“Just black ink. I think I’m pale enough to make the feathers look snowy white.”

Her enthusiasm was starting to become contagious. Most people who came in had been tattooed a time or two, resulting in a very blasé attitude about the whole process, or there was just the annoying, slightly intoxicated youth looking for that official badge of adulthood. But Tera was different. She might never have the chance to show the tattoo to the world, but she would know it was there; it was her way of trumping the great puppeteer in the sky. She had won my respect.

“All right,” I said, pushing to my feet. I extended my hand to her and she eagerly took it in both of hers. “Come back by tomorrow around six o’clock and I’ll have a design for you to look at. If you like it, we’ll get started then.”

“Awesome! Thank you so much!” she gushed for a second before sailing out the front door.

As I stepped into the back room again, I found two sets of eyes pinned on me in a mixture of worry and surprise. They both could easily have overhead all of the conversation despite the music that was still playing. The tattoo I had just promised to complete cost closer to a thousand dollars and I was doing it for a fraction of the price. I was happy to help people out when I could, and I cut friends a deal on occasion simply because I knew they would come back, but I wasn’t in the business of charity, and it was extremely rare for me to be drawn in by some sob story.

“Boss, you know that I don’t interfere in your business choices,” Bronx started in his low and steady voice, bringing a frown to my lips. “But this doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“What’s the problem? She’s dying. It’s not as if I can do any more damage, right?” I snapped.

“Could the ink make her condition any worse?” Trixie demanded. “Or maybe the stress on the body during the tattooing process might aggravate her weakened condition.”

“I don’t see it being a problem. She knows what she’s getting into, and hell only knows what she’s already been through. Getting a tattoo couldn’t possibly be worse than some of the tests and treatments she’s already suffered.”

“Who do you think recommended you to her?” Bronx inquired.

I just waved my hand aimlessly as I started to walk to the back room where the potion components were stored. “Heaven only knows. I’ve tattooed so many people over the years. It could be anyone.”

“Maybe you should ask her when she comes back tomorrow.”

I paused before disappearing down the narrow hallway and looked over at the troll’s grim expression. “You know, you’re starting to sound really paranoid about this one. You got something you want to tell me?”

“Wish I did,” he muttered as he eased himself down into the tattooing chair he used.

Truth be told, I wished he had something more to tell me as well. I thought I knew all there was to know about this particular client. Hell, I knew more about her than I knew about most of my clients. I tried to tell myself it was just the fact that she was dying that was bothering me, but there was something niggling in the back of my brain that wouldn’t let the tension ease from my shoulders.

Before grabbing my bag, my eye caught on the enormous glass-fronted wood case that held hundreds of different potion components. With the right combination of herbs and rare ingredients, I could guarantee someone a varying degree of good luck, I could make them more attractive to a certain person, or I could even hex a person’s ex for the right amount of money. Damn, for the right amount of money, I was positive that I could do far worse, but I tried to avoid getting myself into that kind of trouble, no matter how much green or gold was flashed in front of me. Karma could be a bitch.

Yet, as I stood there, it wasn’t the first-floor cabinet I was picturing, but my wall of cabinets in the basement that was flashing across my brain. In seconds, I was running through the catalog of items, weighing the use, effectiveness, and strength of each one. What was I hoping to accomplish? I knew without a doubt that I couldn’t cure her, but what if I could buy her a little more time? What if I could give her months versus days? Would they be days of agony or happiness because she had experienced more life than she had expected to?

It was only the pounding of Trixie’s heels on the wood floor that made me realize I had been standing transfixed before the cabinet for several minutes, lost in thought. I quickly bent down and grabbed the strap of my bag before shouldering it. My mind was still rattling through ingredient after ingredient. It was a puzzle my brain couldn’t let go of. There was something I could do. I was one of the best tattoo artists in the region, if not the country. I had a past that no other tattoo artist could claim. After all the centuries of torture, bloodshed, and death caused by the warlocks and the witches, there had to be something positive that one warlock-in-training could do to help someone without looking for something in return.

“You okay?” Trixie asked, poking her head in the door.

“Yeah, just thinking about the designs I’ve got to get done tomorrow. It’s too late tonight to sit down at the desk. I’m dead on my feet.”

Trixie arched one eyebrow at me for a second before shaking her head as she backed out of the room and headed into the tattoo parlor. I had to admit that I kind of felt the same way. What the hell was I doing? There were some things in this world that couldn’t be changed, but I wasn’t sure that I was ready to admit defeat on this one yet.

AFTER THE LATE hour I’d finished the previous night, it was a little difficult to pull my sorry ass back into the parlor before three o’clock the next day. It meant skipping the gym and packing a quick lunch/dinner, but at least I didn’t have an unexpected run-in with any gun-wielding maniacs in the alley beside the tattoo parlor when I arrived in the afternoon.

I went through my usual routine of checking the spells and resetting everything before I trudged down into the basement and reset the spell there. Trixie wasn’t expected for another five hours and Bronx wouldn’t be here until another hour or so after that. The parlor was mine for a while, allowing me to work in peace.

In one far corner was a designer’s desk with a bright overhead lamp. Sitting down in the ergonomically correct chair, I snatched several pieces of paper and started sketching the wings that I had seen dancing through my brain all night as I slept. This project consumed me like nothing else before. I had had clients come to me with some interesting concepts and art, but there was something different about this. I needed it to be perfect in every detail.

As I worked on the art there was something else eating at me that finally drove me down into the chilled basement of the tattoo parlor. Normally, I worked on all my designs in the windowless back room with the ingredients. But this one had taken on a secretive quality. I felt the need to be close to my personal ingredients, as if they were calling to me, wanting me to use them in the ink when I had already said that I wouldn’t. This was just supposed to be a tattoo of angel wings and yet I felt as if I needed to do more, as if I had to do more. I didn’t know if it was about trying to save one lost soul before it was taken too early. Maybe it was about trying to do something good with all my years of study when all the other warlocks and witches had only looked out for themselves.

After a couple of poor starts, I got down a design on paper that I managed to finish in just over an hour. I decided to go with an exceedingly simple design instead of something with heavy detail. I didn’t want to distract from the sheer purity of the lines. The wings would break from her back and pour forth like a white cascade.