Lori Devoti - Amazon Ink

“Lunch? How about you?”

He smiled, a not-so-sweet stop bullshitting me turn of his lips. “It had nothing to do with the dead girls?”

“I like fried cheese curds.”

He laughed. “And I like brats with mustard. You didn’t answer my question.”

I hated to lie, but I’d served my time as a teenager-I knew how. “No. It had nothing to do with the dead girls.” I held his gaze, didn’t let mine waver, even when he took a step back toward me. Less than a foot away, he stopped and smiled again.

“You’re good.”

He was in my space. My heart rate sped up a few beats. Our verbal sparring was a strange turn-on. He smelled of cinnamon again and some kind of soap. The mixture was bizarrely alluring.

“I’d be happy to set you up with an appointment. I should have time later today.”

He blinked, obviously not following my response.

“A tattoo? You were complimenting my skill…”

He grinned, a real grin, and for a second I thought he was going to reach out and touch me.

“Alan, you in there?” his partner’s voice called from the main part of the basement.

Reynolds didn’t reply at first, just kept his gaze on me. Then with a chuckle he said, “You are good.” He moved toward the door. “Here,” he called.

I wasn’t sure what had happened, if he suspected me more or less, but I did know I was happy to see him go. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost control of the conversation-not that he’d had it.

We were both walking away from this exchange unfulfilled.

I waited for Detective Reynolds to let himself out the door we’d entered through, then took the front steps toward the main entrance-the steps to my shop. I got as far as the landing before the sound of shouting stopped me.

Outside, I had to go around the far side of my shop, the side away from the gym/cafeteria, to see what was going on.

Dana and Pisto stood a few feet away from each other, both of their faces taut with anger.

“It’s my life.” Dana reached for one of many duffel bags that lay scattered over the leaf-strewn ground. Pisto grabbed her by the arm, jerking her back to a stand.

I moved forward, but the two were too caught up in their argument to notice me. There was a growl, and the dog I’d befriended a few days earlier shot from behind me. He launched himself at Pisto, knocking into her side. Without missing a beat, the warrior swung, but the animal’s teeth were sunk into the loose-fitting sweatshirt she wore.

He hit the ground, but Pisto did too, or almost did. She landed in a semicrouch; one hand kept her from falling completely. All four legs firmly placed on the dirt, the dog pressed his advantage, began pulling at the shirt, snarling as he did.

With her free hand, Pisto grabbed a duffel and flung it at the animal. He dropped lower. The bag sailed over his back.

Dana stood to the side, her hands shaking and her eyes dancing in her face.

I looked around for a weapon. I didn’t care for the warrior and certainly didn’t like the way she’d been treating Dana, but I couldn’t stand by and see her bitten. My gaze lit on the water spigot that jutted out of the side of the building. I’d unhooked the hose weeks earlier, but I could work with the water.

I ran over and twisted the knob until water poured out. Then, forming a tunnel with my hand, I channeled the water through the opening and imagined it shooting forward. The water came together into a steady stream. I concentrated harder and envisioned footage of firemen battling a flame. The stream hardened and became stronger, so much so that my arms began to shake with the effort to control the seemingly solid, vibrating line of water.

Gritting my teeth, I dug my heels into the now-soft dirt and directed the make-believe hose at the dog. The first shot hit him in the snout. His jaws snapped open. As his body slid backward, pushed by the water, he stared at me with what could only be called surprise.

Pisto sprang to her feet and pulled a knife from her boot. In two long strides she was next to the disoriented hound. Without pausing to think, I turned the hose on her. The knife, caught in the flow, flew backward into the holly bushes.

Pisto, her face twisted in outrage, turned toward me. Faced with a raging warrior, I did the only thing I could: I sprayed her right in the gut. She bent forward, cradling the spray, and stumbled backward in the same instant. Behind her, the dog stood and she fell over his back, onto her seat in the muddy leaf-covered ground.

I un-tunneled my hands, let the water flow normally again, and prepared for what I knew was coming. With a cry of outrage, Pisto jumped to her feet, this time with a broken tree limb in her hands. I pulled in a breath, not sure what I was going to do, but knowing with Pisto’s state of mind I was going to have to think fast.

As options swirled through my brain-tornado, dust cloud, running-Dana came to life and sprang in front of the storming warrior. Her hands held out in front of her, her body angled and tense, she yelled, “Pisto! Stop! Think!”

Pisto was thinking; I could see that. And what she was thinking didn’t bode well.

“This isn’t about Mel,” Dana added. Her shirt was splattered with debris and her feet slid in the mud, but she didn’t move, didn’t back down from the obviously enraged warrior, not even when Pisto took another step closer.

Again the dog shot forward, but this time I stopped him-body-checking him before he could reach the pair.

Been there. Done that. Didn’t feel like repeating it-at least not now.

He sat, but his body trembled, and I didn’t think it was from fear or his recent dousing. With his attention locked on Pisto, his lip edged upward.

I had to say I shared the sentiment.

Pisto jerked off her sodden sweatshirt and tossed it on the ground. Underneath, her skin and jog bra were damp. She ran her hands over her arms, flicking off moisture as she did. “It is about her.” She turned to look at me. As she did, I realized she wasn’t wearing the high-necked sports tops warriors wore when working out. In this thing, her givnomai was clearly visible-the rough outline of a horse caught midstride as it dashed across her breast.

I was shocked she trusted me enough to bare her givnomai in front of me, but then again, she hadn’t planned to. She’d been wearing the sweatshirt. When she pulled it off, she was caught up in anger. Still, it was a slip. It made me wonder if all the Amazons were this lax. If so, my idea that the killer was using givnomais to prey on the Amazons fit. I filed the thought for later and went back to studying her tattoo.

A horse. It made sense. I could guess why she chose it: strength and the ability to get many things done at once. I might not like Pisto, but she took her role as Zery’s right hand seriously.

“It’s about you and your little hearth-keeper buddies idolizing her, thinking you can throw off thousands of years of tradition because it doesn’t suit you. Well, you can’t.” She picked up an armful of duffels and started moving toward the back-I assumed with the intention of cutting around behind the shop to the parking lot and Dana’s car.

“I’m putting these back in your car. You need to follow.”

As Pisto stormed off, loaded down with Dana’s possessions, Dana turned in the opposite direction-moving toward the front.

I stepped in front of her. “What’s happening?”

In my experience warriors were bossy but never proprietorial. That is, unless…“Who is Pisto to you?”

Dana sighed. “My sister-half, of course. But our mother died when I was still young. Pisto raised me. I’ve been a disappointment to her.”

A pregnant hearth-keeping sister who chose to live with the tribe’s only exile-a disappointment to the queen’s second-in-command? Surely not.