Ink and Bone(16)

About respecting her decisions and what she needed to do for her life, about understanding that what she needed might be different from what she wanted but how that didn’t give him the right to push her in the wrong direction. His lips found hers, and she let them linger for a second, just a second, before she moved away from him. He released her, pushing out a resigned sigh.

She hadn’t wanted him to follow her here. In fact, she’d told him not to. But he couldn’t be stopped. His idea to start a tattoo parlor in The Hollows seemed outlandish enough that she didn’t think it would last, figured he’d be gone inside a month. But The Hollows must have wanted him here, because it looked like things were going okay. She knew better than anyone that The Hollows got its way. No matter what.

“Who are we working on today?” he asked.

Of course, she needed him—maybe that was why he was here. He was the only tattoo artist to ever work on her. And he had a way of knowing what she wanted, and how important it was. He understood her, everything about her. He believed and never judged. The images Finley held in her mind somehow communicated themselves to Rainer. It was beyond words; she and Rainer were connected.

She lay herself down on the table and turned on her side, her back to him. They were running out of room. Her arms and most of her back were heavily populated, a growing collage of the people she could see that others could not. The old woman, the girl under the bed, the man in the suit, the teenager with the gun. And more, so many more.

“There’s a little boy,” she said. “He’s about four, with blond hair and a cherub’s face. His eyes are wide and far apart; his lips are full and pouty. He looks like a troublemaker, but sweet.”

“Kind of like me,” Rainer said. He ran his hands along her back and over her hips. She watched him in the mirror she was facing. His head was bowed, so that those dark curls fell, hiding his face.

“Yes, like that,” she said. “Sweet but always in trouble.”

His hand rested on her bare waist. The heat hummed to life again and warm air blew through the ceiling vent.

“I’m trying to be a better man, Fin,” he said. “You see that, right?”

She did see that, but it was more complicated than even he knew.

“You are good, Rain,” she said, feeling guilty for no reason.

“Then what?” he said. “What do you need me to do?”

She didn’t answer. It wasn’t about him, or not just about him. It was about her, how he made her want to go to dark places. She’d come here to learn about herself, to absorb the things that Eloise could teach her about what she was and how to control it. She had so much to learn about herself. She couldn’t do that if she was lost in Rainer and all the drama that always seemed to crop up around them, between them: the fight in the bar when Rainer thought she was flirting (she wasn’t); the day she missed an exam because she was sleeping off a high in his bed; the girl in love with Rainer who tried to cause trouble by constantly calling and hanging up on Finley’s cell phone; the argument he’d gotten in with her mother where he’d called her a controlling bully. (Not a deal breaker, but still.)

“He’s wearing jeans and a striped tee-shirt,” she said. “He loves trains.”

He rubbed her shoulder, kneading it with two strong hands. “What about The Three Sisters?” he asked.

There was an uncompleted tattoo on her inner right arm, an image of Patience, Sarah, and Abigail. It was the black outline of their faces, hair wild, eyes bright, all leaning in together with no space between their bodies. Rainer had started it for her before Eloise even told her who they were.

A few months after he’d done the initial outline, her grandmother showed her a drawing that was identical to the tattoo, something Eloise had found in The Hollows Historical Society archives. Eloise told Finley their dark history then—that The Three Sisters were tried and burned at the stake as witches in the 1600s. They were only girls when they died—twelve, fourteen, and sixteen. Faith never got over it. Centuries later, poor Faith was still hovering, trying and failing to keep bad things from happening.

Rainer had started some shading on Abigail—her dress, her hair. But the other two were still just outlines, waiting. As Finley understood them better, they would get their colors, their details, their shading.

“Not tonight,” Finley said.

If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. She knew he was dying to continue his work on The Three Sisters, Abigail especially. Instead, he took out a sketchbook and charcoal pencil. She waited, her eyes closing, the exhaustion of the day pulling at her. The sound had quieted, which must mean she was on the right track with her research. She found herself thinking of the rose-breasted grosbeak, its pretty black and white and red body, its sweet and joyful song. Little Bird. The phrase stuck in her head, repeated itself—a loving term of endearment, a nickname. Yes, that was it.

“How’s this?” he asked. He walked around in front of her and held up the sketch. It was nearly perfect, almost exactly as she’d seen the little boy—from the glint in his eye to the train in his hand.

“His face could be a little chubbier,” she said. “But yeah. You’re amazing.”

He gave her a deferential bow and then went over to the copier to make the stencil. She liked him best in the shop, where he was focused and knowing. He was less wild in here, less dangerous. She flashed on that moment in the bar when Rainer came out of nowhere to punch the guy she was talking to in the face. Blood gushed from his nose and he’d cried like a girl. That was the first time she glimpsed Rainer’s dark side, the anger deep inside him. Once she’d seen it, she couldn’t forget it. She couldn’t even remember what the guy had said to her. He pressed charges, though, and Rainer went to court, paid a fine for drunk and disorderly.