Dyami stood on the precipice, high atop a rocky slope, his toes resting just over the ridge of a bottomless drop. The wind gusts were intense, but he’d been holding strong for what seemed like an eternity, wracked with pain so intense that at times he wept. He straddled the realms of consciousness and unconsciousness. Shot by a Huntress, fatal in all circumstances…except he wasn’t dead. Not yet anyway. His mind drifted in a coma and he fought for control knowing his wolf was doing most of the battling for him, punching back the poison as it ate him alive.
By all rights, he should be dead. But he wasn’t and that was because his wolf had some help. Somehow, somewhere, someone was trying to scoop away the poison and it was working—at least, it had been working until the moment he’d opened his eyes and found himself here, one step away from oblivion. Never before had he seen his wolf face-to-face, never before had they occupied the same conscious space. It was daytime that the wolf normally ruled, and nighttime when Dyami did. But now his wolf was at his back, snarling and growling, keeping the poison at bay, urging Dyami to jump into the abyss. Not a suicidal command—his wolf didn’t want him to die, Dyami knew that—but with the jump would come loss. A great and terrible loss. His wolf would stay behind to fight. Locking his body in a battle that would halt his transformation from man to wolf. Working against the natural cycle and trapping him in human form.
Dyami glanced over his shoulder, wincing against the pain as the poison licked at his head. His wolf snapped his teeth, devouring the tendril at its base, then yelped as the poison bit back.
They locked eyes. “Leave,” his wolf commanded. “Find her.”
Dyami was drunk. Maybe not puke all over your shoes, fall on your ass drunk, but drunk enough not to give a shit. Drunk enough not to feel as much of the pain. Mayhem, his alpha, didn’t like it—the self-medicating—but the treatments hadn’t been working as well lately and after weeks of playing tough, Dyami had hit the bottle and hadn’t looked back. It was way better to be numb.
Barely feeling his legs as they carried him down the boardwalk, Dyami slipped on his sunglasses. He was unused to being human during the day—and in a weakened state—but sick to death of sitting in his hotel room. What city were they in? He wasn’t entirely sure, but he knew if he walked long enough, he’d find what he was looking for. He wanted to get some new ink. Experience some pain that was in his control rather than the constant battle waging within.
He could feel his wolf weaken each day, no longer having the strength to transform when the sun rose, and that in itself caused more trouble for him. Shifting was supposed be a natural cycle, giving an outlet for both man and beast. Even with the help of his pack brother’s new mate Aubrey—a healer who’d been treating him—the change still didn’t come. The strain of a halted transformation was driving both him and his wolf to near madness.
To make matters worse, Aubrey’s treatments didn’t seem to be working as well anymore. Her magic was no longer potent enough to keep the surging toxin at bay. The poison was winning and his wolf was growing distant, detaching from Dyami’s awareness and focusing more and more on keeping them both alive. Everyone knew if his wolf died, he would as well. With Aubrey’s magical help waning, the pack was out of answers. Things seemed to be as bad as they could get and Dyami figured it was just a matter of time now. He should never have survived a Huntress wound, anyway.
Dyami ambled along, his mind wandering until his gaze fell on the exact thing he was looking for. King’s Ink. Looked like the typical tattoo shop—boardwalk style, flashy, overpriced to be sure. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, inhaled a nose full of pine-scented air. Clean. He took another whiff and smelled antiseptic. Not that it mattered. His werewolf physiology meant no worries in the disease department, but the pungent disinfectant aroma was a good sign. Usually if a place was clean, it meant the artists gave a shit…and if they gave a shit about cleanliness, then the art probably wasn’t half bad either.
The shop was dead, not a customer in sight. Dy stepped fully inside and closed out the rising humidity. The air conditioning’s frosty welcome blasted his skin, making him shiver.
“Hello?” he called. Seeing no one at the counter, he wondered if the place as actually open. It was a little on the early side for a tattoo, but what the fuck, right? It wasn’t like he had anything else to do and the door had been open.
He walked to the opposite wall, glancing quickly at the flash there—predesigned artwork that allowed the average customer to point, pay, and get inked on with little deliberation, hassle or imagination. The prices were high. Tourist prices. Seventy for a small Celtic butterfly, ninety for a cross. Custom art would probably run him quite a few bills. Whatever. It was just money. Therapy too. Getting inked always helped him deal with shit. Pulled the inside pain out. Usually, needles pounding flesh was his method of choice for dealing with depression, but this time he was just hoping for the distraction. The battle between his wolf and the poison was tearing him up inside—literally. He felt like shit, he looked like shit, and he’d do just about anything to make it stop. Even if it was just a little slight of hand.
“We’re not open yet.”
He turned toward the counter. The girl standing there was petite, cute. So not his type. “The door was open.”
She shrugged, slipped a hand through her hair, blonde with heavy pink streaks framing her face. “I forgot to lock the door behind me. I’m not ready for walk-ins.”
Dy trailed his gaze over her. She was tattooed shoulder to wrist on both arms, the designs intricate quality work, mostly black. She was tiny though, young looking too. He’d always heard of women described as pixie-like, but had never really known what it meant until now. “Aren’t you the counter girl?”
Her eyes blazed, green lit with fire, defiance. A silent fuck you with just a look. He perked up.
She crossed her arms. “No, I’m not.”
“Piercer? Apprentice? You’re pretty young. Shop help?” He moved toward the counter. He was goading her but found himself unable to stop.
She shook her head minutely. “No.”
He smiled, knowing it was predatory. “I need some ink.”
She glared back, jaw clenched, eyes blasting him.
“Script.” He reached out. “Like this.” And touched her forearm.
His wolf reared within, a jolt snapping through him. Pain flared, his knees buckled and he braced himself against the counter, a moan escaping his lips.
“Oh my fuck! Are you okay?” She was at his side in an instant, not touching him but hovering, hesitating, like she wanted to but just wasn’t sure.
Deep breaths. “I need some ink. Script,” he said through clenched teeth, pain ripping him apart. “You gonna help me out or what?”