Trixie paused for a moment, staring at me with a frown on her face. I knew I wasn’t going to like what was on her mind. “I know it’s way too late, but I still feel bad about this one.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea. It’s a feeling, and I’ve learned to trust my feelings. They’ve kept me alive this long.”
“Yeah, well, I’m just tattooing angel wings on the back of a dying girl. I don’t see the harm.”
“Nothing in the ink?” Trixie inquired.
I frowned at her. “What could I possibly have put in the ink that would help her?” Evading her question wasn’t much different from outright lying to her. Despite my intention of helping Tera, I didn’t like myself much at that moment.
She sighed as she walked to the front door to flip the sign over to OPEN. “Nothing, I’m sure.”
“I’m going to get back in there. Hold down the fort. I shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Be careful,” Trixie whispered at my back as I headed down the hallway, my heavy footsteps echoing off the hardwood floor so that Tera had ample warning of my approach. When I opened the door, she was settled on the table with the shirt properly tucked around her.
“Ready for the second half?” I asked as I grabbed a pair of fresh gloves.
“Ready.”
As I placed the first line on her lower back, she flinched. The tissue there was a little softer and the needle dug in more than when we had been doing her shoulders. I wanted to work my way up, getting the worst part of the tattoo done first. I continued working until she let out a little grunt, causing me to pause.
“It hurts more this time around, doesn’t it?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Sorry, but that’s just how it works. When you do two halves of a tattoo, the second half always hurts more than the first half.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Does it feel like I’m kidding?” I resumed inking her back. I tried to quickly work my way up to where I knew she had been more comfortable during the first half.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Sorry, I would have warned you, but you’d have spent the entire first half of the tattoo worrying about completing the second half. You’ll get adjusted.”
Tera gave a soft little laugh as she settled her chin on her folded hands in front of her. “Besides, it’s not as if I can stop now. It would look ridiculous—a single angel’s wing on my back.”
“Actually, at this point, it’s a wing and a half, so that would look even sillier. You have to grit your teeth and stick it out now.”
I looked up when Tera sighed and found that her eyes were closed. “I’ve been through worse. This will pass too,” she murmured.
I had nothing to say to that, so I went silently back to work, finishing the tattoo as cleanly and quickly as possible. It took me another thirty minutes to complete it and wipe it down, removing the excess ink, blood, and petroleum jelly. I gave her a chance to walk over to the large mirror and stare at the image. Her eyes were shining as she gazed over her shoulder at her back. It really was an impressive work of art. The wings actually looked as if they would rise off her back and carry her into the heavens. But that was an illusion created by the puffy skin that resulted from cutting into the flesh. It was just a tattoo, even if it was one of my better ones.
While she was still standing, I pulled off a large piece of plastic wrap and placed it against her back before taping it down with medical tape. “This is to protect that tattoo for the next several hours.”
“I feel like a leftover,” she joked, her mood instantly becoming lighter than air.
“Keep it covered until tomorrow. Don’t sleep on your back, and wash it carefully with unscented soap for the next few weeks. Also, no matter how badly it itches, don’t scratch it.”
I closed my eyes as I helped her pull her button-up shirt on and then escorted her to the front room, where Trixie was already working on a client. She hadn’t bothered to come back for any ingredients, so it seemed safe to assume that it was a regular old tattoo with nothing special added. I collected my fee and followed Tera to the door where she gripped me in a tight hug before she left the parlor.
I wanted to say something hopeful or happy or encouraging, but there were no words that I could push past my parted lips. She was one of the few clients who I knew without a doubt I would never see again.
6
THE SQUEAK OF the front door opening and closing accompanied by the door chime echoing above the sound of Marilyn Manson on the speakers caught my attention, but I couldn’t hear any footsteps. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I didn’t let myself look up from the client I was working on until Bronx said my name. The troll was staring at the TV, which was showing the security-camera view of the lobby. No one was on the screen. Fucking vampires. I truly doubted that this was a pleasure visit. They rarely got tattoos and were never in a good mood when it came to dealing with anything remotely human. I guess it was simply a bad idea to get too friendly with something you viewed as food.
“Trixie, can you finish this tattoo for me?” I asked, dragging my gaze over to where she was sitting on the counter. “I need to take care of this.” She nodded and hopped down from her spot. The man I was working on didn’t seem to mind, as a smile crossed his lips when Trixie took the stool I had just vacated. I glanced over at Bronx, who was intently watching me. “Hang back for me.”
I pulled off the soiled latex gloves as I started to walk toward the front of the parlor. Dropping the gloves into a trash can near the entrance to the lobby, I forced an easygoing smile on my face as I stepped up to the glass counter. A pair of men were strolling around the room in black trench coats. One had bright red hair that hung down his back in a thick braid, while the second had shoulder-length brown hair that curled at the ends—both shades looking darker against their ultrapale skin. Their thin lips were pulled down into frowns as they looked over the small shop. I couldn’t make out their murmurs, but I had no doubt that they were critical and highly desultory. Asylum had never been designed for their type. There were a couple of high-end tattoo parlors around the city that a vampire might deign to visit, but I had my doubts as to whether they were actually turning a profit. This wasn’t a business built for exclusivity.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” I asked, struggling to keep my smile in place.
The dark-haired vampire stepped forward and pulled what looked to be a leather wallet from the pocket of his coat. Flipping it open, he revealed a little gold badge that made my blood run cold. There was nothing I could do to keep the smile on my face. They were representatives from the Tattoo Artists & Potion Stirrers Society (TAPSS), and they could make my life hell. All tattoo artists had to pass a series of tests set forth by TAPSS that covered both tattooing skills as well as potion stirring before you were given a license to tattoo. In addition, a parlor had to maintain a separate license that promised to uphold a certain level of quality and cleanliness.
Unclenching my teeth, I forced out the
