Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Declan
The needle hums steady in my hand. Familiar sound, familiar weight. I drag the needle in steady lines. Skin stretches, blood beads. Ink seeps in. Wipe. Repeat. Client winces and squirms, then pretends he doesn’t. I don’t look up.
“Almost done,” I murmur, voice flat, concentration laser focused.
Iron floods my mouth every time the machine buzzes over bone.
The Rider’s tack stirs against my ribs like he’s trying to climb out.
Always the Rider first. Today he yanks hard, reins pulling tight across my chest. Hoofbeats echo faint in my ears, too steady to be imagination.
Hot breath ghosts across the back of my neck, rank with iron and smoke.
My grip tightens on the machine. The metallic taste sharpens until I could bite clean through my own tongue.
For some reason, the pressure won’t ease today.
The shop door creaks. A rush of knife-cold air snakes in, stinging with pine and exhaust. Bells from the café across the street jingle faintly, a cheery sound that doesn’t belong in this town.
Only one person enters this slow and heavy.
“Sterling,” he calls out, tone gruff and to the point.
“Sheriff.” I keep the needle moving. Why can’t Lucy be here today to deal with him?
He stomps his boots by the door, even though we’ve barely had a dusting of snow this week, then ambles up to the counter. I don’t need to turn my head to know he’s leaning on it like he’s the one paying the mortgage.
I lift the needle, wipe down the line, and turn my head toward the sheriff.
His walks closer, his gaze cutting from my client’s arm to my face and he dips his chin in greeting. “You hear?”
I set the machine down and strip off one glove. “I hear plenty. Be more specific.”
He lets out an irritated sigh and saunters into my room uninvited. “That YouTube gal. Fancies herself an ‘investigative reporter.’ She’s in town, dancing around the bridge. Chatting up locals. She’s even asking questions about the Widow.”
I grunt. That’s new. Usually, people are only interested in the “legend” of the Ironbound Rider. “And your point is?”
“I don’t need this when I’ve got a missing kid to hunt for.”
I don’t bother hiding my impatience. “Maybe you should get on that.”
He studies me. “The town can’t afford to have her stir up ancient history.”
If only it really was ancient history.
I lean back on the stool, roll my wrist to ease the sting under my skin. My ivy tattoo burns icy cold. “Not my problem.”
“It’ll be your problem if the Widow weeps and stirs the Rider again.” His eyes narrow. “Keep her safe. Encourage her to move along. Maybe she can go bother the fine folks up in Salem. They stole our idea and are doing a Frostfright Festival this year.”
I snort out a laugh. “Not my job.”
“Sterling blood carries the pact.” He glances at the instruments laid out on my bench. “That makes it your job.”
The bell jingles as he leaves.
Silence returns.
The client frowns, then clears his throat as if he has a question. He seems to think better of it and snaps his lips closed. Smart man.
Sheriff needs to learn to shut his mouth when I’m with a client.
I finish the line, clean the ink, wrap the arm, and send him out with my usual aftercare directions.
The door jingles shut.
Finally, quiet.
I stretch, then circle behind the counter, bracing both hands against the smooth wooden surface. Breathe through my teeth. Count back from ten.
Nothing helps.
The Rider’s tack scrapes against my ribs. The horse on my shoulder twitches like it wants to turn its head. Why today? Why now?
Movement outside catches my attention.
Through the front glass.
Bag slung on her shoulder, stuffed full of God only knows what.
Black dress with a frilly white collar, hem short enough to show off shapely legs hidden by black netting.
Tall black boots that lace up the front.
Long hair lifting and swirling in the fog.
She’s laughing to herself, some private joke.
The sound doesn’t carry but my chest reacts anyway.
I don’t recognize her, but I’d bet my entire shop she’s the girl Sheriff Bertram warned me about.
She shakes her head. Takes a deep breath like she’s steeling herself for a monumental task. Her gaze slides toward the front door.
Don’t come in here.
The bell jingles. Cold air follows her. She pauses and shoves the door closed with a harsh click.
Then she turns. Our eyes meet—hers a clear winter blue.
The curse stirs inside me, wide awake.
In here, she looks smaller than I expected—then again, everyone looks small next to me. The black velvet dress hides her curves, though not well enough to fool my eyes. A crow brooch glitters at her chest, black and silver catching the overhead lights.
“Hi.” Her lips twitch into a warm, almost shy smile. Pink, full. She blushes like she’s walked into a designer boutique she can’t afford instead of a prison built of ink, iron, and ghosts. “Are you the owner?”
My eyes drop to the crow brooch. Shiny and coy little bird—kind of like her.
I grunt. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Emery Corbin.” She sets her bag down on my counter with a clunk. “Investigative journalist. Or YouTube pest, depending on your perspective.”
Pest. Definitely a pest. I glare at her. “You’re the one here to mock the town.”
Her brows arch. “Mock? No. Investigate? Absolutely.”
Same thing.
“You sell a sort of folklore, right?” she asks, sweeping a hand at the walls. “Tattoos are basically permanent souvenirs. Stories under the skin. I thought maybe you’d talk to me about the local legends. I’m particularly interested in the Ironbound Rider and the Weeping Widow stories.”
“No.”
She blinks. “No?”
“That’s what I said.”
Her laugh is quick, surprised. Cuts right through me. “You don’t like interviews?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head, sizing me up. “Funny. You look like the kind of guy who’d love attention.”
How wrong you are, little bird.
I cross my arms over my chest and continue glaring at her. She doesn’t flinch.
“What’s with the crow?” I nod at the pin.
“They’re my favorite bird.” She glances down, fingers brushing over the glittering black stones. “Did you know crows can remember human faces for years? They even warn each other about people they don’t like. My channel’s called The Curious Crow.”
She widens her eyes, as if she’s waiting for a flicker of recognition.
I keep my expression blank. “Curiosity kills, or haven’t you heard?”
She slowly raises her gaze to the ceiling, like she can’t believe she’s dealing with such an uncreative dumbass.
Her eyes drop back to mine. A shade of blue so faded they’re close to the winter sky. “And satisfaction brought it back. Come on, that line’s older than your shop. Be more original.”
My jaw ticks. “Not here to be entertaining.”
“You’re here to be rude, then?”
“When needed.”
She blows out a breath, lips twisting with annoyance. “I’ve been called worse than rude myself. Usually by men who think I ask too many questions.”
“You do.”
Her perfectly arched eyebrows draw together. For a second her confidence falters. “How can you say that? You’ve known me all of thirty seconds.”
“That’s plenty.”
A flash of hurt crosses her expression.
Did I go too far? The question lodges heavy in my chest. I usually don’t give a fuck about bruising anyone’s feelings. But the thought of being responsible for snuffing out the spark in her eyes is intolerable. I don’t even want to consider why.
She needs to go. It’s too dangerous for her to ask these questions.
“Unless you want to make an appointment.” I nod toward the posters on the wall—unimaginative flash pieces I churn out for tourists. “Or talk about an original design you’d like me to draw up for you. Otherwise, I’m busy.”
She lifts her chin and laughs, brittle at the edges. Covering. Still, the sound hooks under my ribs. My tattoos flare hot, hungry, like they want to drag the real thing out of her.
I need her to leave.
But I want her to stay.
She studies me, eyes narrowing like she’s planning her next line of attack. Then her mouth tilts. “Has anyone ever pointed out that you try way too hard to be scary?”
My jaw locks. “Is that so?”
“Yup.” She nods once. “The scowl. Crossed arms. Gravelly voice.” She lifts her hand and ticks off each offense on her fingers one by one.
“It kinda gives the impression you googled ‘badass biker’ and checked each item off the list.” She tilts her head and asks sweetly, “Do you practice in front of a mirror?”
The corner of my mouth twitches, betraying me before I can lock it down. I smother my amusement with a grunt.
Her smile sharpens into victory. “Careful,” she teases. “You almost looked human for a nanosecond.”
“Guess I slipped,” I mutter.
Her smile falters, quick as a blink.
I shift my weight, suddenly restless. I don’t enjoy her laughing at me. But I don’t like her looking at me with her sad little kitten eyes either.
She lifts her chin, back to defiant. “Well, if thirty seconds was enough for you to judge me, why can’t I do the same?”
My brow pulls tight. “Are you looking for some ink or not?”
“Hmmm...” She rests her elbow on the counter, tilts her head like she’s dissecting my every micro-movement. “Grumpy. Bossy. Probably allergic to small talk. And definitely hiding something.”
I snort. “Such an expert.”
Her lips curve. “Sharp instincts. Comes with the job.”
“What a job. Pestering strangers.”
“My job is asking questions.” Her gaze rakes over me. “And according to my research, you have the answers.”
Research? She researched me? Why? What did she learn? I roll my shoulders, crossing my arms to cage in my questions. “You should leave.”
She grins like I stumbled into her trap. “Look at you proving my point—bossy.”
I narrow my eyes. “You always this irritating, or am I just lucky?”
“That depends.” She leans a little closer, conspiratorial. “Are you always so easy to rile?”
Damn it. She’s enjoying this. And worse, I am too. The Rider’s tack claws at my ribs, heat prickling under my tattoos like they’re listening to her.
“Unless you’re here for a tattoo, you’re wasting my time.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “Go bother someone else.”
Her eyes flick down, then back up with a glint that’s part challenge, part dare. “Sure. But first, why do I need to bring old iron to visit the Weeping Widow?”
Every muscle in my body goes tight. She couldn’t have picked a worse question.
Or a better one.
I step closer, close enough the scent of cinnamon gum cuts through the fog curling inside me. Close enough to see the pulse jump at her throat.
“Careful, little bird,” I murmur. “That’s a dangerous question.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it tightens. “Good thing I don’t scare easy.”
Of course she doesn’t. She’s standing in my shop, eyes bright, daring me without realizing it. Brave or stupid—I can’t decide which. Either way, it triggers my defensive side.
“You think this town’s a simple creepy sideshow.” My voice comes out low, edged. “But you don’t understand what you’re poking at.”
“I understand enough.” She taps her crow pin like it’s a badge. “People make up stories for a reason, but there’s usually some truth underneath. My job is to uncover that truth.”
“Go search for your ‘truth’ in another town.”
Her brows lift. “Why? From what my viewers say, this one has fantastic material.”
I grit my teeth. Her viewers told her about us. That’s why she’s here?
The Rider’s tack scrapes hard against my ribs, answering the mention like a summons. Every instinct screams to shove her out the door before she sees too much.
I step back, put space between us. “Conversation’s over.”
Her eyes widen, just slightly. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She blinks, then laughs, shaking her head like I’m ridiculous. “You really don’t make this easy, do you?”
I nod toward the door. “Time for you to go.”
She doesn’t move right away. Stubborn woman. Instead, she slings her bag over her shoulder and meets my gaze head-on.
“You’ll talk to me eventually,” she says, confident and calm. “Even the most reluctant people always do.”
Not me.
The bell jingles as she steps into the fog.
I stand there long after she’s gone, fists tight, chest burning. The red bulbs in the window flicker once, twice, then steady.
My tattoos writhe beneath my skin like they’ve been fed. The Rider stirs, hooves pounding against my ribs.
Outside, the bells keep jingling. But they sound wrong—out of sync, off-key.
That girl—the curious, pretty little bird with fearless eyes and too many questions—has no idea she just painted a target on herself.