Owen Minor laughed as he came.
The look on that psychic’s face. The horror. The understanding. It was absolutely delicious. Perfect. Priceless.
He looked at the vine and delighted in its vibrancy. This one was going to be a keeper. It was tied to that woman’s whole life. Not a single incident, like a stillborn child. Those memories went all the way back; they peeled back so many layers of Dianna Agbala. The woman as well as the professional psychic. They revealed so much.
So much more than she ever told anyone, including her therapist.
The doubts and fears, the image issues with race, with weight, and with the need for acceptance. The mockery about her outing herself as a sensitive, card reader, and spiritual healer. The process of fighting through the gender identity roles imposed on her by family, church, and community. The climb up that long ladder to find a version of her own skin she was comfortable wearing. Becoming the Dianna Agbala who liked being her.
All of that was tied up in the buds and budding flowers on that tattoo. Patty Cakes had done an exceptional job. There was some kind of real magic in that ink.
And now it belonged to him.
He lay there, smiling at the flies buzzing overhead.
But he was still hungry. If he couldn’t have more of Dianna right now, then why not go to the other tattoo that had Patty’s unique vibration on it. The face he’d stolen from the man covered in faces.
It intrigued Owen that this was the same little girl’s face that was on Patty’s hand. The one that would not entirely transfer over to his. That face as a mother would render it—smiling, happy, beautiful.
No, the one he’d stolen from the big man was that girl at the end of her life. Terrified, broken, violated, dying. It was there … right in the center of his chest. Waiting for him, like a frightened kid in a closet waiting for the punishment belt.
Owen ran his fingers across the silently screaming face.
And woke her up to him.