Something had happened when she touched his skin. Not just the little tingle of pleasure at the softness of it or the desire to be near her, but a connection that made him feel as if he could almost remember whatever it was he’d forgotten about the marks and his episodes and his entire life. Little silent movies had played for an instant in his head as she’d worked the ink. And he was certain Rhea had seen those featurettes, too. Her reaction, that little shock of stillness, echoed his own. Snow kicked up by the hooves of horses—the sturdy, stocky horses of war. The smell and creak of leather and mail. The tang of blood and ice on his tongue. But wars weren’t fought on horseback in leather and chain mail. Not anymore.
Leo stopped in the parking lot to catch his breath, the familiar muscle spasm tugging at his ribs, as if someone had thrust a knife under them. Then it was gone and forgotten. There was Rhea’s red MINI, and there was the graffiti. Leo’s brows drew together as he contemplated the tags. This wasn’t gang graffiti. These were runes.
He set down the bucket and got to work. A brush and some paint thinner took out some of the color, but the paint had set into the wood—probably done while Leo was still tied up upstairs raving like a lunatic. When he’d done all he could with the thinner, he started on the sandpaper-backed sponge. As he scrubbed the runes from the wall, the shapes gave up their meaning. Soiled...impure. Throw—no, cast out. The impure shall be cast out. He pieced the rest together. And the pure shall inherit the land.
Leo set down his sanding sponge and wiped his brow. Something about this made him really angry. Murderously angry. And, as with so many things that similarly affected him, he had no idea why. Or even why he could read the symbols in the first place. Odder still was why some shiftless punk would be spray-painting Norse runes on the walls of an outdoor shopping mall in the middle of Northern Arizona. Because these were definitely Norse.
Leo’s spine twitched, as though someone had walked on his grave, and he rolled his shoulders. Under his right sleeve, Jörmungandr was prickling against his skin. The ink irritated him more in winter. Probably from going from the cold and damp to the dry air of heated interiors. He could feel the outline of the tattoo through the sleeve as he rubbed at it, slightly raised, the skin inflamed.
But it wasn’t dry skin. It was these runes. They were a message for him. Somehow, he was certain of that. And the mark was responding to the message as though to a threat. He pondered the faded symbols on the wall as he sanded out the last of them. Leo straightened and frowned. That little spidery shape at the end—that wasn’t part of the runes. He’d thought it was messy punctuation or maybe a stray mark, but now... Another shudder traveled down his spine, this time one of revulsion. It was a crudely drawn swastika.
It brought new meaning to the words spelled out by the runes. It wasn’t the first time some nasty little vermin had tried to drag him into their racist bullshit. And nothing made him angrier than being mistaken for one of them. They’d appropriated his heritage, sullied the beauty of his ancestors’ mythology, twisting it to their own purposes. He wanted to find the little shits and crack their skulls.
He tossed the sanding sponge into the bucket and went around to the front stairs and checked to make sure his bag was still safe underneath them. Of course, the cat, so to speak, was out of the bag. He might as well take it upstairs. The army surplus duffel bag contained a change of clothing, the restraints and locks, and his beard trimmer. Everything he owned in the world. Leo slung the bag over his shoulder and mounted the stairs.
* * *
Rhea made a face at the spreadsheet on her tablet. Numbers were so not her thing, much less this annoying program. Theia was the one who had always been good with calculations. They’d talked about owning a shop together for years. Not a tattoo shop, of course. Coffee and books had ranked among the top five. They’d both liked the idea of a cat café. But in every iteration of that idle dream since high school, cats or no cats, Theia had been the one doing the books and the finances while Rhea was the artist and the public face of the business. Now she was stuck doing everything herself. Which wasn’t exactly Theia’s fault—she wouldn’t have been interested in opening a tattoo shop, but it still rankled that Rhea couldn’t even count on her for emotional support.
True to Theia’s pattern, as soon as Rhea started stewing about her, a text notification chimed on her phone. In addition to having prophetic dreams, one of Theia’s gifts was an uncanny—and annoying—sense of knowing when someone was thinking about her.
Thinking about you, Moonpie. Also an irritating gift for synchronicity. And for coming up with cutesy names.
Rhea switched the screen off and glanced up as Leo came in. “How’d it go?”
Leo rubbed absently at his right biceps. “I think I got most of it. Did you happen to see what it was?”
“It looked like scribbling to me. I thought maybe it was gang symbols. Why?”
“It was in the runic alphabet. Norse runes, specifically.” His expression said this was significant.
Rhea set down the tablet. “Were you able to read it?”
“It was a message about racial purity. Have they done anything like this before?”
“No, just stupid gang tags. At least, I thought they were gang tags.” Rhea tried to remember if she’d ever seen anything overtly racist. “You’re sure the message was about racial purity?”
“There was also a swastika.”
Rhea’s stomach clenched. “Fuck. I guess that’s pretty unambiguous.”
Leo’s eyes were hard. “The next time you catch them at it, you should call the cops.”
“I’m not a big fan of calling the cops on kids, but I’ve never actually caught them.” Rhea considered. “To be honest, I’m not even sure they’re kids. I just assumed.”
“Does anybody around here have a security camera pointed on the lot?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You should get one. Or a security guard. These groups usually escalate.”
“I can’t even afford to pay someone to clean up graffiti. How would I pay for a security guard?” Rhea noticed the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “What’s in the bag?”
Leo glanced down as though he’d forgotten it. “My stuff. I was keeping it under the stairs so you wouldn’t think I was squatting here. Which I guess I kind of was. Sorry. It wasn’t my intention.”
“So you really are homeless.”
“I’m not an addict or anything. I just move around a lot during the winter. It’s hard to hold down a job and an apartment when you have to spend dusk to dawn restrained. People kind of frown on it when they find out.”
Rhea fiddled with the edge of the counter. Maybe she’d misjudged him. She liked to think she was open-minded about mental health issues. She wasn’t exactly the poster girl for neurotypicality. She was probably going to regret this, but that had never stopped her before.
“Why don’t you sleep here, then? You could keep an eye on the place.”
Leo’s eyes narrowed. “Are you messing with me?”
“I need a security guard, you don’t have anywhere to stay... It seems like a natural solution.”
Leo still looked skeptical. “You got the part where I’m not in my right mind and I have to be restrained until dawn, right?”
“But the vandals wouldn’t know that. If they see a light on, they’ll be less likely to try anything. And you can always call me—you have a cell phone?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a phone.”
“So if you see something, you could give me a call to alert me, and I could come by and catch them in the act. Assuming they stuck around that long.”
“You’re