Ink Exchange

  Nourish us, save us, the body for the soul. Her thoughts were tangled with waves of feelings that fluttered through her and drifted away, like the strands of a lost dream after waking. She grasped at them, her mind struggling to hold the emotions in place, to identify them. These weren’t just her emotions: she could feel the yearnings of strangers outside on the street—a montage of fears and worries, lusts and angers. Then cravings too bizarre to visualize washed over her.

  But almost as soon as they touched her, each feeling skittered away, spiraling out onto some cord that led away from her into the shadows, into the abyss from which the ink in her skin had been collected.

  Irial drifted in uneasy slumber. He felt her—his Leslie—being stitched closer to him with each brush of Rabbit’s needles, tying her to him, making her his, far more truly than any of his fey were, than anyone had ever been.

  And it felt like Rabbit’s needles were puncturing Irial’s heart, his lungs, his eyes. She was in his blood as surely as his blood was in her skin. He felt her tenderness, her compassion, her strength, her yearning for love. He felt her vulnerabilities and hopes—and he wanted to cosset and love her. It was decidedly unfit for the king of the Dark Court to feel such tender emotion. If I’d known, would I have done the exchange?

  He wanted to tell himself he wouldn’t, but he’d allowed far worse to be done to him to ensure the safety of his fey.

  In his nightmares, she was the girl he’d carried down the street, his Leslie, bleeding from wounds done to her by men whose faces came slowly into focus. He wasn’t sure what was real and what was fear-distorted. She’d tell him, though. He’d walk through her memories as they drew closer. He’d comfort her—and kill the men who’d hurt her.

  She’d make him stronger, nourish him by feeding him human emotions he couldn’t touch without her. And he’d learn to hide how much she suddenly meant to him, how sickeningly mortal he felt. What’ve you done to me, Leslie? He laughed at the realization of his new weaknesses: by making himself strong enough to lead them, he’d simultaneously made himself far less of the Dark Court than he’d ever been.

  What have I done?

  As Leslie sat there—eyes closed and waiting—she heard the laughter again, but it didn’t bother her this time. It felt good—welcome, even. She smiled. “It’s a nice laugh.”

  “Stay still,” Rabbit reminded her.

  Then he went back to work, the hum of the machine sounding louder, as if her hearing had shifted. She sighed, and for a moment she could almost see the dark eyes that were now etched on her skin—except they seemed to be looking at her from beyond the room, just close enough that she wondered if she’d see them when she opened her own eyes.

  She noticed the hum stop but couldn’t quite open her eyes as Rabbit cleaned her back again.

  Sleep now. It was just a whisper, but she felt certain that there was a real person talking to her—not Rabbit.

  Who?

  And he answered, her imaginary speaker. You know who I am, Leslie. You might not like the answer just yet, but you know me, love.

  Beside her, she heard the bandage package rip, felt pressure as the pad was put over her tattoo.

  “Just rest for a few minutes, Leslie,” Rabbit murmured as he helped her stand, directed her onto the chair again, reclined now like a bed. “I’ll be right back.”

  Listen to Bunny-boy. I need to wake up, and you don’t want to be awake for it. Trust me, love. I want to keep you safe.

  “Listen to who?”

  “You’re strong, Leslie. Just remember that. You’re stronger than you think,” Rabbit said as he draped a blanket over her. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just rest.”

  She didn’t have much of a choice: she was suddenly more exhausted than she’d ever been. “Just a few minutes. Going out dancing, then.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Irial woke with a scream half formed on his lips. He was unbound but still on Rabbit’s chair. Red welts crossed his arms and legs. A bruise stretched across his arm where the tube had been. He tried to sit up, sending paroxysms of pain through his whole body.

  Ani sealed her lips to his, swallowing his scream—and the ones that followed.

  When she pulled back—lips blood red, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed—he gaped at her. Halflings didn’t, couldn’t, feed on faeries. Mortal blood overcame most of their fey traits. The traits that remained had never included this one.

  More troubles.

  “How?” he asked.

  She shrugged.

  “Ani, you can’t stay here if you need to—”

  “Feed?” she prompted with a smile that was all Gabriel, wicked and predatory.

  “Yes, feed, like your father. No wonder Rabbit’s had so much trouble with you.” Irial concentrated on keeping his focus, on not trying to go check on Leslie, on dealing with Ani first. Leslie’s not ready to talk to me. Not here. Not when I’m so weak.

  “Your pain’s like a big sundae. Didja know that?” Ani licked her lips. “Cherry. With extra sugar.”

  “What about Tish?” He pulled on the shirt Ani had given him. Business first. Then Leslie. Somehow she didn’t seem like business anymore.

  “Nope. Just me.” Ani leaned closer. “Can I have another taste?”

  She bit his chin, drawing blood with her sharp canines.

  He sighed and pushed her away. No violence in disciplining Gabriel’s daughter.

  “I can feed off mortals without the ink exchange. No exchange. Just me.” She sighed dreamily. “If they’re rolling, it’s like drinking rainbows. Rainbows. Big, sugary rainbows.”

  “Mortals?”

  She swayed into him. “If I find a strong one, it’s okay. It’s only when I pick the wrong ones that they get all stupid. Not so different than what you’re doing, is it?” She plopped down beside him. “She’s fine, you know. Leslie. Resting and all that.”

  “Rabbit!” he yelled. Then he sent a mental message out to Gabriel. They’d need to take Ani with them for a while.

  “What’s she done?” Rabbit leaned in the doorway.

  “Fed.”

  He nodded once. “I wondered if that’s why—”

  “You wondered? Why didn’t you tell me? Warn me? She could’ve gotten hurt, could’ve gotten in trouble.” Irial stared at him. “And she could have been what we needed to forestall…” He let his words drift away. The idea of finding Ani earlier, of not being with Leslie, made his stomach tighten in unfamiliar panic. Here was a solution that was too little, too late, and he was perversely glad of it.

  Beside Irial, Rabbit was still, cautious, all the things Irial wasn’t feeling. Rabbit said, “She’s my sister, Iri. I wasn’t going to turn her over for testing, not when you had a plan that might work.”

  Ani swayed and tried to step around Rabbit to leave. He scooped up his sister, holding her aloft and away from his body like she was feral, but looking at her with the same affection he’d had when Ani was just a newborn pup.

  He pointedly changed the subject. “Leslie’s leaving now.”

  To hide just how confused he was about the feelings he was having for Leslie, Irial focused on Ani, who was kicking her feet in the air and giggling. “Ani can’t stay here,” he said.

  “I know.” Rabbit kissed Ani’s forehead. His eyes twinkled as he added, “Dad’s going to have an awful time with her.”

  Irial felt the Hounds approach, a skin-prickling roll of terror that he let wash over him like soothing balm. Fey outside—not his, but summer fey—cringed as the Hounds passed. He let himself take nourishment from the horror they wrought by their presence.

  “Daddy!” Ani squealed, kicking her feet again.

  The Hounds stayed outside—all but Gabriel. He nodded at Rabbit. “Pup.”

  Rabbit rolled his eyes at his father and turned to Irial. “You ought to go after Leslie soon. Daddy can handle Ani.” He grinned then, looking every bit like Ani’s sibling. “In fact, I’ll get Ani’s bag together first so she’ll be ready to leave w
ith the pack.”

  Ignoring the look of panic that flashed over Gabriel’s face, Irial answered, “Don’t let Ani roam while you do.”

  After Rabbit carried the giggling Ani away, Irial brought Gabriel up to speed.

  “What do I do with her?” Gabriel, the Hound who led some of the most terrifying creatures to walk the earth, sounded utterly intimidated. “How do I…She’s female, Irial. Don’t they have different needs?”

  “She can’t be worse than you were when you were younger. Ask one of your females for advice.” Irial drew as much nourishment as he could from Gabriel’s mingled panic and excitement and pride. Irial needed to be stable before he went to find Leslie, needed to be well fed so he didn’t pull too many human emotions through Leslie just yet. Let her get used to me first, talk to me. He felt worry for his mortal. If the other dark fey had felt this weakness when they did the ink exchanges, they hadn’t admitted it to him.

  Gabriel was still talking; Irial forced himself to listen to the Hound.

  “…and they’re just not good examples for my pup. Have you seen them lately? Chela and her litter all but slaughtered the representatives of Sorcha’s court the other moon.”

  “Month, Gabriel. The other month.”

  Gabriel waved a hand, utterly uncowed by his king. “They’re too rough for Ani. She’s so tiny.” He started pacing as he rambled on about the female Hounds.

  They were truly fierce, but Irial had trouble objecting to anything that kept Sorcha’s court away from him.

  “Can she run?” Gabriel stopped on the verge of a burst of pride that was almost chokingly sweet.

  Irial closed his eyes and savored the orange-sugar rush of Gabriel’s emotions. “Ask her.”

  “You need anything first?” Gabriel paused, as still as a wave before it breaks.

  “No. Just take Ani home. Get Rabbit’s telephone number so you can reach him if you need advice on her.”

  Gabriel snarled, but only once.

  Irial glared, relieved to deal with the familiar challenge of Gabriel’s pride. “He’s raised her. You don’t know her. Get his number.”

  The look on Gabriel’s face would stop almost any fey or mortal. Accepting orders—even from his king—went against his instincts. Irial softened his tone. “If you don’t need it, fine, but they should keep in touch. They’re a pack of their own.”

  Gabriel bowed his head slightly. “Do you need someone else for your strength?”

  Irial held out a hand to the once more visibly uncomfortable Hound. “After seeing you? Why?”

  Gabriel straightened his shoulders. “Then I’ll go fetch the pup. My daughter”—he had another burst of tangled emotions then—“it is just the one, right?”

  Irial bit back his smile. “Just Ani.”

  “Right then. I’ll get her.”

  “Be sure to say hello to Tish, though,” Irial reminded him. “Then send her to me. We’re going out.”

  I need to find Leslie. My Leslie, my mercy, my strength, my Shadow Girl…mine.

  He drew a deep breath, pleased to realize that he knew exactly where she was, could see her if he tried. She had left the shop and now walked down the street, her step sure, her lips curved in the most enchanting smile he’d ever seen.

  Soon. I’ll be there soon. He pulled his hands through his hair, brushing it back, and checked that he hadn’t any blood on his shirt. He didn’t, but his pants were a total loss. He opened the door and called, “Tish! Five minutes.”

  Then he went to find his bag. My mortal seeing me like this…no, not the best way to entice her, covered in blood.

  CHAPTER 24

  Leslie felt a compulsion riding inside her, leaving her with an inexplicable need to move. Her skin felt tight and tingly. She reached back and tore away the bandage that Rabbit had put over her tattoo. The bandage was wet, not with blood but with plasma and traces of ink. Her shirt stuck to her damp skin, its fabric probably getting stained, but she couldn’t stand having her beautiful tattoo trapped.

  She tossed the bandage in the trash and headed down Crofter Avenue toward the Crow’s Nest, grinning to herself when she saw the club’s red neon sign. A few guys were hanging out in the shadowed alley alongside the building; it was a shortcut over to the railroad yard, but most people used it as a spot to smoke. As she approached, she saw one guy punch another. She smiled, feeling a pleasant jolt of adrenaline as the two men began hitting each other unreservedly.

  At the door of the club, Glenn, the doorman, stopped her. His attention flicked to the fight in the alley, and the bars in his face glittered as the red light from the sign hit them. He shook his head at the fight. Then turned his attention back to her. “Five-dollar cover tonight.”

  “Least they’re fighting outside.” She pulled a crinkled bill out of her pocket and held her hand out for the stamp.

  “They’re staying out, too.” He grinned at her. “You bringing trouble in your wake these days?”

  She laughed, but privately she wondered if he was right. Inside the club the lead singer of the band all but screamed his lyrics; Leslie winced. “They don’t sound like they’re worth it.”

  “Could be worse.” Glenn put the money in the box and leaned back on his stool. They listened to the guitar-heavy music for a minute; then he grinned again. “Or not.”

  “Anybody around?” She couldn’t see far into the crowd.

  “Seth and Ash are over by the wall.” He inclined his chin toward the most shadowed part of the club.

  “Is Keenan with them?”

  “Yeah, he’s there too.” Glenn scowled, but he didn’t say more.

  The door opened behind Leslie. Glenn turned to the newcomer. “Ten-dollar cover.”

  Leslie leaned in and asked, “Inflation?”

  “Nah. Doorman’s prerogative.” He quirked his mouth in a crooked smile.

  She shook her head and started to walk off, but Glenn put a hand on her arm.

  “Watch yourself. All sorts of freaks in town tonight.” Glenn shot a glance over the crowded room. The usual familiar faces were there, but a lot of strangers were in the crowd too. Maybe that’s what all the fights were about: maybe gangs were moving in.

  No. It felt weird to think it, but somehow she suspected that the fights were tied to her. It seemed solipsistic to consider it, but the idea felt true.

  Or I’m losing it.

  “You okay?” Glenn raised his voice to be heard over the increasing din, and she felt a wave of something—protectiveness—roll from him. “I could get Tim to watch the door and—”

  “No, I’m cool.” She didn’t feel nervous, not tonight, not anymore. Her hand strayed to her tattoo, hidden under her shirt. “Thanks, though.”

  She squeezed her way through the crowd to Seth and Aislinn. They sat as close together as they could while still remaining on separate chairs.

  Aislinn looked up. “Hey.”

  Beside her, Seth nodded and looked meaningfully at Aislinn and then back at Leslie. “You should talk.”

  “Sure.” Leslie slid into the chair Seth pushed toward her. She leaned toward Aislinn. “Seth says you have something to tell me. Secret spilling and all that.”

  “I’m sorry about not telling you; I just wanted to keep you safe”—Aislinn bit her lip—“from things. When I heard about Ren’s—”

  “Don’t,” Leslie interrupted, waiting for the panic to hit, but it was just a dull roar. “You know my secrets. Got it.”

  “You’re right.” Aislinn took a deep breath before looking at Seth for assurance.

  Keenan approached the table with sodas for Aislinn and Seth and a glass of wine for himself. He handed Seth the drinks and turned to her. “Niall’s not here yet. What shall I get you?”

  “Nothing.” She didn’t have much cash on her, and accepting anything from Keenan made her uncomfortable, especially after the other night.

  He scowled briefly at the crowd between him and the bar. “Soda? Tea? Water?”

  “Nothing.”
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  “Would—”

  “Nothing,” she interrupted in a firm voice. She stood back up. She needed to get away from Keenan. Now. She told Aislinn, “Come find me when you figure out what you’re trying to say.”

  But Keenan came closer, beside Aislinn, putting himself between her and Leslie.

  Get away from him. He’s danger. Enemy. Not us. Leslie stared out at the throng of bodies. The band was awful but she wanted to move, burn some energy, ride out whatever rush she had going from the ink.

  “We need to talk, Leslie.” Aislinn sounded so serious, so worried.

  Leslie forced herself to look at Aislinn. “Sure. I’ll be on the dance floor when you’re ready.”

  Leslie stepped away from the table, feeling the increasing pressure to get away from Keenan, to run. Her hands trembled from trying to stay still.

  “Leslie, stop,” Keenan said as he grabbed the bottom of her shirt.

  Aislinn took hold of his wrist but couldn’t push him away. “What are you doing?”

  Keenan put his other hand on Leslie’s hip and turned her. He lifted her shirt, baring Leslie’s whole back to Aislinn and anyone who was near. “Look.”

  Aislinn gasped. “What have you done, Les?”

  “Got a tattoo. You knew that.” Leslie pulled out of Keenan’s grasp. “Lots of people have them. Maybe you should be asking your idiot boyfriend here what he’s doing. I don’t appreciate being treated like—”

  “She doesn’t know, Aislinn.” Keenan sounded weirdly gentle, soothing as if warm breezes were riding on his voice.

  But Leslie felt her anger rising with each word that fell from his lips. This anger was not fleeting or fading.

  Danger. He’s dangerous to us. She paused. Us?

  Keenan looked inhuman as he stepped closer to her. Some trick of the club lights made him glow like a golden effigy come to life. His voice burned her skin when he demanded, “Who did it?”