Claimed by Shadow Page 0,36
my name. I'd never actually gotten around to introducing myself. I shrugged it off; Casanova must have told him.
Chapter 5
I went inside the store lugging my duffle and the bags of food. It was almost as hot as outside, with a rattling window air conditioner threatening to give its last wheeze at any moment. The desperate sound matched the rest of the decor, which consisted of stained ceiling tiles, dung brown carpet and a battered laminate counter. Only the hundreds of brightly colored tattoo designs adhered to almost every surface gave it life.
The counter separated the front from the back of the shop, which I couldn't see because a brown curtain cut off my view. There was no attendant in sight, so I rang the bell, frowning at an issue of Crystal Gazing that was in full view on the counter. The self-proclaimed guardian of free speech in the supernatural community had its usual screaming headline: dracula sighted in vegas-the scourge of Europe alive! Yeah, he was probably sitting by the pool at Caesar's, eating Moon Pies with Elvis. I tucked it out of sight under the counter, thankful that no one had yet dug up my name. I had enough problems-I didn't need the paparazzi, too.
A few seconds later a skinny bald man with a long gray mustache appeared from behind the curtain. Except for the parts hidden by a pair of cutoff jeans, he was covered in tattoos from his scrawny neck to the tops of his flip-flop-clad feet. Even stranger, the inked images moved. The cobra coiled around his neck paused to flicker a tongue in my direction, while a painted lizard crept across his forehead before catching sight of me and scuttling away behind his left ear. The eagle on his chest flapped its outstretched wings lazily, eyeing me out of a single dark eye.
It looked like I'd found the right place.
The painted man took one look at my fascinated expression and laughed. "The shops that do butterflies and flowers are across town, love." Despite looking like a retired Hells Angel, he had a faint accent. I thought it might be Australian. "And I've canceled all my appointments today- rush job came up.”
"I'm not here for a tattoo," I told him, trying not to watch the athame inked onto his stomach, which every few seconds dripped a spot of red from its tip that ran down his skin into the frayed top of the cut offs. "Pritkin said to meet him here. I brought lunch." I held up the bags and the man's expression brightened.
"You'll be Cassandra Palmer, then," he said, looking surprised. I nodded, wondering what he'd expected. I decided not to ask how Pritkin had described me. "Well, why didn't you say so? I'm Archie McAdam, but my friends call me Mac.”
"Cassie," I said, taking the proffered hand. All around his larger tattoos was a forest of painted leaves and vines that rustled slightly, as if in a slight wind. From the dark areas under the foliage, a pair of narrowed orange eyes watched me malevolently.
Mac held back the curtain and I squeezed around the counter to duck inside. The first thing I saw in the back was Pritkin, lying facedown on a padded bench, his shirt off and his head turned away. Given how much trouble he regularly got in, I'd have expected his back to be a welter of old and new scars, but it wasn't. Only a fine tracery of whitened ridges marred one shoulder blade, looking almost like claw marks. Otherwise, flawless skin covered better muscles than I'd expected, unblemished except for the pale purple outline of a tattoo that had been stenciled onto his left side. The outline was about half inked in, although no color had been added yet. It was a stylized sword, very finely drawn, almost delicate. I thought that now was an odd time for body art, but it was his hour. He could spend it as he liked.
Mac held up a mirror to show his customer the design, and Pritkin scowled. "I still say it's too elaborate. A plain sword is all I need.”
"What are you on about?" Mac asked incredulously. "Look at the lines, the artistry. I've outdone myself!”
Pritkin snorted, and I somewhat sympathized. It looked like he was in for a long day. The sword's blade trailed along the whole length of his side, ending on top of his hip. His jeans had been pushed down enough to bare the top of