Chapter 33
Absently, I rubbed at the marks around my wrists. In many ways, they looked like shackles, the ink that had been combined with my blood more steel gray than the black and blue of the rest of the tattoos. I’d never given much thought to them at all. They were a part of me, like the color of my hair or the occasional freckle that marred my back. But closer examination revealed a variance, slight and almost undetectable, not just in the color but in the smoothness of the lines. In several spots along the edge, it wavered, the most infinitesimal of dips.
“How did you help?” I asked.
“I did more than help. I guided your hand when you couldn’t.”
That’s what I’d thought. The best explanation for a less than steady line was a less than steady hand.
“What tools did you use?”
“The needles you showed me how to make.”
“And the ink?”
“We mixed your blood with squid ink. Then…you did something to it.”
I frowned. “What something?”