Page 80 of Glitterland
“I’m an artist, not a stonemason.” She made an illustrative gesture in my direction. “And that’s a body, not a tombstone.”
“All the same.”
“Again: art, not therapy.”
I arched a brow at her. “Art is therapy.”
She was silent a moment. “What’s your name?”
“A.A. Winters.”
“What, the novelist?”
Too late now. “Yes.”
“I dig your books. I enjoy a good mystery. But I don’t know why you keep murdering everybody your detective likes.”
“It’s so I don’t have to bother with character development. Are you going to do this, or not?”
She snorted like a particularly peeved Minotaur. “So you can laser me off when you have a change of heart?”
“I don’t think my heart is changing any time soon.”
“Hmm.”
“Just out of curiosity,” I said at last, “how do you make any money at this? For a tattoo artist, you seem pretty reluctant to do any tattooing.”
“For a man claiming he wants a tattoo, you seem pretty reluctant to get a tattoo.”
“Touché. But actually,” I said, surprising myself, “I’m not.” And it was true. I nearly laughed. At least there would be something on my arms that was the consequence of a rational choice. If whatever I felt for Darian could in any way be described as rational.
“Have you given any thought to a style? A look? Placement?”
“I honestly don’t care.” I was giddy with my own power. “Just don’t put it in a big red heart and we’re good.”
She gave me a vicious glare, stomped round to her counter, pulled out a book, and slammed it down. “Look at my portfolio, mister. Look at it.”
I looked.
“Do you see anything in there resembling a big red heart?”
“No.”
I turned the pages. Her work was rather striking.
“Do you actually know anything about this at all?” she asked suddenly.
“No.”
She flapped an impatient hand at me. “Did the internet pass you by? Oh, wait, I know, you’re a time traveller. You’re dressed like one.”
“Yes, yes, I’m a Time Lord. Now, can I have a tattoo?”
“You should research shit before you jump right in. I could be any sort of unsanitary incompetent.”
“I suspect—” I closed her book and passed it back across the counter. “—if you were an unsanitary incompetent, you’d be gleefully branding me right now.”
There was a long silence.
