Melissa Marr - Ink Exchange

"Maybe." He shrugged and turned away to open a brown glass bottle. It was unlike the other ink bottles: the label was handwritten in a language she didn't recognize.

When he uncapped it, it seemed as if tiny shadows slithered out of it. Weird. She blinked and stared at it. "I must be tired," she muttered.

He poured ink from the bottle into another ink cap— holding it aloft so the outside of the bottle didn't touch the side of the ink cap—then sealed the bottle and changed gloves.

She repositioned herself and closed her eyes again. "I expected it to hurt, you know?"

"It does hurt." Then he lowered the tattoo machine to her skin again, and she stopped remembering how to speak.

The hum had always sounded comforting when Leslie had listened to Rabbit working, but feeling the vibration on her skin made it seem exciting and not at all comforting. It felt different from what she'd imagined, but it wasn't what she'd call pain. Still, she doubted it was something she could've slept through.

"You okay?" Rabbit wiped her skin again.

"I'm good." She felt languid, like her bones weren't all the way solid anymore. "More ink."

"Not tonight."

"We could just finish it tonight—"

"No. This one will take a couple sessions." Rabbit was quiet as he wiped her skin. He slid his chair back; the wheels sounded loud as they slid over the floor, like a boulder being pushed across a metal grate.

Weird.

She stretched—and almost blacked out.

Rabbit steadied her. "Give it a sec."

"Head rush or something." She blinked to clear her vision, resisting the urge to try to focus on the shadows that seemed to be walking through the room unattached to anything.

But Rabbit was there, showing her the tattoo— my tattoo— with a pair of hand mirrors. She tried to speak, and might have. She wasn't sure. Time felt like it was off, speeding and slowing, keeping pace with some faraway chaos clock, bending to rhythms that weren't predictable. Rabbit was covering her new tattoo with a sterile bandage. At the same time, it seemed, his arm was around her, helping her stand.

She stepped unsteadily forward. "Careful with my wings."

She stumbled. Wings?

Rabbit said nothing; perhaps he hadn't heard or understood. Perhaps she hadn't spoken—but she could picture them—dark, shadowy swoops, somewhere between feathers and slick-soft aged leather, that tickled the sensitive skin at the backs of her knees.

As soft as I remembered.

"Rabbit? I feel weird. Wrong. Something wrong."

"Endorphin rush, Leslie, making you feel high. It'll be okay. It's not unusual." He didn't look at her when he spoke, and she knew he was lying.

She felt like she should be afraid, but she wasn't. Rabbit had lied: something was very wrong. She knew with a certainty that seemed impossible—like tasting sugar and having it called salt—that the words he said didn't taste true.

But then it didn't matter. The missing hands of the chaos clock shifted again, and nothing else mattered in that moment, just the ink in her skin, the hum in her veins, the euphoric zinging that made her feel a confidence she'd not known in far too long.

Although Rabbit had told him where to find her, Irial hadn't approached the mortal yet; he'd had no intention of doing so until he saw if she really was strong enough to be worth the effort. But when he felt their first tenuous link fall into place, felt her euphoria as Rabbit's tattoo machine danced across her skin, he knew he had to see her. It was like a compulsion tugging at him—and not just him: all thedark fey felt it, tied as they were to Irial. They'd protect her, fight to be near her now.

And that urge was a good one to encourage—their being near her would mean they'd taunt and torment the mortals, elicit fear and anguish, appetites and furies, delicious meals to sate his appetites once the ink exchange was complete. Where the girl walked, his fey would follow. Mortals would become a feast for king and court—he'd caught only slight drifts of it so far, but already it was an invigorating thing. Shadows in her wake, for me, for us. He drew a deep breath, pulling on that still-tenuous link Rabbit was forging with his tattoo machine.

Irial rationalized it: if he was going to be tied to her, it made sense to check in on her. She'd be his responsibility, his burden, and in many ways a weakness. But despite the reasons he could list, he knew it wasn't logic leading him: it was desire. Fortunately, the king of the Dark Court saw no reason to resist his appetites, so he'd co-opted Gabriel and was on the way to her city, seeking her presence the way he had sought so many other indulgences over the years. He leaned back, seat reclined all the way, enjoying the thrill of Gabriel's seemingly reckless driving.

Irial propped one boot on the door, and Gabriel growled. "She's fresh painted, Iri. Come on."

"Chill."

The Hound shook his shaggy head. "I don't put my boots on your bed or any of those little sofas you have everywhere. Get your boot off there before you scratch her."

Like the rest of the Hounds' steeds, Gabriel's wore the guise of a mortal vehicle, shifting so truly into that form that it was sometimes hard to remember when it had last looked like the terrifying beast it truly was. Maybe it was an extension of Gabriel's will; maybe it was the steed's own whim. All of the creatures mimicked mortal vehicles so well that it was easy to forget that they were living things— except when anyone other than the Hounds tried to ride them. Then it was easy to recall what they were: the speed at which they moved sent the offending faery—or mortal— hurtling through the air into whatever target the beasts chose.

Gabriel steered his Mustang into the small lot beside Verlaine's, the restaurant where the mortal worked. Irial lowered his foot, scraping his boot on the window as he did so; the illusion of its being a machine didn't waver.

"Dress code, Gabe. Change." As Irial spoke, his own appearance shifted. Had any mortals been watching, they'd have seen his jeans and club-friendly shirt vanish in favor of a pressed pair of trousers and conservative oxford-cloth shirt. His scuffed boots, however, stayed. It wasn't the glamour he usually wore, but he didn't want the mortal to recognize him later. This meeting was for him, so he could watch her; it was not one he'd prefer her to remember.

"A face to meet the faces that we meet," but not my face— not even the mask I wear for the mortals. Layers of illusions … Irial scowled, unsure of the source of the strange melancholia that was riding him, and gestured to Gabriel to don a relatively unthreatening glamour as well. "Pretty yourself up."

Gabriel's appearance shift was more subtle than Irial's: he still wore black jeans and a collarless shirt, but the Hound's tattoos were now hidden under long sleeves. His unruly hair appeared to be neatly trimmed, as were his goatee and sideburns. Like Irial's, Gabriel's glamour was not his usual one. Gabriel's face was somehow gentler, without the dark shadows and hollows that he usually left visible for the mortals. Of course, the glamour did nothing for the Hound's intimidating height, but for Gabriel, it was near conservative.

As they got out of the car, Gabriel bared his teeth at several of the Summer Court's guards in a taunting smile. They were, no doubt, minding the mortal since she was friends with the new Summer Queen. The guards saw him as he truly was and cringed. If Gabriel were to start trouble, they'd inevitably suffer serious injury.

Irial opened the door. "Not now, Gabriel."

After a longing look at the fey who lingered in the street, Gabriel went inside the restaurant. In a low voice, Irial told him, "After the meal, you can visit our watchers. A bit of terror so near the girl … It's what she's for, right? Let's see how the initial connection holds up."