As Was Demanded...

[The Imfamous AKA]

I give you.... Well, the working title is simply...

Ink

My Father always said that art was our curse.

It wasn’t until the needles, miniscule and buzzing like bees beneath my gloved fingers, slipped into my best friend’s skin that I understood what he meant. Somewhere between the sharp point the met the back of her hand and where the permanent cuff faded a few inches up her arm, I began to feel the change. As though I had almost as much power as the ink I placed into her skin.

Libby and I grew up together, two peas in one strangely furnished pod. Both rebellious in our own ways—her by pushing against the limits set by her father and I by sticking to tradition no matter how hard my father tried to guide me otherwise—we learned quickly that two were better than one, a lesson that would usually take only children years longer to learn. Everyone assumed we would grow out of it. Soon enough, I would come to the same conclusion other young boys did—Girls have cooties!—or she would finally find some girl friends for sleepovers and boy-talk. Neither happened, nor did any other gloomy prediction about our friendship.

Libby lost three separate boyfriends in high school because everyone assumed we were fucking, and none of the girls I dated ever stuck around long enough to even make that assumption. It didn’t matter that her pretty little curves—as I heard one of her temporary boyfriends call her—scared off jealousy-prone girls, or that the fact that I was one her couch more often than her father was kept other teenage boys out of her house. Nothing in high school mattered but my art classes, her lit classes, and the fact that the covered front porch of her house made late-night visits easy once we were tall enough to reach the gutter.

The rumors were wrong, of course. Libby was a virgin until she went away to college. Apparently without my bulky frame to keep away intruders, her soft hair and hard eyes were free game. I was the first, and presumably only, to find out what happened in a dark room at a Halloween party while I was passing out candy to trick-or-treaters and still trying to convince my father to let me apprentice in his shop. She had stayed strong and quiet until I climbed through her window the Friday before Thanksgiving and tilted my head, not knowing what was wrong but knowing deep in my gut that something was. It was only then that she cried.

As strong as she was before, it was like her tiny frame was made of steel after that night. She came home for Christmas with a smirk and stories of frat boys and classmates who had tried their luck—much like the boys of high school—and failed miserably. She fawned over the sketch I had drawn her, the great gaping jaws of Loki reaching endlessly for the sun, and for the holiday drew from me a promise that I would one day etch it permanently into her skin. Once my father let me stop tracing and finally wrap my hand around the mechanical aspect of a tattoo.

She got her wish the next summer, just a few short weeks before she went back to school. I had inked the sun into countless pieces of fruit and a few pieces of pig skin. With my father hovering a few feet behind me, I shaved the fine hairs from the crest of her shoulder, gently pulled a pad of rubbing alcohol across her skin before placing the tracing paper, and began the delicate process of imbedding ink beneath her skin.

The sun practically glowed out at us forty minutes later, the size of Libby’s dainty clenched fist, with wavy fingers arching in all directions. It was hardly perfect, but Libby refused my father’s standing offer to clean it up when she returned in November. Instead, I did a bit more work on it—with a much steadier hand—and Libby got a free tattoo and what she referred to as bragging rights: when I was beyond famous, inking the stars, she would say that her skin bore the first strokes of my hand.

It was almost two years later that I was willing to try my hand at the wolf. It was just before her senior year at the university a few hours away and I had had my associates degree from the nearby community college under my belt for a year. I also had hours of practice—I had graduated from fruit and animal skins to the most daring (and cheap) of customers. As my father had, I picked up the craft quickly, inking flowing into skin as though it was the most natural thing in the world. The simply designs—roses and ribbons and stars and other traditional tattoo fodder—were nothing compared to the sketch I had drawn years before. But Libby trusted me, and wanted the wolf for luck. She was applying for graduate school, and wanted nothing more than her favorite figure from Norse mythology looking over her shoulder as she finished up her bachelor’s degree.

Again, it was far from perfect. The teeth were a bit too far apart, and the ears just slightly too large. Staring at it from between two mirrors, Libby just sighed and smiled. It’s perfect, her eyes seemed to say, softening back to the girl I had known and grown up with.

I didn’t see that look in her eyes again for a year and a half. Studying and seclusion had kept her sharp and stern, even as we sat laughing in her bedroom after midnight that winter. She smiled at graduation, a secret smile that I knew was just for me, in the crowd, even though her father, next to me, applauded louder than I did. Summer was a blur that year: my first real paying customers as the second artist at my father’s shop, her hours spent in the library as she began the preliminary steps toward a thesis. Too soon, she was off to school again, this time so much further away, a matter of states instead of counties. She didn’t home come for Thanksgiving that year; instead I was graced with a phone call and a smile in her voice. Christmas came and for the first time I was truly able to afford a good, real present. She smiled as she unwrapped the painting—a piece done in oil by an artist she said was her favorite after me—and pulled me into a hug far too fierce for her tiny frame.

We talked frequently, on the phone and through our computers, but we were not supposed to see each other until after her classes ended in May. I would have been ecstatic to see her in March had she not been there for my father’s funeral.

She couldn’t get a flight, not on a student’s budget, and had driven through the night. She arrived early the next morning, and would have woken me had I been able to sleep. Instead, I met the dawn and her wide eyes. By then, I had cried more tears than I thought possible, so mine were dry, and hers were not. I realized that it was the first time I had seen her cry since that Thanksgiving, years before, when she finally told me about losing her virginity. She cried longer this time, from when she arrive, or possibly earlier, until after the funeral six days later. But the softness in her eyes that I had missed so much, remained.

It was the evening after that she told me she wanted something new on her skin. I knew what she meant, having already talked to the man who my father had apprenticed under, hoping he would do the honors. We both wanted something, anything, to stand for him: I for the father who had given me everything and she for the man who had represented not only the freedom she had always longed for, but also who had meant so much to the most important person in her life.

We spent a few hours flipping through my father’s books. Sketches, flash, even photographs, and neither of us found anything. But buried at the bottom of the pile, having fallen behind the other books on the shelf, as a sketch book I had never seen before. Libby took it before I could comment, opening it carefully at random. The carefully drawn and shaded cuff was obviously my father’s work: I would recognize the careful curves and points anywhere even if it wasn’t for his initials in the bottom corner. And I knew, just from the look in Libby’s eyes, what I would be putting on her skin the next afternoon.

It was almost like that first time. I softly pulled the razor across her skin before the alcohol, giving myself a clean place to work. Only then did I align the transfer paper on her skin, the point of the cuff reaching halfway from her rest to her fingers. She liked the placement, and bade me to continue. It was the first stroke that was my undoing.

There was more power in ink than I had thought. I knew this irrevocably by the time I had completed the first sitting of the cuff. As the three and a half hours continued, as line work and shading and color went into her skin, she absorbed the power that I was reveling in. Neither of us knew what was happening, or what it would mean, but we both knew that it felt right. And when I wiped away the specks of blood for the last time, the foreign and etched gem at the center of the strange cuff staring up at us, neither of us would ever be the same.

Our art is our curse, and we would be best off if we kept it to ourselves. Pity that we just don’t seem to be able to…

[The Imfamous AKA]

Ink flows, just like blood flows. It can be easy to confuse the two.

Libby’s slight weight pressed into my side as she admired the cuff. Her hand was out, her head tilted faintly to the side in a pose more suited to a woman staring into the sparkling diamond of her engagement ring. It wasn’t until she lifted her head to meet my eyes that I saw the glittering of tears in her eyes once more, and I didn’t bother to resist enclosing her in the embrace of my much larger body.

“What’s going to happen now?” she asked after a few long moments, her voice muffled slightly against my shoulder.

“Life, I suppose. I’ll keep up the shop. You’ll go back to school and come back when you can.” I sighed faintly, not wanting to cry again. Not now. Maybe while Jason was etching whatever I decided on into my skin. Maybe while I waited to fall asleep that night. But not now. Not with my hands still vibrating with the buzz of the machine and whatever magic it had lent me for the moment. I didn’t have much of a chance to force myself not to cry.

The bell over the door, one of the most familiar sounds in the world, interrupted the quiet of our grief. My arms fell from around Libby’s shoulders as I turned to the sound. “Damn it. I thought I locked that.” Without delay, Libby followed me toward the door.

The three men who stood there were familiar. They were regular customers of my father’s, though you wouldn’t know it looking at their obviously expensive suits and the black Bentley parked outside. I had never understood how my father had gained them as clients, but when they needed work done—which was often enough—it was a good night in the Aemes household.

“We’re closed,” I said brusquely, not wanting to deal with dad’s strange customers, not today, of all days.

“We know,” the man in the center said, bowing his head faintly in respect. “We came to offer our condolences. We would have been at the funeral had time been permitting.” He was younger than the two who flanked him, and I had seen him for years, in passing. He had come with his father before, and now came alone. I had never thought to ask what the story was. Now I wish I had.

“Thanks,” I replied softly, moving to the cabinet that held the gauze and tape. I needed to get something over Libby’s tattoo relatively soon, just to protect it for a few hours. “Libby? Your wrist?” She obediently offered it up, knowing the routine well enough by now, and three pairs of eyes—other than my own and Libby’s—fixed onto the cuff immediately. I thought it was a bit strange, but, then again, these men were tattoo connoisseurs. They were simply appreciative of the ink wrapped around my best friend’s wrist. Once it was bandaged, I looked at the three men, unmoving, on the other side of the counter. They had offered the condolences they had come to, but they were unmoving. Their business obviously wasn’t finished.

“Lib? Why don’t you head back to the house, grab some dinner along the way? I’ll clean up here and meet you back at home in an hour.” She nodded, one hand coming out to squeeze my arm reassuringly.

“Sure thing, Dustin, I’ll see you soon.” In her airy manner, she breezed past the three men to the front door. All three turned to watch her, as I had seen so many men do before. But as the protective wave rose within me, I followed their gaze. Her curves didn’t seem to bear their stares; instead all three sets of eyes were locked onto the bandage on her wrist. I didn’t understand the fascination, and as such I was suspicious.

“I know your faces, gentlemen,” I said as I passed around the counter. My voice returned their attention to me, and I extended my hand. “But I’m afraid we’ve never officially met. I’m Dustin Aemes.”

The young man in the center was the first to reply. “My name is Rowan Gabriel.” He took my hand, his grip no more or less firm than it should have been, before gesturing to the men on either side of him. “Jameson Francis and Colin Baker.” They both nodded, but said nothing. As clear as it had been when they entered, it was even more so now that I had had a chance to watch their interactions for a few moments. Rowan Gabriel was in charge, and the men on either side of him were muscle, paid or otherwise.

“So, Rowan,” I began, knowing the words and the ones that would follow sounded incredibly awkward. “I can only imagine that offering your condolences is only part of your reason for visiting?” He seemed almost relieved that I had broached the subject first.

“It seems…” his voice trailed off for a moment, as though searching for the right word. “Insensitive of us, I know, but we have an investment to protect.”

“An… investment?” With my father’s policy, all tattoos were guaranteed: as long as they were taken well care of, touch-ups and fill-ins were free for life. I didn’t understand where a long term investment, at least monetarily, fit into the equation.

“I think it would be much easier to show you, than to simply tell you.” Without waiting for my response, he shed the nondescript though obviously expensive suit jacket, laying it carefully over the back of one of the waiting room chairs. He proceeded to roll up the sleeve of his left arm, revealing what the crisp white shirt had hidden. The tattoo was familiar—I had passed through the shop as my father had placed it into his skin less than a year before. But the kind of wear that had affected the artwork could not have been gained in a year. Maybe a decade—maybe, if there was a lot of sun exposure and ill-use—could have prompted it to look as it did, with faded lines and colors.

“This… This isn’t right,” I murmured after a moment, staring at the ring of ink around his forearm. Once the state of the tattoo filtered through my brain, I recognized the design. A more masculine version of the piece I had just finished placing onto Libby’s arm, it had rested a few pages before in the thick, black bound book we had found the night before. I tensed, realizing why the men had been fascinated with it, but still not knowing the significance.

“Our skin takes poorly to ink,” he supplied helpfully. “A sort of genetic quirk, if you will. However, at the same time, many of us also have been bitten by the tattoo bug, so to speak.” I had a brief urge to ask who ‘us’ meant, but he continued, and I decided to quash the impulse. “We don’t mind the pain of touch-ups once a year or so, for the sake of the art. We also don’t think it’s fair to take advantage of your father’s life-long guarantee, and we do pay for the work, though your father graciously supplied us with a discount. His death is a blow to us, as well, not knowing if you will be so understanding, or if we will need to take our patronage elsewhere.”

I shook my head faintly, but was silent for a moment. “Of course not, gentlemen. I see no reason to change the agreement you had with my father. It seems rather beneficial to all of us, actually.” The relief that flowed off the three men was nearly tangible. Even the two silent men, who still stood stock still and straight behind their ringleader, seemed much more at peace than they had been a moment ago. I had no idea who these men were, but my father’s death had thrown them into turmoil as it had me. And I was going to figure out why.

“There is actually another aspect to our agreement with your father,” Rowan continued, after a moment of basking in the obviously lifted atmosphere. “All of the work he has done for us are original pieces, drawn to specific traditional and cultural conditions. It is our hope that you may come to do the same for us, eventually.” I nodded, not knowing what else to do. Creating artwork to a customer’s specifications was not an unfamiliar part of my job, and I felt no qualms in doing the same for these strange men. “Your father had a separate book for our work, considering how frequently we commissioned him.”

“Large, bound in black leather,” I supplied with a slight sigh. “I am very sorry to say that I know of it. Had I known that the piece was already spoken for, I wouldn’t have inked it onto my friend. I’m sure I can compensate you for the intellectual property, or at the very least return what you have already paid my father for it.”

He shook his head at my offer. “That particular piece had not been paid for yet, nor had anyone had it tattooed yet. We do not mind its new purpose. A consolation for a grieving woman is a fair purpose indeed.” I smiled, half-heartedly.

“Thank you. Libby and I both appreciate it. Now, if that’s all the business we needed to sort out, I’m afraid I must be going. She’ll be waiting for me, and I’m afraid neither of us wants to be alone for too long right now.” Rowan smiled, pulling his coat back on.

“Of course, we understand. We wouldn’t want to keep you from your girlfriend, especially not in times like these.”

Had I thought before responding, I probably wouldn’t have. But it was second nature to refute those allegations, and my words were automatic. “Oh, Libby’s not my girlfriend.” He stilled for a moment, and then resumed the action of straightening his coat, and to diffuse the moment, I continued. “I’ll be back open for business on Thursday, and I don’t have many appointments that day. I think I’m free all day after two. You’re welcome to come in so I can work on that.” I gestured with a nod of my head to his arm, and he smiled.

“We’ll see you then,” he replied, before turning and leading the other two men out. I watched them go, finally understanding something. He used the royal “we.”

Ink flows through our veins, and through our ink, we are connected. Those connections are not always so visible as artwork in skin.

[The Imfamous AKA]

Each stroke of ink we place effects us long after the vibration of the machine wears off. We cannot escape our art.

I had begun to understand my father’s strange schedule. Five nights a week—every night but Friday and Saturday—the last few evening hours were reserved for consultations, though I rather frequently saw him with machine in hand on these nights. It became clear that “consultation” was simply his way of explaining away his stranger customers to his average ones, because they began visiting en masse two weeks after my father’s funeral. Before then, I had only worked on Rowan and his immediate entourage, but it was clear that when he referred to “us” that the group was significantly larger than I had initially assumed.

They usually came in pairs, with one being tattooed and the other not, and I was visited three nights a week, most weeks. They paid well, full price, more or less, so even when business was slow, there was a steady amount of income. It explained our modest house in one of the nicer neighborhoods in town, at the very least, and allowed me to maintain it. There wasn’t much else to spend the money on. For the first three months after my father’s death, all I did was work, sleep, and talk to Libby.

She was happy, somehow. I could hear in her voice that something had changed. She still had complaints about her father, particularly about his complaints about her choice in career. She still excelled in school. I wasn’t quite sure what was different, if it was something tangible, or if she even knew something had changed.

She knew. It wasn’t until the week before the end of her spring semester that she told me, in a finals-induced haze of stress. There was a man in her life, the first steadfast boyfriend she had had in years. She hadn’t wanted to tell me until she was positive it wouldn’t turn out like that horrible boy from her freshman year, but a week before she was due to return, with him at her side, she didn’t want to keep it from me any longer.

I was hurt, a bit, but I understood. I could be protective of Libby, and she hadn’t wanted to worry me. It took a concerted effort not to allow the dark seed planted by that little lack of confidence to grow, and I threw myself into my work. When I didn’t have a customer, I was working on flash art and stencils. When I wasn’t working on flash art and stencils, I was sketching, trying to learn the intricate style from the thick black book. The patterns materialized across pages and pieces. Most pieces were rings and loops, designed to wrap around wrists and beneath necks. One incredibly intricate piece crossed over the entire chest, looping up over the shoulders to curl across the back. I was fascinated by them, and I wasn’t sure why.

I was working on one when Libby arrived, the buzz of the machine between my hand and the back of the woman’s neck interrupted by the chime of the bell. While I was used to the sound during normal hours of operation, rarely was I interrupted in the evenings. Without turning, I knew who had arrived.

I murmured an apology to the woman, who shook her head, grateful for the break. With a wide smile, I turned to greet my best friend, and faltered.

“Dustin!” she exclaimed, her smile wide and true as she shrugged the arm from her shoulder to pass the counter and greet me. Opening my arms for a hug was an instinctive motion, but my eyes were fixed on the other side of the counter.

“Hello, Dustin,” he said, his smile as open as Libby’s.

“Rowan,” I muttered, not quite believing or understanding what I was seeing.

“Isn’t this a great surprise?” Libby asked, pulling away so she could look up at my face. I finally managed to drag my eyes away from the man across the room and look at her once more. I studied her face carefully, noting the changes. She had filled out a bit, obviously eating better, and the discoloration stress had caused under her eyes was gone. And her smile… it was real.

“Yeah, Lib,” I replied, still a bit off-kilter. “Is Rowan your new boyfriend?” As I said it, I let my arms fall, and Libby backed out of the hug. She nodded, glancing across the counter.

“He was on business in town, and we ran into each other,” she said, holding out a hand to the man in question. He came closer, his fingers curling around hers with a smile. “We got some coffee, and then again when he was back in town again. It just… grew from there.” Both my gaze and Libby’s moved to Rowan once more, her smile growing and mine shrinking just a bit. Something was off, but I wasn’t quite sure what, I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Why don’t we go out to dinner when I’m done here?” I offered, turning my gaze back to Libby. She nodded, glancing at Rowan, whose smile was acquiescence.

“You finish up, and we’ll swing back by in…?”

I turned to glance at the mostly-finished work behind me. “An hour. I’ll definitely be done in an hour.” After a brief goodbye, I was left alone with my clients. “All set to keep going?” I asked with a smile I didn’t feel of the woman seated in my chair.

“Sure thing,” she replied, so much less formal than the man I could only assume was her leader in some way, be it employer or simply supervisor. With a quick reach upwards to tighter her hair in its careless bun, she settled herself back in. We returned to the companionable silence—only the buzz of the machine accompanying the sting in her skin and the vibration in my hand—but she soon interrupted my thoughts.

“She seems nice,” she murmured, and there was no one else she could be referring to, though it took me a moment to understand the context. I was uncomfortable around Rowan now, yet constantly surrounded by people obviously loyal to him. These were his people, not mine, and Libby was the outsider. It was not a pleasant sensation, and one that did not bode well for dinner.

Ink creates illusions, both in the skin and while healing. Do not be deceived by the liquid leak of ink as it slips from pores: it is very, very permanent.

[The Imfamous AKA]

Art holds the power to surprise in innumerable ways. Etching it into your skin is a way to surprise yourself every day.

Dinner was not particularly unpleasant. In fact, it was very pointedly a pleasant affair. Awkward, but pleasant, and I spent the entire meal and the drinks afterward pondering what sort of curious situation I had gotten myself into. Or, rather, what situation Libby had gotten us into. Or what situation Rowan had manufactured. Frankly, I hadn’t the faintest idea who was to blame for the awkward silences and lengthy glances, but I knew I didn’t enjoy them.

Sadly, it was a trend that kept up throughout the summer. Unlike Libby, who had her summer to herself between semesters—though she used a significant amount of time for her dissertation—my work schedule hadn’t changed. The only thing that had was that my store now had two, and sometimes three, permanent people within. I did my work as best I could with the added distraction of Libby’s regular presence. As they had before, my spaces became ours when she was home in her quest to avoid her father and his stifling questions and stares. She had always said that she couldn’t concentrate at home, and I never had a problem with her hanging around the shop or my house.

Until it meant that Rowan spent quite a bit of time in the shop, as well. For the most part, they stayed out of the way. Libby had always had a permanent spot on one of the long sofas in the waiting room, perched at one end with her laptop on her lap and books stacked on the small table beside her. On her other side, regularly, though not constantly, was her new shadow. Rowan spent a few hours there, at least a few days a week, and always during the hours I spent working on his commissions.

They posed a curious problem. Usually, those who sat in my chair were delighted to see him. They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, all with wide, un-contrived smiles. It was this response, the first few nights, that solidified my thoughts that Rowan was the owner, the recent heir, to some vast economic empire, and many of these customers were his employees, making use of his kind arrangements. But what sort of employees was so loyal that they tattooed such strange, company-sanctioned images on their bodies?

It was roughly three weeks into Libby’s summer that I was offered another explanation. The pair who arrived tensed as soon as they opened the door, their eyes wary and locked upon my visitor. He glanced up, the picture of nonchalance, and made eye contact. Without a word, he returned his attention to Libby and their soft conversation, as though the two men did not exist. They relaxed somewhat, but it was difficult to work on the one man. I couldn’t get his fist to unclench and it was keeping the skin distorted from its resting position. When they finally left, still somewhat alarmed, my attention returned to Rowan as I realized an alternate possibility.

Had my father gotten himself, by extension me, and, by further extension, Libby, involved with some sort of organized crime ring?

I focused on this horrifying possibility for the duration of Libby and Rowan’s time in town. Every so often, the interactions would go thusly, and my customers would leave with fresh ink, but without the usual endorphin rush. Neither Rowan nor Libby seemed inclined to speak of the phenomenon, and so I let it go. I knew nothing more than the art of the art, and I knew that when Libby returned to school, and when Rowan followed, I would not have to worry about the strange interruptions to my daily life. It was strange to think of Libby as an interruption.

But she was not the only one. It was a mere four days after she and Rowan left for the semester that I had another strange, fear inducing guest.

As usual, I had a pair of Rowans… whatever they might be sitting on the long sofa, waiting as I prepared the stencil. The door chimed once more; it was not unusual for me to have to momentarily entertain other unrelated customers—walk-ins, for the most part, for regular visitors knew better than to arrive during consultation hours—and I was prepared for a few minutes of niceties. Instead, I was met by a stand down.

The three new entrants were obviously only new to me. The two seated on the couch had risen, their poses subconsciously defensive, blocked off and tense, as they faced down the newcomers. A woman stood in the center, tall, cold, with a significant amount of muscle disguised by her perfectly tailored suit. Just as Rowan had arrived for his first visit with obvious bodyguards in tow, so had this new mystery woman. Unlike Rowan, however, she felt no need to hide the fact. The men on either side of her were the picture of trained muscle: dark glasses, trimmed suits, barely disguised bulges where the guns rested on their hips. I did not know who these three were, but it was obvious the other two did.

Without words at the trio of newcomers, they turned to me to offer apologies. They would return at a later date. The woman did not remove her eyes from me, but her bodyguards did not remove their eyes from the fleeing men until they were in their car and out of sight. I watched, more curious than afraid, as they then turned their glass covered gaze on me.

The haughty tension fell from the woman’s body as she crossed the room to me where I stood behind the counter. She offered her hand with an intriguing smile that belied her sharp exterior. I hadn’t known hard silver eyes could melt that quickly. “You must be Dustin,” she began as I reached to shake her hand. “My name is Petra Gabriel.”

I blinked. It was my only response for a moment, and she sensed my confusion. “I believe my son has taken over his father’s commission of your father.”

“You’re Rowan’s mother?” I asked, finally letting go of her hand. I realized I had been shaking it for far too long. It would have been far too clichéd to say that she didn’t look old enough to be his mother, but that didn’t make it false. It did make me not want to say so.

“He… hasn’t told you about me?” she asked, glancing down for a moment. She then twisted faintly, shedding the jacket to reveal a short blouse. There, beneath the expensive linen, was the faded ink that had marked her son’s arms as well. “We may be somewhat estranged, but that does not make me in need of work any less.” She held out her arm once more, this time for me to examine rather than to take. The marks had faded, much as that of her son and anyone else that had entered related to them.

“So the inability to keep ink is a familial one?” I asked, raising my eyes from the art to hers. It was her turn to blink, and be silent for a moment. I returned my gaze to the familiar art, and realized that it was not only stylistically familiar. Though some obvious aspects had changed, and the black ink had faded and melted into her skin, the piece bore a striking resemblance to Libby’s. Her voice finally jerked me out of my reverie.

“Rowan hasn’t told you a damn thing, has he?”

It is not until the piece surprises you that you will understand the control it has over your life.