Bloodline (2 page)

A glance over his shoulder showed they were unobserved, and after lowering the light-headed Ben to the ground, Inigo propped him against the door and crossed the street, wiping his mouth. A burp rumbled up his throat, and he laughed as it escaped. Served him right for guzzling. Difficult not to when he so rarely tasted something different. He lurked in the shadows to make sure no opportunistic thief discovered Ben before he came round.

Once Ben had stumbled away, Inigo headed back to the Tube. He was due to open his tattoo shop in an hour. He didn’t need to work, but life had quickly become too boring to do nothing. Over the years, he’d taught himself to play the piano, then the violin. He learned to love opera, gave up trying to learn to sing. He’d studied five different languages, absorbed all there was to know about the weather, dinosaurs, and the Mongols of the Russian plains, even wrote a book on the latter, and finally discovered a love of art. All kinds.

But it was only after he’d fucked a guy with a fantastic tattoo on his back—an infinitely more appealing sight than the man’s face—that he’d decided to teach himself to ink skins. Starting with his own.

Inigo stepped onto the underground train and stayed by the door. There were seats vacant, but he preferred to stand. He needed to change at St. Pancras and again at London Bridge. He liked the Tube. It was a quick and efficient way of getting around the capital, unless you tried to use it on a Sunday when engineering works were guaranteed to disrupt every journey. Each day two and half million passengers were whisked through two hundred and sixty stations on five hundred trains. And hardly any of them spoke to each other. He grinned.

His attention drifted to a scruffy guy standing nearby who had a badly done tattoo of an eye inked over his Adam’s apple. Inigo enjoyed thinking up designs to disguise poorly done tattoos, but that one would be tricky.

When he’d started tattooing, it had proved a rewarding challenge. He’d experimented with different styles and techniques using the best equipment available before he’d made the first tentative line on his arm.

Four fucking hours spent inking an image of the solar system. He’d gone to sleep proud and happy, and when he woke the following night, there hadn’t been a mark on his skin, which explained why none of the vamps he knew had a tattoo. Instead of giving up, he saw a gap in the market.

He arrived at Demonink one minute before he was due to open, unlocked the door, switched on the light, and flipped the switch to illuminate the neon sign in the window. Once he’d hung up his coat, he worked quickly, getting everything prepped for his first appointment. After Gabriel had gone/disappeared/died, he’d never worked with anyone else, but recently, loneliness seemed to be nibbling away at him more greedily.

When you were a vamp, unless your friends were vamps, they didn’t last. You didn’t age, and they did. But Gabriel had been a vamp, and he hadn’t lasted. A lump erupted in Inigo’s throat, and he swallowed hard. In addition to loneliness, unease had been creeping up on him for some months, an anxiety he was unable to identify. Maybe he’d spent long enough in one place, and it was time for a change. If he hadn’t known vamps didn’t get sick, he’d have worried.

The phone rang, and he picked it up, half hoping because of the mood he was in that it was his first client canceling. “Demonink.”

When no one said anything on the other end of the line, Inigo listened. When he was unable to detect breath sounds, he put the phone down. He ran his fingers over the solar system on his arm. He’d finally inked what he wanted, but it had taken a long while to work out how to make a tattoo permanent.

The answer had turned out to be a drop of faerie blood added to the predispersed ink. He’d paid a fortune for the tiny vial without any surety it would work, but it had. Then he’d come across Gabriel, another vampire tattoo artist who was already tattooing vamps using faerie blood, and Inigo realized he’d spent months reinventing the wheel.

Once Gabriel had seen samples of Inigo’s work, the vamp invited him to share his premises and, shortly after, his bed. The older guy taught him how to tattoo werewolves by adding a mix of human and vamp blood to the ink, but refused to reveal how to tattoo faeries. Since they never had any faerie skins come calling, it didn’t seem a problem. In any case, Gabriel warned him off, saying faeries were far too tempting and too much trouble.

While Gabriel hadn’t been the love of his life, Inigo
had
loved him in his way. The joy in having a companion who understood the problems of a vampire’s existence had mostly blinded him to Gabriel’s faults, though the infidelity had been a…difficult issue. Gabriel saw nothing wrong in fucking anyone he fancied—male or female—and sometimes that made Inigo feel no more important to the older vamp than a convenient arse.

His first client of the evening, a new one, was late. There were always a number of no-shows—people who changed their minds, or whose friends or family changed their minds for them, though he wished they’d have the courtesy to call. He didn’t know whether the overdue client was mortal or supernatural, but he hoped it wasn’t a gargoyle. He’d broken so many needles on the wankers he’d started to charge them double.

Humans were by far his biggest client base. Well over 90 percent. They all left delighted with their tattoos, though there was a disadvantage in being talented and popular. His work had been featured on the covers of a number of tattoo magazines, but he’d always declined to be interviewed because he knew they’d want to take photographs of him as well as his work, and that wasn’t going to happen. Being good at what he did would eventually doom him to having to stop. For a vampire, fame was dangerous.

The door opened, and four big guys walked in.
Uh-oh
. Ripples of unease raced up his spine while at the same time lust pooled in his gut. His fangs prickled, blood rushed south, and he mentally groaned. Almost two hundred years old and his cock still didn’t have an ounce of sense. The ferociously good-looking guys came to a halt in front of him. Tall, broad shouldered, blond—well, he wasn’t so keen on blonds—but what did hair color matter when they had those faces and bodies?

In his long existence, he’d only met a couple of faeries—it wasn’t as if vamps and faeries were the best of friends, but he knew that was who stood in front of him now.

“Hi, guys. What can I do for you?” He was pleased his voice didn’t crack, but it had gone up a fraction.

You’re in trouble. Run, run, run
, screamed his head.

Stay, stay, stay
, yelled his stupid cock.
One of these could be the one.

The one what?
Though he knew.
But a faerie? Really?

“We require you to do a tattoo,” said the tallest. Gorgeous face, gorgeous blue eyes, a cleft in his chin, and a big pouty mouth he’d just love to shove—

“But not here,” the guy added. “And not on us.”

“Sorry. I don’t work outside of the shop.” Though he made an exception for the disabled, and he was
not
softhearted.

“Pack up your equipment, and come with us. No electrical supply so bring batteries.”

Inigo bristled. He didn’t like being ordered to do anything. He took a step backward, and they stepped forward.
Oh fuck
. One on one, he’d have looked forward to the fight, maybe even helped himself to a little faerie blood—he had a dwindling stock—but four against one were odds he didn’t want to take.

“What are you waiting for?” snapped the one in charge.

Flee?
But where? Could faeries actually fly on this side? Inigo could move very fast, but would it be fast enough?

Reason with them?
These four big guys weren’t there to listen to excuses. If he didn’t cooperate, they’d have a way to make him.

“I have no experience tattooing your kind,” Inigo said.

Once, when Gabriel had been in a post-sex good mood, he’d told Inigo he’d tattooed a faerie once, many years before, which was how he’d got hold of his bottle of faerie blood. He’d asked for it in payment. Inigo had what remained locked away in a safe. The one thing Gabriel hadn’t told him was what he’d used to make the ink stay in the skin.

This was the first time a faerie had ever asked him for a tattoo—well, demanded. Unlike vamps and weres, who had to share the world with humans, the fae lived on a different plane and, as far as he knew, didn’t often visit this side. He’d assumed if a faerie ever inquired about a tattoo, he’d be able to say no. Seemed not.

“I don’t know if ink will take on fae skin,” he said. According to Gabriel, it didn’t.

“We have a substance that will make the tattoo permanent. Get your equipment packed.”

Fuck you
. “How about asking nicely?”

“I wasn’t aware I hadn’t,” said the big dick. “You’ll be well rewarded.”

Don’t ask
. “What sort of reward?”
Told you not to ask.

“Whatever it is in our power to grant you.”

I can ask for what I want?
Inigo tried not to let his jaw drop. Greed swamped his common sense. More faerie blood meant he wouldn’t run out anytime soon. He’d been watching the level of the bottle go down and down, and assumed when the last drop had been used, he’d have to look for a new profession unless he stuck to tattooing mortals and weres.
But aren’t I thinking of doing something different anyway? I don’t have to go with them.

“Why have you come to me?” he asked.

“You’re the best.”

He preened.
Damn my pride
. He loaded his box with his inks and pigments, unplugged his gun, packed all the batteries, popped a couple of razors into one of the compartments, and even added his airbrush just in case, though a small voice in his head continued to shout not to go with them.

Faeries are tricksters. Remember what Gabriel told you?

“How long is this going to take?” Inigo asked.

“A day.”

“Maybe longer.” One of the other guys winked at him.

Inigo’s brainless cock pressed against the zipper of his jeans. “I need to cancel my appointments.”

A muscle began to twitch in the cheek of the guy who’d done most of the talking. “As you wish.”

What haven’t I thought of?
Inigo opened his laptop and accessed the e-mails of the clients booked for that night and the next. He tapped out an apology and requested they call to rebook.

What haven’t I asked?

The flirty one had reached his side without him noticing and ran his fingers down Inigo’s neck. The urgent desire to stick his tongue down the guy’s throat and shove his cock in his arse swelled in his chest until he physically hurt.
Are they fucking glamouring me?

I don’t like blonds. I like dark hair, dark eyes
. The thought cleared his head, and he stepped away from temptation. But not far. About two feet.
Shit. I’m supposed to be the strong one. What the hell is happening?
Two faeries moved behind him.

“When do I get paid?” he blurted.

“You will receive your reward the moment the work is done.”

He still suspected a trap, and he’d learned not to ignore his senses. What happened if the skin didn’t like his work? What if he fucked up and put toes on a mermaid, or six legs on a spider, or misheard and inked a horn instead of a thorn?

“The design is already determined and well within your capabilities.”

Are they reading my mind?
He fired a thought into the air.
You’ve all got cocks the size of pea pods
. No reaction. So not reading his mind, just using their faerie influence.

“The skin definitely
wants
this tattoo?” Inigo asked.

“Absolutely.”

“What part of the body?” He’d tattoo almost anywhere, including cock, balls, and taint, but they weren’t places he liked to work on. He drew the line at eyeballs.

“The back.”

Okay
. “Where do you want me to do this?”

“On our side of the Divide.”

Finally—an excuse. Inigo swerved away from the guys behind him and backed toward the door. “I don’t think so. I’m quite prepared to do it in a place of your choosing, but on this side.”

“Our choice is Faerieland.”

“Then no,” Inigo said and immediately felt better.

Of course, he hadn’t counted on them using faerie dust.

Chapter Two

Micah perched on the parapet of London Bridge staring down into the dark water. He hoped like hell he and his sister weren’t going to end up in the Thames. Ellie sat pale-faced at his side, the bag of jewels clutched in her hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers where they held the bag, and squeezed.

Behind them their father and brother struggled to keep Ellie’s lover from reaching them and dragging Ellie from the brink or maybe throwing himself over with them. The guy’s love for Ellie and her love for him shone in their faces and through their words and gestures, and when he looked at them, a tiny chink of light pierced Micah’s black heart.
Maybe there is hope for me.

There was no more time to think if this was the right thing to do. Micah tightened his hold on Ellie and jumped.

For a brief moment they hung suspended, contained in a ball of light as bright as if a star had burst, and his lids slammed shut. No watery landing, they tumbled onto something soft. When he opened his eyes, Micah registered they were alone, sprawled on a sumptuous bed in a large room with stone walls, no glass in the arched windows. Ellie lay rigid at his side.

“Open your eyes,” he whispered.

“We’re not anywhere horrible, are we? No rats, snakes, spiders, or annoying sisters?”

He laughed.

“What in the four worlds are you doing in my bed?” snapped a man.

He and Ellie jerked upright. Micah gaped at the naked guy who’d emerged from an archway on the other side of the room. He was tall and dark-haired, a thick cock hanging heavy between his legs. When Ellie pushed to her feet, Micah followed.

“I’m Ellie Norwood, and this is my brother, Micah. Who are you?”