Inked

“Ever had one spit at you? Anyway, he was selling weapons to the wrong people, so we picked him up. But he’ll probably be out on bail in a couple hours, after he gives up his cache. These days, if it doesn’t relate to the war, nobody cares.”

He motioned the next person in line forward, without so much as another sympathy pout. I was jostled out of the way, over near a window where a bounty hunter was waiting to turn in a prisoner. The guy in question didn’t look dangerous, just an average junkie with waist-length dreads, dirty cargo pants and a long-sleeved black tee. Except for the stench, which was enough to clear the sinuses. I gagged and looked around for another perch, but the place was packed.

“Thanks. I’ve been wanting to do that since I caught him,” the bounty hunter said. I realized he was talking to me, and glanced over. His prisoner’s matted mane now littered the floor around his feet, like long fuzzy brown snakes. Uh-oh.

The man clutched his head. “My hair!” he screeched. “What did that bitch do to my hair?”

The bounty hunter raised an eyebrow as the guy’s remaining locks sheered off. “You should learn some ma

“Witch! I said witch!” the guy told me desperately. Too late, because I couldn’t regrow hair. Not even when my magic was working properly.

“Been to Tartarus recently?” I asked him, as he felt around his now-bald head.

“What?” The guy looked at me like I was crazy.

“I picked him up in a bar there this morning,” the bounty hunter told me, collecting his payout.

“What’s the charge?”

“Possession, suspicion of dealing,” he said, on his way out the door.

“Possession of what?” I asked baldy. He ignored me. “What were you dealing?” I demanded, jerking him closer.

“You got no proof! I had nothing on me,” he spat, glaring at me. “And anyway, punch shouldn’t even be illegal. You’d think it was dangerous or something—”

“It is.”

“Punch” was the street name for a mind-altering concoction derived from a distilled wine made by the Fey. It was said to give a wicked high and to enhance latent magical abilities. But like all drugs, it carried risks—addiction, mental instability and, for longtime users, insanity.

“Only if you get greedy,” baldy sulked. “You can drink yourself to death, too, you know, and nobody cares.”

“Alcohol doesn’t give humans the ability to curse each other into oblivion,” I pointed out. “A couple brothers did just that last week. Seems they had some mage blood back in the family tree. They got into an argument over some girl after an irresponsible asshole sold them punch, and one of them wished the other would go to hell.”

Baldy winced. “Yeah, but you got him back, right?”

“Not yet. We don’t know which hell dimension ended up with him.”

I tightened my grip on baldy’s arm as a harried-looking Apprentice hurried over. As packed as this place was, it would take them most of the day to process and release him, which would seriously mess up my plans. I dug battered credentials out of my back pocket and flashed them.

“I know who you are,” the kid said, looking a little freaked.

Sheesh. Kill one department head and they never let you forget it.

“I need to question this one,” I told him. The kid nodded, already backing up. “I’ll bring him back later,” I called, then hustled my new guide out the door before anyone with seniority noticed what was going on.

“I’m not going anywhere until I see my lawyer,” the guy told me. “I know my rights! You can’t just shave my head!”

“Take it easy. It looks good on you.” Well, better than the dreads.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he demanded, starting to struggle. “I want a lawyer. I want—”

“You want to shut up before anything else comes off,” I said, dragging him into the locker room.

“Mage de Croissets to the CMO’s office immediately.” The magically enhanced voice was loud enough to make me jump.

Shit.

I parked the guy on a bench and yanked open my locker. A sawed-off shotgun, two handguns, a couple of potion grenades, four throwing knives, a stiletto that fit nicely down my boot, my potion belt secured around my hips, and I felt more like myself. That lasted until I opened the little packet on the top shelf, the one I’d sworn never to use again.

The two foil halves separated and something black and slimy oozed out onto my wrist. “Okay, that’s nasty,” baldy informed me, as a ward in the shape of a large black leech sank into my skin.

“This from someone with a tongue stud,” I said, right before the power drain hit.

It was like a blow to the gut, immediate and brutal. So that’s why they had me lie down last time, I thought dimly. I sank to the bench, waiting for the nausea, the dizziness and the all-around ick factor to die down a little.

My fingers ached to rip it off, with the skin if necessary. It’s worse at first, I reminded myself as the tat pulsed clammily against my wrist. It was heavy and cold, and made me want to shudder. But it was working. I’d never felt less like using magic in my life.

This class of ward wasn’t designed to give added power in combat, or to enhance the senses or to heal. It did just one thing—absorb magical energy—and did it very well. Wards like it were used in surgery to keep a patient’s natural protective energies clamped down so surgeons didn’t have to worry about being attacked while they worked. In my case, I’d worn one early in the healing process to help regulate my magic.

It had done the job, but had left me feeling weak and listless. I’d finally persuaded Sedgewick to remove it, promising to keep it on hand in case of emergency. I’d never pla

After a moment, I got up, threw on a leather trench to hide the weapons, and grabbed my guide. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Are you taking me to lockup?”

“Nope. You got a name?”

“Dieter,” he said suspiciously.

I didn’t bother asking for a last name, since it would probably be fake anyway. “Well, we’re going on a field trip, Dieter.”

“Where to?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Chapter 5

I parked my Hog next to the long concrete runoff cha

As usual, a couple tourists were taking turns posing in front of the sign, gri

“Aw, man! You gotta be shitting me!” My reluctant guide stared into the concrete gully below, looking a little wall-eyed. Then he took off.

I watched him scramble down the road for half a minute, before throwing a lasso spell around his ankles and giving it a yank. I’d been nice, waiting until he veered onto the curb so he’d hit dirt instead of asphalt, and twisting the spell so he’d land on one shoulder instead of full face. But he didn’t look appreciative when I walked over and jerked him back up.

I manhandled him down into the cha