so don’t get too excited. Got it?”

Zac laughed. “Yes, ma’am.” His buddies were instantly at his side. Nyx stood behind them, a smirk on her face, swinging her hips in a little Nyx dance to the music. I wiggled my brows, and in one easy, practiced move I lifted my Inksomnia shirt over my head and turned around. Everybody always wanted to check out my dragons, and I admit — they were pretty kick-ass. Inked in emerald green, with random ruby scales and lined in ebony, the art started at my lower back and twisted up my spine. The dragons on my arms started at my biceps and wound down to my wrists, the very tip of each tail wrapping around my index fingers.

“Whoa,” Zac said with appreciation in his voice. “That is sick. How long did it take?”

“Did it hurt?” one of his buddies asked.

“Who did it?” another inquired.

“That,” Zac said, turning even redder, “is freaking hot.”

I smiled and shook my head at the questions I’d answered hundreds of times before, and just as I went to turn around, I saw this guy, standing at Inksomnia’s large storefront picture window, staring in, and I froze. I felt my breath catch in my throat, and my heart slammed against my ribs. No more than three seconds passed, yet it seemed as though we’d stood there for an hour. Although he wore a pair of dark shades, I felt as though he could see clear through me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

When I blinked, he was gone. Yeah, that fast . I thought to hurry over to the window, or even better, the door, and look for him, see which direction he went. But I didn’t. I have no idea why. Something kept me planted right where I was.

Hastily, I pulled my shirt back over my head and turned to the guys and shrugged. “Eh, hurt a little, but not too bad. It took six sittings, at probably four hours each.” I grinned. “And the artist is standing behind you.”

They all turned and stared appreciatively at Nyx, who gave a blasé wave. “It was nothin’.”

“Awesome,” they all said at different times.

I looked at Zac. “You ready?” I asked. “Whatcha got for me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said again, making me feel totally ancient. But those were the manners of the South, born and bred, and once baked into your brain, they always and forever remained. From his back pocket he pulled a folded piece of white sketch paper and opened it up. He handed it to me, and I inspected it thoroughly. It was a hand-drawn sketch of a Celtic-inspired tribal lizard.

I nodded. “Nice.” It was, too. “Fantastic detailing. You draw this?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good work.” Inclining my head, I met his gaze. “Let me copy this and run a transfer off the computer, and then we’ll be ready to ink.”

“I’ll fire up the Widow!” said Nyx with excitement, and hurried to my station to start the generator (called a Black Widow). I had Inksomnia set up completely in the spacious front room, almost like a beauty shop — a sitting area with a sofa, two plush chairs, and a few ladder-backs. A square leather-topped coffee table with several albums filled with various art designs took up the corner of the storefront. Two inking stations were in the center, with a clear view from River Street so that passersby could look in and watch. The only thing hidden was the equipment room, situated in the back of the building near the steps that led up to my and Seth’s apartment. Upstairs was our kitchen; down a small hall was our living room; then, farther down, were two bathrooms and two spacious bedrooms. It was a great setup, I thought, and had a perfect view over the Savannah River. Preacher had helped me get it a few years before.

About two hours and ten minutes later, I finished Zac’s Celtic lizard, and he was totally thrilled with it. I admit — it looked smokin’ hot, inked over his right shoulder and shoulder blade, the head just peering over his collarbone. He and his buddies asked to take pictures with me, and of course I agreed. I was always baffled by how I was treated by most patrons as a celebrity; I was an artist who totally dug her job, nothing more. I didn’t even have a reality show, yet you’d have thought I did. Nyx said I was a legend in the tattooing industry; I merely loved my artwork. Zac promised to send me a copy of the photo, and they said good-bye. Somehow — and I don’t know whether it was because they were so young and full of life, or because I knew they’d eventually be thrown in the center of battle, their innocence gone forever — that good-bye felt sad. Typically, I wasn’t the mushy sort, but I was definitely in mush mode today.

It was almost five p.m. before I thought again about my brother.

The shop had been hopping since we opened, time had flown by, and I’d just finished a wicked cat skull on a guy’s rib cage, when the fact that Seth hadn’t even come into the shop all day suddenly hit me. I hurried upstairs and into Seth’s room; he hadn’t budged. Fear grabbed me by the throat, and for a second I thought he was dead. Old memories left a lot of scar tissue, and the way I’d found my mom? Emblazoned in my brain forever. I nearly tripped getting to the bed, and I grabbed Seth’s hand. It was still warm, and in the back of my head, I’d known it would be. I was just freaking out. “Seth?” I said, and shook him. No response. “Seth!”

I nearly stopped breathing as I waited for my baby brother to respond. I resisted the lack of air in my lungs, drew a huge breath, and followed it with a shout. “Seth!”