Inked

temporal, are fleeting.
    Because we die. Because each life is a single conscious moment, burning.
    Lost, in time.

    THERE were no zombies at the party. I would have been happy to find some. If nothing else, the small talk would have been less insulting. Nor would I have been as tempted to shove an opera singer over the railing of the yacht.
    “But my dear, you look so cultured ,” complained Madame Borega, loudly enough that heads turned to stare. “What do you mean you’re from Texas ?”
    Her affront was palpable, her distress audible in the faint tremor of her rich vibrato vowels. Texas, apparently, was apocalyptic. I might as well have told her that I was a killer—and that the two tiny demons hiding in my hair would be more than happy to set her face on fire.
    Both of which were true. But she didn’t need to know that.
    A gentle hand touched my elbow. I looked up to find Grant beside me, leaning hard on his cane. His gaze was faintly amused, but darkly so, and he settled his attention on Madame Borega with a smile that held an edge.
    “Wonderful performance last night,” he said in his deep rumbling voice. “Your Aida was a joy.”
    Madame Borega lowered her gaze, smiling—but, before she could thank him, or demure, or tell Grant that he was a hot, hot former priest and she wanted to pull a Thorn Birds on his ass, he added, “But frankly, Suzanne, I was shocked to learn that you were using an enhancer.”
    The woman froze, staring at him. A deep crimson flush stained her décolletage and rose into her face, all that red visible beneath the heavy pale cake of her makeup. I thought she was embarrassed, but then her lips tightened and her eyes hardened, and it was like watching a skunk lift its tail.
    “My voice,” she said, “needs no enhancement. ”
    “I’m sure it doesn’t,” Grant said, in the most conciliatory tone imaginable. “I just thought, perhaps, that you had been ill. Using a microphone is nothing to be ashamed of, which is what I told Roger Breckin over dinner.”
    Madame Borega’s gasp was so violent, this time people did more than turn their heads. Conversations stopped. Drinks were put down. I held myself steady in the three-inch heels I had been wobbling in all night, and casually rubbed the back of my neck. A small hot tongue rasped across the back of my hand.
    “You told Roger…” began the opera singer, touching her throat. “Oh, my God.”
    And with that, she fled—in fits and starts, stopping every few feet to stand on her toes to scan the crowd. Grant made a small humming sound, slid his large warm hand around my waist, and guided me in the opposite direction. His limp was more pronounced than usual. I kept my steps deliberately short, pretending it was the heels that were making me careful.
    “I’m no opera expert,” I said, twining my fingers through his, “but I think you just ruined that woman’s night.”
    Grant was taller than me even while stooping over his cane; a ruggedly handsome man with brown hair brushing the broad shoulders of his tuxedo, dark eyes keen with grim humor. “Roger Breckin helps finance the Seattle Opera House. He’s one of the richest men on the West Coast. He’s also Susan Borega’s benefactor, but his standards are exacting. One hint that her voice needs a microphone to fill the hall he paid for, and she would be ruined.”
    “Ah. But at dinner we were seated with a Watanabe and Anderson. No Breckin in sight.”
    “Funny how that works,” Grant replied, and tightened his arm protectively. I bit back a smile, and glanced over the railing of the yacht. I meant only to look at the water, still unused to living close to the sea, but instead spied three demons being dragged through the cold dark ocean like body surfers, their claws lodged in the outer hull.
    Zee, Raw, and Aaz. Steam rose from their small angular bodies, along with bubbles and frothing foam. Red eyes glinted like rubies shot with fire, and when they saw me observing, I was given three vigorous thumbs-up signs. My boys, rocking out. I had vague childhood memories of them watching Flipper on old hotel televisions—that, and Muscle Beach Party with Annette Funicello, who they still thought was hot. All they needed now was sand, shades, and some chocolate-covered surfboards to eat over a bonfire, and their fantasy would be complete.
    I flicked my fingers at them in a subtle wave, and two small voices began humming inside my ear, long bodies coiled against my scalp