Frost Moon (12 page)

“Little,” I said, projecting my voice, turning around to face the throng. On one level, I was scared out of my wits; on another, the only way I could get through this was to brazen my way through. “I can’t tell you how good it is to hear a man call me ‘little’!”

The bear leaned closer. “Are you challenging me, little one?”

“Good heavens, no,” I said, waving my hand to indicate his legion of followers. “You get plus three, plus three to attack as long as seven or more cards are in play.”

The Bear King froze for a moment, befuddled; I guess he didn’t play
Magic: The Gathering.
Then he laughed, a long, hearty laugh that sounded jarringly human coming from his monstrous face. “Very well, little one, tell us what was so urgent that it could not wait?”

“I’m doing a tattoo for a werewolf,” I said, “and he wants it done before the full moon.”

The bear head stared at me, then laughed uproariously, the whole crowd laughing and howling with him. “Oh, I very much doubt that.”

“A
werewolf
wants
her
to do a tattoo,” a female voice cried, and I saw the girl who had challenged me hanging on to one of her boys and pointing at me. I blew her a kiss, and quicker than a magic trick, she was hiding behind her friends. Satisfied, I refocused on the bear.

“Marquis, this one is no threat to you,” the Bear King said. “Approach without fear.”

I turned, and saw a man with a raised brown Wolverine haircut and long brocaded coat step cautiously out from one of the doors leading to the warren of side offices and shops. He looked like an extra from the Renaissance Faire who fell off the back of a truck and then got run over by it. He had elaborate pants and a ruffled pirate shirt beneath the brocade, but all were old, dirty, nearly as unkempt as his hair. He approached us with a curiously mincing step and upraised hands held slack, as if he deigned to touch nothing other than his tattooing tools.

He hopped up onto the platform gracefully, and bowed to me. He didn’t do the standard double take when he stood and found me still towering over him, which notched him up in my regard; but then he turned to the throng and spoke with evident disdain. “I heard this is the ‘artist’ who would tattoo a wolf,” he said to the crowd, in a high-pitched voice that nonetheless carried. “Show her we need no more inkers!”

A young man leapt forward, baring his chest to show a gleaming tattoo of a wolf, woven with marks for sharp sight. Another leapt forward with tribal signs granting increased hunting powers; the young girl paraded back and forth, and I could see stealth and grace written into her tiger stripes.

It was all excellent work: the outlines were sharp, the shading subtle, the colors vibrant; but I needed to know more, and impulsively I stepped down into the little crowd of exhibitionists, who now numbered five. There were others showing off tattoos behind the front row, but it was all just normal ink or minor marks: these five were the finest the Marquis had to display, and knew it.

I stretched out my hands and felt the power through their marks. The subtle interplay of ink and line necessary to call upon magic were woven through all their signs. I recognized some of the larger signs, but just as many were clearly new, having none of Jinx’s mathematical subtlety but instead a raw grip on the rules of power inked with a firm, well-trained hand. The Marquis was not just an inker; he was a backwoods graphomancer, with a fine grasp of the magic of the wolf. No wonder Jinx had recommended him.

“Impressive,” I said, loud enough to carry through the throng. I was getting pretty tired of playing this like I was on a stage; I much preferred meeting in a coffeehouse, Jinx-style, to all these theatrics. “I can see why Jinx sent me to you.”

“The blind witch is truly gifted,” the Marquis called out to the crowd, smiling with a bow as I ascended to the stage. “Even she can see my superior talent.”

I smiled at him. He smirked back at me, yellow glowing eyes the only thing wolfish about his weak, effete face. Well, in truth his hair was pretty wolfish too, but that was clearly achieved with just a lack of grooming than any expression of wolf. Or maybe I was rapidly losing my patience and not inclined to give him an inch. So I just stared straight back at him, smiling, until the glow faltered and he looked away.

“So, ‘Marquis,’” I said, in a quiet tone designed to be heard only on the stage, withdrawing a picture tube from my vest and unrolling the flash, blown up to 11x17 and cleaned up as much as Photoshop would permit. “Tell me what you make of this?”

He looked at it for a moment, then took it from me with an offended hiss, strolling away. He stared down at it dismissively, then with more and more interest. Finally he turned back to me. “Where,” he whined, loud enough to play to his audience, “did you get this?”

“My
client”
I replied. “He thinks it will give him more control over his beast.”

“Oh, it will,” he laughed, still speaking to the crowd, eyes never leaving the tattoo. “It will… it most definitely will.”

“‘Most definitely will’ as in ‘will definitely control his beast by interfering with his changes in a bad way,’” I asked, “or ‘will definitely give him more self control?’”

He looked at me sharply, eyes flicking back down. “You would not understand.”

“Try me.”

“It will… contain his excess power as the moon approaches,” he said, “then release it when he decides to trigger the change.”

“See, I understood that just fine,” I said. “Was that so hard, Mister Wizard?”

He flapped his hand once or twice to dismiss me, waltzing off. “Enough, girl. You have done your duty. Send this wolf to me, and I will ink him.”

Hear that
snap?
The camel’s back—right after the last straw.

“Not going to happen,” I said, crushing the picture tube in my hand.

“Excuse me?” the Marquis said, slowly turning back to me.

“This is
my
client,” I said. “I did not risk life and limb coming here
just
to hand him over to you. I need your advice, for which you’ll be well paid. That’s it.”

Hot breath brushed past my face and feathered my ‘hawk, and I looked aside to see the glowing green eyes of the Bear King not two feet from my face.

“The Marquis tattoos all the werekin in my realm,” he said, voice crackling like two slabs of granite sliding over each other. “We need no other.”

“If he was in your realm, he’d have already come to the Marquis,” I said. “He’s not. He’s a Little Fiver, an Edgeworlder. He’s under
Saffron’s
protection, and came to
me
—and he’s going under
my
needle.”

“You
are
challenging me, aren’t you, little one?”

I should have been filled with terror. Alright, I
was
filled with terror—despite the fact I’ve never been afraid of bears, even when I watch some giant Kodiak’s crap-inducing roar on the Discovery Channel. For some reason they’re not as scary to me as tigers, much less the fake stuff dreamed up by H.R. Giger, that really twists my gut. But here, inches away from the Bear King’s bared teeth and red glowing eyes, I was terrified and frightened to the point of useless bravado.

So I squeezed my fist tight, pouring a cascade of
mana
down the vines into my yin-yang, and then shoved my glowing palm at his face.

The Bear King ducked his head back as if stung, snarling, but otherwise frozen, making no move to respond. I could feel his magic, his power sparkling on the edge of my tattoos, and it was far weaker than I expected; surely it took more power than that to change man into beast? The Bear King’s eyes tightened in very human rage and his muzzle wrinkled in a very feral snarl, and he began to shake, his claws drawing a squealing whine out of the metal of his throne, tires supporting it squeaking ominously as he shifted his weight. Now I
was
challenging him, on his own throne; but he was afraid of magic; and there was no easy way out for us without one of us showing weakness. He
had
to respond to
this.

And then it was the Marquis who rescued us, leaping forward to come between me and the Bear King, grasping my hand with one tattooed thumb pressed into my yin-yang to bleed off the power. “And so we have ourselves not just an inker, but one inked! A real magician,” he said, crying out to the crowd, holding my hand up high. “Surely she is not afraid to prove herself worthy in front of our King, to prove she has the magic to ink a mark upon a wolf!”

“I accept your challenge,” I said loudly, and then more quietly, “Thank you.”

The Marquis looked over at me, yellow eyes glinting. “Thank me?” he giggled, sounding less like a half-wolf monster who could tear out my throat than a catty little prima donna… who could
still
tear out my throat. “You don’t even know what the challenge is, much less how to win it. I’ll take your flash and your client, and send you home with your tail between your legs, you tall skinny bitch.”

“I don’t have a tail,” I said.

“You don’t now,” he said. “But… we shall see.”

15. THE DUEL

We faced off in the pit. Somehow, the vampires were in my corner, though I doubted whether the sulking Transomnia, sitting on the edge of the pit staring at his muddy pants, was actually on my side. Instead it was Calaphase and the recently returned Revy (short for ‘Revenance’) who had my back, while the young feral tiger girl and the wolf-chested boy tended the ego of the Marquis as he preened opposite us in the ring.

“What’s he doing?” I asked, watching Lord Buckhead speaking with the Bear King.

“Apologizing for you,” Calaphase said. “And explaining what Trans did that put you in such a foul mood.” Trans looked up sharply, then looked away. “We were contracted to keep mortals away so that the weres could let their beasts roam free without fear of discovery and blackmail, not to make it impossible for those with legitimate business to conduct it.”

“This
is the kind of legitimate business you conduct?” I asked, watching a werewolf throw down money in challenge to two stags. “I’d hate to see the customer service department.”

Revenance snorted.

The sudden sound of wood striking on concrete caught everyone’s attention. Lord Buckhead struck his staff twice more upon the rock, then raised it. “Hear me, Man Herds and Packs of Upper Georgia,” he cried. “I am Buckhead, fey Lord of the Hunt, whose magic runs through and binds you all. All who wish to run under my protection abide by my rules.”

The great hall remained silent as Buckhead spoke, and I took a moment to look around. The “man herds” and “packs” were rough, surely, but I started to notice designer jeans, Members Only jackets, even glittering watches and cellular phones. With the exception of a few monstrosities like the Bear King and lifer weres like the Marquis and the feral girl, most of the crowd was starting to look… normal.

OK, some of them had wolf heads, yes, but otherwise… normal.

Suddenly the hidden meaning behind Calaphase’s mention of ‘blackmail’ sank home. Most of this crowd probably weren’t wild dogs, running free on the edge: they were old-school magickers, living normal lives, magic carefully hidden under the old rules and ways, coming here in secret to release the curse of their beasts safely.

“These people,” I said. “They didn’t contract with you to protect their lives… but their identities? So that no were-whatevers would be needed to guard the perimeter, where they could be seen and exposed?”

“Smart girl,” Calaphase said, “she can color between the lines.”

“I feel like a shit now,” I said. I’d been so pissed off by the hoops I’d gone through to get through the security of the werehouse, it had never occurred to me that the security was in place for a legitimate reason. “I didn’t realize how much everyone here has to lose—”

“Why are
you
apologizing?” Calaphase asked. “Transomnia had no excuse to treat you the way he did, and as for the Marquis… well, werekin can be aggressive.”

“You mean they’re going to try to take a piece out of me?”

“No, I mean a lot of them are successful lawyers and businessmen,” he said, breathing in my ear, expanding his aura ever so slightly. “Count the Rolexes. Twenty-eight days out of the month, these cats and dogs are living in the lap of luxury.”

“They have even more to lose then,” I said, dreamily. He was trying to roll me.

“But they know how to fight to keep it,” he responded. “Fortunately…
I
can protect you.”

The smooth syllables of his voice poured over me like liquid. Or maybe like water over a cat. “Oh, Cally, your warm breath feels so good. And if you could just take a take a bite out of me, right there, I’ll be so grateful that I’d punch you
clear
into next week.”

He leaned back with a laugh. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

“Actually I can, and usually will,” I said.

“Thank you, Lord Buckhead,” the Bear King said. “Little One. You came to us for help, not knowing our rules, and were treated unconscionably. Calaphase, you and your fangs are on your third warning. I expect that those responsible will be… punished.”

“Yes, my Lord,” he said. I heard a sudden movement behind me, but did not bother to look back to see Transomnia’s reaction. “I will make an example of him.”

“Good,” the Bear King snarled. “See that you do. See, Little One, we do have rules. And one of those rules is that no one may ink magic upon a wolf or werekin unless they have proved that they have the skills to do it properly.”

He paused, and I realized I was expected to speak. “I understand, and approve.”

He nodded gravely. “Then you will accept this trial to prove your skill. If you pass, the Marquis will advise you honestly and fairly. If you fail, you will give this wolf to the Marquis… or pass upon doing the tattoo entirely. Do you agree?”

“I agree,” I said, then under my breath, “Not like I have a choice.”

“You are correct,” the Bear King said. “You do not have a choice.”

“Never underestimate a werekin’s hearing,” Calaphase said.

“Help me out here,” I said. “What will this trial entail?”

“I have no idea,” Calaphase said. “I’ve never seen a magical tattooists’ duel.”