Eventide: The Dark Ink Chronicles by Elle Jasper

design. People who’ve never even heard of me gather at the window to watch the tattooing process. It’s not weird to have a crowd nearly every day. It’s not strange to have people ask to take pictures with me.
    It’s strange that I didn’t know they were here in the first place.
    I feel sick. Nauseated. Out of control. Adrenaline soars. Heart sluggish. Sweaty.
    “Ms. Poe, can we get a pic with you?” someone in the group asks.
    “Just a sec,” I say, nausea choking me. I head to the back before I toss Krispy Kremes everywhere. When Iglance at the crowd, their faces are all gruesome: eye sockets black, white-blue skin, and the hearts are all beating so hard I see it through their shirts. I stumble. What’s going on?
    Eli catches me just before I fall and eases me onto the steps of the staircase. I sit, elbows on knees, head hanging between. I gulp in air.
    Kneeling in front of me, Eli pushes my escaped bangs from my face and holds them to my head with one hand. “Riley,” he says, and I hear the urgency in his voice. “What is wrong?”
    I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m coming down with the flu?” That’s such a damn lie and I know it. Eli probably knows it too. I don’t know what else to say. The truth?
Human heartbeats are consuming my thoughts. I smell their blood. I’m starting to crave.
    No friggin’ way can I tell him
that
. Victorian already did and Eli didn’t believe him. Thank God he can’t hear it in my head, nor does he recall his own torturous turning. I breathe deeply and give myself a pep talk.
Get a grip, Poe. It’s just your wacky DNA morphing again. Gilles said this would happen. Don’t be a baby! Talk to Vic. He can help. It’s part of him inside you anyway. You can handle this. Breathe…
    The slow, rhythmic strokes of Eli’s fingers over the back of my neck, along with my slow, controlled breaths, ease the cravings, lessen the noise, dissipatethe nausea. I don’t know how long I sit there on the steps, but I start feeling better. Finally, I raise my head and meet Eli’s worried gaze.
    Worried and angry gaze, I should say.
    “Thanks,” I graze his jaw with my fingertips. “I feel better now.”
    The penetrating stare tells me Eli doesn’t believe it. Not one word.
    “Promise,” I say, and stand. “Come on. I have a pic to take.”
    Eli says nothing as I pass by and head back to the front of the shop. His brother is equally grim; Luc studies me as I make my way to the crowd of guys gathered for the pic, and I slide him a quick look and then fasten my attention to the ink fans. Someone pulls out a digital camera, I stand in the middle of the crowd, and several pics are taken.
    “Can we see the dragon?” one younger guy asks.
    “Ah,” I say, “you caught me on an off day. Nothing underneath here this time,” I say, pointing to my shirt. “Summer is the best time to catch that.” People who know or have heard of me always want to see the dragon inked on my back, courtesy of Nyx. In the summer, I wear clothes that easily show most of it, or I wear a bikini top underneath my shirt so I can take off whatever I’m wearing and show off for the onlookers. It’sbecome sort of my trademark. Today, though, I’m not into it.
    A few groans go through the crowd, and Nyx waves to them. “Hey! We have a few postcards over here with Riley and me. You can see the dragon perfectly!”
    Everyone moves to the sales counter, and Nyx shows the rack of postcards. She glances at me, and I mouth
thanks
.
    I don’t understand it, but the rest of the day passes smoothly. I have no further episodes. No further cravings. Heartbeats recede. Only normalcy.
    I don’t break for lunch but work through instead. By six p.m. I am wrapping up my last client: a Savannah College of Art and Design, better known as SCAD, student with a dainty black butterfly arm cuff. Her arm is as big around as a pipe cleaner, so it doesn’t take me long. I apply her ointment, cover with gauze, and give