Angel’s Ink. Jocelynn Drake

      9

      THE DRIVE ACROSS town took only a few moments, but the results were not as I had hoped. I turned into a parking lot that was situated just a few buildings from where his shop was located. With a quick glance around to take in the few people wandering the sidewalks, I jogged to the building and skidded to a sharp stop in front of dirt- and dust-covered windows. The sign over the shop was missing, and gazing inside through the dirt revealed an empty storefront that hadn’t been used in what looked to be years.

      I stumbled a couple of steps backward, clenching my fists at my sides in desperation as I looked up to the second floor. Sparks had always used the second-floor apartment as his residence. I knew it too well after spending the better part of four years sleeping on a narrow cot in a room the size of a closet while I was going through my apprenticeship. It had been anything but a comfortable period of time for me, and I certainly wasn’t getting laid, but I was busy learning everything that Sparks could possibly teach me about the tattooing world.

      “Sparks!” I bellowed up at the second floor, hoping against my better judgment that he might actually have stayed in the building but had moved his shop to another part of town. There was no answer, no movement in front of the windows, which looked just as dirty and empty as those on the first floor. Passersby gave me a wide berth as I cursed under my breath. Sparks had packed up shop and moved on to some other tantalizing spot. At least I hoped that was the case.

      “Damn it, Sparks!” I growled, kicking the door to the shop. I could find the old man, assuming that he was still alive, but it would mean using magic, and I was in enough trouble already. The man had never been big on advertising and I didn’t expect to find his name in the white or yellow pages. He lived by the creed that the best kind of advertising was word of mouth, mostly because it was free.

      Now I was in more trouble than I had expected. Standing on the sidewalk, I was trying to think of some way of locating where Sparks might have disappeared to when the thick scent of magic started to waft around me. I spun around, my hands extended, barely resisting the urge to call up my own barrier to protect me from whatever was brewing. My skin prickled and a cold sweat beaded across my back and down my spine despite the growing heat of the afternoon sun. Someone was coming. Someone powerful.

      The distinct smell of magic was that of a warlock or a witch, but it wasn’t Gideon riding my ass again. No, the black-cloaked figure who suddenly appeared on the sidewalk a few feet from me was Simon Thorn. It didn’t look as if he had aged since I had last seen him. Then again, the Ivory Towers occupants had long ago learned to stretch the years of their lifetimes. I hadn’t seen him since I had given up my warlock studies years ago. I had barely survived the experience, but I did give as good as I got, making him wary of me.