Chapter One
Asher
Thebuzzofthetattoo needle is almost therapeutic at this point. I close my eyes as Iris moves it over my ribs, her hand steady and sure.
She doesn’t speak while she works, which is one of the reasons I come to her. The other is her eye—one, dark and narrowed, follows the curve of the lines she draws, but the other is covered by a plain black patch, though we both know what lies beneath.
It has been a few weeks since Meilyr’s detention and return to the Otherworld. Maurice has been in London more often than ever before, and despite his new commitment to the vampire clan’s crai, he still appears to be finding time to be around the rest of us, spending many of his days at the Wild Hunt’s London base.
Iris lifts her needle from my skin. I don’t open my eyes. The pain is negligible at this point; the time I spend in this chair is limited only by her ability. She lets out a short breath and the needle whirrs again. I don’t move an inch.
Since the Huntsman returned Meilyr—disgraced, if nothing else—we have been on the lookout for the other two high fae who apparently made it through the veil. They are in London, to be sure. The Guardians told us so, and the Huntsman has confirmed it. But tracking them down…
It is frustrating. Hence, the new tattoo. Nothing clears my mind so well.
Iris eventually finishes and sets her needle aside. She wipes blood from my skin and I open my eyes just as she removes her eyepatch.
Her other eye is pale, hardly any colour to be seen at all, scars streaking jaggedly out from it in lightning bolts of silver against her pale skin. Victim of a fae when she was too young to comprehend their deviousness. She rolls both her eyes now, then focuses on the fresh tattoo, the red tenderness of my skin.
“Dunno why you watch.” Her tone is sullen and I feel the faintest pulse of fae magic coming from her.
I have never met another human quite like Iris, and I suspect she has always been a witch, though perhaps she was too young to know that when she met the fae. Certainly, she can harness the magic that affected her eye, allowing her to see beyond the veil should she wish, and channel it into her art, creating tattoos that will remain even on my ever-healing skin.
Unlike the needle, the touch of her magic is cold and painful, iron slicing through my flesh. I dig my fingers into the chair and bear it, wondering if I should have gone for something smaller when sweat breaks out on my brow. I like this design, though, a neat Celtic knot that calls to something inside of me.
“That’s it,” Iris says a moment later. She sounds tired now and I let out my own heavy breath. “Take all the usual precautions and you should be healed up by tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
She turns away to start cleaning up and I get off the chair gingerly, peering down at the new ink on my skin. Every time is just as miraculous as the first—I lost a lot when I joined the Hunt, but having something so intentionally permanent is an interesting perk of what I have become.
I wrap the new tattoo myself and it’s when I’m pulling my T-shirt over my head that Iris speaks again. “I finished the other design you wanted me to work on,” she says.
My stomach drops. I tug my T-shirt down too hard, wincing when it pulls at my side. The skin is already tender from the tattoo itself, but it always takes a few hours for Iris’ magic to settle in around the blessing the Huntsman gave me.
“You did?”
When I look at Iris, she’s leaning back against the sink, arms crossed over her chest. Her dark hair is cut into a short bob, giving her a severe look and making her pale skin even paler.
She resembles a vampire far more than Grant does. Perhaps even more so than Maurice.
“I did,” she confirms. The patch is back in place and her lips twitch. “Let me know when you want to see it.”
My stomach churns. There is a space for it, this tattoo—a large, unmarked space on the left side of my chest, just where it belongs. But getting it feels as though I am finally letting go, and even after hundreds of years, I don’t feel ready for that.
“Not today. Maybe next time?”
Her visible eye narrows—she can see through me even without the magic of the other. “Maybe next time,” she echoes.
I follow her out to the front, and we settle the bill before I leave. The sound of the door locking reaches me on the street. I smile as I walk away. Iris is one of a handful of people I spend any time with outside of the Hunt, though I would not say we are friends.
Still, I want her to be safe. I wander vaguely back in the direction of Kensington, where our base sits, wondering what I will do tonight. There are no urgent jobs, which is why I booked the appointment—last minute, as ever—and Grant overheard, so he will no doubt wish to see what I have had done.
He has one small tattoo from before he was turned and has lamented on several occasions that he wants another. I do not know if Iris could help him, being as he is a vampire, but I am tempted to bring him along and ask.
But Vlad… Vlad is his sire, not his father, but he might not want it. I push my hands into the pockets of my jacket. I truly do not understand their relationship and, for once, I think the others are in agreement with me on that.
No, perhaps Paxton has some better idea. I shrug the thought away.
