Page 6 of Mud

I hadn’t realized I wasn’t relaxed, but then the thought of that tattoo did things to my mind and body, so it was very possible that I’d interrupted his work.

I grinned, and it made him even more uncomfortable. I understood his hesitation—after scaring him half to death just a couple of minutes ago with my magic—for show, of course—he expected only the worst from me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Sorry about that, friend. Please, continue,” I said anyway.

He did.

Rotto was an orc, and just like with elves and trolls, you could only tell the species by their ears. His were wider around the middle, then went straight up to sharp points almost to the top of his round head. His kind were pretty bulky for the most part, but not Rotto here. He was thin and short which served him—his fingers weren’t meatballs but long and thin enough to hold a needle better than any tattoo artist I’d come across before.

Not that I’d tell him that, of course. And even if I did, he wouldn’t believe me. He’d think I was scheming to get something out of him, something that would probably end up with his death. I’d gone to great lengths to create the reputation for myself. Plenty of people to hurt and kill in the Tomb. And my appetite to cause pain and take lives has been very healthy since I came here.

I drank my vodka and continued to look at the needle as Rotto did his thing, tattooing the very middle of my chest based off a picture that a new inmate drew for me. He was a scrawny kid who’d killed another by accident—but what the hell did the IDD care about such semantics? Of course, they’re going to put him in the same place with the world’s most ruthless killers, then wonder why he becomes just as ruthless himself when he does.

Regardless—he was good with a pen and had gotten the image in my head just right. I needed it on my skin just in case I ever forgot.

“It’s, uh…” Rotto started again after a while as the minutes ticked by and I became more and more relaxed. Focusing on the pain definitely worked. The tiny pricks of those needles were heaven-sent, especially paired with the vodka. “This is…it’s a…erm, it’s…”

“A flower,” I filled in for him, and Rotto nodded, wiping his forehead again.

“It’s just that it’s…” He wet his lips, the dirt on his skin more visible now that he’d been sweating like a pig. “It’s poisonous,” he finally managed to choke out. “You know that, right? Deadly.”

That made me laugh. “Can’t you tell I’m already dead, friend?”

Rotto looked up at me, his small black eyes full of fear. I understood—it wasn’t just me and my Blackfire magic that put that fear in these inmates’ eyes. It was the group I associated myself with. The worst of the worst—mass murderers, rapists, cannibals, child killers who were locked up for life—together with me. Regardless that I hadn’t raped or ate or killed anyone before the Tomb, I was with them. I either became one of them or I served them—like Rotto did here.

It was an easy choice—especially since some of them knew my brothers and wouldn’t have takennofor an answer if I’d tried.

Rotto didn’t talk to me again until the black flower was inked into my chest all the way, complete with the velvety petals and the thorny vines. Perfect—exactly as I’d imagined it in my head. Like that new kid had drawn.

Now it would serve as my reminder until the day I died.

I felt the man coming up behind me a second before he put his hand on my naked shoulder, while Rotto was still gathering his things. My instincts rose within me together with magic as dark as the sins of these inmates, even though we were in the lounge area. Lots of guards and cameras, and most people didn’t pick fights in this vast space that fit all two hundred and thirteen of us that were currently incarcerated—well, two hundred andfourteentoday, including the new kid. A fight could easily get out of control what with people itching to get their hands dirty all the time, and it would go south quickly.

Even knowing that, I still wanted to jump and grab whoever it was that dared to touch me behind my back, but I squashed that instinct because I picked up his scent before he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Tonight.”

That’s all he said.Tonight.

And then he was gone, swift as a shadow, which he could sometimes come very close to if he was sober and tried hard enough. Being a Blackfire, too, Garret used to be plenty powerful before he killed the wrong people and ended up in the Tomb. Now, the remains of him were easily dismissible—which was why he wasn’t farther up the chain of the worst criminals that the Tomb had to offer.

Whatever you do, do not let your strength and your magic weaken—train every daywas the advice I received that onetime I got a visitor. I took it quite literally and it served me a great deal. Give me another year or two in the Tomb, and I’d be the right hand of the Devil himself—the mage nobody really saw but who basically owned all the inmates of the Tomb and controlled them whichever way he pleased.

The very man who’d made it possible for Garret to deliver that message for me just now.

Tonight.

A surge of energy washed over me, so intense black flames slipped out of my fingertips, but it was okay. I wasn’t trying to stop it. After all, I was in a good mood now. It took so little, really. I was a very simple man. Promise me revenge and you’ll have put a smile on my face.

But first, athank youwas in order.

I knew I was being watched. Everybody was always being watched in the Tomb, and I’d learned to use that to my advantage before. Right now, though, I wantedeveryoneto see—a testament of my power. A memory, a token that would keep me in the twisted minds of these lowlifes—whatever you want to call it.

The new kid’s cell was near the south corner of the second floor. I purposely slammed my booted feet onto the metal of the stairs as I went up, to gather attention. Then I ran my rings on the thick metal bars of the cells as I made my way south, looking down the railing, grinning at the inmates who were still in the lounge area, watching me.

Then there was the kid lying on his bed made of hay, all by himself with a piece of paper in his hand and a tiny pencil that he barely held with his bony fingers. He pretended not to notice me standing there, leaning against the half open door with my black shirt in my hand, my torso naked still.

“Ginger,” I said, and he no longer had a choice but to look up at me.

Sweat covered his face—it was hot in the Tomb. The air-conditioning hadn’t worked since about, um…1991, give or take a couple years.

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