Stolen Away by Alyxandra Harvey Read Free Book Online

the time it was finished brewing, Uncle Art was putting away his sketchbook and sniffing the air.
    “Coffee. I’m giving you a raise.”
    I grinned and handed him a cup. It was just before dinnertime, so there was always a lull in the shop. I usually did my homework or took advantage of the Internet. Mom really was going to have to find a way to pay that bill. Only one café in town had free wireless, and it was usually too crowded to hang out for longer than half an hour, and the library closed early most days.
    “Cool necklace,” Uncle Art said, looking at the iron stagthat I was still wearing around my neck. For some reason, I didn’t want to take it off. He frowned. “I’ve seen that design before.”
    I went still. “You have?” I asked, trying not to give away how eager I was for him to elaborate. If he was anything like my mom, it would spook him.
    He nodded. “Yeah, let me see.” He took a closer look. “I definitely tattooed this on someone. I’d forgotten all about it.”
    “Who?”
    He shrugged, grinned. “You know me, kid. I remember art, not people.”
    He’d always been like that. He wouldn’t answer the phone and didn’t remember people’s names, but he kept very precise documentation of all the tattoos he’d done. He rarely forgot. “Was it this year?” I asked.
    “Might have been this summer. A guy, I think.” He shrugged and took his cup back to the drafting table.
    I opened the large hardcover sketchbook he used for his tattoo record and skimmed through the summer months. There were sketches of dragons and skulls and pinup girls, tigers and butterflies and lilies, but no stags. I flipped past portraits of babies and rock stars and cartoon characters. Nothing. I went farther back, and nearly missed it.
    May 1.
    It was a very rough outline of a stag with ivy wound around its antlers. It stood out because the other drawingswere so detailed, with notes on placement and how long they took. This one didn’t have a single word written in the margin, just the picture of the deer. It might not mean anything.
    But I didn’t believe that for a second.
    I photocopied the page and folded the paper in one of my binders before my shift was over. The regular receptionist, Julie, rushed in with a tray of paper cups full of coffee and a box of muffins. “Thanks for covering for me,” she said, handing me a cup of hot chocolate. She was adamant that I was too young to drink coffee—but not too young to get tattooed.
    “Thanks, Julie.”
    “Go home and watch bad television.” She waved me out. “You earned it.”
    “Bye, Uncle Art,” I called into the back rooms before leaving. The waiting room was starting to fill up with customers. The bells on the door rang cheerfully as I traded the air-conditioned chill of the shop for humid air choked with car exhaust. I crossed the street to walk home along the park so I didn’t have to smell the garbage cooking in the bins lining the sidewalk.
    The sun was setting slowly in the burning sky, washing the thin clouds with lilac and orange. Cardinals pecked at the ground and chirped from the branches. I wondered if they were the same ones from the weekend. When I was sure there were no crows among them, I edged farther into the park. Grass crunched under my feet.
    I went through my favorite grove of maple trees. It hardly seemed large enough to be so quiet and private, but for some reason no one ever came here. The first star of the night twinkled above me through the leaves. A swan flew past, honking indelicately on his way to the pond.
    I didn’t see the stag until he turned his head to look at me. In the fading light, he was as brown as the trees, and his antlers looked like bare branches. His eyes were dark and wide, hypnotizing. I held my breath. I’d never seen anything so primal in its beauty, so wise. I lifted my hand to touch it. I just couldn’t resist finding out if his fur was as soft as it looked. It was the color of caramel. The moment I