Fleeing Fate

  Fleeing Fate

  Anya Richards

  Jakuta Dagbo knows bad weather’s approaching, even though the sky above the faie world is clear. And when Gràinne Bairdie walks into The Midnight Café wanting an arcane tattoo, he realizes the tempest raging into his life has nothing to do with wind and rain. Just one look at her brings his storm god libido, and the protective instincts he no longer trusts, to thundering life.

  Gràinne’s a banshee on the run, desperate to claim the emotions she’s sure are rightfully hers. She has no time to explore the sparks of need flying between herself and Jakuta. What she’s trying to do will bring the wrath of the Banshee Council down on her head, and she knows they’ll do anything to stop her.

  Yet, as Gràinne and Jakuta peel back the layers of their lives, searching for the answers she needs, they can’t ignore the lightning-hot passion searing their blood. And when emotion reaches its apex, demanding complete surrender to the cyclone of desire, neither can resist. Even if it means Gràinne’s banshee wail of release will be her last.

  Fleeing Fate

  Anya Richards

  Chapter One

  Jakuta Dagbo stood at the loft railing and tried to see out through the floor-to-ceiling, double-height glass panes fronting the Midnight Café. The bright lights inside made it impossible to see the sky above the buildings across the courtyard, but it had been clear just a couple of hours before. The horizon, that misty barrier between the worlds of men and faie, hadn’t shown even a hint of dark clouds either, meaning there was no inclement weather bleeding over from the human side.

  Switching his attention to inside, Jakuta carefully surveyed the bar and games area of the tattoo parlor. There were only a few patrons this early in the evening. Music pumped from ceiling-mounted speakers and neon lights flashed, illuminating the massive framed tattoo art along the walls, giving the place a party atmosphere.

  His gut told him it was all wrong, far too quiet.

  “Storm’s coming. Not sure when, but it’s coming.”

  “I could tell.” The laughter in Jasmina’s voice made him send her a quelling look, but that just made the jinn chortle out loud instead of holding her amusement inside. “It might have been something about the way you handled those vamps that gave it away.”

  Jakuta shrugged, unrepentant. He may have over three thousand years of anger management under his belt, but it didn’t always help. “They were starting to piss me off.”

  Inking vamp initiation tats was boring enough without the rest of the club members hanging around, making clucking noises if the new guy even winced. The way he’d dealt with the leader of the group when she started a fight may have been extreme. But it wasn’t as though she’d been hurt, and it had cured the problem.

  “Really? I’d have never guessed. I thought maybe tossing her over the railing was some kind of West African friendship ritual.” Her sarcasm earned another glare, but Jazz just tipped her head to one side, her gaze searching. “What’s going on with you anyway?”

  Knowing it was useless to hide anything from the deeply intuitive woman, he shrugged one shoulder. “Wish I knew. I’m just—” He shrugged again, unable to explain it to himself, much less to anyone else. Since he’d woken up that afternoon a nagging sense of rough weather approaching had dogged him, leaving him twitchy and on edge. There should be a hurricane on its way or a tornado about to touch down, not a beautiful, starlit night outside.

  “Huh.” Jasmina turned to scan the floor below where a couple of customers were sitting at the bar, sipping their drinks and talking with Bolaka, the bartender. “Well, if something weird is going to happen, with Hervé off tonight, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Waving his hand toward the windows across from them, he frowned. “You see any kind of bad weather coming, Jazz? It’s the clearest night we’ve had this month.”

  The jinn shook her head, a funny little smile tipping the corners of her mouth. “You’re way old enough to know that not all storms come with hail and wind. Oops.” She waved down at a pixie just coming in the front door. “Here’s my client. Talk to you later.”

  Jakuta didn’t have a chance to remind her he was a storm god and his talents didn’t stretch to predicting anything but the weather. With a swirl of gold-and-green lights she disappeared, reappearing down by the bar, hand outstretched to greet her diminutive customer. Looking at the pixie, Jakuta wondered where she was planning to put another tat. She was wearing a tank top and he could see she already had full sleeves on both arms, the pattern swirling up to surround her neck then dipping down into her cleavage. Somehow he figured the rest of her body was equally covered, but there must be somewhere left or she wouldn’t be coming to see Jasmina, who specialized in full-body art.

  They walked toward the staircase leading back up to the loft and, suddenly restless, Jakuta pushed away from the railing. The place really was dead. He had no appointments booked for the night, which wasn’t unusual for a Tuesday. Normally he’d be downstairs trading insults with Ula at the reception desk, playing pool with Hervé or talking philosophy with Bolaka. Tonight—he rubbed his hand over the dreads at the top of his head, trying to quiet the sudden crawling of his scalp—he didn’t want to talk to anyone. His skin tingled as though presaging a lightning strike and his nerves were stretched taut enough to snap.

  Thanks be to the gods, Hervé was away at a clan gathering. If he were around, the wyvern would just keep at him, trying to get Jakuta to say exactly what he was feeling, trying to figure out exactly what it all meant. To Hervé instinct guided everything in life, yet could only truly be trusted if dissected and the root of the feeling discovered. Clearly living that way worked well for the dragon, since it had helped him build Midnight Café into a successful business, but the whole concept of examining every little thought and emotion wasn’t Jakuta’s idea of fun.

  There was a burst of noise downstairs, the sound of new voices and loud laughter. Probably a group coming in for a couple of drinks and some fun and games—again not unusual for a Tuesday night. Although still primarily known as a tattoo parlor, the Café was becoming more popular as a hangout spot since they’d put in the bar, started selling snacks and offered pool, billiards and darts. It was another of Hervé’s successful innovations, one Jakuta hadn’t been too sure would work out as well as it had.

  He suddenly found himself back at the railing, unsure of how he’d gotten there, aware that the sensations that had been plaguing him all evening were intensifying. The blood thundered in his veins. Every hair on his body stood up, electricity dancing over and into his skin. His muscles tightened as a wave of heat pulsed through them to settle low in his gut.

  Scanning the scene below, he took in the eclectic group milling about, some heading to the bar, others clustered around one of the pool tables, even more settling in at some of the tables. Taqal had already come out from the back, was circulating through the crowd, handing out menus, taking orders. Directing everything was a tall, skinny witch wearing a wedding veil and an even taller guy, maybe part giant or something, with a top hat perched precariously on one side of his head.

  Stag and doe.

  Restless, his gaze skimmed over the couple, tracked past everyone in the place to fix on the door. Outside, visible in the light of the Café sign, another group of people approached. Pulling both sides of the double doors open, they streamed in, cries of delight greeting their arrival, the noise level inside rising to suddenly become almost unbearable. The last two newcomers came in, releasing their hold on the doors.

  And still Jakuta found himself watching the entrance, unable to tear his gaze away. As though in slow motion the two sides of the door swung inward, the space between them diminishing as they closed. There was no hint of motion beyond them, out in the
night.

  If he’d blinked he would have missed seeing the woman slip in, as though riding the wake of the previous entrants.

  He couldn’t see her face, shaded as it was by the brim of a gray knitted tam. Nor could he discern anything much about her body because of the loose black trench coat, buttoned up to the neck but flapping around her denim-clad legs as she walked. She did nothing to call attention to herself. In fact she moved with the milling crowd as though a part of it, skirting the edges of groups, seeming on the verge of joining first one and then another without actually doing so.

  Yet somehow he knew she wasn’t there to celebrate with the happy couple. The ribbons of white-hot electricity zapping along his tribal marks, burning across his face, belly and back, told him so. And an insistent rumble of lust in his blood, slowly rising to a booming crescendo as he tracked her path toward Ula’s desk, reinforced it.

  The urge to go downstairs immediately, get closer so as to see her face and hear her voice, was overwhelming but he couldn’t seem to make his body move. Instead, all he could do was stand watching as the woman got to the goblin’s desk and rested her elbows on the elevated top, leaning in to be heard over the increasing din. The coat tightened across her back, giving a hint of the womanly shape beneath the black fabric. His gaze zeroed in on her bared nape and couldn’t be torn away. Something about that taut, pale column, gleaming in the café’s bright lights, made his mouth water.

  A trickle of sweat meandered down his spine, and Jakuta swore it sizzled with the heat emanating from his skin. He shook his head, trying to clear it, suddenly wishing Jasmina was there with him so he could get her first, instinctive opinion of the woman. Or better yet, get her opinion of what was happening. Jazz would tell it as she saw it, without thought of duplicity or connivance. The jinn was one of the handful of trustworthy people in a complex world filled with layers of allegiances, where friendship often fell to the bottom of the pile. Like him, she’d been banished by her own kind. Unlike him, she saw her circumstances as a new, exciting type of freedom rather than a disconnect from all she held dear.

  There was a flash of pink as Ula shook her head, making her crazy, dyed curls dance. Whatever the goblin said clearly wasn’t what the woman wanted to hear. Placing her hands flat on the desk, she leaned even closer, going up on her toes to be able to do so, encroaching perilously into Ula’s personal space. To Jakuta’s surprise, instead of zapping the woman with one of her repelling spells, Ula only frowned and shook her head again. Then she pointed up toward the loft, and the woman lifted her head to look.

  A pale, perfectly oval face. Soft, full lips only a few shades darker than her skin. A long nose with slightly flared nostrils.

  All these things he noticed in a flash, and then he looked into her eyes.

  Light, wide-set. Clear as the ocean and just as dangerous. He started to drown, realized he had forgotten to breathe, and yet could only start again when the woman turned away to say something more to Ula.

  Shaken, Jakuta stepped back from the railing and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to ease the snap and tingle of electricity still coursing through his markings. The scarification on his chest and back was even worse, almost burning with the lightning scorching his blood.

  But most shocking was how hard his cock was, as though instead of exchanging one quick look he’d just had an hour of intense foreplay. No woman had ever affected him like that. It was preposterous, unprecedented and infinitely intriguing. Yet the sensation of approaching threat hadn’t diminished. Instead it increased, until his entire body vibrated, hovering between desire and bloodlust.

  The fight-or-fuck instinct? Didn’t know such a thing existed.

  Laughter bubbled up in his throat, but was arrested by the need and apprehension still clutching at his chest.

  “By Obatala.”

  The curse rumbled out unbidden, and the café lights dipped with the intensity of his confusion. As he brought himself under control, breathing deeply, forcing his fists to unclench, there were the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and he closed his eyes.

  Jazz was right.

  A different type of storm was coming, one embodied in the woman coming up the stairs, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to, or wanted to, control it.

  Gràinne thanked the receptionist and started toward the staircase leading to the tattoo loft above, disappointment and anticipation churning together in her stomach, making her feel almost sick. Neither of the two tattoo artists whose names she’d ferreted out were at work tonight, and fear that the entire crazy gamble she’d taken coming here would be in vain was eating away at her insides. This was her one chance.

  She knew, just knew, the Council had been watching her, although she didn’t know where along the line she’d slipped up. As careful as she’d been to obscure what she was doing, obviously she’d failed. The last few days had been horrible, the sensation of being stalked, her every movement noted, stretched her nerves to the breaking point. Finding the rune had seemed an act of fate, stealing it tonight a desperate, spur-of-the-moment decision. Fleeing in and out of portals and using all her translocation potions to jump from place to place hopefully had bought enough time to get the job done.

  But there was no way to be certain the Council wouldn’t still be able to track her. She’d been careful not to use any of her weak personal magic, which was so easily traceable, but hadn’t a clue what other resources they could bring to bear in an effort to drag her back.

  Her bag of tricks was empty. If this didn’t work, she was screwed every which way from Sunday.

  Pausing with her foot on the bottom step, she glanced quickly back up at the loft. The man she’d seen up there before—Jakuta, the receptionist had called him—was no longer standing at the rail, and she exhaled the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. By the Goddess, she hoped he could do the job. During the split second their gazes had met she’d gotten an impression of immense power, strong enough to curl her toes and send a violent, shuddering wave through her entire body. But even power that impressive might not be enough to help her.

  From what she’d learned about tattooing, different beings needed different types of inks. What worked on one might simply disappear from the skin of another, or cause devastating, or even catastrophic reactions. There’d even been a story about a gremlin exploding after being tattooed with the ink usually used on bogies. Although in appearance the two beings were almost indistinguishable, apparently their physiologies were completely different.

  Worse, what she needed done demanded a certain familiarity with arcane magic. The tatted-out wizard she’d spoken to said there were only a handful of artists with the knowledge to apply rune magic directly to the skin, and the Midnight Café the only place where two of them could be found. Hervé Cinq à Sept, the owner, apparently made it a mission to learn everything he could about tattooing and was acknowledged as a master. The other, Cassandra something-or-other, had practiced with a protégé of Tristram O’Rourke, the father of tattooing on this side of the Veil. It had seemed a good plan to go to the place where there were two artists able to do the job. She huffed a little laugh and started up the stairs.

  It was just her luck neither of them was available.

  She was halfway up the stairs when the lights dipped and the crowd downstairs started shrieking with laughter, one voice rising above the hilarity. “No more kissing if it means you’re gonna blow the fuses.”

  An ache started in her chest, threatened to spread out and engulf her, and Gràinne paused for a moment, fighting the pain.

  What did it feel like to have friends? To laugh and talk with others just for the fun of it? And what, oh, what did it feel like to be free?

  Hanging on to the banister, she took a couple of deep breaths, getting herself under control a little at a time, until the tremors racking her arms and legs abated and she could once more lift her head. Thinking about escaping from the Council had been one thing, but once she’d touched the r
unestone, held it in her hand, emotions she’d only vaguely been aware of before had broken free to flood her system. Never before had she felt such fear, excitement, determination. Lore said her kind were created to be cold, stoic, passionless, without sympathy or desires. Why then was her heart racing, her stomach twisting with trepidation at the thought of what may come?

  This might be the last night of her existence, but that was a chance she was willing to take to experience what it meant to truly live. Lifting her chin higher, she swore softly under her breath.

  “Perhaps I’ll never know what it’s like to have friends but, by the Goddess, tonight I’ll taste freedom, if it’s the very last thing I do.”

  Fortified, she continued up the stairs, taking them two at a time, fear of failure replaced by eagerness and the determination to succeed.

  At the top she glanced around. The tattoo parlor was smaller than she’d thought it would be, considering that the café portion of the shop stretched quite a way farther back below the loft. There were only four chairs ranged around the space, two near the railing, two closer to where she was standing, while a couple of doors at the rear of the space hinted at other rooms. The industrial, hard-edged atmosphere she’d noticed in the café below had been duplicated up here, but stripped bare, leaving the impression that although downstairs was a place to enjoy yourself, up here was all business.

  Jakuta was on the opposite side of the parlor, his back to her as he fiddled with some equipment on a table, and Gràinne started toward him, the flat heels of her boots clacking on the concrete floor. From below she’d realized he was big but only now, being on the same level with him, could she truly appreciate his height and thickly muscled body. The wide back and arms bulging with corded muscles couldn’t truly be concealed by his white, long-sleeved shirt, and tight black jeans only emphasized the definition of his thighs. As she skirted one of the chairs he looked at her over his shoulder and the breath left her lungs with a whoosh, the power she’d sensed before slamming into her like an immobilization spell on steroids.