Oh, that’s why, he reminded himself as his dick suddenly sprang to attention in reaction to her untapped power. I could bring all that a little closer to the surface, he mused. Make it easier for her to utilize… Damn it! I am not a charity worker. I am gonna get my dick wet then go home, eat a burger, drink a beer and watch TV and not feel guilty!
“Thanks, I’m glad you like them, now take off your clothes.” He dropped onto the small rolling stool by the table and rigged some needles together.
He watched her closely as she shrugged out of her filthy jacket then put it on the end of the medical table.
“Do you have to stare at me?” she asked defiantly.
“I’m going to be fucking you in a minute, I wanna see what I’m getting.”
She flinched at his apparent coldness then turned her back to him. She toed off her filthy shoes then peeled out of her ragged T-shirt exposing a loose and grayed bra. Neatly she folded her shirt and placed it on top of her jacket.
Jee-zuz, I’m being a real bastard tonight. A twinge of guilt and compassion made him regret his harsh words. He bit his lip. “Actually, I want to find a good place to put your tattoo, so I need to see your skin,” he said gently as an apology.
“Oh,” she responded, very softly. “OK, sure.” She shimmied out of her torn jeans then dropped her panties and worn-out bra on top of the pile. Carefully she collected her things then placed them on the end of the medical table. She was surprisingly clean. He hadn’t expected that, from a kid living on the streets.
She turned and stared at him, silently, perfectly still. Bird delicate and fragile as blown glass. She wanted this tattoo awfully bad.
The Alchemist stood up and appraised his canvas of human skin. There wasn’t much to work with. She was thin, too thin and made up of sharp angles. Good thing she had chosen a small design. His sharp gaze caught the tracing of old needle marks in the bends of her elbows and knees from drug use.
“What the fuck is this shit?” He felt anger beginning a slow rolling boil from his gut, helpless anger for the beauty that used to be there and had been wasted.
“I’m trying to quit, been off it for a week now.” He saw desperation threaded in her wide, faded-blue gaze. “I’m tryin’ to stay off the alcohol too.”
I can fix that, his inner thoughts whispered. I can make her new again. I can kill her need for drugs and booze, give her a little confidence… The Alchemist’s thoughts rambled with formula and incantation. I can bring her creativity to the surface so she can get a real job. Unconsciously, an Alchemical spell worked its way to the surface of his mind. Change the symbol, use the special inks… he mused.
Damn it. I don’t do charity work. He snarled at himself, snapping out of a half-trance, awake and annoyed. I am not some Knight in Shining Armour out to save these kids from themselves. He angrily approached her, fingers outstretched.
“Please.” She flinched at the look on his face. “You promised not to hurt me.” She crossed her arms over her naked breasts.
Guilt and sympathetic compassion crashed down on his head. His hands dropped to his sides. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just fuck and tattoo this shattered angel. He simply couldn’t be one of the animals that ate chunks out of her then spat out the remains. He wiped his hands down his face. She had nothing left to take and already teetered on the edge of the abyss.
He shook his head as he gazed at the floor. If something wasn’t done, she’d be dead in a dumpster by this time next week. An image of her lying with her eyes open and lifeless, covered in refuse, flashed like neon before his eyes. Her tattoo wouldn’t even be healed yet.
All right, I give up, damn it, he sighed in submission to his conscience. I’ll fix this one. He shook his head and glanced up to the ceiling, at the powers that be. Resigned, he turned around and left the room.
“Hey!” the girl shouted. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get the inks I need,” he tossed over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.” Resigned, he went into the back room where he kept his special locker. He whispered three ancient words then tapped his fingers on the metal door over the handle. The magical lock disengaged and the door swung open.
The Alchemist pulled out a blue silk velvet-lined bag where he stored the tools for his Magikal Artes then slung it over his shoulder. Roughly he pulled out his Grimoire, the book he recorded all his incantations and his magical recipes in. He slammed the metal cabinet closed.
The Alchemist stalked back into his workroom towing a rolling table. He dropped his Magikal Artes bag down on the counter then dropped his Grimoire on the rolling table. He flipped open the huge silver buckled and leather-bound book. Thumbing painstakingly through the parchment pages he stopped on a particular page and peered at his list of alchemical sigils. Carefully he chose the magical symbol he intended to use on her.
She leaned against the padded bench, waiting. Critically he eyed her. He could make out every rib. Her hipbones obscenely jutted out over her pubic bone.
“Turn around,” he said. She turned obediently. Every vertebra down her curved spine was clearly defined. There at the top of her ass, where the swell of her buttocks began, was the perfect place. Now he needed to check her chakras, the individual energy centers of her body, to see what type of repairs she needed most and what would heal itself with only a little prodding.
“I’m going to touch your skin, so don’t freak out on me,” he said softly, reassuringly.
“Oh, OK,” she said, barely breathing. Her shoulders visibly tensed. He could just picture her with her eyes closed, biting her lip, ready to endure his touch. He stepped behind her and lifted his palms. His fingertips brushed the top of her head then skated down, barely disturbing her hair.
Hmm, intelligent, he thought to himself as the energy of her mind curled like warm mist under his probe. His fingers travelled lower to her throat. Strong currents curled under his fingers spiking with unused talent and true power, informing him of her past training and shadows of former glory. “Did you sing?” he asked gently.
“Yeah, I sang in school. I was, um,” her voice broke and shattered. She hitched a breath. “I had a scholarship to the School of the Arts for um, mezzo soprano.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Um, opera singing, you know?”
“What happened?” he found himself asking as his fingers traced the ridges of her spine. He stopped at a point between her shoulder blades over where her heart was located. The energy around her heart was thin and very weak. There was a jagged hole in her heart energy that looked like someone had ripped a piece of it out.
Ah, broken heart, he thought with a flash of returning anger. Some ass ruined her. His own heart began pounding with a stuttered and almost broken rhythm, as though a portion were missing from his own heart.
“There was this guy that I met,” she said. “He told me he loved me.” She sniffed but didn’t cry.
“Let me guess,” he said, growing more pissed off by the second, “this asshole told you everything you wanted to hear then left you high and dry after a couple of months.” The Alchemist slid his hand around in a circle and noted that she had actually been in love. The asshole had used that love as a tool to hold her long enough to feed off of her like a psychic vampire.
“I moved in with him and everything.” She was shaking. “One day, I came home and he told me to get out.” A single silver tear escaped her eye. “He’d moved this other girl in with him.” A hand fluttered up and wiped at her eye.
“I see,” he mumbled. There was heavy scarring in the power centre of her heart where the asshole had been emotionally abusing her for months. He could tell that she had tried to heal it.