Lori Devoti: Amazon Ink

Harmony, my fourteen-year-old daughter, bopped out of her bedroom and bent over the oversized porcelain water fountain that dominated the entry to our unconventional home-a circa 1900 high school.

I took that chance to watch her, to breathe, relax. She was healthy, happy, and blissfully unaware her mother had been sneaking off in the middle of the night to tote a dead body far away from her protected little world.

The water fountain sputtered, spraying her blouse. Mumbling under her breath, she flounced off to the bathroom, but not before shooting me a “look.” Harmony didn’t appreciate the eclectic charm of the place as much as I did.

For once her teenage attitude helped me relax. I smiled, my eyes clocking each of her angry steps.

She popped into the bathroom, and I dipped my spoon into the cereal.

“She needs to be training.” Mother nodded toward my daughter.

My tiny bubble of calm was instantly burst. I had enough things to stress about right now-like dead Amazons being deposited on my doorstep, all but gift wrapped. I didn’t need Mother bringing up this old chestnut.

Through the open door of the guest bath, converted from half of what used to be the girls’ restroom, I could see Harmony rolling a line of lip gloss across her mouth. She pushed her lips into a playful pout, then smiled at her reflection.

“She is training-to be a girl.” I gave Mother a drop it now look. As usual, it had absolutely zero effect.

“She’s past puberty. Her powers…”

I narrowed my eyes, my fingers tightening around the spoon. “What powers?” At Mother’s bland stare, I continued, “Priestess powers are supposed to skip one generation, not two. If anyone was going to get Bubbe’s powers, it would have been me and, as you know, my priestess skills are more than just a little lacking.” I held my gaze steady, just long enough to let Mother know I wasn’t going to back down, then shrugged as I continued, “So far as artisan or warrior talents, if those appear we’ll deal with it. She probably won’t even need special training. Besides…” I smiled, just to tick Mother off. “She might be a hearth-keeper.”

Mother huffed out a breath. Warriors had little respect for any of the other talent groups, but for hearth-keepers? Let’s just say if Harmony showed skills in that area, I’d find myself fighting Mother with more than just words to keep her from dragging my daughter back to the Amazons to discover her “true” calling.

Not that I thought there was much chance of that. There hadn’t been a hearth-keeper in our direct line for six generations. Besides, I was hiding more than the appearance of the dead teens from my family. I was hiding another discovery-that my own powers had grown. Maybe the ten years of non-use had done them some good. Twisted as it seemed, maybe ten years away from the Amazons was making me more of one.

“You don’t work at it.” Mother picked up the conversation like I hadn’t even mentioned the hearth-keeper possibility.

“And neither will Harmony.” I dropped the spoon on the table with a thunk.

“And neither will Harmony what?” My little pitcher strolled into the kitchen, a pink backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Make it to school on time if she doesn’t get moving.” I slid the box of cereal and a carton of milk across the table toward her and used my bare arm to wipe up a spill of milk.

“Not Cheerios . Lindy’s baby brother eats them, for God’s sake.”

I turned my frown on my daughter. We might not worship mundane humans’ God, but I believed in respect.

“Sorry, goodness ’ sake,” she said, with a complete lack of remorse.

“Here. Eat.” My gaze on Mother, I stood and plopped a bowl of cereal down in front of my daughter.

She stared at the bowl. “But I’ll mess up my lip gloss.”

“Eat,” I demanded.

Mother arched one brow. I could read the gesture clear as day: And this is what you want?

I ran my hand over my head, my fingers tearing at my shoulder-length hair. I couldn’t deal with all of this right now. The constant battle over telling Harmony about our past was hard enough to contend with at the best of times-but today, having so recently discovered the second girl, having carried her dead body in my arms-I wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run. Instead, I wrapped my hand around the wolf totem that hung from my neck and prayed silently for strength.

Tilting her head, Harmony studied us. “You weren’t maybe…discussing…”-she shifted her blue gaze to Mother-“tattoos, were you?”

The prayer turning to a curse in my mind, I twisted around to face Mother more fully. Yet another old argument, and certainly not one I wanted to revisit today. Tattoos were more than body decoration for Amazons-a lot more. If done properly, they brought power to their owners. They were a blessing, and if the careful excision of the dead girls’ givnomai tattoos were any indication, maybe a curse.

“It’s not like you don’t have any,” Harmony continued, completely oblivious to the anger and frustration coursing through me. “Or like you’d have to worry about safety or anything. You could do it yourself.” She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a catalog of standard tats my shop offered.

“Yes, Melanippe, it’s time,” a third voice chimed in.

Great, Bubbe was up. I closed my eyes a second, carefully slowing my heart rate, bringing my emotions back to a level that could pass for usual annoyance, then shot my grandmother a warning glare. If anything, it had even less effect on her than my mother.

Realizing I needed to put space between me and my too-observant grandmother, I picked up the milk and walked to the refrigerator.

“There’s one right here.” Harmony flipped open the catalog and placed a pink-tipped finger onto the page.

Bubbe shuffled closer and stared over her shoulder. By the grunt that followed, I guessed my grandmother didn’t approve of Harmony’s choice.

“It’s a hacekomoe,” Bubbe replied.

My Russian was rusty, but I could tell by my grandmother’s tone whatever Harmony had chosen, it wasn’t the source of mystical strength Bubbe had in mind.

“It’s pretty,” Harmony objected.

Another snort from Bubbe.

My emotions back under control-or at least well hidden-I wandered to the table and the open catalog. Harmony’s carefully manicured finger was flattened over the image of a tiny pink-and-purple butterfly. I grinned, thoughts of serial killers being pushed from my mind for at least a few seconds as I enjoyed Bubbe’s struggles with one of the world’s most dreaded adversaries-a teenage girl intent on getting, well, anything.

“What, you don’t like it, Bubbe?” I asked.

My response must have given Harmony hope. She beamed up at me, then jerked the neck of her mint-green T-shirt down to reveal the edge of a lace bra. “I was thinking I’d put it right here.” She pointed to the top of her right breast.

My smile vanished. “I don’t think so.”

“You have one there,” Harmony objected.

“Yeah, but it’s…” I pursed my lips, struggling to suppress the image of two round patches of skin peeled back from a pair of young bodies.

“Not a hacekomoe ,” Bubbe burst into the conversation. “What strength will that give you? Cobcem he , I tell you.” Sputtering, she stomped off.

“Harmony, a tattoo-” Mother began.

“Isn’t for you.” I jumped in, the words coming out unnecessarily terse. “You’re too young. We’ve beaten this horse to death. End of discussion.” I picked up Harmony’s backpack, grabbing the catalog away from her when she moved to stuff it back inside. “Now you need to worry about getting to school.” I gifted her with the look I’d tried on Mother and Bubbe. This time it worked.