Page 45 of Inked & Bloodbound

I nod and pull away, leaving a snot-laced, damp patch on Pat’s chest. “Yes, please. Chocolate is exactly what I need right now.”

I’m curled up on the couch with an ancient crochet blanket draped over me when he emerges with a little plate of cake in one hand and a steaming mug of sugary tea in the other. I never had the heart to tell him I can’t stand hot tea, so I let him make me one every time I come back here. Always with a minimum of three sugars to mask the bitterness. I brace myself for the acerbic taste, except this time the sip leaves me feeling comforted. It tastes like home.

He settles down in his armchair near the TV and sets down his own mug on a stack of cork coasters between us. “You alright, Lilypad? Warm enough?”

I nod. “Thanks, Pat, this is perfect.”

“Right, so I’ll find us a film to watch then.” He picks up the remote and points it at the screen, but before he can turn it on, his hand lowers, and he looks down at his lap, a small drama warring across his face. When he speaks, his voice is soft and tentative. “Can I say something? Just one thing about your mam?”

“Sure.” I’m too emotionally exhausted for another confrontation, but I owe him something after my outburst.

“She may not have been the best, but she loved you so much, Lil. She did everything for you. Even the bad stuff. You might not agree with how she made her living, but it put food on the table, and it paid the way for us both years after she died. Without it, you’d have never gone to college.”

I frown. “She really made that much from pool-hustling and card-sharking?”

“Aye, and then some.” His eyes are misty at the memory, like he’s proud of her. “She had a real gift for it. Said she could hear what they were thinking a lot of the time. These weren’t good people either, Lils; they were the lowest of the low. Criminal scum, but she could read them all like a book.”

My vision blurs, and my throat tightens. “You mean like…what? She was good at reading body language?” I offer as I grip the edges of the couch to steady myself.

“Something like that,” he says, taking a deep slurp from his mug. “Your mam reckoned she was a kind of psychic. I didn’t believe her, of course. Thought it was a load of ol’ shite at first, but one day she told me some stuff about my mammy that changed my mind. Stuff no one else would know.”

My heart is thundering, hammering itself against my ribcage with such force it feels like it could crack.

“What kind of stuff?” I ask, trying to sound composed, but my voice wobbles out like a tape deck with a dying battery.

Pat waves the TV remote like a magic wand and squints at the screen as he flicks through the channels, only half paying attention. “All kinds. Stuff about my brother, funny stories about my da. Littlethings like that. She even knew Mammy kept my first tooth in a little blue box on her dresser until the day she died. We used to joke that she was psychic, but she never managed to come up with the lotto numbers.”

The world tilts on its axis, and darkness creeps at the edges. Narrowing like a camera rapidly closing its aperture. Everything collapses inward like a dying star, pulling all reason and breath into its dense, inescapable center.

Please. No. This cannot be happening.

“That’s not a psychic,” I croak, but my voice is far away, floating somewhere in the abyss. “That’s a medium.”

15

CASSINI

Beau’s back on the heavy stuff; you can always tell from his eyes. Marks of exhaustion pool underneath them, dark circles settling like bruises into the creases of his face. There’s at least three days of beard growing on his chin, and my nostrils prickle at the stench of his exhausted liver working overtime to purge the festering rye coursing through it. He’s scrutinizing his menu when I slide into the booth across from him.

“Where the hell have you been?” he grumbles.

“You look terrible,” I say as I motion to the waitress to bring me an obligatory coffee to keep up appearances. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Long enough. So, what is it?”

I lean back against the weathered vinyl. “She’s alive, Beau. Megan is alive, and I’ve got confirmation she’s been moved up the food chain.”

Beau’s head snaps up, and as tears well, he swipes them away with the back of his hand. His voice is hoarse. “How?”

“Street-level sources. Someone at a bleeding house recognized her photo, said one of the captains, Angel, collected her months ago with threats about staying quiet. She’s been relocated to higher-tieroperations, and they’re calling her Lexi.” I pause, watching his reaction. “But Beau, we’re running out of time.”

“How’s that?”

“Lazaro’s forcing my hand. I have less than a week before they try and make me take a blood oath that would bind me to him for eternity.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. “After that, I’m his wretched creature forever, or I run. I intend to run.”

Beau’s hands tighten around his coffee mug. “You’d know a little something about binding, wouldn’t you?”

The comment hits somewhere deep down. My jaw twitches as the ghost of our arrangement comes bubbling to the surface. “That’s rich, coming from you.”