to set the bar on fire before disappearing. With any luck, everyone had escaped through the back exit before it was too late.
I moved back behind the glass counter and restarted the MP3 so that the first notes of “Comfortably Numb” drifted through the shop as the world started up again. We had two choices: ignore what had happened or die at the point of a wand. Those who still lived chose to ignore, but no one ever forgot.
Settling onto the stool, I watched as Bronx dropped onto his own stool at his workstation. The troll silently began organizing his area in the far corner, pulling together a collection of paper plates and ink caps and checking to make sure that he had an ample selection of tattooing needles still neatly packaged in their sterile casings. At the same time, Trixie pulled open one of the drawers and withdrew a large number of greasepaint sticks, tubes, and containers that she carried over to Bronx. Because of the thickness of his skin, Bronx could not be tattooed, which had always made him feel uncomfortable considering that he worked in a tattoo parlor. So at the start of his shift each night, if Trixie wasn’t busy with a client, she would use greasepaint to cover him in a series of designs and images that could pass as tattoos. Despite their constant arguing over music, the two actually worked quite well together.
“What are you in the mood for tonight?” she inquired, lining up her colors along the nearby counter. Sometimes, it was just easier to pretend that certain things never happened.
Bronx pushed over a stool on wheels for her to sit on. “I want white ivy with green leaves all along my right arm.”
Trixie arched one thin blond eyebrow at him in surprise and even I was taken aback. After more than two years of this process, Bronx had begun to run out of fresh ideas and simply let Trixie draw whatever she was in the mood to draw on him. He had even come to tolerate her preference for flowers and butterflies as long as she stopped drawing hearts and rainbows on him.
“Anything on the left arm?” she inquired.
“Nothing.”
Leaning against the door frame, I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the troll in the sleeveless shirt and spiked pale blond hair. I had known Bronx slightly longer than I had known Trixie. Trolls, from my experience, were naturally reticent creatures, preferring to keep to themselves. No one would ever accuse them of being chatty, but I had gotten pretty good at reading Bronx’s moods. Something was bothering him and I wasn’t sure that it was tonight’s spectacle down the street.
“Is there a special reason for the ivy?” I asked.
“Got a feeling.”
“Oooo … Do tell,” Trixie purred as she settled on the stool next to Bronx.
The troll clenched his jaw as if he fought the words, but even the hardened creature wasn’t immune to Trixie’s charm. Hell, she could get a serial killer to confess his sins while sitting in the tattoo chair if she just batted her eyes and asked him in her sweet, come-hither voice. “Something dark is creeping toward us,” he reluctantly said. “Like a vine that’s going to wrap around us and choke … someone.”
“Like tonight’s …” she offered, letting her voice drift off.
“No, that wasn’t it.”
“Maybe the darkness has already passed,” Trixie suggested. “I mean, Gage was shot at today and he survived.”
“I wasn’t shot at,” I corrected quickly as Bronx turned his head to look at me. “Disgruntled customer, nothing more. Just avoid using the leprechaun hair for the next few days until I get some fresh.”
“No, that wasn’t it,” Bronx replied, again turning his head to stare straight at the wall before him. I was afraid to ask more about the shadow that lingered in his golden eyes.
We all remained silent as Trixie patiently traced out a thick line curling down the length of his arm with a Q-tip and a container of white greasepaint. The elf had a knack for not only creating great beauty, but she also managed to work very fast. Within an hour, his right arm, from shoulder to wrist, was covered in a curling vine of ivy with thick green leaves highlighted in black to give them more depth. It was an exquisite work of art and it was a shame that he would wash it off before he left at the end of the night.
As Trixie cleaned up her greasepaint, the first of our customers for the night started to roll in, life once again trickling into our small part of the world. The first few were a handful of teenage humans looking to pop their tattoo cherries. They were giggling, indecisive, and squirmy in the chair when the needle was applied to their skin for any length of time. The two guys finally decided on some tribal bands around their flexed biceps, while the two females chose some tasteful and simple designs on their lower backs. All in all, as clichéd as they come, but for some, that was how the addiction started. Between the buzz of the needle and the sensual play of pleasure and pain, at least one of these kids would be back for something more intricate and interesting.
The hulking Bronx was more than a little intimidating under most circumstances so he was given the brash, cocky male, while I gave the most nervous female to Trixie. I took the remaining female first, knowing that if she was left to watch her friends, she would chicken out before she could get her tattoo. The second male wouldn’t survive the ribbing of his friends if he chickened out, so I felt safe leaving him on his own for a while.
Humans came and went for the rest of the evening. Half scheduled appointments for later dates since one of us needed more time to draw a specific design, while others wandered in wanting something quick and simple. Sadly, less than half required us to go to the back room to mix up a little something extra for the ink. Tattooing in itself could be a lucrative business, but it was the potions added to the ink that made this venture truly worthwhile. For some reason, people were in no rush to get spells done tonight.
Until the drunken satyrs stumbled and fell through the front door. Asylum catered to all kinds of creatures, just so long as they could fit through the door and could be tattooed. Vampires were impossible to tattoo unless you used garlic in the mix, and then they tended to whine and scream through the entire process. Trolls, gargoyles, and ogres couldn’t be tattooed at all due to the thickness of their skin. But everyone else, we would ink.
Swaying and boisterous, the satyrs on their little hoofed feet clomped through the parlor, bumping into each other. Normally, I wouldn’t tattoo anyone that obviously intoxicated, but in general that was the only state in which you found satyrs. There was no helping it, and I wasn’t about to pass up what was likely to be a very nice deal.
“What can I do for you gentlemen this evening?” I asked politely as I leaned over the glass counter to look down at them. At just over three feet tall from hoof to horn, they were easy to overlook, but that was generally something they used to their advantage.
“We want tattoos!” declared one as he threw his hairy fist into the air. The others joined in this cheer, their low voices rumbling around the room.
I suppressed an urge to roll my eyes and forced myself to keep a smile on my lips in the face of their obvious proclamation. “What kind of tattoos were you looking for?”
“Virility tattoos!” another shouted.
“Yeah, big dicks on our arms so that women will be attracted to us!” added the third satyr. I couldn’t help it. My face fell into my hand and I shoved my fingers through my short brown hair.
“Gage!” Trixie hissed from somewhere in the tattooing room. I glanced over my shoulder, finding her standing in front of the security
