Chapter 9 | Noah
A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirms my suspicions. The black car is still there.
Saint Pyre’s the only town near Stag’s End Hotel, but that hardly makes it less of a coincidence. We stopped off for gas. Hell, Shane spent a solid ten minutes talking to the attendant about his love for the slimy hot dogs sweating under the heat lamps. And yet remarkably, the same black car has ended up behind us again.
“You good?”
Moxie glances over from the passenger seat. Her muddy boots are propped on the dash, and she’s peeling the black polish from her thumbnail with a battered guitar pick, letting the flakes drift down onto the seat below.
Sure, the van is no glamorous tour bus, but is it any wonder it is such a fucking mess all the time?
I frown, and return my gaze to the road ahead. “The car from earlier is back.” I check the mirror again, hoping that it’s somehow turned off and disappeared into the woods.
Moxie grabs the back of her headrest and turns, peering through the rear window.
“Move your head, dipshit,” she snaps at Shane.
“Say please,” Shane says, through a mouthful of nasty gas station hot dog.
I wince.
“Move your head before I remove it from your fucking shoulders. Please,” Moxie says, flashing a grin that suggests she’d be happy to go through with it.
There’s a rustle from the back seat.
“Prick…” she mutters, leaning over. “The black car?”
“Yeah.”
She snaps back around, removing her legs from the dash and shuffling over to crank her window down. It jams halfway. She elbows it the rest of the way, turns, and reaches over to my side.
“Mox, what are you—”
She slams the horn.
“What the fuck!” I bark, swerving slightly.
She leans back over to her side, shifting her torso out the passenger side window, hair whipping in the wind as she flips a finger at the car behind us.
“Fucking hell, we don’t know that they definitely are following us!” I grab her sleeve and drag her back in.
“We know they’re not now,” she shrugs, winding the window and swearing under her breath when it raises at a concerning angle.
I find myself asking if all guitarists are born with a death wish, and how tricky it would be to find one that has the talent without the attitude. As I contemplate what my life would look like with less road rage and nail filings, Saint Pyre crawls into view.
As expected, it looked better in the pitch black when we bailed from the venue two nights prior. In daylight, Saint Pyre is a tangle of overgrown lots, boarded up storefronts, and carrier bags whipping across the cracked asphalt. The few shifty characters scattered about move with nowhere to be, shuffling around in a similar fashion to the carrier bags, just lacking the enthusiasm.
“Fuck me, this place is depressing,” Mara mutters from the back.
She’s not wrong. Even so, Saint Pyre feels like a breath of fresh air after the suffocating weight of Stag’s End Hotel. I flick the indicator and pull the van into a crumbling parking lot, eager to finally get out and stretch my legs. The meter’s bagged over, a small mercy in what’s shaping up to be a long day.
As I kill the engine, the black car glides past, its windows tinted too dark to see inside. It keeps rolling until it disappears around the corner, leaving me with both relief and the uneasy thought that maybe I’m losing my mind to this place.
Moxie kicks the door open and steps out, scanning the street as if it might look different without the streaked water marks on the window obscuring it. She frowns, digs into the zipped pocket of her jacket, and pulls out a fat joint, which she immediately sparks up.
She drags in a dramatic lungful of air, then exhales straight into my path.
“Jesus, Mox. Do you have to do that here?” I swat the smoke away and circle to the side door, yanking it open since Shane apparently forgot how handles work.
“You getting out,” I ask, one brow up, “or should I crack a window so you can keep sulking in here?”
He sighs, throws his phone onto the discarded hot dog wrappers on the back seat behind him, and kicks Moxie’s chair forward. “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.”
“Meet back at the van around three?” Mara calls, leaning over to snag a hit from Moxie’s joint.
“Yeah. Try not to lose her.” I shoot them both a look. “Or set anything on fire.”
I try to recall if Saint Pyre has a police station, and how far I’ll need to drive when I inevitably have to bail them out later.
“You want anything from the shop?” Mara asks, tugging on her leather jacket while keeping the joint clenched between her lips, puffing out lazy puffs of smoke.
“Beer?” Shane pipes up from behind me without missing a beat.
“You’ve got beer at the hotel,” Mara says, brushing her hair off her shoulder.
“Yeah, but that stuffs horrible.”
“Didn’t you finish half a crate of it by yourself last night?” she quizzes.
“Yeah?” He blinks, genuinely confused why this is relevant.
I flip Eddie’s lighter between my fingers from my jacket pocket. “Can you pick me up some smokes?”
She nods, then glances at Shane. “Any particular brand of beer, Shane?”
“Nah, I’ll drink anything. Just get the cheapest they have,” he says, looking around to get his bearings and squinting at the light.
Mara rolls her eyes and looks at me. I just shrug, dig a crumpled note from my pocket, and hand it over.
“Cool. Later, losers. Have fun.” Mara flashes a grin, hooks her arm through Moxie’s, and they take off down the street. Moxie flips us off without even turning around.
Shane starts to wander after them until I grab his arm and steer him the other way. Whilst the girls get tattooed, I figured we can check out the record store and make the most of the down time.
The crowd at our show had all the energy of a funeral, but the rest of Saint Pyre doesn’t appear much livelier as we make our way down the high-street. Everyone we pass is either dead behind the eyes, or has murder in them.
With the girls gone, the silence is more uncomfortable than the feedback from Moxie’s amp. Shane and I weren’t exactly conversation starters, and without Moxie’s insults or Mara’s sarcasm, the air falls heavy.
“So… you heard anything from Eddie?” Shane asks casually.
A long sigh escapes me. Naturally, I never get Mara when we split off, and putting Shane and Moxie together would be like handing a lion a gazelle and saying play nice.
Whatever. “Yeah, I’m meeting him later.”
I can feel the grin spreading across his face without even needing to look.
“Meeting him, huh?” he says, nudging me with his elbow and thrusting his hips into the air.
I roll my eyes. “Jesus, you need to get laid, Shane.”
He snorts, gesturing down the street where the only living soul is an old woman hobbling along with a rusted zimmer frame. “Yeah, let me just go charm the local babes. We’re not all lucky enough to have a hunky janitor with a big—”
“Shane!”
“Heart! I was gonna say heart!” He wheezes. “Damn.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The old woman glances across through heavy lidded eyes, before passing us, the sound of her metal frame scraping the concrete.
Shane’s still grinning. “Fuck… Did you see the sex eyes she was giving me? Oh, she wanted some.”
If the way he devoured those hot dogs earlier is an indication of what ‘some’ means, I imagine she’s perfectly fine without.
“You’re sick,” I say, unable to suppress my laughter.
After a stretch of silence, and a great deal of mental effort to purge my brain of glizzies, we finally reach the shops.
Tucked between a battered convenience store and a long-abandoned apartment block, the record store was easy to miss. One of the few buildings on this side of town not boarded up, its windows were thick with grime from years of neglect. Behind the glass, a handful of cheap acoustic guitars prop against shelves lined with records from artists I’d never heard of.
The heavy door requires a full shoulder push to open. When it finally does budge, a bell jangles overhead, announcing our arrival to an empty room. Baskets of vinyls and CDs line the counters, all the way to the end where the tills are located. The moment I step inside, the scent of mildew and damp cardboard hits me.
Shane lunges for the sale crate, flipping through it like a man possessed. “Imagine finding one of our records in here one day.”
“In the discount pile?” I mutter, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugs and continues rummaging through the crate.
I drift between the rows, scanning the records, trying to find some semblance of order. Most of it seems haphazard, nineties dance rubbing shoulders with electronic hits, rock demos shoved between forgotten indie acts. Eventually, near the back, a strip of masking tape catches my eye, the genres scrawled in faded Sharpie: Metal. Punk. Hardcore.
I crouch by the crate and start flipping through the records, beginning with the A’s. Shane drones behind me, humming along to whatever record he recognises, but I tune him out.
As I’m sifting through Sabbath’s backlog, a sleeve catches my eye. I pull it out to examine it. ‘Forsaken’ the title reads in gothic lettering. The artwork showcases an angel, wings black and skeletal, tearing a sword free from the hellish ruin surrounding her. The tips of her wings are scorched, flesh burned away by the flames that form the artist’s logo ‘Blackwing’.
“Real shame what happened to him, it was.”
I jump at the voice, nearly launching the CD across the room. Behind me stands a stocky man with a thick black beard. A discoloured plaid shirt, two sizes too small stretches over his broad shoulders, rolled up to the elbows, where his arms cross over his stout chest. A plastic name tag is pinned crookedly to his shirt. LEONARD has been scratched out in black marker, LENNY written beneath it in uneven letters.
“Sorry?” I manage.
“Lyle Smoke,” he says, voice low, rasping at the edges. “The guy went and killed himself.” He glances down at the Blackwing sleeve.
“Brilliant album,” he says reminiscing. “Like I say, a real shame. Lot of talent gone to waste.”
I flip the record over, and my eyes lock on a close-up that could only be Lyle Smoke. His grey hair whips around him like storm clouds, his darkened eyes open wide as he clutches a microphone and stares off into the infernal landscape. Something seems eerily familiar about him but I can’t quite place it.
“Anyway, just yell if you need help with anything,” the man smiles and turns toward the tills. “Not like we got a line forming out the door or anything.”
“Actually… there is something.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the crumpled flyer that I’d spotted under a bed in one of the hotel’s rooms. I smooth it out and hand it over.
“Dread Legion?” His brow lifts, eyes narrowing as he studies me, his tongue slowly running over his gums like he’s tasting something bitter. “Got a real thing for tragedy, huh?” He thinks for a moment. “Not on the shelves… but I might have one or two copies left in the back.”
He heads toward a shadowed doorway at the rear of the store, but stops abruptly, spinning back to me. His finger rests on the flyer. “They weren’t friends of yours, were they?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m… a new fan.”
He studies me for a long moment, expression unreadable. “Hm. I’ll be back in a minute. Wait here.”
The door creaks shut behind him and my gaze returns to the Forsaken sleeve still in my hand. Lyle Smoke’s eyes seem to glint back at me, as if warning me not to dig any deeper.
“Can you believe these are all a dollar?”
Shane appears behind me with several sleeves tucked under his arm, which he fans out like playing cards in front of me. Most of them look half-rotted, the covers water-stained or torn at the edges.
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “I can believe it. Is that Backstreet Boys?”
“No,” he blurts out, quickly shuffling it into the pack. His eyes land on the record in my hand. “Yo, sick cover!” He leans in, squinting. “Wait… isn’t that the guy from the hotel?”
I frown. “Greaves?”
“No, no, the other one. Tea guy.” He plucks the sleeve from my grip, holding it up to the light. “Yeah, him! I ran into him again on our first night, he was literally playing a guitar. I swear to god, that’s the same dude.”
I frown. The face does seem familiar, though the photo is decades old.
“No way,” I say. “The owner just told me he’s dead.”
Shane gestures with the record like a preacher with a Bible. “And you think I wouldn’t recognise a face like that? Come on. Maybe he’s a ghost or some shit. We’ll probably see him when we get back. I swear to god, it’s him.”
I’m not convinced, but the unease sits low in my chest.
“Are you buying it?” he asks.
“Oh, no, I don’t think—“
Before I can finish, he snatches the sleeve back and tucks it under his arm with the rest. “Twenty bucks says I’m right.”
“Fine. You’re on.”
As we shake on it, the backdoor opens and shopkeeper returns, clutching a vinyl.
“Here you are. You’re in luck,” he says, handing them to me along with the flyer.
The cover shows four horsemen leading an army of skeletons through a frozen mountain pass, weapons raised, smoke rising from the burning village below. The name Frozen Hell sprawls beneath the band’s jagged logo.
“Thanks,” I murmur, turning it over, looking for a price tag.
“You can have it,” he says quietly. “Wouldn’t feel right charging for it… not after everything.”
His tone dips, but before I can ask what he means, his eyes catch on Shane’s stack of records and his expression brightens as if he’s flipped a switch.
“Find a few treasures, did you?”
Shane grins, holding up the pile. “Oh, you have no idea. If I had a dollar for every treasure I found today.” He digs around in his pockets for a few crumpled bills, holding them up and counting. “I would have seven dollars. Here you go, good sir.”
The shopkeeper smiles politely. He clearly has no idea how to respond to Shane’s strange comments. He rings the records up, and stuffs them into a brown paper bag.
“So,” he says casually, “what brings you two to Saint Pyre? Just passing through?”
“Kind of,” I say, glancing at Shane. “We’re doing a couple of shows out here.”
“Some shows…” The man looks us up and down, his eyes landing on my tattoo sleeves.
He looks past us toward the shopfront before leaning forward over the counter, his voice dropping to a low, uneasy whisper. “You wouldn’t happen to be staying at Stag’s End Hotel, would you?”
His tone carries an urgency that makes the back of my neck prickle. Shane and I trade a wary look.
He takes our silence as confirmation. “Be careful…” He leans over the counter, glancing toward the door again, his expression tightening. “There’s something wrong with that place. Everyone in town knows it. There’s a hostel up in Grimsby Ridge, it’s no palace, but they…”
He stops mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on something behind us. I follow his gaze to the front window, where a figure stands motionless. Even with his hood pulled up and shrouding his face, it’s clear that he’s staring right at us.
Without warning, the figure takes a slow step back. The sun slips behind a cloud, and the world seems to cool and dim around him. At the curb, the black car we’d glimpsed earlier waits, engine idling. He slides into it silently, and the vehicle eases away, down the road. When the sun breaks through again, it bathes the street in a warm glow.
I look back, and the shopkeeper has straightened, his expression wiped clean, like nothing happened.
“You boys take care now.” His voice is steady as he slides the bag across the counter toward Shane. “Stay safe out there.”
Shane hesitates before taking it. “Uh… yeah. Thanks.”
I murmur my own thanks for the records, but the man barely seems to hear me. His gaze already back to the window, fixed on something far beyond the squalid glass.
Chapter 10 | Moxie
I watch in benign amusement as crumbs rain down, gathering around Mara’s boots while she annihilates what’s left of her falafel wrap. The weed from earlier is hitting me full force and I have to bite my lip to stop the giggles. I can’t help picturing her as a ferocious little caterpillar ripping chunks out of her leaf.
“Stop staring at me,” she mumbles through a mouthful of red pepper and spinach. “This is the first actual food I’ve had since we got here.”
Then she crams the rest into her mouth in one go, cheeks ballooning like a greedy chipmunk.
I avert my gaze to avoid pissing her off further, pretending to study the shopfront instead. The window beside us is boarded up with splintered plywood, tagged with a veiny spray painted dick. The rest of the wall is no better. Torn, sun-bleached posters advertise gigs from years ago, a tattered wallpaper barely holding the crumbling brick together.
A security camera is watching us from above the shop door. I fight the irrational urge to shift my weight, to angle my face away. My shoplifting days are over, at least for the most part. So why do I feel so unsettled?
I tug at the cuff of my hoodie and roll my sleeves up past my elbows, letting my arms breathe.
“Moxie?”
I hear Mara’s voice and realise she’s been talking to me.
“Jesus, you’re gone,” she says, waving her free hand in front of my face like she is checking if I can still see her. “Are you going to be good to get tattooed?”
I blink, drag myself back. “Please. I’ve been high for almost all of my tattoos.”
For better or worse.
I rotate my arm to glare at the wonky set of inky black teeth spiralling their way up to my elbow. In my defence, the artist was higher than me for that one. The memory snaps sharp and ugly, heat flaring behind my eyes. I exhale slowly, trying to cage the surge of anger before it takes hold.
Fuck that artist.
Fuck that tattoo.
And most of all, fuck that fucking band.
Mara brushes the crumbs off her jacket, scoops up the carrier with Shane’s beer, and we start towards the parlour.
“So what’s the plan this time? Another skull? A sword? Maybe a skull with a sword in it?”
I shove my hands in my pockets, smirking. “You wanna get matching bats?”
“Bats?” She raises an eyebrow, shooting me a sideways glance.
“Yeah. Bats.”
“Why bats?”
I stare at her, baffled. In my head the idea is so obvious. “Why the fuck not bats?”
“Alright,” she finally says, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Fine. Bats it is.”
I grab her hand and give it an excited squeeze. Very few ever stuck around long enough for me to call friends. I get why. I’m loud, abrasive, hard to love on my best days. I can’t help it though, there’s no off switch.
Mara is different, she understands me like others don’t. She just gets me, like it’s obvious. Like I’m not something to endure. I squeeze her hand again, just once more for myself, before letting go. The smile doesn’t leave my face.
Shane’s beer rattles in Mara’s carrier as we walk, the clink echoing down the dead streets of Saint Pyre. The whole town feels emptied out, which is making me feel just a touch better about our shows shitty attendance.
The low growl of an engine sounds from somewhere behind us. I glance back and there it is, the same car from earlier. Even through the tinted glass I can feel eyes on us.
A pulse of anger cuts through the fear and I stare into the dark windows. Whoever this creep is, I want them to know I see them. Pull over, coward. Come take a closer look.
But the car doesn’t stop. It continues slowly down the street, coughing up a black cloud of smoke behind it until it disappears from sight and I realise that, yet again, Mara has been speaking to me.
She nudges me sharply with her elbow, breaking the spell. “Earth to bat girl.”
“Huh?” I blink, still staring at the spot where he vanished.
“I said, where are you getting your tattoo?”
“From the tattoo shop?” I say, pointing at the rickety sign up ahead. God, she can be so silly.
Concern brushes her face for a moment. But whatever she meant to say, she swallows it.
“I’m too high for this bullshit.” I push past her, holding the parlour door open, as we slip inside.
–
Surprisingly, the tattoo shop is warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the gloom of the dreary streets outside. The scent of ink mingles with cinnamon and cloves. Walls are lined with artwork, from traditional flash sheets to jagged gothic blackwork.
Behind the counter, the receptionist looks up from their phone, hair a chaotic blaze of electric blue. Thick smudged eyeliner frames sharp, expressive eyes, and piercings glint across their nose, lips, and ears.
“Hey lovelies! Welcome to Saints and Sinners Tattoo,” they call. “Do you have a booking with us today?”
Mara props her carrier down on the worn leather sofa. “No booking. Do you have space for two?”
The receptionist steps out from behind the counter. “We sure do. Follow me, I’ll introduce you to the artists and we’ll see what they can do for you.”
At the back, two artists glance up from their sketches. One is tall and lean, with dark hair and a boyish face, hunched over a neo-traditional style illustration of a tiger. Beside him, a stocky woman stretches her arms, revealing intricate black-and-grey gothic tattoos snaking up her shoulders.
“This is Joel,” the receptionist gestures to the tall one. “And that’s Sable. I’ll leave you both in their capable hands.”
Joel glances up, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Hello, how can we… I know you both from somewhere.” He snaps his fingers. “Kiss Rot, Right?”
I blink. I’m not used to being recognised, let alone in the middle of nowhere. Then again, we did play here just a couple nights ago.
“Depends,” I drawl. “Did you enjoy the gig?”
Joel laughs. “Are you kidding? You guys were fucking brilliant.” He points between us. “Singer… and—” His eyes land on me and he rubs his hand over his mouth. He squints. “Bassist?”
I clench my fists, narrowing my eyes. “Do I look like a fucking bassist to you?”
Joel’s eyes widen in mock alarm. “Whoa, my bad, guitarist then? My mistake. Still unreal, both of you. That song, Hellfire? Holy shit.”
Sable swivels her chair around, grinning. “He’s right. You tore that place apart.”
“You guys came to the show?” Mara perks up, her smile brightening. “That’s so cool, thanks for coming!”
Sable chuckles, shaking her head. “Half the town was there. We don’t get bands out here much anymore.” She pauses, eyes flicking to Joel. “Not since…”
Joel’s expression darkens, but he hesitates, as if weighing how much to say. “Dread Legion. That winter was… bad. Real bad.”
Mara leans forward slightly, curiosity bright in her eyes. “What happened?”
Joel sighs, rubbing at his temple. “The whole ridge froze over. Terrible, just… everything frozen solid. You’ve probably heard the story already. They were all so young.” His jaw tightens, as if finishing the thought would bring something unwelcome into the room.
“They were in their bus, leaving town after playing here,” he continues, shaking his head and his gaze falls to the dark spiral he’s been sketching in the corner of his pad.
“After that night,” he continues quietly, “Saint Pyre kind of… fell off the tour map. Grimsby Ridge is the nearest stop we get now, and even they don’t pull crowds like they used to.”
Mara’s voice softens. “I’m so sorry. Who was the band, Dread Legion, you said?”
Joel swallows. “Dread Legion,” he confirms. “We tattooed them the night before they…”
He lifts a hand and gestures toward a frame on the far wall. Through my tired, burning eyes, I can barely make out the group of young musicians, captured mid-laugh, unaware that death loomed so imminently.
Sable forces a lighter tone, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “So, don’t forget dusty old Saint Pyre when you’re selling out arenas, alright?”
Mara’s voice softens. “That’s awful. I can’t imagine. I’m glad we could bring a little noise to your quiet town.”
That earns a laugh from Joel, who finally closes his sketchbook and sets it aside. “Me too. Sorry for bringing the mood down. So,” he leans forward, elbows on his knees, “what can we do for you…?”
“Mara.” She smiles. “And this is Moxie. Sorry in advance, we only let her out under strict supervision.”
I flash him a grin, raising a hand. “Hi. I’m the reason she drinks. We’d like some bats, please.”
–
By the time everything’s set up, the air smells like antiseptic and ink. Mara’s in the next chair, shirt hitched up while Sable lines the stencil on her shoulder.
Joel reappears, settling back into his seat, printout in hand and that familiar half grin.
“Alright, you ready?”
“Let’s do it,” I say.
I kick off my boots, shuffle my jeans off, and toss them somewhere behind me. The clingfilm cover is cold against my thighs, sticking slightly when I shift. Joel’s eyes scan my legs, tracing the maze of ink I’ve collected over the years, searching for some unclaimed skin.
“Here,” I say, tapping a bare stretch of thigh, just big enough for the design.
His fingers brush against me briefly as he lines up the stencil. He tilts my leg for a better angle, palm resting lightly against my skin as he presses the paper down, then pulls it away. Beside us, Sable’s machine hums to life, its aggressive buzz filling the air.
“How’s that?” Joel asks, glancing up.
I eyeball the outline and nod. “Perfect.”
“Good. You comfortable like that, I can get you a cover?”
“Here’s good. And I’m not shy.” I stretch my legs out unapologetically.
“Alright. Just holler if you need anything, yeah?”
I nod, and the machine hums to life, its low rattle working in tandem with Sable’s as it fills the room. Across from me, Mara’s chatting away like she’s getting her nails done.
Joel leans closer, tracing the stencil with his gloved fingers, checking alignment one last time. I inhale and the tip of the needle kisses my thigh.
“You good?” Joel’s voice sounds distant.
“Yeah. Fucking brilliant.” I reach blindly toward Mara’s bag until my hand closes around the familiar cardboard of the beer box. “Borrowing this,” I mutter, tearing it from its packaging.
I pull the can out and crack it open, wrapping my lips around the opening as the cool beer begins to foam over the top.
“I made the decision sober, okay?” I cut in, before Joel can protest.
He shrugs, eyes back on my thigh. “Hey, I’m not judging.”
The bitterness floods my tongue, fizzing warm and sharp in my chest. It settles there, filling that hollow void that’s always thirsty.
I tip my head back and stare up at the ceiling, picking a pear-shaped water stain to anchor myself. It wobbles slightly in my vision, maybe an aftermath of the joint I smoked earlier.
It isn’t the needle that’s got me on edge, it’s the memories it’s pulling up. Pain can be real honest like that. My eyes drift down to my elbow, to the teeth inked in a jagged spiral climbing toward my shoulder. Black enamel.
They were supposed to mean belonging.
Family.
God fucking knows I never had that anywhere else.
This tattoo is all I have to prove it ever existed, a twisting chain of teeth, one for each night of that long long tour. I run my fingers over the bumpy skin. So many flaws, misshapen lines, patchy shading. Fitting really.
Of course, they’re not playing shit towns and dive bars any more. Christ, I bawled the morning the record deal came through. I thought we’d finally fucking made it. We had. Only they decided that ‘we’, no longer included me. Ironically, it came at the time where I was finally getting my shit together. Drinking less. Not throwing up backstage. For one second it felt like the universe wasn’t laughing in my face.
The water stain on the ceiling blurs. I blink hard. I’m meant to be over this shit.
I want to believe this time is different. God, I really want to. Looking down at the can in my hand, I see the ugly familiar truth. Because I haven’t changed and I clearly don’t know any different. How not to fuck it up.
I give the bat a once over. The line-work looks about done, but it’s upside down and there’s smudges of ink obscuring the red skin.
Joel swaps out the needle, setting the fresh one in with a quiet click. “Gonna start the shading,” he says. “Let me know if you need a break.”
He fires the machine back up, and the new needle makes contact with my skin. I shove my hair out of my face and take another long pull of beer.
“So,” I say, trying for casual, “anywhere you’d recommend in your little slice of paradise?”
Joel chuckles under his breath. “Not in good conscience.”
“Come on, it can’t be that bad.” My gaze drifts along the shelves beside me, skipping across books, jars, and random junk, settling on a dark skull ornament.
He scoffs and wipes at my thigh with a damp paper towel. “Thrift & Pawn’s not a bad browse if you’re into weird shit.”
“I like weird shit,” I mutter, focussing on suppressing the urge to empty the remnants of my can and replace it.
Joel gives a lopsided smile, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to pry. The needle drags a sharper line and I hiss out a breath, more from the pressure tightening in my chest than the pain in my thigh.
Fuck it. I tip the can up and finish the last mouthful, the fizz leaving a bitter trace on my tongue.
My gaze drifts back to that skull on the shelf. Its hollow sockets see right through me.
Go on. Stare. Stare like the fucking creep in the black car. See if I give a shit.
I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing the cool metal. I run my thumb along the grooves, the familiar ridges and the swirling pattern that’s engraved into it.
Joel leans back and presses a damp paper towel to my thigh, wiping away the excess ink. “What do you think?” he asks.
I examine the design. He’s done a good job. Thick lines, gothic shading on the wings. It’s a bat alright.
“Fuck yeah.” I grin. “I love it.”
He smiles, relieved, and moves to clean up. Across the room, Sable is doing the final touches to Mara’s bat. It’s finer line-work and more dainty looking, but it clearly matches my own.
I roll my sleeve down, covering the jagged spiral of black teeth running up my arm. It feels like it’s burning sometimes. I close my fist around the ring until the metal bites into my skin.
This time will be different, I tell myself, and for a long moment, I almost believe it.
