“Trixie, could you go to the back room and draw up a design or two for these gentlemen while Bronx shaves down the area they want tattooed?” I asked quickly. She was already sidling out of the room before I finished the question. I threw a sympathetic look at Bronx, but the trio was less likely to cause problems with a troll wielding a razor. I followed Trixie into the back room where I started pulling down items for the potion.
“You’re fucking insane!” she snarled in a low voice the second I shut the door. “Satyrs! Virility tattoos for a bunch of satyrs? Aren’t they enough trouble on their own without your help?”
“They spend most of their time at strip joints and harassing prostitutes. I don’t see them going after a bunch of soccer moms at the local bake sale.” I pulled down another container. “I’m not making it that potent anyway.”
“You do realize that certain fey creatures do react to natural aphrodisiacs,” she snapped. “What if some poor unsuspecting wood nymph or sprite ran across these three? They could be helpless.”
“Oh, please! Every wood and water nymph I’ve known has been more oversexed than these three and far more dangerous. Helpless, my ass.” I threw some herbs into the mortar bowl and started to crush them into a fine powder with the ceramic pestle.
“Exactly how many nymphs have you known?” Trixie demanded in a surprisingly sharp voice that drew my eyes back around to her. She sat at a small drawing desk, glaring at me. “And how well did you know them?”
“Come on, Trixie. You know what I mean,” I groaned as I focused on pounding the ingredients.
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“You’re starting to sound like my mother,” I warned. At least, it’s what I imagined my mother would sound like. I honestly had no idea how she would sound in a conversation like this. I had been dragged from my home by a warlock at age seven and returned for only a few months when I was sixteen. Family was not something I had a lot of experience with.
A bright flush stained Trixie’s cheeks and she turned away from me. Her sweet voice softened. “Please, Gage. This is dangerous.”
“No, just a waste. You can’t mask what a satyr is no matter the potion. You might be drawn in by the potion at first, but the innate curiosity has to be there in order for the person to succumb to anything. If the person isn’t even a little attracted, nothing is going to happen. I’m just not that good. No one is.”
“Promise?”
I turned from the counter to find her staring at me from where she sat at the drawing table. Half of a sketch of a tall, phallic-shaped mushroom sat on the drawing paper before her.
“I’ll even cut it with nightshade juice so this will have practically no effect on the fey,” I said with a sigh. I was a complete pushover when she looked at me with those wide eyes. It didn’t help that I also knew she was fey and felt more than a little vulnerable around these tattoos I had promised.
“Thank you,” she murmured before returning to her drawing.
“Just draw two designs and then hurry back. I want to get these three out of here so I can call it a night.”
“Any way I can get out of this one?”
I snorted as I walked toward the door with my mixture and a tiny wooden spoon. “Not a chance. The pay is more than worth the twenty minutes it’s going to take you to do this.”
“Bastard,” she muttered, but not with her earlier vehemence. I was at least partially forgiven.
While Bronx was shaving away the bristly hair from the area on the arms of the satyrs where the tattoos would go, I selected three small plastic caps and spooned in a bit of the potion that I had mixed up. I then squirted in black ink. The potion didn’t need to go into all of the colors unless you were weaving a more complex spell and then it was different potions in different colors so that the spell created an interesting tapestry of power on the person’s skin. In this case, the outline of the mushroom tattoos in black was the only part that actually needed the potion.
I was pulling out the needles and scooping out dollops of petroleum jelly to put on small Styrofoam plates, which would help to control the bleeding during the tattooing process, when Trixie reluctantly entered the room to show off her two designs. One mushroom was short and thick, while the other was tall and narrow. I kept my comments to myself as the satyrs argued over the merits of each design. In the end, all three decided on the long and narrow design, but with a variety of color combinations so that each one would be slightly different.
With our customers settled in their respective chairs, we three set to work quickly. The steady buzz of the tattooing machines filled the air, but was nearly drowned out by the constant chatter and bawdy comments made by the three satyrs. Despite Trixie’s close attention to her one client, all three took turns trying to hit on her, even from across the room, mindless of what anyone was saying. And may the gods bless Trixie, she kept her comments to herself and silently worked on her customer. I knew that I would receive an earful later. But then she knew that this was part of the business. While Bronx and I would defend her against any type of physical threat in a heartbeat, she had seemingly grown accustomed to the occasional rude comment and had told us more than once not to bother calling a halt to it.
In less than half an hour, the three satyrs were tattooed and bandaged up with the appropriate care directions in hand. I only hoped that they paid some attention to the care of the tattoos, otherwise they would be back in for a repeat job and I was in no mood to put up with them again.
As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, I put one hand behind my neck and massaged the tense muscles there as I turned to face Trixie. I opened my mouth to apologize to her for what she’d had to endure for the past thirty minutes, but she held up one pale hand, halting the words in my throat.
“Did we make enough from them to make the night worthwhile?” she simply inquired.
“And then some.”
“Then it was worth the hassle, though I am not looking forward to their eventual repeat visit for another tattoo. As long as they pay well and the work can be done quickly, I can tolerate it.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have to shave the little buggers,” Bronx groused as he stood and reached for a broom that was leaning in the far corner. Until now, I hadn’t noticed the heavy sprinkling of short hairs that covered the floor around his chair. Satyrs were naturally hairy bastards, and the few I had tattooed had proved to be a waste of time since most didn’t bother to keep the area of the tattoo shaved so people could see the art.
Glancing up at the clock, I silently cursed, dropping my hand back down to my side. It was already after one in the morning. I should have been out of the shop more than two hours earlier. Trixie would stay on for another hour or two before heading home, and then Bronx would close the shop around four. Business would remain relatively light, but there were enough nocturnal creatures in the world that it was worth Bronx’s while to keep the late hours.
I was starting to head to the back room for my bag when a young woman with straight brown hair and wide brown eyes slowly pushed through the front door. She kept her jacket tightly wrapped around herself, as if for protection rather than warmth on this summer evening. Her eyes swept over the place once as she crossed the threshold before they finally settled on me. Her lips were pressed into a thin, frail smile, while lines of worry crisscrossed her brow. This was not the look of someone excited about getting a tattoo.
Glancing over my shoulder, I found Bronx watching the security television before he looked up at me and pointed to the vine on his arm. Yeah, that was the feeling I got too. Trouble. Something bad had just walked through my front door in the guise of a helpless young woman. I didn’t exactly have the word sucker stamped across my forehead when it came to the damsel-in-distress types, but I also wasn’t a cold-hearted bastard like so many in this world. I could at least hear her out. And then Bronx would gently show her the way back to the front door.
