“Do you think we should put him out of his misery and invite him in?” Ariel asks, as Snow holds the door of our next destination open for us.
The urge to turn my head to try and catch a glimpse of him trailing us is strong, but I push down the impulse. The girls caught on early that we were being followed. My ever-present shadow. I can’t tell right now if I feel grateful for the familiar support or annoyed that I can’t escape our old patterns.
“No, I think not.” It comes out a little haughty. I still feel raw from last night’s fight.
A child’s rebellion. Hmph.
He doesn’t understand how I feel. Talon thrives on solitude and compartmentalization. I tried to be like him,really tried, but the loneliness ate at me until I couldn’t stand it. And I can never escape what I am, or what I’ve done.
Talon doesn’t wake up in a cold sweat, stomach churning over who he is or what he’s had to do to survive. He simply views his job as serving my basic needs, and his feelings end there.
Mine keep twisting and tightening until I think I’ll break out screaming and never stop.
“For the best,” Snow says, interrupting my morbid thoughts. “I get the sense hot boy won’t care for what we’ve got next on the agenda.”
It’s only then I realize we’ve stepped into a tattoo shop with a big green neon sign behind the checkout counter that saysInked by Tink.
Instead of neon lights and sterile walls, the space is cozy chaos. A velvet loveseat, floral-print lamps, framed awards, and glittering magazine covers clutter one wall. The scent of antiseptic mingles with something floral—lilac, maybe—and ink. The black-and-white checkered floor is slick from the melting snow on my boots. Everything about this place feels lived-in and lit up from the inside.
A woman leans back on a stool, boots propped up on the reception desk, sketchpad balanced on one knee. Her long, wavy platinum hair is buzzed on one side.
She’s pierced all over—ears glittering with rings and studs, silver hoops in her lip and brow. Her black tank top readsDon’t be a dick.The tank clings to her bird-like frame, her low-waisted pants showing off a jeweled belly ring that catches the light.
And her tattoos...they’re art. Blooming vines. Stardust and lush trees. A full skeleton of a phoenix crawling over one arm.
She's vintage pin-up collided with a punk witch and came out furious and fabulous.
“What’s up, ladies,” she asks without raising her head. I get the sense she knows it’s Snow and Ariel without even looking. When she finally looks up, I am struck by the unusual color of her eyes. Green, lush fields of grass, with pupils rimmed in aquamarine. Like she's seen the ocean from both sides.
“Ah, fresh blood.” She closes the sketchbook and stands, stretching the tension from her petite frame. Her wings—yes,wings—twitch and shimmer in the light. Boston isn’t the human-only city I was led to believe, which is a bit of a relief. Having other fae around makes me feel a little safer.
“I’m Tink, and you must be the new Lost Girl.” She reaches out to shake my hand. Her many rings are cold as she grips my hand in a firm shake before letting me go.
“H-how?—”
She smirks as she pulls out a pair of thick black framed glasses. “You got that look about you.”
I recoil on instinct, my stomach tightening uncomfortably. A realm away from home and I’m still being judged at first sight. “What look?”
“Like you're ready to burn down who you were to become who you really are,” she says conspiratorially with a flash of white teeth.
My shoulders drop, releasing all tension. Her words drop into my gut. That’sexactlyhow I feel.
A hand on my arm draws my attention to Ariel, and she gives me a reassuring smile. I see recognition and acknowledgement in the aquamarine depths of her eyes. They say,“I’ve been there too.”
“Are you sure you're up for what it means to become a true Lost Girl?” Snow asks, easily jumping up to sit on the reception counter. She’s far more athletic than I would have guessed.
“Hell yes.” It comes out breathy because I have a feeling becoming a Lost Girl is an awful lot like being found.
Tink pushesup her glasses with the back of her gloved hand, continuing to focus on the design she’s needling into my skin.It’s almost like I’m not even in the room. The playlist of grungy indie covers has become the soundtrack to this new experience.
A single stud glints from my nose. A silver bar in my brow. Countless new piercings arc up my ears like constellations.
She noticed I kept admiring hers until she asked if I wanted the same. At first, I was worried I would be seen as copying, or that it would be weird, but with these girls, there are absolutely none of the passive-aggressive or combative undertones that I’m used to. No sizing me up. No testing if I deserve what I have.
Admittedly, I’ve only spent the afternoon with them, so my gut remains slightly clenched and on the defensive as I wait for the other combat boot to drop.
Combat boot?
