Nope.I’d like to make excuses for him, but my brother was just a pathetic servant to the Drakes. Not an ounce of courage in him. Nothing like me, although I admitted my courage was desperation-based.
I was determined to make a new life for myself somewhere else, away from the Drakes.
It was a high-risk dream. Us humans might not be official slaves, but any effort to break free from the Drakes ended badly. Often in a gruesome, public fashion that left little doubt as to who was in charge.
Those damned Drakes did me a favor.I would have been lucky to get away from the gang members. But the close call made me jumpy as hell as I hurried along the sidewalk. The storefronts along here all possessed so much defensive metalwork that determining their offerings to the world took experience and a keen eye. At night, the lighting was almost nonexistent.
The armament was not to keep out the Drakes—they essentially owned everyone and everything in these places. It was to protect against the ever-prevalent crime element, both human and alien, as well as the frequent gang skirmishes. When the disputes happened, everyone hunkered down behind their metal barriers. Once conflicts were settled, protection monies would be owed to whomever was the winner.
Metal barricades were now the foundations of survival.
I never came here at night, but I knew my way around. Most places sold various types of black-market goods—things that before alien occupation had been easily purchased at local department stores, but were now scarce and worth far more than I could afford. The more selective fronts only opened after dark.
A massive human stood guard at my destination. I lowered the hood on my cloak as I approached, eyeing the sliding gate hangingfrom the ceiling above his head. The tattoo parlor rarely closed, but the steel bars could be hauled down in a hurry if needed.
“Hello Guido,” I greeted.
I didn’t know his real name. Didn’t care to learn it or tell him mine. Names were something to be guarded in this new world order, because you could never be certain who your friends were.
The hulking figure peered at me, before relaxing and standing back. The livid scar running the full length of his face added menace to his intimidating features.
With him at the door, it was difficult to believe that this place welcomed customers. Yet this was one of the best tatt parlors in Winnipeg. Anyone who wanted premium art etched onto their skin came here.
If they managed to get past the guard, that is. His job was to stop trouble on the far side of that sliding barrier. Or at least slow it down long enough for the patrons and staff to either escape or hide.
Despite paying the so-called protection taxes to the local human gangs, the near complete lack of law and order meant that security thugs now watched all the service outlets, from those offering tattoos to groceries. But if the Drakes decided to follow me inside, he’d bolt.
No one messed with the Drakes.
I entered the inner door and found myself in the dimly lit and rather dark foyer. I scanned the walls for new additions—they were covered with images of tattooed skin—the artists here were the very best, and the ink offered was top quality.
Or it had been, until the Drakes took the two top artists away for their own private use. I presumed they now lived in the Tazier compound, as I hadn’t seen them since.
The haphazard taping of the printouts to the walls added a slightly chaotic feel to the space, which offered a long counter across from a series of mismatched chairs. A much more brightly lit adjoining room featured tables covered with binders filled with art.
Smoke hung throughout the space, swirling near the ceiling. Cigarettes and pot, but I also got a whiff of Brimstone, a substancebrought with the Drakes that had ruined many a human brain when consumed in excess. The occasional stick of it merely enhanced the senses, and it was so expensive that most only used it sparingly.
An open security door at the far end revealed the parlor. All I could currently see was an empty chair, but each artist had his own small space to work. The soft purr of a motor indicated someone was back there, and then a gravelly voice said, “Trust Nolte to mess things up. I had everything running smoothly until then. It’s his fault that Mel got nailed up the ass.”
My ears perked up in interest, wanting to know more, but the second voice merely muttered soothingly, “There’s always someone.”
It was enough to silence the speaker, at least temporarily.Damn.I could use some amusement. The tatt artists often acted as confidants on these streets, a fact that was regularly mined by the gangs… but it didn’t stop people from gabbing when they shouldn’t. Maybe the pain of having tiny needles injecting dye into your skin opened the floodgates.
I didn’t know, because I didn’t have any tattoos.
The woman behind the counter glanced up at me. A delicate line of flowers ran from the corner of one eye and along the side of her face to her jaw. The art was emphasized by the fact her hair had been shaved on that side. She was a rarity in this world—a female human over sixty. And I knew her name. Or, at least, the one she offered to such as me.
The lines around her eyes and mouth were testament that she hadn’t journeyed along an easy road. But now, she smiled, and it transformed her face.
“Oh, Mini. Do you have another one for us?”
Okay, Mini was only the last part of my name—Jazmini. But it was the one I used on the streets.
“Yeah, Maisie,” I said. “Two, actually. And I also need your help. I just got tagged with a tracker.”
Alarm flooded her features. “Are they following you?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. They seemed to be in a hurry to beelsewhere. And I don’t think they were Taziers. I didn’t recognize their clan ink.”
