Nightmare Ink (8 page)

Isa shoved open the door. It screamed a baritone screech that climbed to tenor in a voice that sounded like someone gargling gravel.

She shrieked in answer and backpedaled.

The steel door swung into the concrete wall with a clang.

The scream died.

“Oh, my fucking God, Ice!” a rough voice wheezed. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack? I will make one ugly corpse.”

“Patty?” Isa breathed. She mustered the courage to edge across the threshold so the light shining out of the doorway would let Isa see her and maybe convince the lizard part of her brain still dumping adrenaline into her chest that she was not about to be eaten by a lion. “We almost died together.”

Patty’s wig and tulle skirt drooped, weighed down by rain. She didn’t bother to wipe away the water glinting on her face. Makeup slid in rivulets down her skin. Stripes of rough pockmarks and stubble showed through the perfect, smooth complexion her makeup gave her.

Isa liked the contrast, the reality of Patty showing through Patty as she wanted to be.

“Dying together’s overrated. Don’t care what Shakespeare said,” Patty grunted. “I hate all that romantic Romeo and Juliet shit.”

“Suddenly, so do I. What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Calling it a night,” she said. “Rain’s washing away my johns.”

“Patty, it’s very early morning,” Isa said. “Aren’t your clients at home asleep? Tomorrow’s a workday.”

Patty’s snort of derision sounded decidedly masculine. “Clients. You’re sweet, Ice. Naive but sweet. My johns aren’t usually nine-to-five types. What are you doing in so late? Aren’t you usually locked and shuttered by now?”

“Clean up.” Isa had no intention of telling anyone she’d fixed Daniel’s Live Ink.

Nathalie knowing what she’d done couldn’t be helped. She’d been here all night. And she was right. Her sense of self-preservation would keep her mouth shut.

“I have a few things for the burn container.”

Patty nodded. One false eyelash fell across her eye. She peeled it away with thick fingers. “Those police cleanup teams never really do clean up, do they?”

Isa unclipped the latch on the burn container while inwardly raising an eyebrow. Patty had reason to know the vagaries of police clean teams? How and when had that happened?

“I’m a few seconds short of drowning, Ice. I’m going home for a long soak in a lavender bubble bath.”

“Good night,” Isa said, snagging the paper bag and setting it inside the container. “Sorry about the years off your life.”

“At the risk of sounding like a stereotype, I’ll quote Freddie Mercury. ‘Who wants to live forever?’” She tottered down the alley, her high heels unstable in the gravel and potholes. She paused. “By the way. My former apprentice, Bishop?”

“Yes?”

“Works for Daniel.”

Isa’s heart kicked her in the ribs. “He had to be lying.”

“No,” Patty said. She barked a bitter laugh. “You never ask Satan where he comes from, Ice. You watch him slither back into his hole in the ground.” Five strides away, she disappeared behind the curtain of rain and darkness. For two more strides, Isa thought she could still hear her footfalls above the relentless impact of water pounding the city. Then she lost her.

Shivering as she latched and locked the burn container, she made a mental note to call for the incineration service pickup in the morning.

From somewhere behind her in the drowned city, an owl called. The mournful hoot lifted the hair at the back of her neck.

Isa straightened, frowning, and turned.

What would an owl want with Seattle? Or any city, for that matter?

Another cry. Nearer. Or was that the rain playing tricks on her with sound?

She stepped closer to the drip line of the eave, scanning the roof across the alley.

The ghostly white owl swooped out of nowhere, passing so close to her face she felt the rush of wind roiling beneath its wings.

Heart banging against her ribs, she shied back, uttering a croak of surprise. Breath coming in short gasps, she spun and bolted for the door. She yanked it after her, slamming it shut once she’d crossed the threshold into the basement.

As if the owl might develop thumbs and work out door latches, she raced to secure the bar across the door and lock it in place.

Isa tried to dismiss superstition. An owl hooting and swooping in front of her did not necessarily foretell a death, no matter what local native tradition said. She’d foiled the owl’s dinner plans, and some rat had lived another night. That was bad enough. Wasn’t it?

Isa couldn’t stop shaking. Forcing herself to her feet, she ignored the dread rolling through her in waves as she went upstairs to finish closing up shop. Thanks to Nathalie, she had nothing much to do except set the alarm and turn out lights.

Rain still fell in sheets. In the glow of the streetlights, it resolved into waves of falling water. The downpour drowned out the normal sounds of the late night/early morning city. The bars hadn’t yet closed, but none of the regular smokers clustered beneath the sagging awning of the hip, tiny tapas bar on the corner across the street. One lone car passed on Twenty-second, headed north. The assault of water drowned out even the sound of the vehicle’s tires on the wet cobbled pavement.

Shoving her hands in her pockets, she strode up the block to the door to her apartment building, avoiding the waterfalls cascading off of the overhangs and signs of her neighbors’ businesses. By dodging from cover to cover, she managed to get in the apartment building door without having gotten completely sodden. She climbed the stairs, skipping the fifth tread that groaned like the zombies in a bad horror movie. No need to wake the other four tenants.

The aged building housed a row of shops on the ground floor and apartments on the floor above. She’d scored the apartment directly above her shop at the same time she’d leased the commercial space second from the corner. Her apartment was the last one on the street side of the building. She liked that her commute consisted of walking half a block from Nightmare Ink to the apartment building lobby and then nearly half a block back toward Nightmare Ink, albeit one floor up. As she unlocked her front door, flipped on the lights, and fielded Gus’s whining, whole-body wagging greeting, it dawned on her again, landing with sudden, inescapable weight. She’d done Live Ink. What the hell had she been thinking?

Gus leaned against her shins, his tail thumping the doorframe, grinning up at her with his tongue lolling. Isa pushed her concerns aside, bent over, and patted his shoulder. “Let me in the door, Augustus. Good evening, Ikylla.”

The brown and white tabby cat sat on top of the half wall dividing the entry from the living room, peering at her while doing her best impression of a Bastet statue. A Bastet statue with a note sticking out from beneath her furry butt.

Isa tugged it free.

“Dog walked. N.”

Nathalie.

For not making Isa go back out into the rain to listen for that stupid owl, she’d knock at least a hundred bucks from Nathalie’s shop rent for the month.

“Come on, you two. It’s past our bedtime.”

Gus swung away, his claws loud on the entry stone. Once he hit carpet, he stopped and looked over his shoulder as if to assure himself that she’d be following.

Isa locked and bolted the door, then took off her coat to hang beside it once she’d fished her cell phone from the pocket.

Ikylla pressed her head into Isa’s hand as she offered a drive-by pet.

“How’s my beautiful girl?” Isa murmured.

The cat blinked her gold-green eyes and purred.

When Isa went to the bedroom to plug in the phone, the cat and Gus followed. Ikylla leaped onto the bed, expectation in her stance.

Even though exhaustion swept her, Isa couldn’t face going to bed yet. She couldn’t slow the swing from elation to anger at herself. She’d done something with Live Ink she didn’t think had ever been done before. By so doing, she’d violated her oath to never touch Live Ink again. That should have felt like a betrayal of her mentors’ memories. The tremble of euphoria in her chest made no sense. Guilt raked her.

She shuffled into the bathroom to sink conflicting emotions in the shower.

She turned on the water, stripped, and tied her black braid atop her head. Washing her waist-long hair entailed hours of drying time, and she wanted to be asleep. She stepped into the tub and closed the shower curtain. When she’d picked up the rust-colored curtain, she’d wanted a splash of color in the stark white bathroom. Now she wished she’d picked something that looked less like dried blood. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at it. A wave of weariness swept her.

She heeded the warning. With soap that smelled of sweetgrass, she scrubbed her skin as if she could wash away what she’d done with Live Ink and the encounter with the hunting barn owl. She watched soap suds run down the drain and imagined she could see confusion circling and disappearing down the drain, too.

When she shut off the water and tugged aside the shower curtain, she found the dog sitting in the doorway. He rose, his tail thumping twice, once against each side of the doorframe. He’d cocked his ears halfway back, and his brown eyes followed her every move as she snagged a towel from the rack.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she said as she dried. “I’m fine. I apologize for the late night. Let’s go to bed.”

Ikylla stood up, arched her back as if for an invisible hand, and rubbed her body against the mirror.

Isa didn’t dare accept the invitation to pet her. Damp hands would be a mortal offense. She picked up her comb instead. Running the teeth gently down the cat’s spine earned her a rusty-sounding purr. Ikylla let Isa comb her for a moment, then she turned and rubbed her chin, first one side, then the other, on the teeth. Her eyes squinched in bliss. Her purr deepened, and she occasionally squeaked on the inhale.

When she began biting the teeth of the comb, Isa knew she’d had enough.

“May we get some sleep, now?”

Kneading her paws, Ikylla blinked permission.

“So kind.”

Ikylla jumped off the counter and led the way into the bedroom. She flowed up onto the bed, watching from her nest in the covers while Isa tugged on clean underwear and an old T-shirt.

Isa climbed into bed. Before turning out the bedside lamp, she opened the drawer of her nightstand and picked up the black feather she kept there. It glinted, as shiny and smooth as the day she’d found it a decade ago.

Magic tingled from the feather to her fingers, like the caress of a fond parent. Reassurance? Encouragement?

Isa snorted. Wishful thinking, more like. She set the feather back in the drawer and closed it. She switched off the lamp. Climbing in under the covers, she shifted to the center of the mattress.

Gus leaped up and began rooting in the covers, arranging his spot to his liking before he turned a series of circles. He flopped against her right side.

“Oof.”

He heaved a great doggy sigh as she petted his ears.

Ikylla allowed a couple of strokes of her short, silky fur before she snuggled between Isa’s left arm and rib cage.

Surrounded by the warmth of her animal family, Isa slept.

***

Gus twitching in his dreams pulled her from the depths of slumber. He whimpered.

Still groggy, Isa fought to open her eyes so she could nudge him. It hit her in that instant. Ikylla was gone from her spot. The cat’s body heat evaporating from Isa’s skin made her shiver.

Gus shuddered.

Isa drew breath to say his name. He bolted to his feet and howled. Her heart jolted.

Something thudded against the building. Jagged yellow/red magic slammed through her chest. The bed quivered from the impact. Downstairs, barely audible, glass crashed.

Isa froze for the elongated split-second it took for the alarm in the store downstairs to begin shrieking. She sat bolt upright.

Her cell phone started ringing, barely audible over the alarm. She grabbed it from the bedside table and hit
ANSWER
. “Hello?”

The dog fled.

“Ms. Romanchzyk, this is Jet City Protection. We have an active alarm at—”

“Someone just smashed the window!” Isa shouted as she rolled out of the bed. She had to unplug the phone before she could stand upright.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve alerted the police, Ms. Romanchzyk. They’re on their way. I’d like you to remain on the line until they arrive.”

“Setting the phone down long enough to put on a pair of pants,” she countered. “I’m not facing a smash and grab and endless police reports in my pajamas.”

“The police won’t care, Ms.—”

“I care. One sec.” She yanked on a pair of jeans, pulled off the ratty Weird Ink T-shirt she slept in, put on a bra, a long-sleeve tee, and the first sweatshirt that came to hand.

Muffled thumps had started to come from the other tenants in the building, audible even above the shrill of the alarm. She expected half of them to end up pounding on her door as if she hadn’t been ripped out of sleep by the same thing they had.

She snatched up the phone and headed for the door as she said, “Back.”

“The police report they are on scene.”

“Okay. Headed down to secure the alarm before my neighbors lynch me.”

“Don’t hang up, Ms. Romanchzyk,” the guy on the other end said.

The rain must have let up. The streetlights lit up the front room well enough that she didn’t need to switch on a light. She stuffed her feet into a shabby pair of cowboy boots that she should have discarded long ago and grabbed her jacket, patting the right-hand pocket to be sure the shop keys were still there. If they jingled, she couldn’t hear them over the obnoxious alarm, but the bulk and heft of them reassured her.

She’d clattered three steps down the stairs when the alarm died.

A ragged cheer went up from the neighbors. The newborn in unit 205 wailed.

Isa cringed.

“Was that an earthquake?” the woman from the unit next to Isa’s asked.

“Don’t think so,” the guy from across the hall said. “Only one shop alarm. Ms. Romanchzyk, let me walk down with you.”

“No need,” she called over her shoulder. “Alarm company’s on the phone, and the police are already on-site, but thanks! Sorry about the alarm!”

Doors closed behind her.

“Ms. Romanchzyk?” the guy on the other end of the phone said. “Did you secure the alarm?”

“No,” she said. “Still in the stairwell. Must have been the police.”

The phone line popped and crackled.

“Could be,” he said. “But I’m reading a fault in the system . . .”

She lost whatever he said after that to the noise on the line. She pushed out the door at the bottom of the stairs hoping for clearer reception on the street.

“Sorry, what?”

“. . . sure it’s nothing. Your system lost power. We . . .”

Three loud beeps made her yank the phone away from her ear, swearing. Of course the call would drop.

Isa jogged the half block to Nightmare Ink. The alarm company would certainly call back.

At the bus stop, she slowed, and then stopped.

No flashing red and blue lights. No police cruisers. The curb in front of the shop was empty.

Her hand tightened on the phone. Shards of glass littering the sidewalk in front of her store gleamed, reflecting the yellow and green neon from the kitschy consignment furniture shop one door up from hers.

Isa dialed 911.

Nothing happened. The call wouldn’t ring out. She hung up and tried again. Same thing.

She stared at the screen. No bars.
Useless damned piece of crap.
She’d have to call from the landline in the shop. Surely the alarm company had notified the police when they’d been cut off.

She edged closer to Nightmare Ink, listening intently.

Not a sound.

The window smasher hadn’t hung around it seemed. To be certain, Isa paused and opened to magic.

Gray fading to black silhouettes and golden puddles dotting the pavement beneath the streetlights shimmered with a faint overlay of color—the energetic signatures of everything in the street, animate and inanimate.

The faintest echo of another magical presence stirred the background energy of the street.

Her palms tingled.

Whoever had smashed the window had magic. The signature felt familiar somehow; predatory, elusive, but it wasn’t Daniel’s. Entirely. His magical fingerprint she would have recognized. The residue she sensed seemed confused. The dragon?

She’d never heard of rogue Ink returning to the scene of its escape, but Live Ink had so few data points to go by. Who knew what to expect of Ink that killed its host and achieved a semblance of life?

The only thing she knew for certain was that the dragon would be hungry. The police weren’t equipped to handle an attack from a creature they wouldn’t even be able to see.

She’d have to deal with the creature herself.

Her left quad twitched.

She strode to her shop door.

It seemed ridiculous to have to unlock the glass and varnished wood front door when her plate glass display window had been reduced to crystalline shards and glinting dust. Her neon
OPEN
sign dangled from one chain.

The breeze out of the south subsided.

A sour, metallic scent bit the back of her throat. Then the wind stirred again, carrying it away.

She turned the key in the lock, yanked her sweatshirt sleeve over her fingers so she wouldn’t print the handle. Isa wavered, hand on the knob. Her senses strained, grasping for something just out of reach. Warning thrummed in her ears like drums pulsing in the distance.

She pulled the door open and stepped into her violated shop.

Unlocking and opening the door was an action she repeated day in and out. She’d never thought of the warning beep of the alarm waiting for her to cross the shop and enter the “all’s well” code as companionable until its absence.

Her pulse sped.

Out of reflex more than out of any expectation that it would work, she flicked on the light switch beside the door. The lights aimed at the front of the reception desk flashed on.

She squinted at the gold oak, chest-high counter. She’d put a welcome sign there, and Troy had nailed up three showcase pieces of artwork. Something pale obscured them. Her brain couldn’t make sense of the sight. She looked away, giving her eyes a minute to adjust.

On the floor beneath the shattered window, a recognizably humanoid figure sprawled, faceup amid so much broken glass that it looked like the corpse rested on bloodstained snow.

A queasy sense of displacement rocked her.

She had no doubt the man was dead. Inside the shop, the sharp, metallic smell overwhelmed her. Blood and death.