Fleeing Fate

Anya Richards

Jakuta Dagbo knows bad weather’s
approaching, even though the sky above the faie world is clear. And when
Gràinne Bairdie walks into The Midnight Café wanting an arcane tattoo, he
realizes the tempest raging into his life has nothing to do with wind and rain.
Just one look at her brings his storm god libido, and the protective instincts
he no longer trusts, to thundering life.

Gràinne’s a banshee on the run, desperate
to claim the emotions she’s sure are rightfully hers. She has no time to
explore the sparks of need flying between herself and Jakuta. What she’s trying
to do will bring the wrath of the Banshee Council down on her head, and she
knows they’ll do anything to stop her.

Yet, as Gràinne and Jakuta peel
back the layers of their lives, searching for the answers she needs, they can’t
ignore the lightning-hot passion searing their blood. And when emotion reaches
its apex, demanding complete surrender to the cyclone of desire, neither can
resist. Even if it means Gràinne’s banshee wail of release will be her last.

Jakuta Dagbo stood at the loft railing and tried to see out
through the floor-to-ceiling, double-height glass panes fronting the Midnight
Café. The bright lights inside made it impossible to see the sky above the
buildings across the courtyard, but it had been clear just a couple of hours
before. The horizon, that misty barrier between the worlds of men and faie,
hadn’t shown even a hint of dark clouds either, meaning there was no inclement
weather bleeding over from the human side.

Switching his attention to inside, Jakuta carefully surveyed
the bar and games area of the tattoo parlor. There were only a few patrons this
early in the evening. Music pumped from ceiling-mounted speakers and neon
lights flashed, illuminating the massive framed tattoo art along the walls,
giving the place a party atmosphere.

His gut told him it was all wrong, far too quiet.

“Storm’s coming. Not sure when, but it’s coming.”

“I could tell.” The laughter in Jasmina’s voice made him
send her a quelling look, but that just made the jinn chortle out loud instead
of holding her amusement inside. “It might have been something about the way
you handled those vamps that gave it away.”

Jakuta shrugged, unrepentant. He may have over three
thousand years of anger management under his belt, but it didn’t always help.
“They were starting to piss me off.”

Inking vamp initiation tats was boring enough without the
rest of the club members hanging around, making clucking noises if the new guy
even winced. The way he’d dealt with the leader of the group when she started a
fight may have been extreme. But it wasn’t as though she’d been hurt, and it
had cured the problem.

“Really? I’d have never guessed. I thought maybe tossing her
over the railing was some kind of West African friendship ritual.” Her sarcasm
earned another glare, but Jazz just tipped her head to one side, her gaze
searching. “What’s going on with you anyway?”

Knowing it was useless to hide anything from the deeply
intuitive woman, he shrugged one shoulder. “Wish I knew. I’m just—” He shrugged
again, unable to explain it to himself, much less to anyone else. Since he’d
woken up that afternoon a nagging sense of rough weather approaching had dogged
him, leaving him twitchy and on edge. There should be a hurricane on its way or
a tornado about to touch down, not a beautiful, starlit night outside.

“Huh.” Jasmina turned to scan the floor below where a couple
of customers were sitting at the bar, sipping their drinks and talking with
Bolaka, the bartender. “Well, if something weird is going to happen, with Hervé
off tonight, I’m glad you’re here.”

Waving his hand toward the windows across from them, he
frowned. “You see any kind of bad weather coming, Jazz? It’s the clearest night
we’ve had this month.”

The jinn shook her head, a funny little smile tipping the
corners of her mouth. “You’re way old enough to know that not all storms come
with hail and wind. Oops.” She waved down at a pixie just coming in the front
door. “Here’s my client. Talk to you later.”

Jakuta didn’t have a chance to remind her he was a storm god
and his talents didn’t stretch to predicting anything but the weather. With a
swirl of gold-and-green lights she disappeared, reappearing down by the bar,
hand outstretched to greet her diminutive customer. Looking at the pixie,
Jakuta wondered where she was planning to put another tat. She was wearing a
tank top and he could see she already had full sleeves on both arms, the
pattern swirling up to surround her neck then dipping down into her cleavage.
Somehow he figured the rest of her body was equally covered, but there must be
somewhere left or she wouldn’t be coming to see Jasmina, who specialized in
full-body art.

They walked toward the staircase leading back up to the loft
and, suddenly restless, Jakuta pushed away from the railing. The place really
was dead. He had no appointments booked for the night, which wasn’t unusual for
a Tuesday. Normally he’d be downstairs trading insults with Ula at the
reception desk, playing pool with Hervé or talking philosophy with Bolaka.
Tonight—he rubbed his hand over the dreads at the top of his head, trying to
quiet the sudden crawling of his scalp—he didn’t want to talk to anyone. His
skin tingled as though presaging a lightning strike and his nerves were
stretched taut enough to snap.

Thanks be to the gods, Hervé was away at a clan gathering.
If he were around, the wyvern would just keep at him, trying to get Jakuta to
say exactly what he was feeling, trying to figure out exactly what it all
meant. To Hervé instinct guided everything in life, yet could only truly be
trusted if dissected and the root of the feeling discovered. Clearly living
that way worked well for the dragon, since it had helped him build Midnight
Café into a successful business, but the whole concept of examining every
little thought and emotion wasn’t Jakuta’s idea of fun.

There was a burst of noise downstairs, the sound of new voices
and loud laughter. Probably a group coming in for a couple of drinks and some
fun and games—again not unusual for a Tuesday night. Although still primarily
known as a tattoo parlor, the Café was becoming more popular as a hangout spot
since they’d put in the bar, started selling snacks and offered pool, billiards
and darts. It was another of Hervé’s successful innovations, one Jakuta hadn’t
been too sure would work out as well as it had.

He suddenly found himself back at the railing, unsure of how
he’d gotten there, aware that the sensations that had been plaguing him all
evening were intensifying. The blood thundered in his veins. Every hair on his
body stood up, electricity dancing over and into his skin. His muscles
tightened as a wave of heat pulsed through them to settle low in his gut.

Scanning the scene below, he took in the eclectic group
milling about, some heading to the bar, others clustered around one of the pool
tables, even more settling in at some of the tables. Taqal had already come out
from the back, was circulating through the crowd, handing out menus, taking
orders. Directing everything was a tall, skinny witch wearing a wedding veil
and an even taller guy, maybe part giant or something, with a top hat perched
precariously on one side of his head.

Stag and doe.

Restless, his gaze skimmed over the couple, tracked past
everyone in the place to fix on the door. Outside, visible in the light of the
Café sign, another group of people approached. Pulling both sides of the double
doors open, they streamed in, cries of delight greeting their arrival, the
noise level inside rising to suddenly become almost unbearable. The last two
newcomers came in, releasing their hold on the doors.

And still Jakuta found himself watching the entrance, unable
to tear his gaze away. As though in slow motion the two sides of the door swung
inward, the space between them diminishing as they closed. There was no hint of
motion beyond them, out in the night.

If he’d blinked he would have missed seeing the woman slip
in, as though riding the wake of the previous entrants.

He couldn’t see her face, shaded as it was by the brim of a
gray knitted tam. Nor could he discern anything much about her body because of
the loose black trench coat, buttoned up to the neck but flapping around her
denim-clad legs as she walked. She did nothing to call attention to herself. In
fact she moved with the milling crowd as though a part of it, skirting the
edges of groups, seeming on the verge of joining first one and then another
without actually doing so.

Yet somehow he knew she wasn’t there to celebrate with the
happy couple. The ribbons of white-hot electricity zapping along his tribal
marks, burning across his face, belly and back, told him so. And an insistent
rumble of lust in his blood, slowly rising to a booming crescendo as he tracked
her path toward Ula’s desk, reinforced it.

The urge to go downstairs immediately, get closer so as to
see her face and hear her voice, was overwhelming but he couldn’t seem to make
his body move. Instead, all he could do was stand watching as the woman got to
the goblin’s desk and rested her elbows on the elevated top, leaning in to be
heard over the increasing din. The coat tightened across her back, giving a
hint of the womanly shape beneath the black fabric. His gaze zeroed in on her
bared nape and couldn’t be torn away. Something about that taut, pale column,
gleaming in the café’s bright lights, made his mouth water.

A trickle of sweat meandered down his spine, and Jakuta
swore it sizzled with the heat emanating from his skin. He shook his head,
trying to clear it, suddenly wishing Jasmina was there with him so he could get
her first, instinctive opinion of the woman. Or better yet, get her opinion of
what was happening. Jazz would tell it as she saw it, without thought of
duplicity or connivance. The jinn was one of the handful of trustworthy people
in a complex world filled with layers of allegiances, where friendship often
fell to the bottom of the pile. Like him, she’d been banished by her own kind.
Unlike him, she saw her circumstances as a new, exciting type of freedom rather
than a disconnect from all she held dear.

There was a flash of pink as Ula shook her head, making her
crazy, dyed curls dance. Whatever the goblin said clearly wasn’t what the woman
wanted to hear. Placing her hands flat on the desk, she leaned even closer,
going up on her toes to be able to do so, encroaching perilously into Ula’s
personal space. To Jakuta’s surprise, instead of zapping the woman with one of
her repelling spells, Ula only frowned and shook her head again. Then she
pointed up toward the loft, and the woman lifted her head to look.

A pale, perfectly oval face. Soft, full lips only a few
shades darker than her skin. A long nose with slightly flared nostrils.

All these things he noticed in a flash, and then he looked
into her eyes.

Light, wide-set. Clear as the ocean and just as dangerous.
He started to drown, realized he had forgotten to breathe, and yet could only
start again when the woman turned away to say something more to Ula.

Shaken, Jakuta stepped back from the railing and rubbed a
hand over his face, trying to ease the snap and tingle of electricity still
coursing through his markings. The scarification on his chest and back was even
worse, almost burning with the lightning scorching his blood.

But most shocking was how hard his cock was, as though
instead of exchanging one quick look he’d just had an hour of intense foreplay.
No woman had ever affected him like that. It was preposterous, unprecedented and
infinitely intriguing. Yet the sensation of approaching threat hadn’t
diminished. Instead it increased, until his entire body vibrated, hovering
between desire and bloodlust.

The fight-or-fuck instinct? Didn’t know such a thing
existed.

Laughter bubbled up in his throat, but was arrested by the
need and apprehension still clutching at his chest.

“By Obatala.”

The curse rumbled out unbidden, and the café lights dipped
with the intensity of his confusion. As he brought himself under control,
breathing deeply, forcing his fists to unclench, there were the sound of
footsteps coming up the stairs, and he closed his eyes.

Jazz was right.

A different type of storm was coming, one embodied in the
woman coming up the stairs, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to, or wanted to,
control it.

Gràinne thanked the receptionist and started toward the
staircase leading to the tattoo loft above, disappointment and anticipation
churning together in her stomach, making her feel almost sick. Neither of the
two tattoo artists whose names she’d ferreted out were at work tonight, and
fear that the entire crazy gamble she’d taken coming here would be in vain was
eating away at her insides. This was her one chance.

She knew, just
knew
, the Council had been watching
her, although she didn’t know where along the line she’d slipped up. As careful
as she’d been to obscure what she was doing, obviously she’d failed. The last
few days had been horrible, the sensation of being stalked, her every movement
noted, stretched her nerves to the breaking point. Finding the rune had seemed
an act of fate, stealing it tonight a desperate, spur-of-the-moment decision.
Fleeing in and out of portals and using all her translocation potions to jump
from place to place hopefully had bought enough time to get the job done.

But there was no way to be certain the Council wouldn’t
still be able to track her. She’d been careful not to use any of her weak
personal magic, which was so easily traceable, but hadn’t a clue what other
resources they could bring to bear in an effort to drag her back.

Her bag of tricks was empty. If this didn’t work, she was
screwed every which way from Sunday.

Pausing with her foot on the bottom step, she glanced
quickly back up at the loft. The man she’d seen up there before—Jakuta, the receptionist
had called him—was no longer standing at the rail, and she exhaled the breath
she hadn’t even realized she was holding. By the Goddess, she hoped he could do
the job. During the split second their gazes had met she’d gotten an impression
of immense power, strong enough to curl her toes and send a violent, shuddering
wave through her entire body. But even power that impressive might not be
enough to help her.

From what she’d learned about tattooing, different beings
needed different types of inks. What worked on one might simply disappear from
the skin of another, or cause devastating, or even catastrophic reactions.
There’d even been a story about a gremlin exploding after being tattooed with
the ink usually used on bogies. Although in appearance the two beings were
almost indistinguishable, apparently their physiologies were completely
different.

Worse, what she needed done demanded a certain familiarity
with arcane magic. The tatted-out wizard she’d spoken to said there were only a
handful of artists with the knowledge to apply rune magic directly to the skin,
and the Midnight Café the only place where two of them could be found. Hervé
Cinq à Sept, the owner, apparently made it a mission to learn everything he
could about tattooing and was acknowledged as a master. The other, Cassandra
something-or-other, had practiced with a protégé of Tristram O’Rourke, the
father of tattooing on this side of the Veil. It had seemed a good plan to go
to the place where there were two artists able to do the job. She huffed a
little laugh and started up the stairs.