Inked Magic (13 page)
The Elven weren’t so much magical beings, as repositories of element-born magic with a will that began exerting itself anywhere between the ages of eleven and thirteen. Its arrival marked the beginning of a changeling process lasting for a dozen years, or twice that number, and ultimately ending in one of two ways, death, or a lifelong balancing act between controlling the magic or being controlled by it.
For many of his kind, the magic came with a voice that whispered its demands. Cajoling and tempting. Ordering and begging, playing on emotions and hormones.
Humans would label it schizophrenia. Elves labeled it a curse brought upon them from being forced to live in this world rather than Elfhome.
In the land of his ancestors Elves lived in harmony with the elements, serving equally as vessel for the magic and wielder of it. The changeling years were merely schooling years, not a struggle for survival as they were in this world.
Ultimately she might be the answer, her ink a way to quiet the voice magic had in this world and the dangerous demands it could make on those it possessed before they managed to control and, therefore, possess it. And if not quiet the voice, then at least the soul sight of her touch would allow him to pass judgment on those whose acts required it.
He freed her braid and spread her hair across the pillow in wet, golden waves. His cock hardened with memories of her in the shower, water cascading over her skin. Her mouth delivering heated bliss and nearly unbearable ecstasy, the sensations heightened as he stood in his element.
Fire, too, was his element. With a whispered summoning of will he brought its warmth, drying her hair before his own. Then he curved an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, his cock throbbing in proximity to her wet, heated sheath.
“You will be mine,” he murmured, giving a fleeting thought to Cathal Dunne and wondering if the human would have to be made part of his household as well.
W
atching the news bored him. Even looking at the huge TV screen on the wall, it was hard to pay attention.
He wanted to see if they did a story on the Harlequin Rapist. He wanted to know whether or not the woman was dead. But when the news people sitting behind the long desk opened their mouths, all he heard was “blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” It was irritating, like yellow jackets buzzing around meat.
He dipped his spoon into the bowl, maneuvering it through the milk and separating out the last of the green Fruit Loops by herding them into a little cluster. Just as he scooped them up, the screen flashed to a black woman holding a microphone and standing in front of San Francisco General Hospital.
Right away he knew she’d never be a choice, but he looked down at her arms anyway. They were covered.
He scooted forward then glanced over his shoulder to see if his brother had noticed what was on the news, but no one was there. Kevin must have gone into the bedroom.
The woman said, “This is Latoya Logan. As you can see we’re at San Francisco General Hospital where police have confirmed that the Harlequin Rapist’s latest victim is in intensive care.
“Police are refusing to give any details as to the nature or severity of her injuries. The hospital staff is also refusing to comment, either on the
victim’s condition or the rumor that taskforce members brought in a psychic to help them catch the man who has been terrorizing Bay Area women for months.”
The scene changed to the studio. The woman newscaster said, “Latoya, it was my understanding that an artist was brought in, leading to speculation the latest victim can identify the rapist.”
The reporter in front of the hospital appeared in the upper corner of the TV screen. She said, “Right now it’s not clear whether the woman they brought in is an artist or a psychic. Off the record, I have been able to confirm that a woman
was
brought in, and that she is not believed to be officially connected with the taskforce.”
“Have they released the latest victim’s name?” the male newscaster asked.
“No.
I—”
“Hold on, Latoya,” he said. “We’ve got breaking news. A spokesman for the taskforce is about to make a statement.”
The scene cut away, going to the room they always showed the taskforce in. Scooting closer, so he was barely on the couch, he concentrated on the faces like he always did, so he’d recognize them in case they somehow started getting close.
The FBI agents were to the far left. The blond one was at the very end. Next to him was the dark-haired one. Usually he didn’t remember names, but he remembered theirs because once he’d lived in a home where there were two brothers named Parker and Trent.
Next to the FBI were police officers from different cities. He knew where a couple of the cities were, but not all of them.
A policeman from San Francisco was the only one standing. He motioned for the reporters to be quiet and said, “First of all, the taskforce wants to quell rumors of having called in a psychic. We have not done this, nor will we be doing this. The Harlequin Rapist will be stopped and brought to justice as a result of thousands of dedicated man-hours arising from the cooperative efforts of local, state, and federal law enforcement personnel.”
He smiled. They always said that.
He didn’t know whether to believe them about the psychic, but he wasn’t worried. His brother believed in psychics and supernatural stuff. He didn’t.
A reporter yelled, “I heard that an artist related to a high-profile SFPD captain was brought in. Is that true?”
The policeman ignored the reporter. His expression got grimmer.
This is it,
he thought, feeling a little burst of excitement.
The policeman didn’t disappoint him. He said, “At five minutes after midnight, the latest known victim of the Harlequin Rapist was pronounced dead.”
The room exploded with the sound of reporters shouting questions but all he heard was, “Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah.”
He turned off the TV and lifted the bowl to his mouth, drinking the rest of the cereal and milk then carrying the bowl to the sink. The blankets and pillow he used for sleeping on the couch were already folded and put away. The only thing he had to do was take a shower so he’d be clean.
People noticed when you stank, especially if they had to spend time close to you. It made you stand out in their memory and then they talked about you after you left. He didn’t want either of those things to happen because of his visit to the tattoo shop.
C
athal woke in a tangle of sheets, his hand fisted around an erection, his body humming from erotic dreams starring Etaín. Frustration rode him along with the lust. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d settled for his hand instead of a woman’s mouth or cunt.
“Fuck.”
The word sent a jolt of sheer need through him, followed by a surge of anger at not being able to peel his fingers away from his dick and go take a cold shower.
He slid his hand up and down on his shaft, helpless against carnal fantasies of having Etaín beneath him, thighs spread as he fucked her.
His breathing grew hurried as he imagined what it would be like with her, his heartbeat erratic, the strokes harder, faster, until jets of semen escaped, splashing onto his chest and abdomen in a hot wash of release.
It didn’t improve his mood or reduce his frustration.
He got to his feet and went to the shower. He wouldn’t let her stay under his skin like this. He’d have her. He’d convince her to help his family. Then he’d be done with her.
Liar
.
He hardened again thinking about her, fantasizing about her on her knees in front of him, her mouth pulling on his cock instead of his fist. Sucking him until he found a second release as water sluiced over his skin.
Cursing, he left the shower and toweled dry, every nerve ending oversensitized, abraded.
His cell phone rang as he stepped out of the bathroom.
Crossing to the nightstand he picked it up. Sean.
“You somewhere we’re okay to talk?” Sean asked.
“My place.”
“Good enough.”
It should be. He paid Sean a fortune to keep it and the club free of listening devices.
Cathal willed himself not to get into a pissing contest over not hearing from Sean the night before. Venting that way wouldn’t help but he couldn’t completely keep the bite out of his voice when he asked, “You have anything you want to share?”
The pause on the other end told him Sean was trying to decide whether to let the barb roll off him or not. He finally answered in a
just the facts, and nothing but the facts
tone.
“I got a tracker on the bike, found out where she lives. She went home and stayed there, alone, lights out until a little after one. I had someone watching, gut instinct, and it’s your dime anyway.
“At two fifty-three she leaves on the Harley. Makes a beeline for
the Sunset District. Pulls in where two guys are waiting for her in the driveway. She hands something to one of them and he heads into the apartment. She and the other guy follow, but at the door they get into an argument.
“She takes off and goes to a place I’ll come back to in a minute. There she knocks on the door and a few minutes later, follows a sedan to an estate close to where your old man and your uncle live. Another guy is waiting for her there. Far as I know she’s still there.”
Jealousy gripped Cathal and he didn’t like the way it felt. “Who?”
“As in
who
is she with? Blond guy. Long hair. Shirtless. That’s all the description I got. But the address, now that I can tell you something more definitive about. The house is owned by a corporate entity, a name you’ll be familiar with. Aesirs.”
Eamon.
“Fuck!” Cathal couldn’t hold the curse though it was directed as much at himself as it was at Eamon. He should have called her last night. He should have told her she could call, regardless of the hour. They must have hooked up after she left to meet with her brother and—
Reason overtook anger. Barely.
The timing didn’t work for it to be a planned date. Everything about what Sean described seemed off, skewed into weirdness until Cathal connected her handing off something with remembering how he’d wondered if the call from her brother meant a visit with a crime victim.
“Who lives in the Sunset District?”
“Take a guess.”
“Her brother.”
“Right in one and not easy to confirm. She goes by a different first name than the one she had as a kid, and there are very few pictures of her even from then, but you’ll recognize who she is when I give you a last name.”
“What is it?”
There was an explosion of breath. Not a good sign. “Chevenier.”
Surprise passed through Cathal like an electric charge. He remembered the scandal, only because his father and uncle had talked about it at the dinner table, approving of the fact that a cop who had married into a wealthy and powerful old San Francisco family not only had the balls to acknowledge a bastard child publicly, but take her into his home and raise her.
To be sure, Cathal asked, “As in, daughter of Captain Chevenier?”
“That’s right. And sister of Parker Chevenier. Does that name ring any bells?”
Cathal searched his memory but didn’t come up with anything. “No.”
“How about FBI. The Harlequin Rapist taskforce. And while we’re on the subject, is she a psychic, an artist, or a psychic artist?”
Uneasiness exacerbated the edgy frustration Cathal already felt. “You want to get to your point here?”
“I take it you haven’t brushed up against the news yet this morning.”
A glance at the twisted sheets on his bed had Cathal baring his teeth. “No.”
“There’s a story circulating about the taskforce calling in a psychic to help them identify the Harlequin Rapist. The source is supposed to be someone at San Francisco General. The claim is that members of the taskforce were seen bringing in a woman who has helped on at least one other case, the one where that kid was traumatized in a home invasion at the beginning of the year. There’s also widespread speculation this unknown person is related to a high-level SFPD captain. You want to add anything here?”
“When I called you yesterday she was on her way to meet her brother.”
“Then the news that the last victim—now dead—saw something might not be too far off. Since you’re paying for my time, I’ll give you my opinion. The leak could be for real, or it could be a deliberate attempt to direct this sick bastard at a certain target—Etaín—with her
permission, I’d assume, though you know how assumptions go. Look up victim profile and she’s a ringer for the women this guy goes for when he grabs a white one. My advice to you, which you might want to pass on to your father and uncle, is to stay away from her until this plays out and the attention of the taskforce and the media aren’t on her.”
“Fuck!”
“Yeah. Well, I’ll keep tabs on her movements with the tracker, but that’s all for now.”
