Chapter 3 – Cassini #2
“You know that’s a really sensitive spot for a first-timer,” I mumble, gesturing to her chest. “If you want, I can recommend somewhere less intense?”
“No. I want it to hurt.”
Fuck.
“Hm?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
All I want is to trace the lines of those veins with my fingers and feel the warmth of her blood pulsing just beneath the surface.
To sink my teeth deep into her, push my tongue into the wounds, and drink every last drop.
It’s unnerving. I haven’t felt this drawn to a human in what feels like centuries. Maybe ever.
The smell of her fear drifts to my nostrils.
Sweet, and tinted with the heady vanilla of her perfume.
Unusual, but not impossible. Most humans don’t feel afraid around us—not unless we want them to.
It’s better that way; we can draw our prey to us and keep them calm while we have our way with them and feed in peace.
But there are others that know that there’s something wrong with us on a primal level. They know we’re off, and they’re right. We’re strange undead things, often chosen for our looks. Blessed with physical beauty and tar-black hearts. A masterpiece on the outside, housing a rotten soul within.
The adrenaline and cortisol spike in her blood. Every part of her screaming to get the fuck out of here, but she doesn’t. She leans back in the chair and lets me touch her, gasping when my cold fingers touch the warmth of her ribcage.
“Are you sure about this? This is your last chance to change your mind.”
Her head tilts. “I’m sure.”
“So this is for your mom?” I ask as I dip the needle in ink.
Her voice gets soft. “Yes. She died when I was nine. Hence the leaves. One for every year I knew her.” She narrows her eyes. “My turn to ask a question. What do you know about that tattoo?”
I stiffen. “What tattoo?”
“The one I showed you before.” She leans over and shows me the design on the phone again. “This one. I’ve seen it on a few people around town.” Her tone is steady, like a detective trying to lull a perp into a false confession. “Same design, same placement. Do you know what it means?”
I dip the needle in the ink and avoid her eyes, buying time.
I don’t understand it, but I don’t think I can lie to her.
It feels wrong somehow. But I can’t tell her the truth either.
I can’t tell her all about a world she has no idea exists.
I can’t tell her that the girl I’m looking for has the very same tattoo.
“People get all kinds of things done. Hard to say what any of it means,” I say carefully. The heat of her body radiates through my black latex gloves as I stretch her skin taut. “My turn. Why did you become a nurse?”
“It’s corny, but I just wanted to look after people. I like doing it. I’m good at it. No two days are the same. It makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile, y’know? I think on some level it’s because of my mom’s death that I do this.”
The needle touches her skin, and she inhales sharply, but she doesn’t flinch. As the skin breaks, I get a whiff of her blood, tiny droplets dispersing in the air like a perfume. Sweet and clean, but tinged with a floral note. Delicious.
Then there’s another note, much more strange and earthy. I’ve never smelled that before. It’s not bad, but it is unusual. I lean closer to try and identify it, but nothing comes to mind.
“Is…everything okay?” she asks, squinting at me sidelong as I lift my head.
“Just getting close enough to see that the lines are straight. Anyway, you were talking about your mom? Sounds rough. What happened?”
“Addiction.” She’s emotionless, matter-of-fact. “She tried to get clean so many times, promised me over and over but…eventually she just gave up.”
I know something about that. About monstrous things that consume you from the inside, that make you into something you never wanted to be.
All I can do is mutter, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Like I said, it’s complicated.
Her name was Laurel, hence the leaves. She was an amazing mom when she was sober, but she was a nightmare when she wasn’t.
Taught me to be strong, and kind, and really, really patient.
I want to remember her at her best. As the kind of mom I wish I’d grown up with.
” Her eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them away and switches gears.
“I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. ”
I wipe a bead of ink away and focus on the line work, letting the steady buzz of the machine fill the silence. Her heart is still pounding, but it’s beginning to ease under the grounding sting of the needle.
I break away and hand her a tissue from the box on my station. “People love to talk in the chair. I don’t know what it is, but the words always come out when the ink starts flowing.”
Usually crying humans irritate me, and at the first hint of a whimper, I use my abilities to change their emotions. Keep them sitting still, happy or peaceful, but with her, I don’t.
“How’s the pain?” I ask.
She sniffs. “It’s nothing. I don’t know what I was so afraid of.”
“Most people tense up the whole time,” I say, adjusting the angle of her arm for better access. “You’re handling this better than some guys twice your size.”
She laughs softly. “I work with people who are having the worst day of their lives. Pain doesn’t scare me anymore. Besides”—she glances at my hands—"you’re gentle."
Something about the way she says it makes my chest tight. When was the last time someone called me gentle?
“Anyway, tell me about you.” She blots her tears away. “You have an accent. Where are you from? Not here, I guess.”
“All around. I moved a lot when I was young,” I say.
“Me too,” she says quietly. “It really can mess you up, right? Not having a stable place to call home?”
“It can.”
We fall into an easy rhythm—her asking questions, me giving just enough answer to keep the conversation going without revealing anything dangerous. I’m surprised at how easily the conversation flows. I don’t have to work hard to build a rapport. It just comes naturally.
She’s funny, I realize. Quick with dry observations about the hospital where she works, self-deprecating in a way that suggests genuine confidence rather than fishing for compliments. She drops the subject of the tattoo when it’s clear she’s not going to get the answers she needs.
“What kind of nurse are you?” I ask, starting on the shading.
“Travel nurse. I go wherever they need me, usually urgent care or trauma units.” She winces as I hit a sensitive spot. “I’m supposed to be taking a break because my best friend thinks I’m having a stress-induced breakdown.”
“Are you?”
She laughs, and it slips straight past my guard, light and careless, hitting places I didn’t know were hollow until she filled them. “Probably. I’ve been having these headaches and a bunch of other weird things. She made me get brain scans, but they came back normal.”
“What kind of weird things?” I ask.
She’s hesitant. “Voices, mostly. Shadows moving when they shouldn’t. It’s probably nothing. Stress can do that stuff.”
“Sure,” I say, but an uneasy feeling tugs at me.
I finish the last bit of shading and sit back to admire the work. It’s good—clean lines, solid black that’ll hold its depth for decades. The leaves crawl and twist naturally around her ribs and stretch towards her heart. It’s like they grew there. It’s beautiful.
“All done,” I say, as I reach for the balm and rub it into her skin.
“Oh,” she says as a flicker of disappointment crosses her face.
She hops off the bed, and when she turns to face the mirror, her face lights up.
“Oh my God, it’s perfect. It’s exactly what I wanted.
” She twists, trying to get a better view.
“Thank you. Really, this is beautiful. It’s exactly what I wanted. ”
Bella come il sole del mattino, I think, watching the way the light catches the gold in her hair.
“What was that?” she asks, turning to face me. “You say something in Italian?”
My entire body goes rigid. What the fuck?
She heard that? She heard my thoughts, clear as if I’d spoken aloud.
“Huh?” I manage to say, forcing my expression to stay neutral.
“You said something like ‘bella something’ just now… Then you said what the fuck.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
She narrows her eyes. “You did, though. I heard you.” She puts a hand on her hip. “Why are you denying it?”
I force a casual shrug and busy myself cleaning the tattoo gun to avoid her piercing gaze. “Huh, well, if you say I did, then I guess I did. Maybe I was talking to myself. Bad habit.”
She turns her back to me, picks her scrubs off the ground, and pulls it over her body so fast she puts it on backwards.
“It’s getting late. You should go,” I say, throwing my tools and inks back on to the metal tray, causing a clattering to ring through the humid air of the shop.
My mind is racing. The headaches she mentioned. Hearing voices. Seeing shadows. And now this.
There’s only one explanation, and it’s not a good one.
If she is what I think she is, then she’s in danger.
We both are.