Page 23

Cathy

Heathcliff and I talk all through breakfast. Random stuff.

I talk more than him, but I don’t think he minds.

He looks perfectly content, gulping black coffee and listening to me with an intense focus I’ve never experienced from anyone.

It’s like he’s trying to learn me. Like he’s devouring everything I say.

He’s monosyllabic mostly, but I discover that he likes the kind of reality shows where they forge swords or do glassblowing, or where people traverse obstacle courses and the winner gets cash.

“Always thought I’d be good at that,” he mutters. “Obstacle courses and shit.”

“Are you kidding? You’d be great.”

He shrugs, sticking a huge forkful of sausage and eggs into his mouth. My eyes follow the motion, and I notice something beneath the swirls of the tattoo on his forearm.

My fingers slide over his wrist, and he freezes.

I was right. There are scars on his skin, here and there. I guess I was too worked up to notice them last night. My hands were mostly on his chest anyway, not his arms.

“These scars,” I murmur, tracing one with my fingernail.

“From Hindley,” he says. “Broken beer bottle.”

“Your brother did this?”

He nods. “And his cousins. That’s most of the scars, anyway. There’s some I don’t remember getting and some I don’t talk about.”

“More secrets.”

Slowly he leans back in the booth and pulls his arm away. “Yeah.”

He pays the bill, then does something on his phone while I finish my last piece of bacon.

When we get back in the truck, he heads down the main street of the little town we’re in.

Not much of a main street, actually. Shabby, weatherbeaten buildings, all the same shades of gray-streaked white and faded red brick.

Dingy shops, mostly closed, in two broken rows under a dull gray sky.

Heathcliff turns down a side street and steers into a narrow parking lot with grass sprouting through broken pavement. There’s a smoky glass door with a sign over it.

“Teagan’s Tattoo Shop,” I read aloud. Then I turn to Heathcliff, my eyebrows raised.

“We’re getting matching tattoos,” he says.

Of all the things I thought might come out of his mouth, that wasn’t in the top one million.

“Matching tattoos,” I repeat.

“Yeah.” He grins, but it’s forced, his movements too casual for the intensity of his eyes. “It’s fun, right? Like…romantic shit or whatever.”

A dry chuckle bursts from me. “Okay. Sure. I could get a tattoo as long as it’s somewhere Dad won’t see. But no celebrity faces, or names, or…”

“Nothing like that. I thought maybe…Celtic knot. A hint of your heritage. Those old symbols have power. Might give you some extra control over your inner banshee.”

Interesting… I hadn’t considered something like that. “And you’re getting a matching one because…”

“Like I said.”

“Right…romantic shit.”

“And I like tattoos.” He climbs out of the truck. “Come on, Earnshaw. Get your little ass in there. I know you ain’t scared of needles.”

“How do you know that?”

He leans back into the truck cab briefly. Meets my eyes. “Because you’re not scared of anything.”

When he says those words, looking at me like that, I can almost believe him.

Our feet crunch across cracked asphalt littered with pebbles and grit. Heathcliff reaches for the door of the tattoo shop, then hesitates.

“You shouldn’t have to do that,” he says. “Hide things from your dad. You’re an adult.”

“Yeah, well…” I run a hand over my face, into my hair. “I’m kinda stuck there. It’s the whole ‘his house, his rules’ deal until I can move out.”

“I’d let you stay at my place if I thought it was any safer.”

A twinge of pleasure and surprise passes through my heart. “That’s sweet.”

Heathcliff’s jaw is hard. “It won’t always be like this for you or for me. I swear it. We’ll get free one day, you and I.”

“You and I,” I whisper. Impulsively I reach up, rising on tiptoe, and wrap my hand around the back of his neck, dragging him down for a kiss.

When his mouth meets mine this time, it’s like opening the door to another world, to a future I’ve never dared to imagine. His lips are hot, faintly rough. He tastes like bacon and coffee and a subtle spice I can never quite identify because it’s him —it’s just Heathcliff.

He hums over my tongue, licks softly into the dark heat of my mouth. Seals his lips firmly and tenderly to mine. This isn’t hunger—it’s a promise.

Does he know what he’s promising? Does he understand what a relationship with me would be like? Is this what he really wants, me and my mess?

When I break the kiss, he finds my hand, weaves his thick fingers between mine. “Come on.”

A bell chimes as we step inside. Sketched faces leer from the walls.

Black-and-white symbols and garishly lettered words are plastered on every available surface.

A couple metal chairs with brown-leather padding sit against the collage of tattoo designs.

Between them stands a battered wooden end table with a plastic plant on it.

There’s a tall desk, too, with an acrylic top and several three-ring binders, probably containing more tattoo options.

A skinny man in his forties props pointy elbows on the desk.

He’s got a bristly, reddish mohawk, heavy eyeliner, and a motley of piercings in his ears and face.

Tattoos cover both gaunt arms and his skinny throat.

A stack of leather bands and silver bracelets encircle each wrist.

“Heath-fuckin-cliff,” he says, chomping on a wad of gum that flashes pale between his yellowed teeth. “Good to see you, man. Been a while. This a client?”

“A client?” I frown, glancing at Heathcliff.

“This is Cathy,” Heathcliff replies, with a stern look at the man. “She’s my—she’s with me. Cathy, this is Bean. Benjamin Lockwood.”

“At your service.” Bean grins, still chewing the gum.

“We’re gonna get matching tattoos.” Heathcliff’s tone deepens with significance, and the man’s eyes widen a little.

“Okay, sure. Not a client but matching tattoos. Hindley know about this?”

“Bean,” growls Heathcliff. “Enough questions. You owe me one favor without the family knowing, remember? This is it. I’m calling it in. Otherwise I might have to tell your dad or Meemaw about—”

“Okay, okay.” Bean lifts both hands in a deprecating gesture. “It’s your business. Pick your poison.” He shifts the big binders around, then slaps one open against the acrylic countertop. After flipping a few pages, he shoves it forward. “Anything from here or the next three pages.”

The glossy two-page spread shows a selection of Celtic knots and similarly complex symbols. How did Bean know what kind of tattoo we were considering?

“You two have a look,” Bean says. “I’ll go tell Morgana you’re coming back in a minute.”

The moment he’s gone, I turn to Heathcliff. He keeps his eyes down, pretending to study the designs, so I flick his cheek. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“We’re getting tattoos.” He still won’t look at me.

“I’m not an idiot. There’s something weird going on here. Some Lockwood black magic. Are you trying to kill me? Trap me in some strange Irish marriage bond?”

He glances at me, raising an eyebrow. “You think I’m trying to marry you?”

My cheeks heat. “No, but…what is this?”

“It’s protection. For you. Nothing invasive, nothing that will affect your life at all. It’s a preventative measure, Cathy. That’s it.”

“You’re being cagey.”

He snorts a laugh. “Cagey?”

“Evasive.”

“Like I said, it’s for your protection. Hopefully you’ll never need it.

After what happened yesterday…what could still happen…

” He grimaces, lowers his voice. “Cathy, there is a fucking god swimming around near the Beaufort coastline. There’s another god who might not stay buried for long.

Things are moving, changing, and it’s not good.

Just do this, okay? You don’t have to believe in it—you just have to endure the pain.

You heal quick anyway, so the recovery shouldn’t be too bad. ”

He really believes the tattoo will help protect me. I can see it in his eyes—how badly he wants me to agree to this.

I can’t think of a reason why I shouldn’t…except the fact that I barely know him and that he’s a Lockwood, a member of the family I’ve been taught to fear. He might have some hideous agenda, and this whole stalking and seduction thing is part of a plan to destroy me.

But in my heart and in my bones, I know that’s not true.

Heathcliff isn’t a good enough actor to fake everything he’s shown me of himself.

I can still hear him roaring his defiance at Manannán: Let her go, you big bastard.

You can’t have her. My vagina is still tingly and faintly sore from him being inside me.

His eyes, his body, and his voice have told me the truth, over and over, since the night he wandered through the woods with me.

He wants me safe. I can trust him with this.

“I can pick any of them?” I ask.

He nods, lips clamped tight.

I choose a design with leaves and lilies woven among the braided lines. “This one.”

“Good choice. Bean will do mine, and Morgana will do yours. It’ll hurt.”

“Pain and I are old friends.” I smile up at him.

His gaze warms with tenderness and relief. “Thank you for doing this.”

God, are there tears in his eyes? “Like you said, it’s fun,” I say lightly. “Romantic.”

Bean saunters back into the front room. “You bitches ready?”

Heathcliff points out the design I chose, and Bean snaps a photo on his phone. “Come on, then.”

The two men vanish into the back, and a moment later a tall woman with hip-length red hair and heavily freckled skin appears.

She’s wearing a blousy shirt, about twenty beaded necklaces, and a brown wrap skirt.

Her feet are bare, and her pale-green eyes are so large, I’m reminded immediately of a gecko.

“I’m Morgana,” she says. “You ready?”

“Yes. I chose this one.” I show her the design.

“That’s a strong one.” She nods. “This way. Where do you want it?”