She takes it from me and slides her finger along the screen. A few taps and the phone is ringing.
Ringing.
Ringing.
Pick up, pick up.
PICK. UP.
30
Jake
The neon sign in the window says Open, but it’s a lie. Two hours ago Jake climbed out of his car and shook the door handle. He succeeded only in dislodging the sign that declared the tattoo shop was open from eight to midnight daily. The clock hanging just inside the window says it’s half past eight now, and still Evil Deeds is nothing but shadows and glare.
On its left is a hair salon—very girlie, very bright. Above the red brick storefront, a swirly sign in red and orange guarantees you’ll love your locks when they’re through with them. Something about the place screams Kaylee.
To the right of the tattoo shop is an awning with vibrant swatches of material decorating it. The sign above this door says New Age Books, but not a single book is visible from where Jake is standing. Through the window he can see display cases of candles and perfumes. Baskets of rocks and crystals line the front counter. The doors are thrown open, welcoming, beckoning morning shoppers. The smell of incense irritates his nose, and he steps sideways to avoid it.
As annoying as the incense is, the bookstore is far more welcoming than the dark hole of a tattoo shop next to it. Yet Jake stands in front of its windows staring at the artwork painted there. A snarling lion emerges from a heart styled of scrolling loops and curves. His heart feels an awful lot like a lion is trying to claw its way out of it, and as the minutes pass he develops a fascination for the artwork.
He reaches out a hand and runs it along the twisting lines merging with the lion’s mane. If he can figure this out, figure out why the Throne Room sent him here, maybe he’ll understand why they took the ring. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough to convince Brielle to hear him out.
In his back pocket is the picture of the tattoo—the one they found in the chest—but he doesn’t need to pull it out to recognize just how similar the styling is to this. To this lion and its evil heart.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Hurrying toward Jake from the south side of the street is a man wearing threadbare jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt with the sleeves shredded. A cigarette dangles from his lip, unlit, more decoration than anything else. He’s easily in his fifties, but his gray hair is plastered into a series of little spikes and he’s wearing thick black eyeliner. A chain of keys slaps against his thigh, making his approach sound like a chorus of bell-wielding children. His arms and neck bear hundreds of tattoos, his hands are decorated with an array of rings. Thick bands, silver skulls, gaudy gemstones.
He lifts the jangling keychain from his hip, finds the correct key with remarkable ease, and jams it into the lock. He spins the key around and thrusts himself into the building.
“Bike broke,” he says by way of apology. “You here for some ink?”
The man drops his keys on the counter and tucks the cigarette behind his ear. He busies himself—flipping switches, turning on computers.
“Actually, I have a question,” Jake says.
“Little early for pop quizzes, ain’t it?” The man slides onto a barstool behind the counter and looks Jake in the eye for the first time. He must see something there he likes, because his demeanor softens. “Go ahead, kid. I’m just messing with ya.”
Jake hesitates. The idea of knowing what this guy knows is suddenly terrifying. Still, he pulls the picture from his pocket and slides it across the counter.
“You know this?”
The guy picks it up and swears. “Where’d you get this, kid?”
“So you know it?”
“Sure, I know it. I did it, didn’t I? Haven’t seen this in forever.”
“Can you tell me who it is?”
“Doctor Doom,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
He laughs again. It’s weaselly, this man’s laugh. Kind of shrill, kind of devious. But his face is kind.
“Doctor Doom, ha! Yeah, that’s what we called him.” He taps the corner of the picture against his lip. “What was his real name? Bud, maybe? Billy? I don’t know. It’s been too long now. Don’t rightly remember.”
Brian, Jake thinks. If it’s my dad, his first name was Brian.
Jake’s lips have never felt so dry. He licks them, and then once more before he asks, “Do you know his last