Chapter Five

I rose early that morning, unrested and edgy. Not only was my visit from the night before lurking in my mind, but today, for the first time ever, a man was joining the Amazons-or at least our little group of Amazons. I had called Peter right after leaving my conversation with Mother. He’d agreed to start today.

Short notice for everyone. Which meant no time to prepare my family-all in all, the best solution.

Fresh from a night of hauntings, I was ready to beard the lion of two millennia in my den.

After a quick look at my bedraggled reflection in the bathroom mirror, I dragged myself out to the main living area. Harmony was in her room polishing her nails while Bubbe stomped around the kitchen muttering something in Russian I didn’t care to translate, and Mother had already disappeared into the basement. A peaceful, if early, morning in the Saka household.

Not up for conversation, I skipped breakfast and sneaked down the steps to the shop. I was rearranging the stations, trying to decide who would be best suited to pair with our new addition, when there was a rap on the front door. The metal pan of needles I was holding fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Dropping to my knees, I muttered a curse and began rounding up the once-sterile tools.

“We don’t open till eleven,” I yelled, my voice loud in the small cubicle.

The door rattled in response.

My hands shook as they hovered over the spilled needles. Jumpy. I was too damn jumpy. Lost spirits didn’t knock on your front door and, bold as the killer might seem, so far all her gifts had been left in the dead of night. My palm sank onto the sharp end of a needle; the sudden pain brought me back to myself. I stared at the red bubble of blood forming on my hand and folded my fingers closed over it.

A fist hammered against the wood.

Blowing out a breath, I rubbed my palm against my jeans, leaving a red, angry stain, and started toward the steps. Let it be the killer. I was ready to end this.

I was halfway down the stairs when the rattling stopped. Frowning, I stomped down the last few steps anyway.

Only empty concrete stairs and an old chip bag shoved against the building by a biting fall wind greeted me. I crumpled the trash in my hand and glanced around one more time-nothing. A familiar fragrance I couldn’t quite peg drifted around me. My anger dissipated, replaced by a rush of unease.

My gaze darted around the yard, looking for any sign of my early-morning visitor, but there was nothing more suspicious than a squirrel busily hoarding nuts for the coming winter.

Unable to shake the unsettling impression off, I considered storming around the side of the building in hopes of catching whoever had made the earlier racket, just to prove to myself it was nothing more ominous than a bored neighborhood kid pulling a prank, but thought better of it.

I had stepped back inside, feeling as useless as the crumpled chip bag in my hand, and had started the trek up to the shop level when I heard voices coming from the basement.

Someone was visiting Mother.

This was unusual. Bubbe loved mingling with the locals-or more accurately, rooking them out of their cash-but Mother kept to herself. She did the odd tattoo for me, basic stuff, but that was it. I’d never known her to encourage company.

I paused, one hand on the wooden railing, the other still holding the chip bag, and considered going down to see who rated high enough to be invited into her world. Then, unbidden, a rough laugh escaped my lips. Secrets. Mother wasn’t the only one who had them. Maybe if I let her keep hers awhile longer, the cosmos would look kindly on me and return the favor by helping me to hide my own.

Besides, my latest secret, Peter, was due in at ten. I needed the time left until his arrival to work out how I was going to present him to my family. I tapped my fingers a couple of times on the banister, then went back to stocking Peter’s station with bandages and other necessities of tattooing life.

The next couple of hours passed uneventfully. Harmony flounced off to school and Bubbe stomped directly from the second floor to the basement without stopping in the shop to harass me-another unusual occurrence. On a different day this might have raised some notice from me, but today I was too busy battling my warring emotions-still anxious thanks to my nocturnal visitors and their killer, proud I was doing my part to break old prejudices, and nervous that Bubbe, Mother, and centuries of other Amazons who had banned men from all but one aspect of their lives were right and I was on the brink of making a fatal error.

The third emotion was beginning to edge out the others when I glanced up at the clock and realized it was almost ten. Squaring my shoulders, I tromped down the stairs and unlocked the door.

Peter Arpada in all his brown-eyed, six-foot-plus-tall glory was waiting for me. He had a new, bigger portfolio under one arm and two steaming cups of premium coffee in his hands. My heart jumped a beat-for the coffee, I told myself. I don’t splurge for the good stuff too often.

He followed me up the stairs.

“Interesting setup,” he commented, once we were on the main/shop level. He was staring up the stairs that led to our living area.

“Uh, yeah. It works for us.” I gestured for him to follow me through the glass doors that separated the tattoo cubicles from the waiting room. Wisconsin regulations required tattoo areas be separated from living areas by a full wall. Putting one on this level was easier than trying to close off the stairs some way. In other words, anyone who walked into our shop could just stroll up the stairs, past the JUST STROLL UP THE STAIRS, PAST THE sign and be in our living area. Assuming they made it past Mother, Bubbe, and me, that is. Until now, it had never occurred to me to worry about the possibility. Funny how a couple of dead bodies and having a man around could twist your view of things.

He gave the stairs one last glance, then followed.

“I thought I’d set you up here.” I pointed to an empty cubicle in the front. “It’s next to Cheryl. She’ll be in at eleven. So she can show you around.” Cheryl, a forty-something divorced mom of three, was one of the artists at my shop. The other, Janet, a fifty-year-old lesbian who had never bothered to tell her husband of twenty years her sexual preference, had the day off. I’d called Cheryl last night after I talked to Peter. She was the only one in on our new team addition.

“Won’t you be showing me around?” He arched an eyebrow, and I would have sworn his eyes twinkled.

Despite my sleepless night and internal emotional battles, something inside me went all soft and girly. I obviously needed to get out more.

Trying to act casual, I grabbed one of the two rolling chairs in the space and, positioning it between us, pointed toward the back room. “Back there you’ll find extra supplies and the autoclave. You’re responsible for keeping your own equipment sterile, but Mandy, our office manager, will usually help out if she can.” Spinning so the chair was against my back, I gestured past the reception area. “Over there’s the little boys’ room. That’s it. You got the tour.” Shoving the chair away, I took a step toward the reception area and freedom.

I hated to admit it, but he made me nervous-or my reaction to him made me nervous. No matter which, I needed to leave.

“What about these?”

Cursing my short legs for costing me the three seconds it took him to ask the question, I stopped and looked back. He was holding up his portfolio.

“And paperwork. Isn’t there paperwork I need to fill out?”

“Mandy will help you with that-the paperwork, I mean.” Remembering how Mandy had looked him over a few days earlier, I barely suppressed an eye roll. Yeah, she would help him out.