The Dragon's Hunt. Jane Kindred
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not in the mood for this.” Rhea held out her hand. “Just give me the key.”
He stood blinking at her, baby blues wide with innocence behind his glasses, and she thought he was going to keep playing dumb, but he sighed and fished the chain out of his shirt inside his coat and slid the key off.
“You were here last night, weren’t you?” Leo placed the key in her palm. “I had this vague idea I’d spoken to you. I was hoping it was a dream.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. I kind of...blacked out last night. I should have told you about my problem.”
“What, that you’re a meth head?”
“I’m not a meth head.” Leo took off his hat and tousled his hair, which made him look even more like a meth head. “I...have a dissociative disorder. I usually lock myself in my room when I feel it coming on. It mostly happens around this time of year, after dark. That’s why I try not to be out late. It only lasts a few hours, so I came up with the idea of using timed padlocks.”
Rhea laughed sharply. “That’s the lamest story yet. You’ve gone from ‘a man came in the window’ to ‘I can’t help myself, it’s a mental disorder.’”
“It’s not a story.” Leo stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dopey plaid hunting jacket. “I said a man came in the window?”
“It’s from an old comic routine. Except the guy’s not funny anymore.”
“I see. What did I say?”
“You’re honestly going to stand there and tell me you don’t remember.”
“I don’t remember. I hope I wasn’t rude to you. But I can’t apologize properly if you don’t tell me what I said.”
Rhea curled her fist around the key. “You said you came back to get your hat and surprised a couple of thieves who’d broken in, and they shackled you to the chair.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.” She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want to acknowledge the game he’d played with her.
“But I was still here this morning. You didn’t try to cut me loose?” Leo blushed. “I mean, not that I’m blaming you.”
“I didn’t believe you last night—and I don’t believe you now—so I left you to get out of your own mess. And it looks like you did, so I guess your dominatrix came back.”
“Dominatrix?” The slight pink in his cheeks went crimson. “I swear to you, that is absolutely not what happened. When I’m dissociating, I do a lot of weird things, say a lot of weird things. It’s like sleepwalking. That’s why I use the restraints. But there was no dominatrix. I just stayed out too late and didn’t think I’d make it back to the motel in time, so I slipped back in here after you left.”
“And you just happened to have restraints on you. You carry them around.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I can’t always afford to rent a motel room around the clock, so I usually check out in the morning and take all my belongings with me.” Leo sighed. “Look, I don’t expect you to believe me, and I’m really sorry for anything weird I said or did last night. I’ll have to find some other way to pay you back for the ink.” He went to the door. “But I will. You have my word.”
“Why don’t you just pay for it now?”
Leo paused in the doorway, looking back. “I really only have enough cash to cover the motel.”
“You can clean off the graffiti in the parking lot.”
She wasn’t sure why she wasn’t just letting him go and being glad to be rid of him, but something about his little sob story of not being able to afford the motel room around the clock rang true. She wasn’t buying the dissociative bit, but if he was essentially homeless, it didn’t feel right to toss him out on his ass in the snow. What had he really done, anyway? Used the key she’d given him willingly to let himself into her shop after hours and maybe got kinky with some crack whore in her tattoo chair? Yeah, okay. That was pretty bad. But he hadn’t done anything to her, and he hadn’t robbed her. So that was something. Sort of.
Leo was still staring at her, uncertain.
“I mean, if you want to prove you’re not some kind of creep, you can at least work off your debt.”
He nodded emphatically. “Sure. Absolutely. Just point me in the right direction.”
“There’s a bucket of cleaning supplies in the bathroom. I’ve had to do this a few times already. These damn kids keep coming back and tagging things.”
Leo nodded, looking like an eager pup, and fetched the supplies.
“The lot’s down the back stairs. Paint’s on the wall next to the red MINI. You’ll see it.”
“Got it. I’ll take care of it.” Leo paused once more in the doorway as he headed out. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
Leo shrugged. “For not calling the cops on me, I guess. For giving me another chance.”
Rhea raised an eyebrow. “It’s early yet. Don’t make me regret it. And no more weirdness.”
Even though she was still glaring at him, his face broke into an unexpected and disarming smile. “You won’t regret it. No more weirdness. Cross my heart.” He made the quaint gesture, finger making an X over his heart, before heading downstairs. If he was a meth head, he was a damn adorable one. Rhea sighed and set up her tablet and got to work.
* * *
Leo stopped at the bottom of the stairs and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. How the hell had he been so stupid and careless? He should never have stayed for the tattoo touch-up that close to twilight. He was usually good for a stretch of time after the sun initially set—he had an app on his phone to determine when civil and nautical twilight began and ended so he wouldn’t get caught out like he had. Because after full dark, all bets were off. Sometimes he recalled the transitional time—what he referred to as his own personal twilight—but more often than not, it was like drinking to excess, with only fuzzy memories of the time leading up to the episode. And the headache he had in the morning only emphasized the similarities. Christ. He might as well be a meth head.
He pushed away from the wall, rubbing at the serpent tattoo through his sleeve as he went down to the back of the touristy little shopping complex. Jörmungandr was the last of the marks, the one he knew a little something about, even if he still couldn’t remember getting it. He couldn’t even say how he knew, but something told him the symbolism of the Midgard Serpent contained the destructive energy of his illness. The part that would be unleashed if he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t follow the rules he’d set for himself. And last night he’d played fast and loose with the rules because of Rhea Carlisle’s touch.
Something had happened when she touched his skin. Not just the little tingle of pleasure at the softness of it or the desire to be near her, but a connection that made him feel as if he could almost remember whatever it was he’d forgotten about the marks and his episodes and his entire life. Little silent movies had played for an instant in his head as she’d worked the ink. And he was certain Rhea had seen those featurettes, too. Her reaction, that little shock of stillness, echoed his own. Snow kicked up by the hooves of horses—the sturdy, stocky horses of war. The smell and creak of leather and mail. The tang of blood and ice on his tongue. But wars weren’t fought on horseback in leather and chain mail. Not anymore.
Leo stopped in the parking lot to catch his breath, the familiar muscle spasm tugging at his ribs, as if someone had thrust a knife under them. Then it was gone and forgotten. There was Rhea’s red MINI, and there was the graffiti. Leo’s brows drew together as he contemplated the tags. This wasn’t gang graffiti. These were runes.
He