Amazon Ink

Chapter Eight

Two days later, on Saturday, the Amazons started arriving. I’d told my employees and Harmony that I’d rented the gym and cafeteria to a women’s self-defense group for a retreat.

Even with this background, I saw a few raised eyebrows as the Amazons started arriving in beat-up trucks and thirty-year-old campers. Their average height hitting over six feet and the confident swagger that came with being a warrior didn’t help. A family of hearth-keepers arrived also, but no high priestess or artisans. Bubbe and I could fill those needs.

As much as I didn’t want to be involved with the tribe, I also couldn’t have an unlicensed artisan tattooing women in my gym. If someone needed body art, they’d have to come to me or Bubbe. Mother was too busy being in her element to bother with tattooing; besides, while she could manage a decent human tattoo, her mystical powers were crap.

Bubbe would serve as priestess. High priestesses were a lot more rare than the other talents, and for good reason. Putting two high priestesses in the same camp was a lot like putting two cats in the same bag, then shaking it. The goddess must consider this personality glitch when handing out the talents.

The rarity of high priestesses made having Bubbe fill in even more important in my mind. There were only six active high priestesses at any time-one for each safe camp. One of those was the woman I held responsible for my son’s death-the woman I’d accused of doing something that caused his stillbirth.

If she showed up on my property, I wasn’t sure what I would do, wasn’t sure I could control the anger that still threatened to consume me. Mother, Bubbe, and Zery realized this, and no one had mentioned any possibility other than Bubbe filling the role. This was good, I supposed, for now. But some day I was going to see her again, and when I did, I was going to get some answers one way or another.

“Self-defense group, you said?” Peter placed a hand against the side of a dented Jamboree RV. “Looks more like a bunch of carnies.”

The weather had turned warm again-unusually so for October-and Peter had taken advantage of it, wearing nothing but a tight-fitting T-shirt tucked into worn jeans. I rubbed suddenly sweaty palms against my thighs.

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you.”

Zery walked by with five twenty-pound staffs propped over her shoulder. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her butt was encased in Lycra workout pants.

Peter grinned and shoved himself away from the RV. A cluster of Amazons flicked their eyes in his direction, one pulling her hair over her shoulder and angling her body to reveal exactly what bench pressing a few hundred pounds can do for a female chest.

Peter’s grin widened.

I tapped my fingers against my leg. “Don’t you have an appointment?” I’d been checking the book every day since Peter’s arrival to see if he was pulling in clients of his own.

The teasing expression dropped from his face. “I do. That’s why I came looking for you. Someone’s going to have to clear a path through all of this. My client’s in a wheelchair. He can’t be navigating around weights and luggage.” He stooped and picked up a fifty-pound dumbbell that had rolled away from a stack.

I half-expected him to curl the thing. A show of strength like that was such a male thing to do-not that it would have impressed any of the warriors milling around. Then again, based on the appraising glances they’d been casting his way, he didn’t need to do anything more than bend over to impress them.

A retort sprang to mind, but I quickly swallowed it when a man in a self-propelled wheelchair rolled up to a stack of duffel bags and boxes that blocked the sidewalk. Without waiting for assistance, he reached down and began flinging duffel bags out of his way. That caught the attention of the Amazons-fast. Five of them hurried forward.

He cocked a bushy eyebrow at the one in the lead and cast the last duffel into her gut. “Yours, I’m guessing?”

She caught the bag with a glare.

Cursing, I shoved past Peter and marched to their sides. Pisto, or Pistol, as many of the tribe called her, was not known for her demure temperament-not that many Amazons were.

“I’m running a business here. You can’t block the walkway.”

She didn’t move. I could tell she was weighing her choices. I wasn’t sure how Peter’s client’s disability would play into her decision. Wouldn’t gain him any sympathy-I was sure of that.

After casting him one last suspicious glance, she grabbed four of the duffels and nodded to the warriors waiting behind her. With each of them grabbing two boxes at a time, the sidewalk was soon cleared.

During the whole process, none of them said a word-to me, Peter, or his client.

I let their obvious disdain pass. They had reason to hate me. I was a troublemaker in their version of history. Peter’s client was old and handicapped. In other words, in an Amazon’s way of thinking, not potential baby seed. Peter was just being punished by association.

“Mel, this is Makis Diakos. He just moved to Madison.” Peter seemed unaffected by their reaction.

“Really?” I frowned. I wanted to turn and see what the Amazons were doing behind me, but that would look strange, and be rude. “What brought you to Madison?”

Peter answered, “Makis is an artist. He taught me.”

The man was Peter’s senior by about forty years. I was intrigued. “You taught Peter? Then you must be good.” It wasn’t a compliment, just a statement of fact. If Peter wasn’t one of the best, he wouldn’t be working for me.

“Has he tattooed you before?” I glanced at Makis’s arms, but they were fully covered, as were his legs. Long sleeves and long pants-kind of a strange choice for such a warm day. But I didn’t know what put him in the wheelchair. Perhaps he had scars he didn’t like to show. Perhaps the tattoos helped him feel more whole. They did me.

“A few.” Makis looked up at me, watched me as if he was expecting something, as if he didn’t quite trust me not to jerk up the sleeves of his shirt and see for myself.

A quiet settled around us. The Amazons had disappeared from around the front of the gym, and the other tattoo artists were inside working, I hoped. But this wasn’t just a run-of-the-mill quiet. It was the kind you can feel, the kind that made you want to walk away or say something just to end it.

I was too stubborn to do it myself. I was on my property, and had been nothing but polite. I didn’t know what Makis’s issue with me might be, but I wasn’t stumbling over myself to find out and apologize.

Peter cleared his throat. “Guess we better get going.”

I watched as they moved toward the front door. Right before they turned the corner, they paused and glanced to their left-toward the gym entrance. Peter leaned down to say something in Makis’s ear, and the older man nodded.

If the Amazons got me fined for blocking handicapped accessibility, I was not going to be happy.

I waited to make sure Peter and Makis had turned toward the shop and not the gym, then placed my hands on my hips and surveyed the mess the Amazons had made of my life. The parking lot and nearby street were full of decrepit vehicles blocking the handicapped parking spot, a fire hydrant, and a neighbor’s garage. There was even a fifth wheel creating furrows in my grass.

I’d agreed to let them stay here, but based on Zery’s promise, I had thought they would be somewhat subtle. Silly me.

The door flew open to the fifth wheel and a four-foot-long trunk was hurled out, knocking against my neighbor’s city-issued trash can and sending it rolling down the street.

I guess this was another reason why all the safe camps were located miles from other people.

Glaring at the clueless warrior who jumped out of the RV, I trotted after the trash can, then went looking for Zery. Like it or not, she was going to have to control her tribe.

Twenty minutes with Zery gave me the undeniable urge to break something.

Needing distance, I started up the stairs to my shop and office. Peter’s smooth voice and a responding giggle from Mandy drifted down. I ground to a halt. I did not need to witness whatever love fest was going on up there right now.

I stomped back down the stairs, grabbed a wheelbarrow from a small shed tucked against the holly bushes, and headed out to clean up tree limbs. It wasn’t an absolutely necessary task, but it would give me the chance to think-and I needed it.

The school sat on a full acre. A huge amount of land in this overpriced part of Madison. The place had been cheap when I saved the previous owner from foreclosure, but my property taxes weren’t. For some reason, the high taxes made me feel guilty if I didn’t keep up the curb appeal. Or maybe it was the constant thought that someday I might want to sell the place, move on again.

The biggest piece of land was in front of the school, a rolling grassy area that stood between my business and Monroe Street. Lilacs and a few shrubs lined the front two corners, leaving an open area in the middle that gave anyone tooling down Monroe a clear view of my shop. Because of that, I started in the middle of the lot and worked my way down the hill. By the time I’d gotten to the street, my wheelbarrow was half full, but mainly with discarded cans and other trash that had found its way onto my property. The worst of the storm debris was along the edges, next to the bigger trees that formed a living, if somewhat porous, barrier between my neighbors and my shop here in the front.

I pulled work gloves from my pocket and headed to one corner. From there the going was slower. Many of the limbs were too long to fit in the barrow. I picked up a particularly long one and placed one foot on its center with the idea of snapping the limb in half. As I did, something small and red caught my eye.

I bent closer. The triangular stub of a much-used piece of chalk lay partially hidden under a sheaf of leaves. I plucked it up and changed my first impression-not chalk, but a hard pastel. Perfect for doing rough sketches. I glanced up the hill at the redbrick facade of my shop. It was picturesque-if you didn’t look too hard.

For some reason, the thought of someone appreciating its beauty enough to commit it to paper made me happy. With a smile, I pocketed the nub and went back to work.

I’d successfully snapped the limb into two somewhat manageable pieces when I had that eerie sense of being watched. I automatically gripped the three-inch-diameter piece of wood with the same hold I’d used with the staff and looked up.

A black and tan, short-haired dog peered at me from behind a shrub. I let the creature stare at me before cautiously lowering to a kneel. My gaze steady but unthreatening, I held out one hand.

Dogs, especially hunting dogs like this one appeared to be, were sacred to Artemis, and Amazons honored that tradition. A few of the Amazons moving into my cafeteria had arrived with dogs. As a child, I’d spent hours playing with safe-camp dogs. I’d wanted one of my own until I’d had to watch Mother end one’s life after it was hit by a car on a nearby highway. She had acted as if she had taken it in stride, but I’d seen the shake in her hands and heard the tremor in her voice when she pulled my tear-streaked face to her chest.

I’d decided right then that having a dog, loving something that much, wasn’t for me.

Then I’d had Harmony.

Lost in thought, I dropped my gaze. Something stirred the air around me. The dog had emerged from the brush and stood an arm’s reach away. His brown eyes were wary, but curiosity seemed to be pulling him out of his shell. Curiosity and maybe something else. I rooted around in the wheelbarrow and pulled a half-eaten bag of Doritos from the bottom.

I balanced one chip on my flat palm. “Hungry?”

At first I thought I’d misjudged him. He glanced from the chip to my face. I sat still.

Patience counts when dealing with suspicious canines. Finally, he edged forward, snagged the chip, and gulped it down. When he stepped back this time, it wasn’t quite so far. If he’d worn a collar, I could have grabbed it-not that I would have. I had no desire to be bitten by a stray. I didn’t know how rabies reacted with Amazon blood, but I didn’t want to find out.

I did want to get him away from the street, though. Leaving the wheelbarrow where it was, I pulled another chip from the bag and with it held out behind me, slowly began walking back to the shop.

Step by step, chip by chip, he followed me.