Page 1 of Spicy Little Curses (Scared Sexy Collection #3)
One
Petra
The House of Ink and Blood
A s every good journalist knows, it isn’t the press pass or the notebook filled with illegible scribbles that’s most important to success in the job. It’s a pair of personality traits that are indispensable: skepticism and sarcasm. I had both in massive quantities.
They came in especially handy when dealing with stories like the one I was currently chasing down the damp and eerie streets of New Orleans.
My editor, Shane, wanted a piece on the city’s most infamous urban legends for our Halloween issue. Ghosts, voodoo queens, haunted mansions ... the usual nonsense. Shane was obsessed with all things supernatural and never missed an opportunity to send me chasing after proof of the paranormal.
As a proud lifelong cynic, I was looking forward to writing about the true horror of it all: overpriced cocktails and tourists who thought wearing Mardi Gras beads in October was acceptable behavior.
What I didn’t expect was him .
Dax Rousseau.
He was tall, built like he wrestled demons for sport, and had pitch-black hair that matched his eyes and his general aura. His muscular arms were decorated in complicated designs that included mysterious symbols and sigils that appeared otherworldly to my untrained eye.
The way they shimmered on his skin was distinctly sinister.
Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for the tall, dark, and devilish type. The more red flags and pitchforks they’re waving, the better. Which is why, from the first moment our eyes met when I walked through the door of his shop, I knew I was in trouble.
The House of Ink and Blood was aptly named, if only because it smelled of both.
It was cold, dark, and almost cavelike in aspect, missing only stalactites hanging from the ceiling.
The walls were lined with eerie sketches.
Things that slithered, creatures with too many legs, symbols that looked like they belonged in some ancient grimoire.
Lounging on the front counter, a black cat with slanted gold eyes smirked at me as if it knew all my secrets.
Dax glanced up from his chair at a scarred oak desk, where he was sketching in a leather journal. In the split second when our gazes first met, I felt a jolt of recognition, like déjà vu.
Something I wasn’t supposed to feel for a stranger.
He looked me up and down with narrowed eyes, taking a careful inventory of my appearance. It felt distinctly hostile, which was odd. Usually people didn’t get aggravated until they got to know me better.
“You lost?”
His voice was low and rough, as if he didn’t use it often. Or he used it only to snarl at people.
Clearly, he could tell I wasn’t there for a tattoo.
“That depends.” I stepped forward and pushed back the dripping hood of my raincoat. “You the owner?”
His dark eyes narrowed even more, but he nodded.
I pulled out my press pass and flashed it like it meant something before tucking it back into my pocket. “I’m writing a piece about New Orleans’s urban legends. Your name keeps coming up.”
He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his broad chest, causing the seams of his white T-shirt to strain their limits. “Does it now?” he drawled. “Can’t imagine why.”
Liar.
The way he said it, the way he watched me, indicated he knew exactly why.
I dropped my backpack at my feet, set my notebook on the counter, and flipped to a page of half-legible notes, aware the whole time of his piercing gaze that tracked my every move.
“I’ve got stories about a tattoo artist who inks symbols that can repel evil spirits. About a guy who once tattooed a protection charm so strong, it saved someone from something they couldn’t even name.”
Glancing at his massive biceps, I added, “An artist whose own skin is covered in tattoos that aren’t made of ink ... because he was born with them.”
I tilted my head, watching for a reaction.
For a moment, there was none. Just the steady, unreadable darkness of his gaze.
Then a flare of heat warmed his obsidian eyes. It burned bright and hot before he got control of it and snuffed it out like it never existed.
“Sounds like an interesting story,” he said coldly.
“Sounds like bullshit,” I countered.
“It is. And we’re closed.” Dismissing me, he jerked his chin toward the door and turned his attention back to his drawings.
If there’s one thing I really hate, it’s when someone underestimates my intelligence. Especially when that someone is male and inconveniently hot.
I said sarcastically, “Oh yeah? Then you might want to turn off that big neon ‘Open’ sign hanging in the front window. People could get the wrong idea.”
He stood abruptly, striding around his desk to the counter and bracing his hands against it.
He loomed over me, close enough that I could see the fine lines of ink on his knuckles.
Close enough that I could smell him, smoke and bourbon and something else I couldn’t place my finger on. Something wild.
He growled, “I said we’re closed , Notebook. Time for you to leave.”
A door creaked open in the back of the shop, allowing a gust of cold wind to sweep through the room. With it came an ominous feeling of dread, my instinct for danger telling me in no uncertain terms that something was wrong.
I should have walked away then. Should’ve shrugged and turned on my heel, followed one of the half dozen other story leads I’d researched before I left Chicago.
But I didn’t.
Because when I looked back up at Dax, the ink on his arms shifted.
As if, under his skin, it was alive.