Demon's Vow: Part 2 of the Final Asylum Tales (The Asylum Tales series) (11 page)

I had hung myself in my living room so I could beat the Grim Reaper. I’d spent an afternoon with Mother Nature and held the soul of my son so I could save the entire race of elves. I could find a way to stop two killers from destroying Low Town while keeping my girlfriend and our unborn child safe. The only problem was that I had to find a way to do it without involving demons.

Chapter 8

P
ushing through the day with only two hours’ sleep was no easy thing. My body ached in a dozen places, my eyes burned, and my concentration was shit. I was beginning to think that my age was catching up with me a little bit. I was a whole hell of a lot closer to thirty now than I was to twenty. When I’d first opened Asylum, I could tattoo from midday until three in the morning, and then go drinking with Parker and Bronx until about sunrise. I’d catch a few hours of sleep on the couch before jumping in the shower so I could do it all over again.

Now I was dodging too many creatures eager to kill me while worrying about my girlfriend and paying the bills.
Dear God, I was even starting to sound old.

The first few hours in Asylum passed slowly, but I was grateful that my scheduled appointments were on time. I’d completed the sketches earlier in the week so all I had to do was actually stir any required potions and fire up the tattooing gun. After a while, the combination of the steady buzz of the machine and the inane chatter that drifted about the shop as I worked settled my frayed nerves so that I found a shallow pond of inner peace to sink into.

I loved tattooing. Well, maybe not as much as using magic, but there was a comfort in holding the tattooing gun in my right hand and etching a design I’d created along someone’s flesh. I think at first I’d pursued it because potion stirring was something that I was good at. During my time in the Ivory Towers, I had learned a great deal about the magical properties of different ingredients. When it came to stirring a potion for love or luck or just good old-fashioned revenge, I was a natural. It was the actual artistic side of the tattooing that I was forced to work at. That challenge combined with the idea that I was actually helping people with my magical knowledge made it possible for me to finally accept that I’d been born a warlock.

After I opened my own place, a deep sense of security and peace hit me. But it lasted for only a few days. The temptation to set up a secret spot in which to do magic was overwhelming and the basement was perfect. While I’d managed to hide it from my tattooing mentor, I’d never been able to completely stop using magic despite my initial belief that I’d be able to stop cold turkey with no problem. Geez, the world had crack addicts with more self-control than me. I’d gotten better, but it was a struggle every day to not tap into the energy in the air to do the simplest of things.

And now I was back with the Ivory Towers working as a spy and a part-time guardian. I couldn’t even spot where I’d veered off my original path anymore. Hell, I couldn’t even see my original path from where I stood.

Serah popped into the shop around three in the afternoon, carrying two large coffee cups from the coffee shop down the block from Asylum.

“Come on back,” I called as I let up from the pedal for a moment. I watched on the little security camera as she stepped around the glass case before I started the tattooing gun buzzing again, turning my attention back to the siren’s hip I was working on. Charise was one of my regulars. I had completed a series of roses and vines along her lower back, placed the kanji for love on the back of her neck, and now I was doing a pair of dragonflies on her narrow hips.

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t realize!” Serah gasped as she entered the main tattooing room.

Lifting the tattooing gun from Charise’s flawless pale skin, I looked up to see Serah blushing brightly, quickly turning away to head back toward the lobby. I swallowed back a chuckle. What the TAPSS investigator had not been ready for was the fact that Charise was wearing a little pink tank top and matching pink bikini-cut panties so that I could easily get at her hips.

“It’s okay, honey,” Charise said in a voice that poured into your ears like expensive champagne. “You can stay. He’s almost done.”

“Another ten to fifteen minutes,” I said, putting the gun down so that I could smear a little more petroleum jelly along her skin.

“Oh, are you sure? I can—”

“Stay!” Charise said with an almost child-like giggle before turning to me. “Isn’t she just the cutest thing? She’s embarrassed.”

I smirked up at Serah, who was torn between embarrassment and anger at being laughed at. “Yeah, she’s adorable.”

“Ah, honey, I used to be a dancer down at Diamond Dolls. I’m not embarrassed, so you shouldn’t be either.”

And that was why I liked doing work for Charise. It’s also why she got a discount. That and she got a number of her coworkers to come to Asylum for tattoos as well. Charise felt no embarrassment or shame regarding what she did for a living. She knew the value of the service that she was providing and she wouldn’t allow anyone to make her feel bad about it. There was an inner strength in her that I didn’t see in women who pulled down six figures a year, drove a Mercedes, and had a closet full of designer clothes.

“Is one of those for me?” I asked, saving Serah from the mire that she was starting to sink into. Her eyes snapped to the two cups she had in her hand as if she had forgotten that she was carrying them.

“Uh . . . yeah,” she said, extending one toward me.

“Put it on the counter,” I directed with a jerk of my head toward the counter on my left while I picked up the gun again. The scent of the coffee was heavenly, though my stomach was starting to rebel a little bit. I’d sucked down a pot of coffee already but hadn’t followed it up with anything that actually resembled food. My stomach wasn’t pleased.

“What are you having Gage tattoo on you?” Charise asked as I started working again. I inwardly cringed a bit. That was the one drawback about Charise. She didn’t have some of the boundaries that most people had. Most customers knew better than to ask what they were having done because there was a good chance that it was something very private between you and your artist. But you couldn’t fault her. She was just trying to make polite conversation.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Serah said. She set her cup of coffee down on one of the empty folding chairs I kept for clients or friends of clients while they waited. She stripped off her coat and tossed it over the back of the chair. Pausing for a second, she then continued to strip off her bulky cable-knit sweater. The heat in the shop was higher than usual because Charise was wearing so little. Once she left, I’d have to turn it back down again so the damn gas and electric bill wouldn’t be through the roof.

“Have you let Gage tattoo you before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Charise gave an excited little clap and I had to pause as I waited for her to settle down again. “You have come to the best shop in all of Low Town. Gage is a genius!”

“My coworkers are very good too,” I interjected.

“Yes, of course, but you’re the best,” she said, nearly purring as she gave me a little pat on the head.

“Rein it in, Charise,” I warned. Sirens were tricky creatures. Their voices can ensnare a mind and hypnotize a creature into doing whatever they want. In general, they’ve got great control over their gift, but I’ve noticed that when Charise is really happy, her control slips a bit.

“Oh, you’re fine,” she said, pooh-poohing my warning as she turned her attention back to Serah. “Do you know if you want a potion with your tattoo? That could limit what you get. I just went with some art and some light cosmetic potions that Gage is just brilliant at.”

“I think I’d want just art,” Serah said slowly as if she was getting more into the role she was playing for the benefit of Charise. I had no doubt that she had an update to give me on our investigation, but she wasn’t going to say a word about it until we were alone. For now, she was just another customer in Asylum Tattoo Parlor.

“You know, I bet you’d look good with a little bluebird on your ankle or a butterfly on the top of your foot.”

“The top of your foot is more of a summertime tattoo,” I said, not bothering to look up from the canvas stretched before me. Too often people came in with this idea of what they needed to have right that moment without thinking about the long-term aspects. Like the fact that flip-flops were great when letting a tattoo on the top of your foot heal, but they sucked during the winter.

“Oh, that’s true. What about your shoulder? That’s a good spot for a tattoo.”

“What do you think I should get, Gage?” Serah asked.

I looked up briefly to see an expectant look on her face, but I just shook my head at her. “There’s a large flip book under the chair next to you that has a lot of designs. Check that out. I’m almost done with Charise.”

Every tattoo artist around the world was asked that question and I was pretty sure that every last one of us longed to smack that customer a time or two. To me, a tattoo was a reflection of who you were. It should be something important to you or some aspect or philosophy that you valued. As a total stranger, I could no sooner pick out that one thing that you cherished than I could pick the perfect name for your firstborn child or locate your soul mate in a police lineup. Whenever I was asked that, I was tempted to tattoo the person with the contact info for my parlor. If you’re going to leave it up to me, I was going to use your flesh as advertising space, because you obviously didn’t give a shit.

Charise and Serah chatted amiably for the next few minutes as I finished up some shading details on the dragonfly I was doing. Serah flipped through the book of designs she had picked up and was sharing them with the dancer as if she were actually planning to get the tattoo. I appreciated her making the effort to keep the atmosphere relaxed despite the fact that I was itching to know what information she had brought me.

As soon I was finished bandaging up the tattoo on Charise’s left hip, I stripped off my latex gloves and snatched up the cup of coffee that Serah had brought. There was no holding back the moan of delight that rumbled up my throat as the double-shot espresso poured into my body. The caffeine gave me a nice jolt as if getting those last pistons firing in my brain. I had been starting to drag.

“You’re an angel,” I murmured while Charise sauntered across the tattooing room to pick up the tiny skirt she had folded and placed on another tattooing chair. The woman had to be freezing when she walked out the door, but it wasn’t my problem.

“The guy at the coffee shop said you usually ordered that,” Serah said, keeping her eyes locked on me while the other woman got dressed.

“Bill,” I grunted. Bill was one of the baristas down at the local coffee shop, though if you called him a barista you risked getting a face-full of steaming-hot coffee. He was usually making my order by the time I walked in the place since I almost never deviated from my usual. There were perks to being a regular customer.

With half the coffee gone, I walked Charise to the front lobby, where we briefly set up her next appointment so that she could get the matching dragonfly done on her other hip. I had offered to do both today but she just smiled and said that she liked to have a reason to come back to see me. I accepted the compliment and the impersonal hug before she strode out of the shop, her high-heeled shoes clomping across the hardwood floor like a draft horse pulling a heavy load.

I hesitated at the glass case, some part of me not wanting to return to the tattooing room. Charise represented everything that was normal about my life, everything that it was supposed to be. I’d wanted a life of bullshitting with people about everyday things that didn’t really matter. Life was supposed to be creating art and helping people. I was supposed to be worried about bills and whether I needed to get a new set of tires for my SUV so I could get through the winter snow.

But all that was slipping away in the face of darkness that was crowding my life. Reaching down to pick up my MP3 player, I switched the music over to a playlist of movie scores. It matched my darkening mood and was easy to talk over.

“I think I’d like this tattoo,” Serah said, finally pulling me into the tattooing room.

Stepping over the threshold, I leaned forward a little to see that she was pointing to a picture of a Japanese koi. I smiled, impressed by her selection.

“Nice choice. Do you know what it means?” When she shook her head, I picked up my coffee cup and sat down in the tattooing chair that Charise had vacated just moments ago. “The koi is popular among young men, but some women have started getting it. It’s the symbol of a person’s journey. A sign of growth, courage, and strength. There’s an old fairy tale that I don’t remember, but apparently the final evolution of the koi is a dragon, the most important of all the Japanese symbols.”

“You make it sound like you have to be worthy of attaining a tattoo of a koi,” she said softly as she closed the book and set in on the chair next to her.

“Only the person getting the tattoo can decide if she is worthy.” I paused, waiting for her to meet my eyes again. “Are you?”

She lifted her head, her shoulders straightening a little, and met my gaze without flinching. “I am.”

“Good answer.”

A little laugh escaped her and she shook her head at me as we both brushed aside the momentary soul-searching. There was a lot I didn’t know about the TAPSS investigator but I respected her. She worked hard and believed in what she was doing. There were a lot of people in this world who weren’t doing half as much as she was.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I said, holding the empty cup up to her before I placed it on the counter.

“I thought you could use it. You said that you were functioning on only two hours of sleep. The parlor forcing you to keep such long hours?”

I shook my head. “I’ve got some other problems that I’m dealing with at the moment.”

“Earlier, when you told me that your girlfriend was pregnant,” Serah started and then paused, licking her lips. “You weren’t serious, were you?”

“Trixie is pregnant.”

“Oh,” she whispered.

“Which explains her reaction to your announcement the other night at Kyle’s shop,” I added, watching as my companion visibly paled. Yeah, telling a pregnant woman that other pregnant women had been killed by a psychopath was not something anyone wanted to do.