Page 21 of The Devil and His Ghost

“Why am I going, too?” I asked.

“Because it’s my birthday, and I said so.”

Sassy, I grumbled internally. I tugged my hand away once we reached the station where the artist would be working.

Kendyll sat on the seat and offered her left forearm. Her cheeks were flushed in excitement, but the minute the artist grabbed the stencil and held her arm to place it where she wanted, that pink warmth bled away. Her face went ashen, and her smile cracked. She seemed to stare right through her arm where he held her, unresponsive, even as he tried asking if the placement was good. The artist frowned and looked up at her while she just kept that wide, vacant focus fixed on his hands.

“Um,” he hedged, looking at me. “Is she alright?”

The persistent, eager, and cheeky girl had disappeared, and the sudden change, one so drastic from the Kendyll I knew, had me rolling closer in my seat until my knees hit the side of her chair.

“Kendyll?” I tried softly before reaching out to lightly touch her upper arm. “Are you okay?”

At the sound of my voice, she blinked and slowly looked at me. A fine sheen dotted her forehead, and she stared hard at me through her glasses. She pressed her lips together and nodded shakily. “Mhmm. Yeah. I’m good. Sorry.”

“You still want to go ahead with the tattoo?” the artist asked her with an understanding smile.

She nodded. “Yes. Yes, please. Just …” She met my eyes again and offered me her right hand, which trembled ever so slightly. She whispered, “Will you hold my hand?”

My gaze didn’t break from hers, which churned with rising panic. For once, a retort or a joke didn’t immediately come to my mind. Instead, I accepted her hand and squeezed it between both of mine, answering, “Okay. You’re fine. I’m here.”

She blew out a shaky breath and bobbed her head. Her eyes dropped to our hands where they lingered for a beat before returning to the artist. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Just let me know if you wanna stop at any time, okay?” the artist told her comfortingly.

The familiar buzz of the machine filled the room, and as he reached out to touch her arm, she turned away to fix her attention on me. We stared unwaveringly at each other while that low hum continued. Her jaw clenched, and her eyes continued to dance with a barely contained terror.

Tattoos could be scary for people, especially the first one. You didn’t know what to expect as far as pain went, and you were putting something mostly permanent on your body. That could cause some to sweat or freak out.

Not her.

This girl stared down ghosts and demons like they were as common as a house fly. She could sit in the pitch black with a confident calm where others would panic. She’d endured life in a mental hospital. She’d been excited for this moment, not afraid. This petrifying unease wasn’t nerves over the needle. This was something more.

Normally, I’d capitalize on fear. I’d feel the prickles of its energy and, like a cat that had spotted a mouse, I’d rush to toy with it. But as I held her glassy stare, I stayed still. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like how the girl who laughed in the face of horror suddenly shook with some unnamed fear.

“You’re doing well,” I praised just loud enough for her to hear me over the machine.

She nodded, a lone tear dripping from the corner of her eye.

Without thinking, I reached out to wipe it away with my thumb and squeezed her hand harder. “You’re okay,” I told her softly.

For two hours, we didn’t move. We kept our attention firmly locked on each other, sharing small words here and there. Plans for what we’d do after leaving here, jokes about the ghost pigeon we’d seen the other day on the apartment balcony, and all the movies she still needed to watch. The more I talked in comforting whispered words, the more that daze receded from her eyes. When the artist announced that her tattoo was done and wiped down her new ink before releasing her, she took a deep breath.

She looked down at her left forearm while I studied her face for signs that she was okay now. That sign came when her entire face lit up upon seeing her arm. The panic, the drowning in a sea of unexplainable fear—it had been shed like a coat so that she once again wore her usual self.

“It’s perfect!” she gushed. “Xander, what do you think?”

Since she had seemed to shake off whatever was wrong, I decided to do the same, even if there was still some unease in my gut. Whatever had happened wasn’t my business. I finally looked from her face to her arm, which she held out to show me.

A shaded ghost adorned her flesh. The rounded head of the ghost was solid black with two white eyes in the center, and the dark color faded as it moved lower down the flowing cloak of the ghost. Shading and dark spots created folds and edges in its ethereal form. Dark yet transparent whisps of shadows surrounded the spectral figure.

Grinning, I told her, “That looks great. You couldn’t have picked a more fitting tattoo for your first, Ghost.”

“I know, right?” she laughed, holding her arm with the other hand to study it.

The artist brought me a bag with care products for her and gave her the rundown on healing. She happily listened before hopping off the chair and leaning into my side, all while still gazing at her tattoo.

I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and carried her bag as we waltzed along the New York City sidewalk. “Do you like it?”