Ink Witch Read online

  He grinned. From the spark of mischief in his eyes, I wasn’t sure if this was a great idea or a terrible one. It was my business, after all, and I should’ve cared one way or the other. But I didn’t. The hunt for Dom was calling to me through the ink. I had no choice but to answer.

  ***

  Nejeret is French, technically, derived from a set of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs—Netjer-At—that translate roughly to “god of time.” A remnant of where we came from, originally. The universe was dying, and Re, one of the two original old gods, or Netjers, and the co-creator of our universe, along with his partner, Apep, possessed a human just a few moments before birth in the hopes that he could restore universal balance, known as ma’at to my people. That human’s name was Nuin, and he became the first Nejeret, the father of our species.

  Lucky for us all, Re succeeded, and thousands of years after he first came to earth, two new gods were born. And they just happen to be my niece and nephew, Susie and Syris. That’s right, my half-sister, Lex, is the mother of the gods . . . but that’s another story entirely. The point is, I wouldn’t have my special gift, my sheut, without those rascally new gods. Of course, I’d probably have a much better idea of what all I could do with my sheut if they hadn’t gone off to another universe completely to learn how to use their own, much more substantial sheuts. So, the new gods and I, we were sort of in the same boat. Or, at least, in the same marina. The one where you go when you don’t have any clue about what you’re doing. It’s a shitty marina. Lots of shipwrecks and flipped boats.

  I knelt on the floor of the second, bed-less bedroom in the apartment, surrounded by a ring of sketches. They were all unique, each focusing on a different missing Nejeret, but for one thing—the tail-eating snake. The ouroboros. I couldn’t get away from it, not even in my sanctuary.

  This room was the only one I actually cared about, the only place I felt at home. At peace. The only place I could be me. The only furniture in here was a built-in bookcase covering the entirety of the wall behind me, and I’m not even sure it counted as furniture. Its shelves were filled with a mishmash of trinkets and doodads, of toys and rocks and other little mementos that each had meant enough to someone once that they’d allowed me to forge a connection with that person strong enough that I could find them through the cards and my art. I kept them all, reminders that I could be good. That I didn’t always hurt people, that I could help them, too.

  One wall, the smallest by the door, was taken up entirely by a closet. That was where I stored my less-savory possessions, the equipment and gear I’d used during my previous, darker career as one of the Senate’s deadly hounds alongside Mari. As one of their assassins. It had been more than three years since I’d stowed those tools of death away in there, three years since I’d opened the doors. Had it only been three years? Had it already been three years? It felt like yesterday. Like yesterday, and like a lifetime ago.

  The other two walls were far from bare. They were covered in black paint as permanent as a mountain, as changeable as a volcano. Like the designs on my tarot cards, the paint on these walls had a tendency to take on a life of its own. It’s basically magic, so I don’t know why I don’t just call it that.

  I remembered the way the dragon sketches had changed on their own and felt a flit of panic in my chest. Usually it was only these walls and the tarot cards that reacted so autonomously, along with the odd sketch or tattoo here and there—all things I’d created with intent. With purpose beyond simply existing. All things I’d poured a bit of myself into.

  I glanced down at my left arm. The tattoo of the Strength card from the traditional Rider-Waite tarot deck was still there on the inside of my forearm, the lion and the white-robed woman with my mom’s face faded almost to obscurity by years of regeneration but otherwise unchanged. There was no sign of a serpent. There was nothing but the tarot card, a reminder of my mom. A reminder of what happens when I care about someone . . . and when I let someone care about me. A reminder to avoid that at any cost.

  I blew out a breath. Thankfully, the ink was staying put.

  I stared at my latest drawing of Dom. The perspective was strange, as though I was looking down at him from the ceiling. He was standing, looking up at me, and screaming. In pain? In warning? I couldn’t tell. I also couldn’t tell if I’d drawn something that had already happened, was happening right now, or would happen sometime soon. My gift didn’t work like that. I just thought of the person I was trying to find, and if the connection between us was strong enough, my hand started to move.

  The ouroboros was in this picture, just like all of the others. It wound around him multiple times before its mouth reached its tail.

  “What does it mean?” I whispered. My fingertips traced the sketched lines of Dom’s face.

  With a splat, a wet spot appeared on the paper, barely missing the snake. I blinked several times and felt my cheek with the fingertips of one hand. It was wet. Because I was crying.

  I almost couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t shed a tear in at least a decade.

  Dom’s faced changed suddenly. For a few seconds, he wasn’t screaming. For those few seconds, it was as though he was actually looking at me through the paper, could actually see me.

  “I’m alive,” he mouthed. “Find me.” I blinked, and he went back to screaming.

  “How?” I asked the sketch, voice raised. “Where are you?” I sat up on my knees. Leaned forward, hunching over the drawing. “Dom! Where are you?” I was yelling at a creation of ink and paper, and I didn’t care one bit how insane that made me. “How am I supposed to find you?”

  I heard the slap of a hand against a wall behind me, then another, and another. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the paint on the wall bleeding away, pooling near the floor. And still, behind me, the slapping continued.

  Until it stopped.

  Hand shaking, I set the sheet of paper down on the hardwood floor and climbed to my feet. I turned around and gasped, my fingers migrating up to cover my mouth.

  Black hand prints covered the wall in a strip maybe three or four feet off the ground. Small hand prints. Children’s hand prints.

  Eyes wide, I backed out of the room and slammed the door shut. The last thing I wanted was for Nik to stumble across that little horror show. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the tarot cards off the table, stacking them roughly and more or less shoving them into their little drawstring carrying bag.

  It was time to pay Officer Garth Smith a little visit and talk about his missing street kids. I was ready to help. Pro fucking bono.

  5

  According to Officer Smith’s card, he was stationed at the Seattle Police Department’s East Precinct, right here on Capitol Hill, just a half-dozen blocks southeast of my shop. I didn’t even have to take my bike. Not that I ever minded riding the Ducati. But still, how convenient and thoughtful of Officer Smith.

  I haven’t been in many police stations before, and I’d certainly never been in this one. The building is two stories of whitewashed brick, broad-paned windows, and Tardis-blue trim. I passed under a stoic steel sign proclaiming this the right place and pulled a glass door open. There was a small waiting area to my right—very doctor’s office–esque—and a reception window straight ahead. Through the window, I could see several rows of cluttered utilitarian desks, each with a laptop and a phone and a stack of files higher than I thought any one person could get to in a week, let alone a day. Most of the desks were vacant, but a couple were occupied by officers in their blues, neither of which was Officer Smith. The doughy, middle-aged officer watching me peer through the window wasn’t him, either.

  I spotted Smith standing in the back corner, a coffee cup in one hand and a sugar dispenser in the other, an endless stream of the sweet stuff pouring into his cup of coffee. The man was a damn hummingbird.

  I approached the reception window, aware of the stares of the few other people seated in the waiting area. My fitted black leather motorcycle jacket covered the tatto
os on my arms, but those peeking out from the top and bottom of my tank top were visible enough. I could practically hear the thoughts whispering through their minds—troublemaker . . . bad kid . . . keep an eye on her . . .

  I shook my head, laughing under my breath. If only they knew. A quick recount of my personal and professional history could clear a room faster than teargas.

  “Fill this out,” the heavy, mustached officer at the counter said. The one who’d been watching me. There was the sense of a walrus about him. C. Henderson, the name badge on his right breast pocket read. Not knowing what the “C” stood for, I named him Charles in my head, Chuck to those of us who know him especially well.

  I glanced down at the form and frowned, then raised my gaze back up to Officer Henderson’s face. “Why would I fill that out?”

  He coughed, ruffling his mustache. “Aren’t you here to report another missing homeless kid?”

  “Why would I be doing that?”

  Henderson lifted a hand and sort of pointed my way. “You just look the type.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Homeless kid—that was a new one for me. I slid the form back across the counter to him. “I’m here to see Officer Smith, Garth Smith.” Remembering that Garth hadn’t seemed too keen on being seen standing outside of my shop, I batted my eyelashes and added, “We have a date.” I flashed Henderson a cheeky grin. Maybe I could lend the youthful Officer Smith a little street cred in the process. “So if you could just skedaddle on over to him there, Chuckster, and let him know I’m here, that’d be swell.” I sighed. “Isn’t he so dreamy?”

  Officer Henderson did that coughing, mustache-ruffling thing again, watching me like I’d sprouted two new heads.

  I rolled my eyes and leaned to the side to see around Henderson. “Garth,” I called out, “I changed my mind about that thing you wanted me to do.” I glanced at Henderson and winked.

  In the very back of the room, Officer Smith choked on a big gulp of ultra-sweet coffee, his eyes bugging out as he stared at me through the reception window.

  I pointed to myself, then to the door beside the reception window, then to myself again, asking without words if I could enter his worktime abode.

  Officer Smith, seeming to collect himself a bit, nodded and waved me through. “You can let her in, Charles,” he said to Henderson.

  I gave a tiny fist pump at my predictive powers. Charles indeed.

  Once Henderson opened the door for me, I tucked my hands into my coat pockets and strode into the room. I didn’t want anyone mistakenly accusing me of having sticky fingers. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been called a shoplifter—mostly because I don’t care enough to keep track—despite that I’ve never actually stolen anything. I mean, what kind of monster do they think I am? Stealing—how mundane.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” Officer Smith said as I drew near.

  I gave his mug a pointed look. “Thanks, but no. I’d like to leave this place with all my teeth intact.”

  The faintest rosy blush crept up Officer Smith’s tan neck.

  “Nice place,” I said, looking around.

  Officer Smith set his mug down on a desk. It had “CHIEF” written on its side in big, bold, black letters. “You’re acting like you’ve never been in a police station before.”

  I adjusted the strap of my leather messenger bag on my shoulder. “You say that like you assume I have.” I tilted my head to the side and smiled sweetly. “I haven’t, just FYI. At least, not beyond the waiting area.” I pointed to the mug. “You’re a little young to be the police chief, aren’t you?”

  Smith shifted in his chair. “It’s a nickname.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right. It’s nice to see that the PD is so PC.”

  Garth chuckled. “They mean well.”

  I leaned in and lowered my voice. “So, talk to me about these kids.”

  Officer Smith exhaled a relieved breath. “I was hoping you’d come around.” A hand on my back, he guided me toward the door to the reception area, grabbing a midnight-blue coat off the back of a chair as we passed by. “Let’s talk somewhere a little more private.”

  As we left the station, I gave it an over-the-shoulder scan. All eyes were on us. Either the other cops were super interested in Smith’s love life or they hadn’t bought my act. Inconceivable, I know.

  Smith pointed to a coffee shop across the street from the station, and I nodded. We paused at the corner and waited in awkward silence for the crosswalk signal to change.

  Officer Smith seemed a little nervous and fidgety, so I took pity on him. “So . . . how about that local sports team?”

  He blew out a breath of laughter, and shallow dimples appeared on his cheeks. “Sorry. I just really wasn’t expecting you to come by.” He looked at me sidelong. “The guys are going to give me a hard time about that little show you put on in there for weeks.”

  I flashed him a cheeky smile a moment before the signal changed. I nodded to the other side of the road. “Our turn.”

  We crossed the street and slipped into the coffee shop just as it started to drizzle outside. I headed for a small two-person table tucked away in the back corner and sat with my back to the wall so I could see everything in the shop. Old habit.

  Officer Smith sat in the chair opposite me and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, what changed your mind about helping?”

  “I’m a bleeding heart.” I pulled back the flap on my bag to dig out my cards. I paused, the deck’s drawstring bag partially exposed. The bag was made of a midnight crushed velvet, an Eye of Horus embroidered in silver thread on one side, an Egyptian-style cat on the other. The first was a symbol of my Nejeret clan, changed from my clan of birth—the Set clan—to the Heru clan via an oath. The other I thought pretty obvious: cat . . . Kat.

  I looked from the cards’ bag to Officer Smith and back, squinting thoughtfully while I tugged on the inside of one of my lip piercings with my teeth. I returned to looking at Smith. “Would you consider yourself a superstitious man? Like, on a scale of one to ten, how open would you say you are to things like, say, magic?”

  “Which end is which?”

  “Ten is ‘I wish I could do that,’ and one is ‘burn them all.’”

  “I don’t know . . .” Smith scratched his jaw. “I was raised in Seattle, but I spent summers back on the Squamish reservation with my people, learning our traditions and whatnot. I think a lot of folks would say there’s some magic in that.”

  “Well, alright,” I said, mildly impressed. It didn’t happen often.

  I pulled the tarot cards out of their little drawstring bag and started shuffling. “So, officially, I’m a tattoo artist and a fortune-teller. Finding people”—I tapped the two halves of the deck on the tabletop, then shuffled once more—“that’s just an extension of the fortune-telling gig. I’ll do a reading for you here, but the rest of what I do . . . that happens behind locked doors. I’m going to need everything you have on the missing kids. The more accurate your information is, the more accurate mine’ll be.” I paused, glancing at Smith. “I don’t suppose you have anything that belongs to any of these kids?”

  He shook his head. “Do you need that to make this work? Because I know where some of the kids were bunking down. We can go by in a little bit and—”

  I raised a hand, cutting him off. “Thanks—I appreciate it, really—but no. I work alone.” I gave the cards one last shuffle, then slid the deck across the table to him. “Just give me the info and I’ll take it from there.” When Smith didn’t do anything, just sat there, I glanced down at the deck pointedly. “Cut it, please. And while you do, think about this case, these kids . . . how much it means to you to find them.”

  Smith’s brow furrowed as he concentrated. He was actually taking this seriously, which was both a pleasant surprise and a welcome relief. He looked at the deck like he was trying to set it on fire with his stare alone, then finally cut it, dividing it almost perfectly in half. “Just the once?” he a
sked, eyes on me.

  I nodded and reached across the table to retrieve the deck. I opted for a simple three-card spread to start off, wanting to ease Smith into my brand of divination.

  Once the cards were laid, there was no ignoring the fact that the deck had altered itself once more. I wasn’t surprised this time. Of the three cards—the Five of Pentacles, a card representing poverty and insecurity, the Eight of Swords, representing isolation or even imprisonment, and the Tower, representing disaster, upheaval, and sudden change—two displayed a person, and each was a child. Both children displayed were strikingly different. It didn’t slip past me that Dom was the man tumbling out of the crumbling tower, but for the briefest moment, all I could think about was the children.

  “How many kids have gone missing?” I asked. “That you know of, at least?”

  “Seventeen have been reported missing by their friends, all in the last two months.”

  I flipped the deck over and skimmed through the rest of the cards, double-checking what I felt in my gut—the major arcana cards like the Tower all still depicted Nejerets, but each and every figure of a person on the minor arcana cards, like the trio of girls on the Three of Cups, had transformed into a child, and each one was unique. Instinct told me I was looking at the faces of the missing kids.

  “Seventeen,” I said quietly, shaking my head as I counted the children. “That’s not all of them.” Thirty-two . . . thirty-three . . . thirty-four . . . “There are thirty-five kids missing, total,” I said, finally setting the deck down.

  Smith leaned forward, craning his neck to get a better look at the cards. “And the cards told you that?”

  “Sort of.” I didn’t explain how it worked, partly because I didn’t understand it fully myself, but mostly because he wouldn’t understand at all. Smith was open-minded, and that was almost more dangerous than a skeptic. If I shared with him how I knew there were thirty-five missing kids, he’d want me to explain how it worked. He’d want me to explain everything. And then I would have to get rid of him, because, in the case of my people, sharing is not caring. The Senate had a strict policy on not telling humans about our existence. It used to be allowable to share with parents, spouses, and children, but the Senate had tightened up the policy of the past few years to be explicitly “No humans allowed.”