I don’t feel that wrongness now, or I might be tempted to stick a knife in his heart and be done with the whole mess.
Besides, I need that payout money, for me and for Cathy. Especially since there’s no knowing when my own private business venture will bear fruit.
I work over Ian awhile longer, trying everything I can think of. But there’s nothing to heal or pull, no wandering spirit to seize and drag back into the body. He’s fine. He’s just…stagnant. Like a swamp lying perfectly still between cypress trees.
“Whatever is going on with you, I don’t know if you deserve it or not,” I mutter. “But I’m doing the best I can, man. I got my own shit to deal with.” I rub a hand over my face, releasing a deep sigh. “I just found out I got Italian roots. Always suspected, but it’s for sure now. I’m descended from Juventas, Roman goddess of life, with some weird connection to Celtic gods like Manannán and I…fuck, I don’t know what to make of it. Can’t research this stuff online very well, you know?”
I stare at the motionless figure, stroking the stubble along my jaw. “You don’t mind if I vent a little, right? I got no one else to talk to, and you can’t tell on me anyway.”
He lies there, silent and empty, so I keep talking. “My girl, she’s a banshee, a herald of death, which is ironic considering what I can do, dragging souls out of the Vague. It’s like we’re fated or something. Like I’ve always known her. She’s my fucking soul, man, andshe’s got to realize that it’s her and me, it’s us against the damn world…”
Tears are forming in my eyes, and I’ll be damned if I cry right now. I gotta stop confessing all my crap to this unconscious guy, so I clear my throat and rub my eyes angrily before getting up.
I’m headed out of the room when I see it.
A black feather on the carpet.
I pick it up, peering at it. A single feather, long, glossy, and jet-black.
Ain’t no pillows in this house with feathers like that.
It’s fucking weird, but it doesn’t mean anything. Could have come from anywhere. Hell, I could have tracked it in here.
Just to be sure, I snap my fingers sharply in front of the unconscious man’s face. Not a flinch. I flick his cheek, poke his belly, pull a hair from his head. Nothing.
He’s not faking unconsciousness, that’s for sure. Besides, if he were, he’d have sneaked out long ago, to avoid having to pay us.
When I leave the room, I holler down the stairs at Hindley. “He won’t wake up. I tried everything.”
Hindley mutters several curses, and a dish smashes.
“Did you wear a black feather boa into Ian’s room?” I call.
“No, idiot!” he bellows back.
“Cool down. I don’t know your kinks, all right? Just checking because I found a black feather on the carpet.”
Hindley doesn’t answer, so I head for my room. I got two new tattoos, and they could use some air.
I’m lucky Cathy and I fucked in the dark, so she didn’t notice the first one. Not a great idea to go to the beach right after getting a tattoo, of course, but this is no ordinary mark. It links me to my first client that’s all mine. I had it done on my ass, just to be sure Hindleywon’t ever see it, and I didn’t go to Bean or Morgana for it, just to be safe. I hired a guy who doesn’t work out of a shop—he’ll meet anywhere to get the job done. He did mine and my client’s tattoos on the same day.
The tattoo is pretty irritated from everything I’ve done lately. It’s swollen and tingling. I’m gonna lock my door and lie naked on the bed awhile, give it some air. Maybe tug one out while I’m enjoying my beer.
I got plenty of fodder for my fantasies, that’s for sure, after what Cathy did to me in the truck…and what I did to her.
But I make the mistake of picking up my phone first and checking my texts. Haven’t done that since last night. I got an old phone of Hindley’s with a cracked screen, and it’s slow sometimes, but it works.
The first text makes me sit straight up. It’s from the man I met at Moretti’s. He’s the agent for this rich guy with cancer, Alan Wolcott. Wolcott is in his forties, terminal, on hospice care. Leaving behind a thriving business and a family with kids. He’s been shelling out cash right and left, trying all these experimental things to save himself, and none of it has worked.
I found Alan Wolcott on TikTok, did some research on his situation, and messaged him through an anonymous account to offer my services. He was desperate enough to believe me. I kept things anonymous until I was sure he was interested, that he’d keep quiet about me to everyone but his agent. When he sent the agent to Moretti’s with the deposit, I knew he was serious. His deposit paid for the hotel and the tattoos for me and Cathy.
Good thing I secured this client when I did because the text I just got confirms that he’s already dead. My tattoo didn’t even alert me to his passing…or maybe it did. The tingling I felt was probablythe tattoo buzzing, but it was so swollen I didn’t realize what was going on. Guess I’m gonna have to get used to carrying tether tattoos and paying attention to them.
The agent’s text is short, urgent.Wolcott passed. The family will be out of the house for six hours.
There’s a second text with an address.
Fuck. The agent texted me three hours ago, which means I got three hours left, and it’ll take an hour for me to get to Wolcott’s house in Summerville. Hindley’s not gonna let me borrow his truck again, that’s for damn sure.
