Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(84)

She had always vowed she’d paint something original when she got to live as an original.

So, never.

She was very angry, she thought with some wonder. So this was how Madox felt all the time. How did she ever get anything done? There wasn’t room inside Jordan for anything else.

In the place where an office should be, there was Senko’s tattoo parlor, and that was where Hennessy and Jordan headed that evening. Jordan wasn’t exactly sure how hygienic it was, but Senko didn’t ask questions about the Supra’s origin and he didn’t ask questions about Jordan’s, either. It wasn’t the easiest thing to find five different tattoo parlors to do identical flowers on each of the girls each time Hennessy got a new one.

“Another flower,” Senko said. “Two flowers this time, we’re nearly done.” He was the most compact man Jordan had ever met, both short and slight, like a taller person seen from far away. His densely curled hair was either dull brown or gray. She had no idea how old he was. Thirty? Fifty? Supposedly Hennessy had slept with him once, but for Senko’s sake, Jordan hoped this wasn’t true. “Pink this time.”

Jordan was already situated in the chair as Senko examined the new flower on Hennessy’s throat, making sure that the one he was about to put on Jordan matched precisely. He was taking his time. Senko was not the sort to do anything rash. He wasn’t the sort to do anything at speed, really, which was ironic considering that his profession was making things go faster. Senko himself was the slowest driver Jordan had ever seen; she’d once encountered him in his GTR north of the city and had spent ten minutes trying to provoke him into exceeding the speed limit before realizing first that it was impossible and second that it was him.

“Pink is the oldest color on the planet, did you know that?” Hennessy said. She still sounded a little drugged, but she had stopped bleeding hours before. She lolled in a rolling desk chair, holding the shop dog, a tiny female Yorkie named Greg. The story was that Senko used to have a shop guy named Greg who’d botched a turbo swap years ago and been unable to pay for the fix, and Senko had taken his dog in reparation, but Jordan found the story suspect. Senko wouldn’t let any of his shop guys touch a turbo. “According to fossil records. Cyanobacteria. I read that in Smithsonian Magazine. Ground ’em up, add them to solvent, it turns bright pink, making it one-billion-year-old pigment. I’d like to paint with that. Maybe a steak. A rare color for a rare food. Too on the nose?”

Jordan didn’t answer.

Jordan didn’t want this tattoo.

It seemed impossible how much she didn’t want the tattoo.

A decade of matching tattoos, matching hair, matching clothing, matching lives. Matching hopes, matching dreams, matching expiration dates.

“I’m gonna piss first,” Senko said, standing slowly. “Don’t go away.” He moved out of the room with slothlike intention.

The moment Jordan heard the shop bathroom door close, words blew out of her mouth; she couldn’t even stop them. “What did you tell him?”

Hennessy and the dog looked up in surprise. “Steak? Pink? I didn’t make him need to piss.”

“Ronan Lynch,” Jordan said. She didn’t even fully recognize her tone. She sounded like Madox. The words were spat out. Hateful. Ronan. Lynch. “He was all ready to take us on and in he went to you and something you said sent him sodding right back out that door.”

“He couldn’t do anything for us.”

“And how would you know? Did you see the painting he did? Out of his head? It took him no time at all, maybe even better than the original Dark Lady. He said he might be able to do something just for you. You didn’t even let him try.”

Hennessy said, “It’ll just get the girls all strung out.”

“On hope, is that what you mean? Are you saying they’d be all strung out on hope, like they might get excited about seeing the other side of twenty-one? You’re right, that seems truly fucked up. What was I thinking.”

Hennessy gave Jordan a fond look. “This doesn’t look good on you, Jordan. Leave it to Mad.”

This did nothing to quench Jordan’s anger. If anything, it strengthened it.

“I spent every second of every day for months getting The Dark Lady,” she said. “For you, so you wouldn’t be like this. But also for them, because they needed it. Before this, Trinity was about ready to eat a bucket of pills, you and I both know that. Having an idea it might go somewhere kept her from going off her oats. For once it didn’t just hang over us. All of us. And now you’re saying that’s not worth going after again?”

Now Hennessy looked angry right back. It was a version of Madox’s anger, but a shade darker, more complicated. She put her finger on her temple. “You don’t know what goes on in here, Jordan. I played along with you, I played along with The Dark Lady, even though I knew it would just fuck us up the arse. And here we are, fucked up the arse, as predicted.”

“We never had another dreamer,” Jordan said. “He knows what you can do. He knows what’s possible.”

And then she saw from Hennessy’s face that this was exactly why she didn’t want it. Jordan narrowed her eyes. “Is this a cry for help?”

Hennessy said, “Don’t dig in this hole, Jordan. It’s not what you think.”