Bound to Me (8 page)

CHAPTER TWO

S
tepping inside the air-conditioned arctic of the tattoo parlor, I kicked the door shut while dropping my bag on the floor along with the gun. I twisted around and slid the dead bolt back into place, and glanced around the parlor. The lobby had dark hardwood floors covered in ancient area rugs with worn floral patterns. An old ceramic fireplace stood against one wall with its mouth covered over to hold in the heat during the winter and the cool during the blistering summer months. The far wall was covered in plastic flipboards that held common tattoo designs we had done in the past to give potential clients some suggestions, should they need them. But in most cases, clients didn’t much bother with the flipboards, preferring to rely on the knowledge of the artist. A counter with a clear glass case stood before the doorway to the actual tattoo work space. It held a variety of old books and pictures depicting tattoos from the earliest of days when only sailors were among the clientele. They had been handed down to me by the man I had apprenticed under when I decided to open my own shop.

A faint hint of antiseptic hung in the air from where Bronx had sterilized most of the surface areas in the back before closing up the night before. Underlying that was the smell of stale magic, which always made me smile a little. It was a distinct smell that only the experienced magic user could pick up, and I had more experience than I was willing to admit to anyone.

I leaned down and threw back the largest of the area rugs near the center of the room to reveal a pentagram deeply etched into the wood floor. Stepping into the center of the pentagram, I closed my eyes but still hesitated. I reminded myself that this type of magic fell under the self-defense clause. Besides, it was a rune spell and the guardians couldn’t pick up on that kind of magic very well. Energy flowed around me, beating against my skin while trying to push its way into my brain. I started a low chant while keeping my arms lifted slightly at my sides. Magic energy coursed through me for a few seconds before shifting throughout the front room and flowing to the back room and down into the basement, completing my bidding.

After a second, I dropped my arms back to my sides and narrowed my eyes as I stared at the front door. A slight blue glow that only I could see clung to the opening. The spell was a small one, allowing me to see through anyone’s glamour as they entered my tattoo parlor. You never knew who was going to walk through your door and I wasn’t taking any chances. I had to recast the spell every day before opening the shop, but it was a small price to pay. Besides, security systems didn’t come cheap, and getting one that included magical defenses was even more expensive since it involved finding a warlock or a witch willing to do a little menial labor. Not fucking likely.

The de-glamour spell had proven itself time and time again, and very few could sense it when they walked through the door. Bronx had before I had hired him—I remembered seeing him open the door and pause at the threshold. I had been behind the counter at the time, and I remember seeing the troll narrow his eyes at me before he stepped boldly into the room. I doubted whether he could tell what the spell was exactly, but he knew it was there. I simply smiled and shrugged. The Asylum Tattoo Parlor wasn’t in the greatest neighborhood, and I had every right to protect myself and any colleagues. Bronx never said a word about the spell and I think that was part of the reason why I hired him. That, and he had some of the most impressive shading skills and creative line work I had ever seen. His potion-stirring skills hadn’t been the strongest when he had been hired, but he proved to be a fast learner.

However, the greatest reveal came from Trixie. She had given a little shudder when she stepped into the tattoo parlor, but by her expression, I could tell that she had simply waved it off as a cold chill in the air. The spell had instantly stripped away the glamour spell she had been using, leaving it as little more than a hazy shadow over her tight, lithe form so that I could see that she was truly an elf. I had never told her that I knew exactly what she was and had no intention of mentioning it. She was cloaking her true presence for a reason and I had no desire to go digging into something that wasn’t any of my business.

Besides, Trixie was good for the parlor. Her long slender legs revealed by a pair of short shorts during the summer, and her dainty tank tops filled out with perky breasts—topped off with a gorgeous face—drew in more than a fair share of repeat clients. Her sweet, outgoing personality and her skill with a needle made her an amazing package that I preferred not to lose, so her secrets were her own.

Stepping out of the pentagram, I kicked the rug back and made sure that the corner met up with the bit of masking tape on the floor I used as a guide to ensure that rug hadn’t been moved. No one needed to know about the pentagram. As far as anyone else was concerned, I was just a tattoo artist and we didn’t know shit about real magic.

I grabbed my gym bag and slung it on my shoulder. The front door was locked and the spell was back in place. It was time to get to work.

In the main room of the tattoo parlor, I flicked on the lights and let my eyes travel over the white counter space, the three large chairs, and the rainbow of ink bottles that lined one wall. Everything was neat and tidy, ready for another day. But then, Bronx was very organized and neat when he worked. He had no problem cleaning up the shop before he left at the end of the night. The only one that might have been more organized and clean-conscious was a vampire, but I preferred not to have one on staff. I didn’t need to worry about a staff member taking a nip at someone while in the middle of a job.

I crossed the room and headed down a narrow hallway to a windowless backroom. This was where we completed some tattoos while offering clients a little privacy, should the tattoo be in a place that was more than a little revealing. There were other, darker reasons for using the backroom for tattooing, but then I always figured that was the decision of the tattoo artist to go down that path. I didn’t ask too many questions, particularly since I used this room the most often of us.

Shutting the door behind me, I went over to the floor-to-ceiling wood cabinet that covered one wall and pulled it open. Thousands of bottles, vials, plastic containers, and yellowing envelopes filled the cabinet. This was where we kept the main ingredients to stir the potions needed for the majority of the tattoos people came to get. Sure, some customers just wanted a little ink. But most wanted something a little extra. They wanted the tattoo to do something for them, and whether it was a burst of good luck, a dollop of true love, or even a hex on an ex, we could get it done—for a price.

After scanning the vials for a second, I pulled down the one that held the leprechaun hair and glanced at the date on the side. It wasn’t that old and shouldn’t have gone bad on me already. It had to be the source of the hair that was less than . . . prime. In my limited experience, some leprechauns were just plain evil, running more toward their cousins the imp and the hinky-punk than their more compassionate faerie cousins. I had to be careful stirring with this ingredient or I was going to end up shot. Good luck spells were fairly common, though I generally relied on the leprechaun hair only for the cheap asses.

All the same, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Lana’s number down at Curl Up & Dye. After a few minutes of mindless chatter and harmless flirting with the stylist, I got her to promise to bring me down a new tuft of leprechaun hair, from a different source this time, in the next couple days. For now, I was stuck with what I had and we had to be careful.

Slipping my cell phone back in my pocket, I walked over to the back of the room and pulled up the trapdoor in the floor with only a whisper of a creak. Most of the time, a chair was left on the trapdoor to make it look like it was unused, but I suspected that my co-workers were aware of my occasional disappearances down into the basement.

Despite the overwhelming darkness, I easily grabbed the pull chain on the single bare bulb in the basement and jerked it on before hitting the dirt floor. Along three of the walls were additional wood cabinets holding more volatile and rare items. Some I had been lucky enough to inherit while others were purchased on the black market. All of them were for my exclusive use and they were what made me the most successful tattoo artist in town. When you wanted something done right and had the cash to pay for it, it was all about the ingredients in the ink rather than the design on the skin.

On the one bare stone wall was another pentagram spray-painted in black. This one held the power to attack anyone who came down here. I glanced over the items one time and did a quick check on the spell to see that it was still intact and cast by me. No one had been down here without my knowledge. The same tension that coiled in my stomach every day I walked into the shop finally unwound and I breathed a sigh of relief. There were other spells down here too, cloaking special items from view, protecting both them and me. There were things down here that people would kill for and ones that were an automatic death sentence for possessing without being a witch or warlock.

Overhead, I heard the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut, followed by the heavy pounding of heels across the hardwood floor. I knew that cadence. Trixie was in early.

Hurrying up the stairs, I shut the trapdoor behind me and dropped my bag on it to keep it partially hidden from view. It was time to get to work.

“Is there a reason a gun is lying on the floor?” Trixie asked casually as I met her in the main tattooing area.

Shit.
I’d forgotten about the gun. It was now sitting quite obviously on the floor beside the front door where I had left it. Not exactly the best thing to leave lying around a tattoo parlor where any of your more unstable customers could pick it up.

“Rough afternoon,” I muttered, but the words didn’t come out sounding as indifferently as I had hoped, as my eyes fell on Trixie’s outfit for today. Instead of her usual shorts, she wore a pair of jeans with some strategically placed holes and tears. Her top was a black leather bustier that accented the swell of her breasts and left a broad swath of her flat stomach bare. Her long blond locks were pulled back in some twist thing that allowed some thick strands to frame her face. As she turned to drop her bag on the counter, I could easily make out the butterfly-wing tattoo between her shoulder blades. Somehow, they seemed to sparkle in the light as she moved.

Clenching my teeth, I ducked my head down as I walked out into the lobby and picked up the gun. She was going to be the death of my sanity. I positively ached to touch her, to run my hands along skin I knew would be as smooth as satin, and bury my nose in her neck to drink in her sweet scent. I knew better than to mix business with pleasure. It NEVER worked out. Never.

To make matters worse, Trixie had gone out of her way to disguise the fact that she was an elf, when it was well known that some of the best artists in the industry were elves. They had the patience and the natural talent not only to learn to stir a good potion, but also to learn the art. Trixie was hiding and that wasn’t good under any circumstances. It had been on the tip of my tongue to ask her about it on more than one occasion, but I wasn’t exactly sure how to start that conversation without giving away my own abilities and dark past. Among humans, the only ones that could identify a glamour spell were warlocks and witches. My hands were tied.

For now, I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open, content with her working five nights a week.

“What are you doing here so early?” I asked as I came back into the tattooing room with the gun. I kicked open one of the cabinets on the far side of the room with the toe of my worn black boot, removed the magazine from the bottom of the grip, and threw the gun and magazine in with the others that I had collected over the past few years. This was a somewhat dangerous business even under the best of circumstances. Luckily, having a troll on staff helped to keep the scuffles to a minimum.

“You said today was inventory day. I thought I would come in early and help,” she said with a bright smile.

I made some nondescript noise in the back of my throat as I kicked the cabinet door shut again, mentally plucking the wings off the butterflies that took flight in my stomach. After working with her for roughly two years, I would like to think that I could get through a work day without acting like a hormone-filled idiot.

My shift at the Asylum usually ran from the middle of the afternoon and until mid-evening, while Trixie came in a few hours after me. Bronx didn’t show up until a couple hours after the sun set and stayed until a couple hours before dawn. Oddly enough, these were typical hours for tattoo parlors. No one worked mornings. Who the hell wanted a tattoo first thing in the morning with their coffee?

“Are you ever going to do anything about those guns? Or are you just collecting those as mementoes of your past conquests?” Trixie continued.

A smirk lifted one corner of my mouth before I could stop it and I shook my head. “Would you rather I called the cops so I could hand them all over like a good boy?”

“And then try to survive the barrage of questions that would accompany that armory?” she scoffed. “I’d like to stay below the radar of
all
the local law enforcement.”

“Agreed. I’ve got some contacts. I’ll start asking around to see what I can get. We could use some new equipment,” I said, letting my eyes skim over the work area, while carefully avoiding Trixie. We could always use some fresh ingredients, and some of the tattooing equipment was starting to get worn in such a way that we were making personal modifications just so that it kept working through a tattoo. I had made some nice cash from this business over the past few years, but it was obvious that it was time to start reinvesting.

Walking over to the counter opposite where Trixie was currently perched, I turned on the small television linked to the security camera that looked over the lobby of the parlor. It allowed us to see who came through the door when we were all busy with a chair. It wasn’t completely foolproof—some creatures didn’t show up on camera—but it caught most that wandered through our door.