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“Mind sharing what happened?”
I shrug, only for the tattoo artist behind me to place his hands on my shoulders to keep me still, the chill of an alcohol wipe coming next. “Same old story,” I mutter. “I wanted more, they were greedy. Kept putting me in shitty situations. A friend got taken by the enemy and I decided I didn’t want anything else to do with the damn Archangel and his cronies.”
…in a way, that part is true.
The tattoo artists get to work—mine on my back, Isaiah’s on his arm. Isaiah’s artist is a beta female, quiet and shy, but mine sparks up a conversation.
“So how’s New Eden treating you?” my artist says. “It’s gorgeous, right?”
“Sure fucking is,” I reply. “Guess I’m still wondering what the deal is, though. I mean—there’s always an ugly underbelly to paradise.”
“You would think, but that’s not how it is here,” the artist says. “Just…good. Good, kind people. Plenty to eat, clean air, open spaces. It’s the dream.”
Isaiah laughs softly. “Gotta be honest, I thought this place would be crawling with cult freaks based on the way they talk about it on the mainland.”
“Yeah, I expected lab coats and chains, not…this,” I agree, motioning at the folksy vibe of the joint. “It’s almost normal.”
The needle buzzes to life, a sound that promises pain and permanence. It presses into my skin, and I focus on the sensation, grounding myself in the here and now. Isaiah watches, his gaze flickering between my face and the artist’s hand.
“Guess we’ll have to see what goes down when the sun sets,” I say, the words barely louder than the hum of the tattoo machine.
“Guess so,” he replies, his tone suggesting he’s seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore.
We fall into silence as the tattoo guns buzz, as pain rockets through me and finally settles into a monotonous, searing ache. Every so often, the tattoo gun catches on a vertebra—but I roll with it. I’m in for the long haul here, intent on showing my devotion to this cult if only for the sake of getting Aisling out.
And, of course, a free tat.
Never gonna say no to that.
“So what brought you here?” I say, tilting my head back to catch Isaiah’s gaze. “I noticed the Fates symbol on your cheek—guess you left something behind to?”
He nods. “Yeah…I’ve been with the Fates out of Vancouver ever since I was a kid on the streets. They kept me safe for a while…but then they didn’t. So now, I’m here.”
I don’t pry; he doesn’t seem interested in sharing. “And what did New Eden offer you?”
“They said I would have a mate, shelter, and well…anything I could ever ask for,” he says. “And you know city bosses aren’t exactly charitable with their omegas, so I figured I’d go with it for the sake of finding one of my own.”
“They offered you an omega?”
“Didn’t they offer you one?“ he says. “That’s their whole thing. The May Queen—goddess of fertility, all that shit. Supposedly they’re less rare here.”
“In that case, where are they?”
I catch the briefest glimpse of the female tattooist shifting, her jaw tense.
She knows something.
Isaiah frowns. “Come to think of it, I have no idea. You got any clue?”
The artist pauses, wiping away excess ink before continuing his work. In that moment, the female collects herself and keeps going, and my artist says, “You’ll find out tonight.”
I guess that’s the end of the conversation, because everyone clams up after that. The needle buzzes on, and I let the sound fill the space between my thoughts. I always like this point in the tattoo…where I drift off, let the pain turn my brain into mush, and I just…
Go.
The night creeps up on us, a silent stalker that throws the ocean into a canvas of inky black. It’s dark outside by the time I leave the tattoo parlor, the air cool against my skin where the needle left its mark.
There’s a fire burning in the courtyard of the large wooden temple at the heart of the colony.
