Pepper / INK /

on the ground she walked

John HH Madison had never forgotten the robbery at the market. He’d lived it every night since the tattooed man had stopped him. He’d run to the police but they had thought he was crazy. He had never gone to the Taskforce or they might have forced it through the system and saved him his fate.

He was out on bail, not set for trial for another few months. But he knew tonight would be his trial. And he didn’t expect to live. He’d done his research in the eight months he’d been sentenced, and what he found scared him, the Inkwalker was everything he had claimed to be and more.

He was asleep when something woke him. It was a sharp pain in his arm. Not like the normal tattoo pain, this was like a cut. And he felt warm blood running down his arm. He opened his eyes, looking up at a figure in a hood and a bird. It was the bird that had caused the cut. Jet black it was a Crow.

Death said nothing, just sat there and watched. The Crow bent down and pecked again, and again there was pain. But the wounds were minor. They matched the superficial cuts the girl had been given by the glass jars that had exploded in the hail of gunfire. The bird hopped up onto the hooded man. "You really should get up." The figure said at last, his voice broken, cracked, and impossibly firm. "You have a court to appear to."

John got up, and when he reached for his clothes, the only ones he found were the set he had destroyed the night after the market robbery.

This was another nightmare, it had to be. But he got up and dressed, not want to show up naked, even if this was a dream.

Death and his crow stood near the front hall, and as John passed he simply pointed to the door. John stepped out of the door. He didn’t live far from the market one of the reasons he thought it was safe. The girl wasn’t supposed to be there. She was early.

He was still almost a block away when the bird flew onto a lamp post and cawed at him. He stopped, brought up short by the cry. It was here where the girl had actually died. She had made it into the ambulance, but had died here, en route to the hospital.

Death whistled and the bird attacked again. This time it was his knee, and John felt the stabbing pain. His legs came out from under him and he hit the asphalt hard. Death stepped in then, kicking him in the ribs to make him turn over.

The bird hopped onto his chest and attacked again. And the pain was worse than anything he had known. It didn’t feel like a bird peck, it was hot and hit him like a ton of bricks. And he realized it was the first of the two shots that killed her. The first one was in her shoulder, it bled a little the second was in the stomach. And just as the bird had hopped down to the middle of his body John put it in context and screamed. "No!"

"You have already been judged."

"No, please, I didn’t mean to hurt her."

"But you didn’t stop to help either." The red-coal eyes bored into him and he nodded to the bird, who pecked again, again it was heat and fire. But there was internal bleeding, and being Gut shot was just a painful, slow way to die. But this is what he had condemned the girl to, so it was only fitting that he should go that way.

Death whistled and the bird flew back to his shoulder. "Yell, scream, cry, beg, maybe someone will take pity on you. But then again, you didn’t take pity on her."

And in a flash of blue light, Death, and the crow were gone.

A few moments later another flash of blue light brought the two of them to a tattoo shop called the Illustrated man. The man drawing at the counter stopped, he smiled at the two of them.

"How did it go Bran?" The Crow squawked in reply. "That well, huh?" The bird nodded and squawked again. "All right, back to sleep." The bird flew up to the top of the shop, swooping down and round before colliding with a bare spot on the man’s back. If the creature had stayed in its form, at that speed it looked like it would have knocked him off his feet, but the Daniel just tensed, hanging on to the counter for a moment as he got used to the change. "You too."

The specter of death stepped forward, head down, and put his hand to the man’s chest. His transition was more gradual, probably because he was a larger physical being than his ink. When he too had vanished Daniel hung his head for a moment, gripping the counter, waiting for the world to stop moving strangely. For a moment it was as if he had been submerged in water, that burning-cold sensation of ice against the skin on his chest, and then the Tattoo was still again, head and shoulders of Death, his head down and turned away so that only one sliver of his cheek bone could be seen under the impossibly ink black hood. Azrail only took this particular job because Olum could not walk without the Inkwalker. No one understood why some tattoos could take over and others walk, but Olum could not walk without help.

#

The "Illustrated Man" Tattoo shop was known as the best parlor in town. It sat in one of the few historic buildings in town. A tower with windows all the way up, It was moon-quartz and glass that from a distance looked like a quill. While it was only two stories, the center of building was hollow to allow the light to reach the floor. And there were windows lined with silver and moon quartz. Around the door were blessings and protections for magic users and non magic-users alike. Most magic users didn’t tattoo, and if they did most of them didn’t tattoo as well as he did. His tattoos were legendary, not just because the ones on his own skin could get up and walk, but because his art was so clean and his pictures so true that the animals looked alive, the stars looked like the twinkled, the Sun looked like it shone.

Half way between the front door and the wall that held the second floor up, and concealed the living spaces and storage above, there was a counter, the top was heavy metal distressed. And the floor was acid-washed concrete, no chance of hiding a spell. And as many places as there could be put, there were mirrors.

The walls were hung with flash and prints out of lore, many of them concerning Inkwalkers and magic users. Some from around the world. A few knew that he was Inkwalker, most didn’t.

He was leaning against the counter checking the log book when death and Bran had arrived.

No sooner had Death gone back to his place than the world swam around Daniel and he went down hard. He banged his head on the edge of the counter and knew nothing for many hours after.

When he awoke Bran was sitting on the counter cawing to wake him up, and the Bear, Ursus, had become large enough to drape its paw over him and keep him warm during the cold night. It was early morning, the sun wasn’t up yet, when Daniel finally pulled himself up off the floor. There was a little bit of blood on the floor from where he had hit his head on the counter, but even the bruise was gone. He had waited far too long to take the Ink off. And he had paid for it.

"Thank you all, but you can go back to sleep now." Ursus rumbled low in his throat, a warning to be more careful before shrinking back to the tattoo on his calf. Bran just flew up to the rafters to curse at him in Crow for a while before becoming the back tattoo he always was again.

But he knew why they were mad. This was dangerous. One night this could happen and he might not be able to pull enough energy from the moon to keep going. The ink could kill him, not because of anything wrong, but just because he was a fool and did not have enough energy for both himself and the ink. And he did not have a guardian that made him feel safe enough to walk in only his skin.

For an Inkwalker to take off the Ink meant that for that period of time they were mortal like everyone else. And that could be an issue if you didn’t have a Guardian. He knew he could ask Sebastian, but Sebastian wasn’t his. He wanted Max to come back. Max was supposed to be his guardian, he’d known that since the boy was young. He’d told his parents that the week after Max was born.

Of course, the reason he wasn’t was his own fault, and he knew it. Inkaru didn’t remind him of that, as much as he expected him to. He told him whenever he brought it up that this misery was its own punishment. And that if he were not careful that punishment, though self-imposed, might kill him.

Daniel didn’t trust many people, as an Inkwalker, he couldn’t, but not only that, he had known since he was really sixteen, a hundred and twenty years ago, that a friend, someone he trusted would betray and kill him. But he knew it wasn’t his guardian.

And that was the other reason he wanted Max to take his place. If Max had made the oath to be his guardian, there was no way he could be the man who murdered him. He didn’t know when, or how old he would be, he just could see the silver blade turned on him. And feel the betrayal. That was the nightmare he had to live with as an Inkwalker. That was his hell. It would be many years before he learned the truth of that vision. And when he did, it would change his life forever.

Now that the sun was up, he ducked into the small bathroom there and showered and changed clothes, basking as long as he dared in the shower which was lined with moon quartz, which reflected moon magic with a blue glow. He felt somewhat stronger after that. A hot shower to get the chill out of his bones, and the moon-quartz to give him more energy. But he still needed sleep. A lot of it. He’d have to go find Max, and soon, or this might happen again, and next time it might be in public.

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Next Chapter: Keeping the Ink (Javved Reprise)