In the morning light I felt better. The timing of Wulfs request was creepy, coming right on the heels of Rand's warning, but I didn't think a tattoo killer stalking a victim would arrange a meeting with a witness present. In fact, I had no reason to believe that the killer was after me personally, other than Rand's mothering; if he'd had even a whiff of evidence that I was the target, Rand would have put me in overprotective custody faster than I could blink.

My clients were another thing: scattered all over Georgia, with some of the best magical tattoos in the Southeast on their bodies, and without relatives on the police force who cared enough to track them down and warn them. I needed to figure out how to get the word to them-in my discreet line of work, clients didn't often share their email addresses or cell numbers-but there was some time before the full moon. First things first-Spleen.

The little rat had extracted a thousand promises from me to meet him "the very next day," to go over the contract for Wulf s tattoo, and I'd agreed-though he'd have gotten the same effect just by showing up for my shift at the Rogue Unicorn.

One of the glories of being a tattoo artist, other than having God's finest canvas at your disposal, is that I rarely need to get up before ten. Like most high-end shops, the Rogue doesn't open its doors to the public until noon, though I and the other artists are usually there by eleven for consultations and prepwork.

So despite yesterday's excitement I was able to sleep in, stroll to the Flying Biscuit cafe-after the breakfast crowds had died down, but before the towering, eponymous biscuits had lost their freshbaked, morning fluffiness-and still putter in by ten-thirty to meet Spleen.