Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
I’d just killed a man yesterday, after all.
“Your body is always yours, little viper,” he said softly. The fae likely heard, but he ignored it.
My body hadn’t felt like mine since I’d turned.
Strange eyes looked back in the mirror; compulsions bound me to sleep and wake on cue.
I couldn’t go out in the sun. I had to drink blood.
Since this dark magic had activated in me, I couldn’t even trust my own thoughts, nor could I intentionally call on the magic that should’ve been right there. But it was mine.
And it was time I reclaimed it, even in some small way.
“If you’re a young vamp, it’s going to hurt even more,” the fae warned.
I wasn’t sure if I just looked young or if he’d immediately pegged Raphael as my sire. “Some things are worth hurting for. Can I sketch what I want?”
The fae tore a page from his book and slid it over to me with piece of charcoal. The symbol I wanted etched in me was immediately obvious, just a few swipes across the page. When I handed it over to him, he hummed softly, appraising. “Where do you want it?”
“Here.” I flashed the underside of my wrist, pointing right over the pulse point.
He gestured to a folding seat by the table and began to ready the vials. He pulled out a tool, close to a pen but with a wheel that funneled in ink at the edge. He slid a copper blade slightly ahead of the pen point.
“I’m Bartleby,” he said as he stenciled the symbol to show me the shape. If he recognized the Old Runyk for survivor, he didn’t say. I introduced myself as well, and okayed the shape. “Ready?”
Raphael stood at my side. I slid my free hand into his on instinct.
The copper didn’t just hurt like an ogre; it hurt like an ogre with an overlarge club and desire to use it. I squeezed down on Raphael, hard.
He hissed. Bartleby immediately pulled the tattoo pen away.
“Sorry.” I went to pull my hand away, but Raphael clasped my fingers.
“Don’t worry about it. No need to stop on my account,” he told Bartleby.
The fae worked quickly all the same. Within five minutes, the design was half-finished. Which was good, because however much being in copper shackles hurt, cutting myself open on it was a thousand times worse.
Which was bothering Raphael, I realized through the pain. He’d told me his instinct as my sire was to prevent anything from harming me. It was as strong as the bond that kept me close to him.
He was fighting all his instincts, and hadn’t uttered a word of protest so I could do this.
I squeezed Raphael’s hand harder. Cursed copper had well earned its name.
I distracted myself by working out the mechanism of the pen, the strange wheel at its end and the way the ink slid down the track next to the blade.
And reminding myself that as much as this hurt—I would survive.
I would choose to survive it, like Raphael had said. Things didn’t just happen to me now.
Nearly done, Bartleby blew out an annoyed breath. “Sorry, ink is stuck. Almost done.” He lifted it and shook it, tapping the wheel with his palm when that didn’t work.
“Can I see?” I asked.
He handed it over, and I examined it even while my fingers stung.
As I’d suspected, the mechanism wasn’t adapted to fit well with the copper.
“It wouldn’t do that if you tweaked it here and here.
” I pointed to the two notches that didn’t quite match the position.
“Some oil mixed in would better lubricate it, so it doesn’t clash against this.
” I could’ve made a better one, but I held back the offer. We’d be leaving soon enough, anyway.
He furrowed his brow, as if adjusting it in his mind. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize that. I’ve been using this damn thing for fifty years. Consider your appointment paid for.”
I smiled at Bartleby, and Raphael’s grip in my hand tensed. By the time I looked at him a fraction of a second later, his grip was loose again.
“Finished,” Bartleby declared, letting me marvel at the symbol etched on my skin. “And wow, you’re already healing.”
“Thanks, Bartleby. It’s lovely.” I ignored his other comment. I was healing quicker now that I’d taken Raphael’s blood several times in a row. “Enjoy the rest of the festival. We’ll be on our way.”
“Wait,” Raphael cut in. “I’ll have one too.”
I frowned. “Really? I didn’t think you’d want any tattoos since you don’t have any.”
He arched a brow. “Look that closely?”
I flushed. I had seen… most of Raphael. “Centuries without, and you decide you want one on a whim?” Maybe he was the one not thinking clearly.
“What can I say? You’re a bad influence, little viper,” he smirked.
He tugged his shirt off like it was nothing, twisting to point to a spot right by his shoulder blade. “A feather. Here.”
For Bartleby, males randomly disrobing was no cause for concern.
He just sketched a feather and showed it to Raphael for approval.
Me, I was gawking, I realized. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Raphael shirtless, but with his attention on the fae, I had a moment to study the brutal lines of his body.
“You’ll hold my hand?” he asked.
He didn’t need it. He didn’t even flinch as the fae set the copper pen against his skin.
But I held his hand anyway.
“Why a feather?” It was a rather delicate shape, not that it would truly do anything to soften him.
I studied the pattern, the way it emerged over his muscles.
It must have some significance if he was finally getting it after all these centuries.
Unlike me, he’d had opportunities before. He’d have them again after I left him.
But he wanted to do it here. With me.
“It’s a dove feather,” he said, tone low and just for me.
My free hand curled at my side with the desire to touch the tattoo. Dove. That had been the first name he’d given me.
He was marking me on his skin.
“They’re a symbol for peace, you know,” Bartleby said, oblivious to the other meaning.
“Now you tell me,” Raphael said dryly.
Peace. “Will we have peace, Raphael?” I asked.
He peered up at me, still holding my hand. “We can have our own choices. That will have to be enough.”
Twenty minutes later, Raphael slid his shirt back on and paid the fae with glittering silver coins.
We walked out of the tent, each freshly adorned with a stinging, permanent reminder of the night.
No matter what happened in the future between us, I would remember Raphael whenever I looked at my wrist. Remember that he’d held me when I’d killed a man and promised I would not be a monster.
I hoped it wasn’t a mistake.
Before we left the square, I went back to the braziers. My wrist still stung from the tattoo, but somehow it felt easier to write than before. The survivor mark shimmered in the low light.
Permanent.
I am a powerless void.
The black flame devoured the parchment, hungry.
In Old Runyk, I wrote the new path I chose.
I am a vampire. I am a witch. I am a survivor.
I crumpled it to nothing, dropping it along the cobblestones as I returned to Raphael.