Frost Moon (25 page)

I looked up at Buck. He shook his head sadly and gently lowered Spleen to the pavement. Philip stood, holding his finger to his ear. “How far away is that evac?”

I stared down at Spleen. How long had I known Diego Spillane, and learned nothing about him other than his nickname? How many times had he been there for me and how little had I been there for him? Had I been scared of him all this time just by a little halitosis and a bad eye? Then I saw the antlers of a stag shifting in the shadows, and looked up at Buck.

It had just been a trick of the light as he stood, a moment where the shadow of his statue form overlapped the shadow of his human one. He stood there, tall, proud, and sad. “He is going. I am sorry,” he said. “There’s nothing more I can do here.”

“No, for starters you can tell us what happened,” Philip snapped. Sirens and ambulances were sounding in the distance. “You can help us find who did this—”

“I found him like this in a place he should not have been, a place where you may not go,” Buckhead said, with folded arms. “I brought him here for help. That is all.”

“That is
not
all,” Philip said. “This is not a fucking joke, ‘Lord Buckhead.’”

“You are not ready to learn all of the secrets of the Edgeworld,” Buckhead said.

“I’ve seen things even
you
wouldn’t believe,” Philip shot back.

“Guys,” I said. “He’s… he’s going.”

A long, low sigh escaped Spleen’s lips, and his head slowly slumped to the left.

I stared at him a long time, then looked up to find Philip, Buckhead and our Good Samaritan all standing at attention. Then Buckhead sighed. “I am going,” he said. “I am sorry. Lady Dakota, I will pass along anything I learn of this crime.”

Then he stepped round the statue of the Storyteller, or into it; because when Philip ran around the statue after him, he emerged from the other side alone.

“Holy fucking shit,” the Good Samaritan said.

“Damnit,” Philip said. “Stupid Edgeworlders. No offense.”

“None taken,” I said, staring down at Spleen. “I think both sides of the Edge see me as a citizen of the other.”

An ambulance screeched up next to Philip’s Prius.

“Oh, Phil,” I said. “This looks bad for Wulf—”

“Yeah,” he said, staring off into the distance. “Spleen was about to meet our werewolf friend, who told us himself he had trouble with control. That gives him means, motive and opportunity—or maybe Wulf’s supposed ‘enemies’ want us to think that. You heard Spleen— he didn’t blame Wulf. A defense lawyer would make hay with that.”

“But he never saw him as a werewolf,” I said. “So… it still could have been Wulf.”

“So Wulf is a leading
suspect;”
Philip said. “I love that word: ‘suspect’. I love its precision. Suspect. That’s it, until we get more hard evidence, one way or the other.”

“But how are we going to do that?” I said. “Spleen was his
contact.
We’re never gonna know where Wulf was when—”

“Cell phone records. Irritated hospital staff. Rental car records or
bus terminal
cameras,” Philip said. “We’ll find out, one way or the other. Eventually, we’ll find out—but right now, I have a question
for
you.”

“For me?” I asked.

“Did Spleen ever give any hint that Wulf was hostile to him?” Immediately he caught it in my eyes. “What was it?”

“Before I was attacked, Wulf called Spleen, agitated, asking about his tattoo,” I said. “Spleen called him ‘a goddamn menace.’ “

“‘Goddamn menace,’ “ Philip repeated. “Sure sounds like he was threatened by Wulf—”

“But he met Wulf that night,” I said. “That’s why Wulf was even there to save me—”

“I remember,” Philip said. “But something’s just not adding up. Spleen wasn’t an idiot—he said stay clear of
them.
Plural
them.
But who was the ‘them’ he was talking about, his attacker and—who? Whoever took a potshot at you? Whoever was messing at Wulf? That vamp? Someone else? There’s an awful lot of ‘incidents’ around you, Wulf and that tattoo.”

“You don’t think,” I said, “all of them are connected?”

“What I think,” Philip said quietly as the paramedics came up, “is that we’d better find your ‘friend,’ Wulf—because if he didn’t kill Spleen, he may be next.”

29. WORKING IT OUT

I stomped towards Emory’s Student Activity and Athletics Center on my crutches. In the back of my mind, I knew time was running out on Wulf’s tattoo, but with Spleen gone the whole picture had changed. First, I now had no way of contacting Wulf; second, I now felt very unsafe in his presence—whether from him or from his enemies, I couldn’t say. So it was time to visit the only person who seemed like he really wanted to help me kick ass: Darren Briggs.

You need to buy at least a fourteen-day pass to use the Athletics Center, but I had no intention of paying for that until I’d seen the goods. I’m no Philip; I can’t pull his Jedi mind tricks to just make anyone do what I want. But I am a six-foot-two, attractive, large-breasted woman, and that—plus a little preparatory research on Google—usually turns the trick.

“Hello,” I said, friendly but firm, propping my crutches over the counter of the Center and leaning down on the tousle-haired college boy behind the counter. “Where can I find Darren Briggs? He witnessed an assault on a police asset, and I need to ask him a few questions.”

I started to pull out my Stratton Police Department booster card, which my dad got for me years ago when we were still speaking. It’s horribly out of date, but it has the Stratton police shield, my Mohawked picture on it and no expiration date, so it can pass as some kind of official ID as long as I’m showing it off to a complete idiot. But this time it didn’t turn out to be necessary; the kid got up immediately and walked around the counter.

“No problem, I’ll escort you,” he said, a bit too eagerly, while glancing at his counter mate. “Wendy, can you—”

“
Fine
,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I take it
you
are the police asset?” he said, eyeing me as he escorted me through the turnstiles and down to the elevator. “And Darren is more than a witness?”

“He was the savior of my ass, is what he was,” I admitted.

“The guy is a machine,” he said, walking me up to room 211, a large classroom with double doors, beyond which I could hear rhythmic shouting. “I sneak down here to watch his Taido class sometimes—”

He opened the doors to a floor covered in blue mat. In its center was a ring of students in white uniforms, all in a low, wide stance that was practically a squat, punching in unison. Two had black belts and blue jackets—including Darren, who was counting in what sounded like Japanese.

“EEEtch-nee-saan-shee-gOH-rok-sheech-hatch-kyooo-yooo/” he shouted, finishing up with a punch that just seemed to pop from his waist. The whole class stood frozen in that final punch; then Darren’s head cocked slightly to the side, as if he saw me. Then he said, “Come back,” and the students popped out to a standing ready stance.
“Toe-et-tay,”
he instructed. “Stretch out.”

As the class stretched, Darren walked over quickly without running, smiling without grinning. “Dakota Frost,” he said. “This is a surprise. Come to check out the class?”

“I have a few questions,” I said with a grin. I was surprised how young he looked in his uniform; I hadn’t realized a college karate teacher could also be a college student. “I thought this might be a good place to start.”

“Sure thing. But I can’t let you on the mat,” he said, spreading his hands apologetically. “You have to sign a waiver, and Wendy at the front desk would bust my balls if I didn’t have one for you. Even then, with you still healing up, I wouldn’t let you on the court.”

“Aw, come on,” I said, miming Savannah. “Surely you could show me a few punches—”

“Rary, Clarence, over here,” Darren said, without even looking. Two of the brown belts quit stretching—the woman rolling out of a full split—and came over to join us. “Side stance for punching. Clarence, keep the fist set, but put your feet together,
toe-et-tay
style.”

Rary spread her dainty feet shoulder width, right fist out; Clarence put his huge feet together, looking at Darren quizzically before his head snapped forward to attention. After surveying them a moment, Darren said. “Double punch—go!”

Both popped out their left fists with a kind of twist, then shot the right one out while the left snapped back. Their karate gis made little whizzing motions when they moved. Darren had them do it a few more times, but I could already see where this was going—Rary was solid as a rock, but with his feet together Clarence was wavering, trying to keep his balance.

“Again—go!” Darren said, slipping his hand into a red padded mitt and stepping straight into Rary’s punches. He caught her punches and pushed back hard, but she stood her ground, shoving him back with each blow. “Again—go!” he repeated, stepping in front of Clarence—and this time it was
Clarence
that was shoved back when Darren caught his punch.

“Good, good,” Darren said, walking past Clarence to the end of their short little line. “Come back to the same stance.” But as soon as Clarence did so, Darren pushed him, hard, and he nearly fell over. He then stepped up quickly to Rary and pushed, and while she got shoved around a bit, she never lost her balance, her legs bouncing around on the mat under her.

“You can’t throw a good punch without having a conversation with gravity,” Darren said, “and your legs do the talking. If your injured leg was just naturally weak, I’d invite you out here on the mat, help you figure out how your particular body could talk to the ground with the right accent. But since you’re healing, all I’d be doing is helping you tear that leg up.”

My student escort waved and left us, and I sagged into my crutches. “I know that… it’s just…one of my best buddies got murdered last night,” I said, trying to piece together all the things running through my head. “And a client took a bullet for me—”

Darren’s eyes bugged. “Just since I saw you?”

I nodded. “It’s been a busy week, and I’m feeling more than a little vulnerable.”

“Sorry to hear all that, but it’s even more reason to take it easy, sit back and watch, and see if this is right for you,” Darren said. The other blue-jacketed black belt stepped up behind him, and Darren nodded to him. “I’ll be there in a second. We’ve got a lot on our plate tonight—but stick around, maybe we can help you out during family fun time. All right! Brown belts and higher: over there; everyone else: with me—”

After that it was like watching out-takes of a karate movie. The white belts lined up and did standing punches and kicks; the greens and purples did spinning punches and kicks; the browns and higher did weird, funky kicks that seemed to involve throwing one’s head at the ground while simultaneously kicking an opponent in the face. My knee throbbed just looking at them, but they still did it.

That’s around the time I realized I wasn’t ready for any of this.

Sure, my dad had taught me some self-defense moves, and I took two years of tae kwon do in college. But I was woefully out of shape. I hadn’t been to a gym in years, hadn’t been running in months. And I certainly couldn’t perform any of the basic self-defense moves now, much less stretch my leg so far I could scratch my own damn ear from the topside.

The younger instructor came to join me. “So, are you really joining the class?”

“I’m
not
going to let this stop me,” I said, pointing at my knee, “but… looking at you guys in action, my knee sure is going to try to hold me back from getting started.”

“You
do
need to be healthy to get the most out of this,” he said. He hesitated, then continued: “And I don’t mean just the knee. You’ve been banged up, and it will leave you with a victim imprint. You may not feel it right this minute, but a serious assault will leave you with a lot of issues. You should do more than just learn some kicks.”

“What? Like get my head examined? Find a victims’ counselor to help me work through the issues?” I cracked. He smiled faintly, and I sighed and said: “All right. I get it. You guys are big on mind, body, spirit being one, or whatever. I’ll… consider it, OK?”

He held up his hands. “All right, no pressure,” he said, then rejoined the class.

Then my phone buzzed, a text message from Jinx: «elegant, this watch»

With some difficulty, I thumbed back: «But will it work?»

Jinx texted back, seemingly instantly, all in lowercase: «like a charm»

«What about Wulfs tattoo?» I responded. If I ever did get back in touch with him, I wanted to be able to say we could go ahead and get started.

«marquis still sitting on it» was the quick response.

«Keep on him. The full moon is Saturday,» I replied. For once Jinx didn’t reply; I hesitated, then asked: «Should I take Valentine’s challenge?»

Another instant lowercase ping: «o, dakota»

I sighed. Oh, Jinx! I messaged back: «Translate, O cryptic one.»

Jinx: «elegant ink + $1M reward? srsly! take’im on»

I grinned. Then I looked at my hand. There were two ugly scabbed lines on the undersides of my first two fingers and healing scrapes all over, but it functioned. I would be able to ink just fine. For all Transomnia had done to me—even knocking out two of my back teeth— he’d still obeyed the rules. I was alive, unspoiled—with two good hands.

It was time to get back to work.

Soon, the class finished with an informal bow and Darren came back to check on me. “So… did we sell you on maybe trying this out, starting Spring Semester?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “But you know, while I’ve been watching, I’ve been thinking. Long term—I never want to feel helpless again, so I’m going to have to make changes in my life. I can’t waste time waiting.”

Darren sighed. “You aren’t listening. You aren’t ready to start practicing—”

“Who said anything about
practicing
?” I said, dialing a number on my cell phone. “I need to start
working.
Alex? This is Dakota. Jinx gave me clearance—I’m ready to do your watch tattoo. How soon do you think the old man will be up for it?”

30. THE WRISTWATCH TATTOO