as he passed it on the way to the right wall. He pointed out the griffin. “This one’s yours.”
Jackson shifted closer to peer at the detailed design. “I’ve seen that before.” But where? The creature had the head and wings of an eagle, the body of a lion. A regal beast composed of two kingly animals. Distinctive, fearsome, and so familiar.
Grundy amiably shook his head. “Impossible. I only use each once and then take them down from the wall.” He removed the sheet from its place. Despite the still air, the rest of the designs fluttered and shifted to fill in the gap. “After you, no one else will have the honor.” He pointed to the table in the center of the room. “Shirt off and lay on your belly.”
Jackson laughed. “I don’t even get to choose where I want the ink?”
“The griffin goes here.” Grundy pressed a finger to Jackson’s back.
Guess he couldn’t argue with free. He whipped the T-shirt over his head and stretched onto the table, ready to get the process finished.
Grundy fussed with his equipment, took his sweet time positioning a stool just so, then climbed up. He swiped a pad across a wide area of Jackson’s back and the sting of alcohol met Jackson’s nose.
Darius plopped onto a broken-down recliner and slung a leg over the arm. “So weird to run into you. I’ve been thinking about you lately.”
Probably thinking he wanted Jackson’s vintage Harley. “Why’s that?” And when would the old man get started? A whisper of cool air was the most he felt against his skin.
Picking at his fingernails, Darius rearranged himself in the chair. “I’ve had the strangest urge to tell you about the crazy roadie gig I worked. Only a few months. Then I escaped.”
Jackson shifted to see his friend better. “Escaped? What?” So he hadn’t joked about being in hell?
Grundy tsked. “Stay still.”
He stopped himself from asking why. Shouldn’t insult the old man, especially when he held sharp objects. Jackson wished he’d hurry the hell up.
“Seriously, man.” Darius sat forward, knee bobbing. “This dude is insane.”
“Really.” So about the same as every other rocker out there.
“I don’t know how I got away alive. Worst job of my life.”
The grittiness in his friend’s voice convinced Jackson the guy believed his own story. Not that Darius’s conviction provided irrefutable proof. “What made it so awful?”
Darius gave an empty laugh. “Oh, I guess because he was a loony-tune rock star, a supreme megalomaniac, a homicidal motherfucker who insisted no one touch his guitar. Or his girl.” He glanced behind him toward the door.
Paranoid? Maybe his friend had gotten into other things during his gig.
Jackson tried not to laugh. “Doesn’t sound so crazy.”
The haunted look returned to Darius’s eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either.” He whispered the last words, “Until he had a roadie killed for violating his rule.”
Yeah, big difference. “Killed? How?”
Darius jerked his neck. “That was the worst part. He had the other roadies do his dirty work.”
“Either he pays really well, or the roadies are loyal as hell.”
Darius flicked his gaze up, then away. “He cast a spell over them. They had no choice.”
Something had definitely spooked Darius. “What’s the name of the band?”
“Malcontent.”
The catchy song he’d heard in the truck, the earworm he couldn’t get out of his head. A shiver coursed over Jackson and he stole a peek at Grundy, whose smile widened as he nodded. Not that Jackson needed further proof this whole scene had somehow been a setup. Pointing the way ahead for him.
Resigned, Jackson asked, “Where is he now?”
“West somewhere.”
“Where your destiny awaits. With the setting sun.” Grundy tapped his shoulder and descended to the floor.
The old wizard was taking a break already? Jackson wanted to leave. “Where are you going?”
“I’m finished.”
“You can’t be done already.” Jackson had expected to lay there for hours. He strained to see over his shoulder and caught sight of a splash of color.
Grundy jerked his head at the wide mirror on the wall. “Check for yourself.”
Jackson slid his feet to the floor and swaggered over, reluctant to view the fresh ink. He turned, and his mouth gaped. “Amazing. How did you…?” No one worked that fast. No human, at least.
Grundy arched a brow.
The tattoo weighed on him like a separate entity. A stone. A compass pointing west. “The setting sun, huh?”
Grundy’s slow nod confirmed it.
“Must be the direction I need to head.”
Darius shot to his feet. “No way. Don’t go anywhere near him.”
“Not,” Grundy said, “without these.” He pressed something into Jackson’s palm.
He opened his hand to reveal a bracelet of thick strands of woven silver. Beside it was a silver charm with an intricate design of a griffin and shaped like a guitar tuner. “Jewelry? Seriously?”
“A teman bracelet woven in the tulang naga pattern.” When Jackson’s brow remained furrowed, Grundy said, “Teman is the Java word for friend. Like the silver itself, the dragon-bone weave is strong protection against evil.”
Jackson tried not to wince. “You’re hinting my destiny has something to do with evil?”
A shrug. “You are certain to encounter it in some form.”
Darius wagged his finger at him. “Especially if you go to work for Malcontent. I got away, but you might not. Listen to me, man. My life flipped from horrible to amazing after I left.”
“Just like your tat predicted.” Maybe there was something to the idea after all. Jackson lifted the silver griffin and examined it. “What’s this for?”
Grundy put away his tools. “The griffin likewise protects against black magic.”
“Then why do I need this?” He dangled the silver chain.
“Wear it. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with both.”
Tired of fighting fate and every obstacle it threw in his path, Jackson fastened the bracelet onto his wrist and pocketed the griffin. “Only one thing left to do.”
“I’ll drive you.” The jingle of Grundy’s keys sounded like the sweet music of freedom.
At Jackson’s efficiency, the three of them made short work of boxing up his few belongings. Essentials, he tossed into a duffel bag. Everything he owned fit neatly into the back of the truck, a pathetic statement on his shallow life.
Grundy recommended his friend’s storage facility. “It’s late, but he’ll open up for me.”
“Let me guess,” Jackson said. “He owes you?”
Grundy only smiled, but sure enough, the owner sleepily handed over a key.
After stowing the few boxes, his guitar, and the mangled Harley in a unit, Jackson secured the lock. His heart broke leaving them behind.
“Take it easy, Darius. Thanks for everything, Grundy.” He climbed out of the truck cab and shut the door.
“Stay well, Jackson Grant.” A