Riley Voss paced the blood-smeared floor of Quill & Thorn like a caged siren, the shop's cozy charm curdled into a crime scene straight out of a pulp novelette. Slade's body sprawled in the tattoo chair, eyes glassy as cheap marbles, the gut-wound a ragged invitation to the morgue. The air hung heavy with the acrid tang of quenched magic—basilisk tears leaving a misty haze that clung to the velvet curtains like guilty fog—and the phoenix's embers had scorched the walls in abstract patterns, like a Pollock painting done by a drunk dragon. Her wrist itched, the self-inked quill tattoo pulsing faint green, its drip-mark bleeding a single bead of real blood that she wiped away with a rag, only for it to reform.
"Shitfire and sirens," Riley muttered, kicking the envelope of cursed cash under the counter. Marco had bolted like his pants were aflame, door banging shut behind him—loyal client my ass—leaving her alone with the mess. Sirens wailed closer, the distant whoop-whoop of NYPD cruisers slicing the Brooklyn night, but she knew better: the Mundane Magical Enforcement Bureau (MMEB) would sniff this out like hounds on hellhound scent. A cursed tat gone lethal? That's not a 911 call; that's a veil-breach report, and Riley's name on it meant audits, bindings, or worse—a one-way ticket to the Ink Vaults, where rogue artists rotted in stasis-ink.
She grabbed her emergency kit from the backroom: a satchel of counter-curse salves, a glamour charm to fog the scene, and her abuela's old quill— the real one, ebony feather tipped in silver, humming with ancestral wards. The shop's familiar stirred then: a low rumble from the rafters, followed by a puff of smoke that coalesced into Spike, her chain-smoking dragon imp. No bigger than a housecat, scales iridescent as oil-slick, with wings like bat-leather and a perpetual scowl around his cigarillo. He fluttered down, perching on Slade's cooling shoulder, nostrils flaring.
"Smells like bad juju, boss," Spike rasped, voice like gravel in a blender, exhaling a ring of acrid smoke that spelled trouble in curling letters. "Phoenix backlash? That's old-school nasty. Who'd spike the ink with a death-loop?"
Riley knelt by the body, gloved fingers probing the envelope—runes dormant now, but humming under her touch like a trapped hornet. "Slade said 'ink-lords.' You hear whispers on the beast-net? Cabal harvestin' essence?"
Spike puffed, ash drifting onto Slade's shirt. "Whispers? More like roars. Word from the harpies in Queens: some upstart collective, callin' themselves the Quill Cabal. Stealin' artists' mojo—tappin' creative veins to fuel their big spells. Graffiti golems in the Park last week? Their handiwork. But this?" He poked the gut-wound with a claw, drawing a spectral feather that dissolved in smoke. "Personal. Your phoenix blend don't rebel unless fed a counter-tale. Someone laced his skin with a betrayal hex."
The quill on her wrist burned—not pain, but hunger, the tattoo's drip elongating into a tiny thorn that pricked her vein, drawing a pearl of blood that the ink absorbed with a slurp. Riley hissed, slapping a salve-patch over it—cooling mint and moonwort easing the glow to a dull throb. "Great. Cursed tat for the tattooist. Abuela'd say it's the stories bitin' back."
Spike's eyes narrowed, cigarillo glowing cherry-red. "Or callin' you in. That symbol on the floor? Quill crossed thorns— Cabal's mark. Means 'ink for the harvest.' And that self-tat? Invitation. Pull the thread, boss, or it'll pull you."
Sirens crescendoed, tires screeching outside. Riley dashed to the window, peeking through the blinds: two black-and-whites, but flanked by an unmarked SUV—government plates, tinted windows that screamed MMEB. A tall figure unfolded from the driver's side: broad shoulders in a wool coat, fedora shadowing a jaw like chiseled basalt, eyes scanning the alley with that cop's predator gleam. Detective Liam Blackthorn—the Blackthorn, veil-cop extraordinaire, the man who'd busted her abuela for "unauthorized myth-binding" back in '09. Charming as a gargoyle, twice as stony, and the last person Riley needed seeing her with a corpse and a cursed wallet.
"Spike—glamour up!" she hissed. The imp nodded, puffing a cloud that settled over the scene: Slade's body fuzzing to "drunken pass-out," the scorch-marks fading to "faulty wiring," the blood transmuting to spilled wine. The envelope she shoved into her satchel, runes winking sly as it vanished.
The door rattled—official knock, heavy as judgment. "NYPD! Open up—routine check on a disturbance call." Blackthorn's voice, smooth baritone with that Irish lilt, like whiskey over gravel.
Riley smoothed her apron—ink-stained, but presentable—pasting on her best cozy artist smile as she cracked the door. "Officers! Late night session ran long—client had one too many. Everything's peachy."
The uniforms peered past her, flashlights sweeping, but the glamour held—Marco's abandoned jacket on the chair, a half-empty wine glass (Spike's quick transmutation) glinting innocently. Blackthorn loomed behind, coat open to reveal the holstered wand-pistol: ebony grip etched with enforcement runes, humming faint blue. His eyes—storm-gray, sharp as shattered glass—locked on hers, a flicker of recognition warming to something dangerously like amusement.
"Miss Voss," he drawled, tipping his hat. "Heard your shop's the place for... transformative art. Got a report of fireworks. Care to explain the smoke alarm goin' berserk?"
Riley leaned on the jamb, casual as a cat in cream. "Overzealous incense. Calmin' the muses, y'know? Client's a regular—Marco Rossi, left his jacket. He'll swing by tomorrow."
Blackthorn's gaze drifted to her wrist—the salve-patch peeking, quill-tat hidden but itching under his stare. "Muses, eh? Or somethin' with more bite?" He stepped closer, the air between them crackling—mundane to her magic, but his veil-sense brushed her like a ghost-touch, probing without permission. Spike, invisible in the rafters, growled low, cigar smoke coiling like a warning.
"Just art, Detective. Unless you're here for a tat? Somethin' to loosen that tie—maybe a thorned heart, for the job's pricks."
His laugh was a rumble, low and reluctant, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Temptin'. But duty calls. Keep the fireworks legal, Voss. MMEB's got eyes on unregistered binds." He nodded to the uniforms, who grumbled but turned away, SUV idling ominous.
As they peeled out, Riley sagged against the door, glamour dropping with a pop—Slade's body re-materializing, pale and accusatory. "Close one. Blackthorn's nose is sharper than my needles."
Spike fluttered down, snuffing his cigarillo on the floor. "Yeah, and his eyes? Undressed you twice. Old flame?"
"Ancient history. Abuela set us up once—'good match for a wild girl.' Didn't stick." But the memory stung: Liam's laugh in her abuela's garden, his fingers tracing a practice rose on her palm, before the badge turned him prickly. Focus. She knelt by Slade, rifling his pockets: a crumpled business card—V. Slade, Essence Broker—and a data-slate, locked but humming with encrypted files.
The slate pinged under her touch, unlocking to a holo-projection: a map of Brooklyn's murals, pins glowing red on hotspots—her shop included—overlaid with a ledger: Harvest Quota: Voss Ink—High Yield. Neutralize if resistant. Below, a sigil: quill crossed thorns.
Spike peered over her shoulder, smoke curling. "Cabal's scoutin' artists. You next on the menu."
Riley's rose tattoo bloomed thorns again, pricking warning. The quill on her wrist dripped, ink trickling to form words on her skin: Find the thorned rose. Before it finds you.
Outside, tires screeched—not cops, but a low-rider cruising slow, bass thumping like a heartbeat. Graffiti on its side shimmered—magical, alive—forming eyes that winked at her window.
The borough's war had knocked. And Riley Voss, ink-sorceress of the cozy corners, was out of tea.
To be continued...
End of Chapter 2