Chapter 6 #2
She pauses and tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. “I am not a fan of crowds.”
“I noticed. Turn around and let me help you.” She doesn’t. I stare, disbelieving, into her stubborn eyes. “Turn around, capatosta.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you using Italian to be rude?”
“Yes.”
We stare each other down until she relents, removing her hoodie and folding it on the edge of the sink. She faces the mirror, giving me a good look at her injury. It’s somewhere between a burn and a gash, about six inches long, streaking between her shoulder blades like a red lightning bolt.
I nod my head and firm my resolve. I can do this. “Okay, Doctor Lucy is here to help. You need to take off your shirt.”
Methodically, she removes her shirt and folds it, placing it atop her hoodie.
Pivoting on her heel, she fruitlessly tries to touch the wound from above and below her back, craning to see it in the mirror.
Eventually, her shoulders sag in defeat and she turns back around, peeling off her tank top and folding it, filing it atop of her other shirts.
Clad in only a bra, her ridiculously muscled back reveals a secret map of her life. Tawny skin is riddled with scar tissue and troubling bruises. Three red welts race diagonally across her back, but none have bled.
Less disturbing are other marks—tattoos.
Stamped in bold print on her left shoulder blade are the words: VOX POPULI VOX DEI, stacked like a column.
The Litany Against Fear, a block of text from Dune, is scrawled down her spine.
Another tattoo on her right shoulder blade stretches almost eight or nine inches down her back.
It’s a woman, styled like an ancient Greek vase in thick black ink.
She’s standing sideways, drawing back an arrow and using a crescent moon for a bow, shooting at the stars. It’s quite striking.
Unconsciously I trace the ink with my fingers, raising goose bumps along her skin. Taylor’s eyes are closed when I sneak a peek at her in the mirror, knuckles white around the porcelain edge of the sink.
“Sorry, no touching.” With a turn of my wrist the cloth is soaked in peroxide, and I hover it above her wound. “This is going to hurt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I see that,” I reply softly.
Taylor self-consciously rubs one of her arms and ducks her gaze to the sink. “I’m one of the fortunate ones.”
She sounds both contrite and determined. In place of prying, which is what I want to do, I remain silent, and clean the blood from around the wound.
“Okay, are you ready?” Mostly I’m hyping myself up more than giving her time to steel her will for the pain of peroxide. She snatches the bottle of whiskey from its precarious position on the inside edge of the sink and takes a generous gulp.
“Do it.”
When I dab peroxide on her wound, she sucks in a sharp intake of breath, muscles rigid.
The sink creaks and groans under the pressure of her grip, but she makes no noise.
A throb of sympathy strangles my heart when I see her in the mirror gritting her teeth and squeezing her eyes shut.
Blowing air against her skin, I watch her muscles contract, then relax. “I’m sorry.”
When she opens her mouth to speak, she first squeaks out a weak grunt. “Why? You didn’t shoot me. You would have missed.”
“Oh, ha ha. Jerk.” I resume cleaning the wound and blowing on the burning skin until it is clean and an angry pink. “I’m impressed. I’d be screaming.”
“Like I said, I have had worse. You seem like a lightweight, anyway.” She smirks, and I chortle and shake my head at her deflection. “Done?”
“I don’t know, not every day an assassin in the fabled Order of Prometheus is half-dressed in front of you, at your mercy,” I say with a saucy wink.
“At your mercy?” She bristles, as if highly offended. “Hardly. I could still take you.”
The horny, stupid part of me wants to ask her to prove it, but my rational side wins out. Well, mostly rational. “Oh, I bet you could.”
Turning around into my space, she exposes her abdomen to me as she fondles the sink for her clothes.
It is unfair how much muscle exists on this petite woman.
The middle of her stomach is an intersection of muscle and tendon, powerful and firm.
On the right side of her ribcage is another stark tattoo.
This one is more easily recognizable—an eagle, black but for a slash of crimson on its belly and dripping from its beak.
The eagle from the myth of Prometheus, right above her own liver, pecking it out.
Two triangles, no bigger than a fingernail each, ride the diagonal line of muscle and bone leading into her waistband, obscuring whatever image they adorn.
Other tattoos on her chest and down her arms disappear as she re-dresses. I nod down to the Order symbol—five black flames styled as broken stained glass pieces, growing larger symmetrically outward like graduated lotus flower petals. “Whose idea were the tattoos?”
Taylor shrugs. “Nobody. Myself and a few others got them and it consequently became fashionable at HQ.”
“Isn’t it conspicuous?”
“Probably.”
“Do you have more tattoos?”
“Yes.” She spins on her heel and heads out the door, whiskey bottle in hand.
With a laugh, I follow her out of the bathroom. “Scandalous locales? Or is it the content?”
“What it is, Miss Piccolo, is none of your business.” Taylor pauses in her step and holds her hand out for me to stop. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“Don’t mention it. Or, you know, do. Loudly, and in front of others.”
Upon entering the main room, I’m smacked in the face with a slap of live music, clinking glasses, and scuffling of dancing feet.
Tables are pushed to the perimeter of the room, the center converted into a dance floor.
Clamorous, to say the least. I’m surprised my taciturn captor enjoys this sort of place.
“Do you want to dance?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that an offer?”
She laughs. “No, but I will not stop you.” Reaching up, she pulls the bandana around my face, and on her tippy-toes, rucks up my hood. “As long as you are careful.”
A look out into the crowd and I find naught but bearded alcoholics and distressingly slack-jawed people, so I grimace and turn back to her. “I’ll pass. What about you? Ready to regale your compatriots with tales of past glory?”
Taylor avoids eye contact with the group of soldiers waiting for her return. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Mason waves us over from a table in the back and Taylor makes a drinking motion with her fist. “Beer?”
“If you’re buyin’,” he replies with a grin. “Stout. Tell Johnny not to be stingy, neither.”
I place my hand on Taylor’s shoulder to guide her into the chair. “Why don’t you relax a second, Robin Hood? I’ll get you your drinks. I can manage two beers without getting kidnapped again. I’m sure you’ll be watching the whole time.”
Over a few dancing bodies I spot the bartender mixing drinks and chatting with the swarthy men who look like they live at the bar.
They might have been born at the bar, beards growing on the counter like vines and an amber glass permanently attached to leathery hands.
The bartender is a taller man, probably in his late twenties, with a curly mustache and a bow tie.
It’s a handsome, whimsical look that fits in with the early-twenty-first-century vibe of this place.
Maneuvering between the dancers, I make it to the bar unscathed. It’s not hard to catch the bartender’s eye due to both my height and the fact that I don’t resemble a gargoyle like the other patrons.
“A beer, please. Something stout, for the big gentleman over there.” When I bring our attention to Taylor and Mason, they are caught in a spirited match of arm wrestling. With an eye roll I turn to the bartender again. “And a bottle of water, please. On the blonde’s tab.”
His mustache quivers in a grin as he bends down to retrieve the water from an unseen cooler. “What tab? I haven’t charged Blondie for a drink in years.”
Blondie. Oh, she must love that nickname. My eyebrows rise in amusement. Maybe that’s how she tolerates an astonishing amount of whiskey. Practice.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” he remarks in a thick New York accent. “First time?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I reply with a grin. “Got quite a memory, Johnny the Bartender. Is that why they recruited you into the Order? For your powers of observation?”
Johnny laughs good-naturedly. “That and my stunning good looks. Someone has to be on the propaganda posters.” He flips the bottle of water behind his back with flair, catches it and plants it on the counter. He snaps off the cap and slides the glass to me.
I pull down my bandana to take a sip. His fast-moving hands come to a slow halt as he raises a dark eyebrow at me. “What?”
“Now isn’t that something?” He leans in, elbows on the bar and voice low. “What’s a pretty heiress like you doing in a place like this?”
“W—what?”
Panic floods my senses in a rush. It prickles through my pores.
I think I can even smell my own fear. Johnny picks up on my anxiety and chuckles again.
“Bartenders talk. Lots of them mention having seen the Lady Piccolo at their bars, especially them swanky ones. Never thought I’d be lucky enough for you to grace one of my barstools. ”
“Is there going to be a problem?”
Johnny looks around and shrugs. “On a regular night, yeah, you’d be in big trouble in an Order bar like this.
These people itch for a fight on a good night, can’t imagine the frothing they’d do to tack a Piccolo on their list. Luckily for you, these dum-dums are drunker than usual, and none of them could recognize a classy lady even if she woke up in their bed. ”
As softly as I can, I inhale the three deep breaths Taylor taught me to calm down my nervous system. “Plus, coming in with Blondie has to give me some cred, yeah?”