both sounds annoy me. Nyx drops her oversized pink handbag with black skull and crossbones at her station and crosses over to me. She pulls me into a tight hug. In the span of a few seconds, she assesses me. “You didn’t get much sleep, huh? Poor thing. You look tired.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, and move to the iPod station. “Isn’t that the same thing as saying I look like shit?”
Nyx yanked my ponytail. “Yeah, pretty much. So get some more sleep. I know you don’t need as much anymore, but a little more couldn’t hurt. You have dark circles under your eyes, Ri. You’ve lost all the color that you got from Da Island when you were rehabilitating and between your pale skin and dark circle eyes, you actually look like a, um. You know.”
I glance over my shoulder at Nyx, who passes a single look to first Eli, then Luc.
“What? You mean a vampire?” I ask. I almost laugh.
“Yes! But more like a Hollywood version. Dracula. You know?” she replies.
Luc approaches and grasps my chin with his hand, turning my face left and right. His eyes, the same shade of cerulean blue as all the Dupres, study me with intensity. “Damn, Poe. You do look like shit.”
I jerk away. “I gotta get busy.” Feeling like some Freddie Mercury, I select “Killer Queen” and start work. I tune out Eli, Luc, and Nyx, as well as my own bad mood as I sift through my designs. Without looking up, I feel all of their eyes on me. Eli’s gaze is burning into me like a branding iron. This morning I simply don’t care.
My first appointment arrives. I’m freehand outlining a fairly large spider over the ribcage of a lanky young dude. Not an ounce of body fat on him. “Take off your shirt and get comfortable,” I say, and point in the direction of my table. “You okay with an audience?”
The guy shrugs. “Sure, no prob.”
I nod and flip the switch to the Widow, my beloved tattooing machine. Or, as Estelle calls it, the Black Engine. As I’m setting up the ink pots, I glance at him. “How’s your pain tolerance?”
Again, he shrugs. “I’m good.”
I again nod. “If you need a break just let me know.” I thumped his ribs. He didn’t even budge, which was a good sign. “You have zero body fat. It’s not gonna feel great over those bones, dude. Promise.”
“I’m cool, I’m cool,” he assures. “I can take it.”
“All right then,” I say, shaking my head. I’m not in any mood for a crybaby today. I scrub his side with antiseptic. “Lie with your arm resting above your head on the pillow and let’s get going.”
The kid’s good. He doesn’t even flinch as my needle moves over his bumpy ribs. The hum of the Widow mixes with Freddie Mercury’s unique pitch and blessedly pulls me into the zone. All is going pretty well for a handful of minutes. I feel like my old self. I sense my old life, before vampires, newlings, and tendencies. Before the Arcoses. I’m in there, barely hanging on by a thread.
I lean close over the kid’s ribs, freehand sketching the body of the spider that is approximately eight inches in length, six inches in width. I move with my needle, wiping the blood with a four-by-four-inch piece of gauze. I wipe. Blood. Wipe. Blood.
Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” is now fading away in the background, and becomes muffled until it is nothing more than a soft hum. Nyx’s happy chatter fades. Luc’s constant flirting fades. Eli’s totally silent. Only one thing remains.
This kid’s heartbeat.
I take a deep breath, shake my head, and continue.
The needle penetrates the skin in rapid-fire shots as I move along, creating the outline of the spider. My gaze fixes on the beads of blood, and I wipe with the gauze. I continue. More blood. Not a lot. Just beads. But there are a lot of them. The more I stare, the more I concentrate. What was a line of ink with whelps of blood turns into filleted skin as my needle plunges three inches into the kid’s side. Blood pours out. I jerk back in horror.
“What?” the kid says. His voice is shallow, as though it’s calling from a deep tunnel. He peers over his ribs at where I’m working.
I glance at him, and his face is concerned, but nothing more. When I look back at his side, it’s perfectly normal. I blink, shake my head. Sweat breaks out across my forehead and I wipe it with my forearm. “Nothing. My needle jammed is all,” I lie. “I’ll change it fast. Just relax.”
“No prob,” he says, and lies back.
I turn to change the perfectly good needle, and Eli’s at my ear. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks quietly. Even his voice sounds muffled, and I know he’s mostly speaking inside my head. He sounds far, far away.
The whole while, I hear that kid’s heart beating.
I draw another deep breath. “Needle jammed,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”
I glance at Eli’s face to reassure him. He’s not reassured at all. His face is pulled into lines and sharp planes of worry. He says nothing. Only watches. Behind him, Luc does the same. Both irritate me. But Eli’s constant presence seriously annoys me. I try to block him out.
I continue with the spider and the kid.
Focusing on my work, I try to block the thumping of his heart. It takes such strength to manipulate the sounds around me that sweat again breaks out across my forehead. It’s almost what drug or alcohol withdrawals feel like, and I can speak from experience on that one. Your body craves, and turns itself inside out to fight off that craving. It feels like a thousand ants are crawling inside your skin, trying to break free. I try to ignore the feeling, try not to rush, take my time, making the legs of the spider design angled, defined, and structured. I’m almost finished. Thank God. Just a little more.
I glance at the kid’s face, and I gasp and stumble back. His eyes are missing, sockets are deep and black, and his face and skin have a bluish-white hue. The area over his heart is filleted open, and the organ beats before my eyes. Beckons.
My mouth goes dry.
“Riley.”
A hand tightens around my upper arm, squeezes hard. I blink and wipe my sweaty brow. When I look at the kid, he’s okay. Normal. Staring at me.
I force a smile. “Okay. All done.” I set my needle on the stainless steel tray. “You did good. Didn’t even flinch going over all that bone.”
The kid, thankfully, is oblivious to my turmoil. He smiles proudly. “Thanks.” Cocking his head, he stretches and looks at my work. “Ah, freak! That’s sick!”
My insides are still shaking, and his heart is still slamming in my ear. “Glad you like it. Let’s cover it up now.”
He lies back, and it’s all I can do to apply the antibiotic ointment and cover the area with nonstick gauze. I tape the edges. “You’re good to go.”
“Sweet,” he replies, and hops off the table. “When can I come back for the color?”
“It has to be completely healed,” I say, and I wipe my brow again. “No scabs, no raw places. Let’s set you up for four weeks and see how it looks.”
The kid nods. “Cool.”
“Here,” Luc says. “Meet me up front and I’ll give you instructions and ointment samples.” He glances at me, and I give a half smile. He inclines his head and leads the kid up front.
Only now do I realize the crowd that has gathered in Inksomnia. It’s not an unusual crowd. It’s not at all strange for a large group to gather at the picture window and watch us work, or a group to stand inside and look through the design books. Inksomnia is sort of well-known, especially in the tattoo world, and I’ve made quite a name for myself as an artist. People have traveled far just to have me ink their design. People who’ve never even heard of me gather at the window to watch the tattooing process. It’s not weird to have a crowd nearly every day. It’s not strange to have people ask to take pictures with me.
It’s strange that I didn’t know they were here in the first place.
I feel sick. Nauseated. Out of control. Adrenaline soars. Heart sluggish. Sweaty.
“Ms. Poe, can we get a pic with you?” someone in the group asks.
“Just a sec,” I say, nausea choking me. I head to the back before I toss Krispy Kremes everywhere. When I glance at the crowd, their faces are all gruesome: eye sockets black, white-blue skin, and the hearts are all beating
