An hour after daybreak, I walk to the tattoo parlor. Tori is already there—well, “there” might be too strong a word, because her eyes are swollen from sleep and unfocused, and she’s just started on her coffee.
“Something wrong?” she said. “I’m not really here. I’m supposed to go for a run with Bud, that maniac.”
“I’m hoping you’ll make an exception,” I say.
“Not many people come in here with urgent tattoo requests,” she says.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“Okay.” She sits up, more alert now. “You have something in mind?”
“You had a drawing in your apartment when we walked through it a few weeks ago. It was of all the faction symbols together. Still have it?”
She stiffens. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
I know why I wasn’t supposed to see it, why that drawing isn’t som
