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  Ink Witch

  KAT DUBOIS CHRONICLES, BOOK 1

  By LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH

  Copyright © 2016 by Lindsey Fairleigh

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events are products of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or should be inferred.

  Editing by Sarah Kolb-Williams

  www.kolbwilliams.com

  Cover illustration by Biserka

  99designs.com/profiles/biserka

  MORE BOOKS BY LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH

  ECHO TRILOGY

  1: Echo in Time

  1.5: Resonance

  2: Time Anomaly

  2.5: Dissonance

  3: Ricochet Through Time

  KAT DUBOIS CHRONICLES

  1: Ink Witch

  2: Outcast

  3: Underground

  THE ENDING SERIES

  After The Ending

  Into The Fire

  Out Of The Ashes

  Before The Dawn

  THE ENDING BEGINNINGS

  Omnibus

  I: Carlos

  II: Mandy

  III: Vanessa

  IV: Jake

  V: Clara

  VI: Jake & Clara

  FOR MORE INFORMATION ON LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH & THE ECHO TRILOGY:

  www.lindseyfairleigh.com

  CONTENTS

  Ink Witch

  MORE BOOKS BY LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH

  DEDICATION

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF KAT?

  EXCERPT FROM ECHO IN TIME

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  For Greg and the rest of the guys in the shop. Thank you.

  1

  “Same question as last time?” I stared across a round table at my Friday night regular, Rita. She was pretty, trendy, and young enough that hanging out in a fortune-teller’s studio having her cards read on what was most Seattleites’ go-wild night out struck me as a little odd. Especially considering that Rita always asked the same thing: will I fall in love this week? Maybe, but she wouldn’t find it in the back of my tattoo parlor, where I moonlighted with my tarot deck. I didn’t even need my cards to tell her that.

  If I had fifty bucks for every time somebody asked me a variation of the love question . . . well, actually, I did have a fifty for every time, and it more than paid the bills. Nine out of ten clients returned, because I’m that good. Because my cards are legit; made them myself. Because I’m a Nejeret, a god of time. Or a goddess—and I’m really more of a demigoddess, if we’re getting technical, descended from the ancient Egyptian god, Re—and my soul is jacked into the time stream. Sort of.

  Rita sighed, resting her chin on her palm and tapping the side of her jaw with nails polished a vibrant indigo. “I guess I’m pretty predictable,” she said, laughing dryly.

  “Only you and the rest of humanity . . .” A species I didn’t belong to anymore—hadn’t for nearly two decades. I shuffled my hand-drawn deck of tarot cards one more time, then slid it across the pentagram seared into the tabletop. The symbol was purely atmospheric, but clients appreciated the witchy vibe. “Cut,” I told Rita.

  She straightened and reached for the deck, picking up a little less than a third and setting it next to the larger stack of cards. “You know, Kat,” she said, flashing me a sly smile, crimson lipstick stark against her straight, white teeth, “I’ve got a good feeling about this reading.”

  She leaned forward as I retrieved the cards and stacked them to shuffle a few more times. All the shuffling was really for show; the only part of my routine that actually affected the reading was Rita touching the cards. So long as they contacted her skin—her DNA—the spread would fall the same way regardless of whether I shuffled the cards five times or fifty. It’s not magic, exactly. Magic doesn’t exist, not really. But what I can do—what my people, the Nejerets, can do, tapping into the primal universal energies—is as close of a thing to magic as exists in the real world.

  “I’ve got a good feeling, too,” I said, tapping the edge of the cards on the table to straighten out the deck and flashing Rita a quicker, slyer smile. Not that I could actually sense anything from the deck. That wasn’t my gift. But Rita didn’t know that, and it wouldn’t hurt her to have a little faith. My gift lies in the ink itself. Anything I draw has a tendency to take on a life of its own, revealing hidden truths about the past, present, and future, connecting dots that otherwise seemed unrelated.

  I set out five cards in a cross formation, then added a column of three cards on the right and one over the center of the cross. And frowned. I’d done this layout thousands of times, but this time it was different. Not because the pattern was strange, but because the designs on the cards were. They’d changed themselves. Again. It hadn’t happened in nearly a year, and with the way my life had been plodding along—the definition of predictable—I wasn’t expecting the change.

  “Is this a new deck?” Rita was craning her neck to look at the cards. She’d been coming to me for six months now, maybe a little longer, and she’d seen every card in the deck at least once. “They look . . .” She tilted her head to the side, eyes squinting. “I don’t know . . . darker?”

  I shook my head and glanced at her briefly before resuming my study of the cards. “It’s the same deck. I just tweaked them a bit.” It was a lie. They’d tweaked themselves.

  The designs on the cards were actually a reflection of me—of my past, present, and future. They’d gone through three major overhauls since I first created them a couple years ago, always when something major was causing upheaval in my life, but they’d been relatively static for the past year or so. Probably because I’d been relatively static during that time. It didn’t bode well for whatever was to come. I suddenly felt like a live wire, channeling so much sickening dread that my body practically hummed with it. Something would happen, and soon, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  And there wasn’t a single doubt in my mind that it wouldn’t be a happy something. The cards had taken on an edgier, almost ominous aesthetic. Only heightening the effect was the fact that all of the people depicted on the cards were real people. My family and friends. I hadn’t designed the cards that way, and the appearance of familiar faces disturbed me intensely, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.

  Lex, my half-sister, was depicted as the High Priestess, serene and wise and as unconcerned about the wisps of darkness reaching out for her from one edge of the card as she was about the wisps of light from the other. She also appeared on the Lovers card alongside her husband, Heru. The Hanged Man was my half-brother and mentor in all things lethal and dark, Dominic, all but his pale, haunting face shrouded in shadows. The only card in the spread that I appeared on was Justice—I was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, wielding a glowing, crystalline sword in one hand and a golden set of scales in the other.

  Disturbed but determined to finish the reading, I focused on the task at hand. Even though the designs on the cards were linked to my soul, the spread—this spread—was all Rita. And there was zero question in my mind that it answered her question.
For once, the cards addressed Rita’s love life in full.

  Sitting back in my chair, the violet, velvet armchair I’d inherited from my mom along with the rest of the shop, I rested my hand on the bulbous ends of the chair’s arms and studied Rita’s features, trying to gauge her mood. “This is the clearest reading I’ve done in a long time,” I told her. “The cards are split half and half—there’s good news, and there’s bad news. Which do you want first?”

  Rita pursed her lips, then twitched that perfect crimson pucker from left to right and back. “Bad news first.” She raised her hand, stopping me before I could start. “No, good news first.” She nodded to herself as she leaned forward, placing her elbows on the edge of the table, fingers tangling together. “Good news first,” she repeated.

  I returned her nod and touched my fingertips to the Two of Cups, then to the Ten of Cups and the Lovers. “These three cards indicate that love is very nearby, and that your partner will make you happier than you ever could’ve hoped for. This card,” I said, touching the Six of Cups, “tells us the person you’re destined to be with will be someone you already know, likely someone from your past, possibly even from as far back as your childhood.”

  “I’m in love with you,” Rita blurted before I could warn her that, according to the Three of Swords, Ten of Swords, Hanged Man, and Justice cards, this person would sweep in to mend her very recently broken heart. Which, apparently, I was about to break.

  Well, this is awkward. I shut my mouth, pressing my lips together, and stared at Rita. Her hopeful expression, her flushed cheeks, her bright eyes—this, right here, is why I don’t do love. Love is pain and disappointment. It’s a blip of joy with a massive hangover of misery. I choose not to feel any of those things, not anymore.

  I inhaled slowly, tapping the tips of my fingers in a restrained, steady rhythm on the arm’s cutting. “Rita . . . I think we should call it a night. I’ve got a big job in the morning.” A clean break was best. The last thing I wanted to do was give her mixed signals and prolong her agony.

  “We could get food, order delivery . . . ?” The hopeful glint in her eyes had faded a little, but she wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Or I can cook?”

  “Listen, Rita—”

  “Is it because I’m a woman? You’re not attracted to me?” She was pressing her fingertips into the tabletop so hard that her nails were bleaching of color. “But Jeff at the Goose said he’d seen you leave with both men and women, and I thought, you know, we always have such a nice time on these Friday night dates, and—”

  I stiffened. “These aren’t dates, Rita.” My voice was cold, hard, and Rita flinched at my words. “You make an appointment, you come here, and you pay me for a service.” She wasn’t the first client to read too much into our relationship—the misperception of friendship, or more in Rita’s case, was bound to happen when clients shared so much of their personal lives with me—but Rita’s profession of love had still taken me by surprise. I was irritated with myself; I was usually better at reading people. Mostly for the sole purpose of avoiding situations like this.

  Tears welled in Rita’s eyes, spilling over the brim of her eyelids and leaving behind a gray trail of mascara. “But the cards—you said . . .” Her chin trembled, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh God, I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

  I scooted my armchair back enough that I could stand. “I’m sorry for that,” I said, forcing the words out. I pushed myself up using the armrests and, standing, gathered up the cards. “I’ll walk you out.” I cleared my throat. “No charge for tonight’s reading.”

  Rita nodded, though she didn’t look at me. It was a relief. She slid her chair back and stood.

  The tarot studio was in the back of my tattoo parlor, Ninth Life Ink. Back in my mom’s day, the place was a retail shop called the Goddess’s Blessing selling all things mystical and witchy. But that was years ago, before a war between Nejerets claimed her life, leaving all of her worldly possessions to an eighteen-year-old—me. The Ninth Life had been open for a little over three years now, offering ink to those desiring it and fortunes to those looking for something a little bit more ethereal.

  I moved through a heavy beaded curtain of quartz, amethyst, and moonstone that had been around since my mom’s time and made my way into the main part of the shop, crystals clanking and Rita sniffling in the background. Rita’s kitten heels clacked quietly on the hardwood floor as she followed me across the tattoo shop to the glass front door. I unlocked the deadbolt and opened it for her. She left, head hanging and feet dragging.

  “Again, Rita,” I said, watching her linger under the covered stoop on the sidewalk outside, “I’m really sorry for the misunderstanding, and I wish you the best. Something good is coming your way.” It’s just not me, I thought blandly.

  Her head moved in the barest of nods, and she shuffled away.

  I shut and locked the door, then wandered around the reception desk to close up shop for the night. I paused to pull out my phone and open my music app, scrolling through playlists until I found one that suited my mood—vintage alternative rock. Some Nirvana, Foo Fighters, and Third Eye Blind was exactly what the doctor ordered. I set the playlist to shuffle and, once the music started blaring over the shop’s speakers, closed my eyes and tilted my head back, soaking in the manly angst.

  Feeling recharged, I set to work closing out the register. I was just printing out the credit card report for the day when the shop door opened, jingling the little copper bell hanging over the door.

  Had I forgotten to lock up after letting Rita out? I was usually pretty good about it when I had after-hours clients, but I’d forgotten a time or two. Except I distinctly remembered turning the deadbolt.

  Not that it mattered; there wasn’t a lock in the world that could’ve kept out the man who’d just walked into my shop. He was on the taller side, and athletic, his broad shoulders only emphasized by his long, black leather jacket. His dark brown hair was styled in an undercut, the sides buzzed and the longer top portion combed back loosely. His face belonged to an angel . . . or a fallen angel . . . or a statue of a fallen angel, with all those bold lines, chiseled angles, and that insanely strong jawline covered in a couple days’ worth of stubble. A large, brushed silver belt buckle emblazoned with a black Eye of Horus drew my gaze to his trim hips. He was proclaiming his Nejeret clan affiliation pretty boldly with that buckle—Clan Heru all the way. Nobody who knows what they’re looking for—and what he is—could miss it.

  The intruder stopped a few feet in from the door, his pale blue eyes locked on me. “Hey, Kitty Kat.” The corner of his mouth quirked, curving his lips into a confident smirk. “Been a while.”

  I didn’t think. I reacted.

  Hands on the counter, I leapt over the top, sliding on my hip until my boots landed on the floor on the other side. I crouched, bending my knees, then sprang at him. I landed one solid smack against his cheek, the force of the hit jarring my whole arm, and then it was a game of striking and blocking, then striking and blocking again. Neither of us held back, and it felt amazing. It had been ages since I’d lost myself in a fight. Too long. Not long enough.

  He could’ve ended it at any time. His brand of “magic” would’ve allowed him to wrap me up in unbreakable, otherworldly bonds. But the light in his eyes, the vibrancy turning his pale blue irises into burning, gaseous flames, told me he didn’t want this to end. Not yet.

  He kneed me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me, then grabbed hold of my ponytail and jerked my head back so he could see my face. “And here I thought you’d be out of practice.” His tongue darted out to catch the blood seeping from his broken lip.

  “Never,” I said through gritted teeth, right before my hand shot out. I gripped his groin through his jeans, fingers viselike.

  He grunted, releasing my hair and doubling over. My hand slid off his jeans as he moved, the friction burning the tips of my fingers. Off-balance, I stumbled to one knee.

/>   I pulled myself up with a hand on the edge of the counter. Breathing hard, I straightened my ponytail. “Why are you here, Nik?”

  Nik was someone I’d considered an ally a long time ago. Maybe I’d even considered him a friend, but that was before he’d disappeared without a word several years back and nobody had heard from him since. He’d risked his own life to save mine, and then he’d vanished.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him. “Why now?”

  Slowly, Nik straightened, wiping the blood from his mouth with the pad of his thumb and giving it a quick, dismissive glance. He’d be healed soon enough—relative immortality was a bonus to being a Nejeret, thanks to our regenerative abilities. It keeps us healthy and young-looking, permanently in the prime of life. In Nik’s case, he appeared to be in his mid-twenties. I wasn’t so lucky; I would be forever eighteen.

  Nik returned my stare, breathing just as hard. “It’s Dom—he’s missing.”

  My heart stumbled a few beats at the thought that my half-brother was in some kind of trouble, but I held my head high and redoubled my glaring efforts. “Dom’s a big boy,” I said. “He can take care of himself.” More than—Dominic l’Aragne wasn’t just my half-brother; he was also the one who’d trained me. He was one of the most careful and disciplined people I’d ever met, not to mention one of the deadliest. He was also, hands-down, the person I trusted most in the world. If something had happened to him . . .

  A seed of dread settled in my stomach. I could feel the roots growing, the branches spreading, the trunk thickening. I balled my hands into fists, appreciating the sting from my nails digging into my palms. Dom was too strong—too smart and skilled—for anything to have happened to him.

  “He’s been missing for three weeks,” Nik said.

  That tree of dread spread out, its sickening branches extending into every part of me. But I couldn’t accept the possibility that someone could get the better of Dom. The thought disgusted me, and I refused to even consider it. “You were gone for three years,” I deflected.