Page 8 of Inked & Bloodbound
The air in the shop suddenly feels thinner. This isn’t just some girl wanting ink—she’s asking dangerous questions. Questions that could get her killed.
“Look,” I say, keeping my voice level, “if you’re not here to get tattooed, I can’t help you. This isn’t an information booth. You want to ask questions? Get the laurel leaves, and we can talk while I work. Otherwise, the door’s right behind you.”
Her face contorts with concern as she cranes her neck to glance behind me. “Um…what about her? Will she talk to me?”
“Tegan?” I say, gesturing behind me, my mouth quirking into asmile. I’m not offended—quite the opposite. It’s amusing how scared she is.
Tegan doesn’t even glance up from the oh-so-original Texas longhorn tattoo she’s inking on the drunk’s ass. The gun buzzes in her hand as she smacks her gum. “No, honey. This is my last of the night. It’s him or nothing.”
The girl weighs this for a moment, then nods with grim determination. “Fine. Let’s do the tattoo.”
As I lead her back to my chair, she gives her name. Lily, like the flower. When I offer mine in return, she says it slowly. Drawing out every letter as if she’s tasting them like a fine wine.
“C-a-s-s-i-n-i. That’s original. Like the space mission? That kinda Cassini?”
I’m impressed. Most Americans can’t even pronounce my name, let alone know its origins. “Kind of. He was an Italian astronomer. You like that stuff?”
"I was really into astronomy when I was a kid. I used to read all about the missions to space and obsess about finding life on Mars—that kinda thing. I've just never heard Cassini used as a name before. It's so unusual." She smiles. "It's kinda beautiful."
“Lily is a beautiful name too,” I offer. “Lillies are lovely flowers.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Lilies arefuneralflowers. They make people think about death.”
By the time I’ve finished sketching up the design, Tegan is done inking the drunken frat boy and has gone home, leaving me and Lily alone in the shop. The thick heat of the Austin air, loaded with silence, swirls around us, pushed around by the three shitty oscillating fans that buzz and whir in harmony.
“So how do we do this?” she asks, leaning back on the leather tattoo chair. “Do I take my shirt off?”
Fuck. Her veins.
“Depends on how high you want it. I can cover you up with tape, or we can go under your bra?”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she pulls her shirt over her headand dumps it at my feet. Not a hint of embarrassment despite sitting in nothing but a pair of scrub bottoms and a radioactive-pink bra.
I was right. A tangle of exquisite blue veins twists just under the surface of her skin. The sound of the blood rushing through them is all-consuming—a steady thrum that drowns out the music from the speakers in the corner of the shop. The fluttering of her heart masks the distant chaos of the Sixth Street traffic. My mouth waters, and I have to force my fangs from descending.
“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’reoff, 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.