Nightmare Ink by Marcella Burnard Read Free Book Online Page A

reclining against the back of the bus shelter that stood in front of the kitchen wares store two doors down. In the glare of the streetlights, the young man, dressed in skintight dark Levi’s, a shirt that outlined every defined muscle, and a beat-up leather jacket, raked Isa with a hungry glance.
    Had to be one of Patty’s “projects” if he was working her territory.
    “A couple of Ria’s gang tagged that shelter this morning,” Isa said, trusting he’d been on the streets long enough to know which gang claimed this part of Ballard Avenue. “Smear it and they’ll tag you.”
    He jerked upright, swearing.
    She smiled and reached for the door of Nightmare Ink.
    “Aw,
chica
,” he said. “You don’t want to go in there. The owner, she’s a
bruja
. A witch. People say she’s got a secret room down in the basement. You go in there and part of you dies.”
    Her arm froze in pulling the door open. An accurate summation of the services she performed in the basement studio. But witchcraft? That was new. Was it because of the man who’d died down there? She swung back to study him in the light cast by the street and shop lights.
    Glossy black hair, stylishly tousled. Olive complexion and bottomless black eyes. A lean, taut body. He was beautiful save for the hint of sly derision at the corners of his eyes and slightly effeminate mouth that twitched as if her perusal amused him.
    A pale hand clapped over that mouth.
    Patty.
    Isa recognized the thick knuckles and the candy cane–striped fake fingernails as well as her broad shoulders, massive breasts, and thick waist clothed in skintight black velvet.
    “Ice, I’m sorry,” Patty grated in her pack-a-day, gravelly baritone. “Pay Bishop no mind. He’s a superstitious moron.”
    Rage fired in the glittering black eyes showing above Patty’s hand.
    Isa didn’t know what alerted her, but suspicion sank through her gut. She frowned and let go of the door to approach Patty and her whore apprentice. The dirty slush beneath Isa’s boots
skritch
ed.
    She shook her head. “No, he isn’t a moron.”
    Bishop jerked in Patty’s grasp, but the bricklayer-turned–drag queen held him tight.
    Isa peeled off a glove and touched Bishop’s bare hand. Something—another sense—reared up within her in recognition as another personality, elusive and predatory, stirred at the goad of contact. She nodded.
    “He’s a spy.” She nudged a shot of power through Bishop’s skin.
    He stiffened and squeaked in shock.
    Isa met his eye. “Have you told Patty about your tattoo? The one living wrapped around your waist? Surely you’ve told her who you really work for.”
    She let go and noticed that Patty’s grip on Bishop had tightened. The skin beneath Patty’s hand looked pale.
    “Careful, Patty,” Isa said. “You’re marring the goods.”
    “Son of a bitch.” Patty jerked the hand away and screeched, “Bishop, you little whore. Who sent you?”
    Bishop shot Isa a look of pure loathing.
“Bruja.”
    She lifted an eyebrow. “That is an interesting accusation from someone who sewed a second soul to his hide. If you figure out who he’s spying for, Patty, will you let me know?”
    Patty wrapped a fist in Bishop’s collar and settled a grim look upon Isa.
    “When,” she corrected. “Yes. Thanks for letting me know. Should have known he was too pretty to be true.”
    Bishop jerked against Patty’s hold. He might as well have been fighting a mountain.
    Turning on her heel, Isa stomped across the cracked and heaved sidewalk, went inside Nightmare Ink, spun, flicked on the OPEN light, and shut the door as Patty dragged Bishop down the wet cobbled street. No mean feat, considering Patty’s three-inch red stilettos, black lace thigh-high stockings, and the explosion of red and black tulle that made up her very short skirt. Not a practical outfit for the dirty snow.
    “Hey, Isa,” Nathalie poked her head up from behind the reception desk. At least she looked the part.