The Black Tattoo by Sam Enthoven Read Free Book Online

certain tribal designs, Celtic or Native American ones, but it wasn't quite like anything he'd ever seen before.   The shapes seemed to radiate out from Charlie's spine, scything across his back like a crest of broad feathers or a set of great curved sword blades.   The shapes were black against Charlie's pale skin — completely, utterly black — and each and every one of them ended in a perfect, razor-sharp point.   Charlie clenched his arms, and the black shapes seemed to bunch and shift of their own accord as his muscles moved underneath them.
    Even apart from the fact that it had just appeared on Charlie's back, the tattoo made Jack uneasy.   Still, he thought, with a twinge of envy, it was certainly impressive.   In fact, no denying it, it was most definitely...
    " Cool ," he breathed.
    "Huh.   Yeah," said Charlie, turning casually.   "Got the surprise of my life when I caught sight of it in the mirror this morning."
    "Does it hurt?"
    "Naaah," said Charlie.   "Not really."
    "And that's the... thing?   From yesterday?"
    "Well, I don’t think Mum drew it on me in the night."
    "Wow," said Jack.   He meant it.
    "Come on," said Charlie, pulling his T-shirt down and getting into a short-sleeved shirt.   He left it unbuttoned and untucked, hanging over the waistband of his black jeans, showing his black T-shirt underneath.   He stuck his shades back on and turned to Jack.
    "Let's go," he said.
     
    *         *         *         *         *
     
    "Yeah," Esme's voice was cool and level through the speaker.
    "It's me," barked Charlie.
    "You're early."   It was a statement, nothing accusatory, but Charlie said, "Well, I'm here.   You letting me in or what?"
    The girl didn't answer, but the lock on the door at the back of the theater buzzed loudly.   Charlie pushed it open, then they were through.
    "Raymond's not back yet," said Esme.   "We'll have to wait."   Then she just stood there, arms crossed, looking at the boys.   An awkward silence began to develop.
    Jack looked around the room.   It was the same room they'd been taken to the day before, but this was the first chance he'd really had to get a proper look at it.
    "That, er, pattern," he said, pointing at the regularly spaced blotch things he'd noticed previously.   "It's... well, what is it?"
    "Butterflies," said Esme, as if it were obvious.
    "Oh, right," said Jack.   "They're... nice."
    Esme looked at him.   "Thanks," she said.   "I did them myself."
    "Really?" asked Jack.   "Mind if I...?"
    Esme shrugged.   Jack walked over to the nearest wall.
    Each butterfly was about thirty centimeters across and painted with incredible accuracy.   The wings of the one that had first caught Jack's eye were quite beautiful:   a powdery, electric-blue color on a background of deepest black.   Its neighbor was different, orange and black this time, with wider, more elongated wings.   If fact, although it was hard to see far along the wall with the light so low, it suddenly occurred to Jack that—
    "Are they all different?"
    "Yep," said Esme.
    "I didn't know there were that many kinds," said Jack.
    "Well, there are.   Nobody really knows how many."
    "How many have you got here?"
    "Five thousand, four hundred and seventy-two," Esme replied flatly.
    "Wow!" said Jack.
    It came out much more loudly than he'd meant; both Esme and Charlie were now staring at him.   Charlie rolled his eyes and gave Jack an exasperated look.
    "Er... how long did that take you?" Jack mumbled.
    "Seven years," said Esme (making Jack stare at her).   "On a good day, I can do three."   She gestured toward a shadowy point some distance away in the corner of the ceiling.   "I haven't quite finished yet, though."
    The boys looked up.   The arched ceiling had to be a good sixty or seventy feet high, surely taller than the tallest step-ladder, and yet it too was entirely covered in row upon row of painted butterflies — all except for a large empty patch at