Work passed in a blur. They were busy enough that she had a nice amount to add to the money already in her bag. At the end of her shift, she cashed out and went over to Pins and Needles. Between finally getting her ink and the promise of seeing Niall—again—later, she was almost giddy. Everything was going better than it had in a very long time.

When she walked through the door of the tattoo shop, all but one of the doors to the rooms adjoining the waiting area were already shut. From the one open room came Rabbit's voice, "Shop's closed."

"It's me." She went inside.

Rabbit sat on his stool. His expression was guarded. "You could change your mind still. We could do something else with—"

"Change the design midway?" She scowled. "That's stupid. Honestly, Rabbit, your art is beautiful. I never took you for insecure."

"It's not that. …"

"What then?"

"I just want you to be happy, Les." He tugged at his goatee, seeming more nervous than she'd ever seen him.

"Then finish my tattoo," she said softly. She slipped off her shirt. "Come on. We already had this conversation."

With an unreadable look on his face, he motioned to the chair. "You chose this. You'll be all right. … I want you to be all right."

Grinning, she sat down with her back to him again. "And I will. I'll be wearing the prettiest, most perfect art on my skin—my choice, my skin. How could I not be all right?"

Rabbit didn't answer, but he was often silent as he went about setting up his supplies. This routine was meticulous. It made her feel good, knowing that he was concerned about his clients' safety. Not all tattooists were so responsible.

She glanced back to watch Rabbit open a strange bottle. "What's that?"

"Your ink." He didn't look at her.

She stared at the brown glass: for a moment, she could swear black smoke danced like small flames above the lip of the bottle. "It's beautiful, like bottled shadows."

"It is." He glanced her way, briefly, face as expressionless as she'd ever seen it. "If I weren't so fond of the shadows, I wouldn't be doing this."

"Tattooing?"

He lifted the bottle and tipped it into a series of caps. Some of the caps already had a crystalline liquid in the bottom. In the dim light, it looked as if the ink separated into variations of darkness as Rabbit poured a little into each cap.

Tiny black tears, like a cup dipped into the abyss. She shook her head. Too many weird events, making me think strange things. She asked, "Is it the other liquid in there that changes the colors? Like two inks mixing?"

"They mix into what I need for your work. Turn." Rabbit motioned for her to look away.

She did, moving her body until her back was to him. He wiped her skin, and she closed her eyes—waiting.

Soon the machine hummed, and then the needles were on her skin. They barely pierced the surface, but that slight piercing changed everything. The world blurred and sharpened; colors bloomed behind her closed lids. The darkness grew and split into a thousand shades of light, and each of those shades was an emotion, a feeling she could swallow and cherish. Those emotions would make her live, make them all so much stronger.

Nourish us, save us, the body for the soul. Her thoughts were tangled with waves of feelings that fluttered through her and drifted away, like the strands of a lost dream after waking. She grasped at them, her mind struggling to hold the emotions in place, to identify them. These weren't just her emotions: she could feel the yearnings of strangers outside on the street—a montage of fears and worries, lusts and angers. Then cravings too bizarre to visualize washed over her.

But almost as soon as they touched her, each feeling skittered away, spiraling out onto some cord that led away from her into the shadows, into the abyss from which the ink in her skin had been collected.

Irial drifted in uneasy slumber. He felt her—his Leslie— being stitched closer to him with each brush of Rabbit's needles, tying her to him, making her his, far more truly than any of his fey were, than anyone had ever been. And it felt like Rabbit's needles were puncturing Irial's heart, his lungs, his eyes. She was in his blood as surely as his blood was in her skin. He felt her tenderness, her compassion, her strength, her yearning for love. He felt her vulnerabilities and hopes—and he wanted to cosset and love her. It was decidedly unfit for the king of the Dark Court to feel such tender emotion. If I'd known, would I have done the exchange?

He wanted to tell himself he wouldn't, but he'd allowed far worse to be done to him to ensure the safety of his fey.

In his nightmares, she was the girl he'd carried down the street, his Leslie, bleeding from wounds done to her by men whose faces came slowly into focus. He wasn't sure what was real and what was fear-distorted. She'd tell him, though. He'd walk through her memories as they drew closer. He'd comfort her—and kill the men who'd hurt her.

She'd make him stronger, nourish him by feeding him human emotions he couldn't touch without her. And he'd learn to hide how much she suddenly meant to him, how sickeningly mortal he felt. What've you done to me, Leslie? He laughed at the realization of his new weaknesses: by making himself strong enough to lead them, he'd simultaneously made himself far less of the Dark Court than he'd ever been.

What have I done?

As Leslie sat there—eyes closed and waiting—she heard the laughter again, but it didn't bother her this time. It felt good—welcome, even. She smiled. "It's a nice laugh."