Frost Moon (31 page)

“Hey, Wulf,” I said. “Sorry about last night.”

“No.” he said, voice rock solid and clear. “I’m sorry— about…well, everything. But it means something that you came all the way to my den. Thank you, Dakota. I won’t forget it. I had given up—”

“So does that mean I’ll get you in my chair today?” I said, cutting him off before we got distracted from the tattooing by another journey into touchy feelie territory.

There was a long pause. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I will. How long will it take?”

“Two hours,” I said. “I know I said I would do it on me and transfer it to you but… I’m not going to start it until you get here. I don’t want a werewolf sigil on my body any longer than I absolutely have to.” Come to think of it, I should call Jinx about it. I made a note to do so.

“The sun transits a bit after noon,” he said. “With it right overhead, we’ll have almost the whole earth between us and the moon. I should eat at transit, when the beast is weakest, and then let it settle—that usually keeps him fully at bay a few hours longer. I will come by at one—that gives us four whole hours to moonrise.”

“That should be more than enough,” I said. “Wulf. You’ll be here, right? You know how to get here? You need directions?”

“I know where you work,” Wulf said. “I will be there.”

But when one o’clock rolled by, Wulf didn’t show up. I turned away half a dozen potential clients while waiting for him, but he didn’t show up at two, or three, or four. I started calling him at two, but he didn’t respond to any of my phone calls. Finally, at five o’clock, with the sun hanging low in the sky, I said fuck it and headed over to the Vortex for another burger.

“I’m right across the street,” I told Annesthesia. “He comes here, you call me.”

But she didn’t call. And he didn’t call. And he didn’t answer his phone. I went back to the Rogue, but Wulf still didn’t show up. I called every number I could think of—Wulfs, Philip’s, Buck’s. Nothing. I even tried to get Jinx to call the Marquis, but we couldn’t figure out a way that he
could
have helped me, even if he was so inclined.

At nine the staff started to trickle out, the Rogue closed up, and I was left pacing in my office, staring at Wulf’s flash. Worried. I had given up intellectually, but somehow, I couldn’t just get up and go.

It was pushing past ten when my phone buzzed, once—a text message.
Finally.
I slipped it out to read: «come 2 masq lone»

I didn’t recognize the number.
Go to the Masquerade? At this hour? And it was fucking closed!
I thumbed back: «Not bloody likely.» A moment later, the phone buzzed again: «time runs out» I scowled. I did not need this shit at this hour. «Who the hell is this, Wulf? *You* need to come *here*!» «not wulf»

But who then? Maybe… I texted: «Marquis?» «fuck that prissy dog»

Well, they
knew
the Marquis. I texted: «WHO is this?!» There was a long pause. And then: «i owned u» “Oh,
God,”
I said. It was
Transomnia.
Oh, hell. Oh,
hell.
I looked at the office phone and thought of calling Calaphase, but then the phone buzzed again, with a picture message. I opened it, and damn near dropped the phone in terror. The tiny screen held Cinnamon’s terrified face—

And her bloody mouth was sewn shut with silver wire.

37. GET IT OFF ME

I rode to the Masquerade at just under the speed limit, terrified. I didn’t want to get pulled over, not now. Transomnia hadn’t given me a deadline, but “time runs out” made his intent pretty damn specific.

One block away I parked my Vespa on a cross street, slipped the keys into its key well and walked, taking the long way round so he wouldn’t know where I’d parked it. If I rode it straight up, Transomnia could trash my ride and leave me with no route of escape.

I walked, hugging my vest close, glad for the longsleeved turtleneck that kept out the cold. And then I rounded the corner of North Angler Street and saw City Hall East not a thousand yards away. This was pretty fucking bold. He must be sure he had me.

Well, I was here alone, in the middle of the night, limping and crippled by most definitions, with just my cane. I guess he did have reason to be bold.

I turned the corner. Normally on a Saturday night the Masquerade would be bustling, but now the marquee over the ancient, converted mill read: “THANKS HOTLANTA—17 GREAT YEARS.” I scowled, grasped at my courage, tried to regain my bravado as I limped round the corner and past the ticket gate. I could do this. I
would
do this.

Two thugs flanked the entrance to the club, one a fat, grinning redneck with a walrus moustache and the other a hard, balding man with glinting eyes.

“Lose the cane, bitch,” the balding man said crisply.

“I need it to walk,” I said, truthfully, clenching my fists on the cane.

“Lose it or the kid dies,” he said, drawing a gun—but not pointing it at me. Curious—he could have left it at ‘drop it, bitch’ punctuated by a gun barrel, but here he was skipping the direct approach and immediately resorting to leverage.
He has orders not to harm me.
I hoped I could chalk that up to a Transomnia’s desire not to disrespect Saffron’s collar. I really didn’t want to entertain the possibility that Transomina had a desire to preserve the canvas for the tattoo killer, who I really hoped was up in North Carolina getting his ass kicked by Philip.

I dropped the cane and kicked it away, holding my hands up and out placatingly.

“I’ll do anything you want,” I said, pleading. “Just don’t hurt Cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon?” Walrus said. “Who’s that?”

“That stray cat the fang picked up for his boss, idiot,” Baldy said.

The fang’s
boss. Oh, hell.
Transomnia was not alone.

“Now hands up,” Baldy said, stepping forward, and I raised my hands.

“Hands,” Walrus said. “What was that bit the fang went on about painting her tattoos to slow her down?”

“Hell if I know, didn’t make any sense to me,” Baldy said, eyeing my trembling hands with a mixture of contempt and appreciation. “Not that it matters, fight’s gone out of this one—does have nice tattoos, though. I said hands up, girly—”

I closed my eyes and raised my hands higher, pretending to whimper. A boss, a vamp, two thugs, maybe even a driver or a backdoor man. I felt Walrus and Baldy closing in on me through a ripple in the mana of my tattoos, and cringed, flinched back, with only one thought:

If I was going to beat Trans, I needed to thin out his support mechanism.

As Walrus’s paws closed on my hand, I popped out my other hand and nailed Baldy straight in the face, discharging all the mana I’d stored in the vines hidden beneath the right arm of my turtleneck in a sudden magical POP. Darren might have not let me into his classes yet, but I
had
taken tae kwon do in college. I knew from my time on the mat that even people who could see how tall I was never expected that I had the reach I did. Baldy toppled backward, stone cold, and I twisted my elbow round to block Walrus’s punch an instant before it hit me.

“Damnit, bitch, you settle down—” he snarled, hand clamping down on my left. He was immensely strong—hey, he was a guy—but I didn’t need testosterone to beat him.

“Big beefy guy like you should have a tattoo,” I said, clamping my free hand down on his and twisting it round so I could grab it with my trapped one. “Why not try one of mine?”

And then I let all the mana in my left arm surge into the snake tattoo, which reared to life and hissed at Walrus. He screamed and tried to get away, but I held on as the snake slid off my arm and latched on to his.

Walrus stumbled away, tumbling to the ground. “Get it off me!” he screamed, twisting, doing a passable St. Vitus’s dance. All he was doing of course was irritating the hell out of it; you could hear the tattoo hissing and sparking as it coiled over his body, looking for a comfortable home. “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

“Ready to give up?” I said, dropping my vest, pulling off my turtleneck and my sweat pants to reveal a sports bra, short pants— and a hundred magical tattoos.

“—get it off me—get it off me—” Walrus screamed, getting up and stumbling away.

“Crap,” I said, watching him go. Apparently my snake wasn’t coming back. “I’m going to have to tattoo
another
one.”

I heard motion inside the Masquerade, and twisted around sinuously, drawing mana from within my body, concentrating it in my hands, and letting it sparkle across every inch of my tattoos. I prayed this would work; I’d never tried it before. It relied on one very simple thing: magical tattoos aren’t just designs. Their meaning depends on the intent of their wearer.

The vines on my body leapt out into the air into a beautiful spiral cloud, and I stretched forth my hands and murmured,
“Spirit of fall:peace, and quiet”
I could have said anything, but somehow, I knew just what I wanted and just what to say. It was perfect—and a thousand falling maple leaves in a hundred different colors seemed to detach from the vines and blew gently into the entrance, a glowing, quiet wind.

I stared in awe at the magic I’d created. I’d never understood the full extent of my power until that moment. The crucible of the last few days had opened me up to profound sensations, and my new role as Cinnamon’s protector added a fierce rush of energy to my fear and … and my
rage.
Suddenly, I commanded a universe of raw emotion, all of it bursting from the visions inked on my skin.

Two men ran out in complete silence, their mouths moving without sound. One drew a gun and raised it at me, and I curled the opposite way, murmuring,
“Spirit of home: safe and sound.”
The vines contracted, the remaining leaves curling around me, and the bullet he fired bounced harmlessly, almost soundlessly, away.

One of the men paused, but the shooter kept running straight at me, raising his gun like a club. I cried,
“Spirit of fire: color and light!”
and the head of the dragon reared up, dousing his face with a rainbow of flame. But I could tell I was running out of juice, so as he fell back, I clenched my fists, concentrated on my back, knelt and said,
“Spirit of air: take to flight!”

A hawk tattooed onto my back detached itself and flew at the final man, who ran away, screams muffled by the silence spell. The shooter was writhing on the ground, his face a flickering mass of tattooed fire, his cries silenced by the gentle fall of glowing maple leaves. He’d live, but would be sore as hell with some pretty hardcore face tattoos. Walrus was similarly gone—but as I turned, Baldy stood back up, blinking.

I decked him flat, and my knee started to throb.

I left the downed guards outside and stepped into the Masquerade. The lights were out, but I could see pretty clearly. The stairs to Heaven were blocked off with boards and the door to Hell was locked, but Purgatory was open. As I moved out of the range of the dissipating silence spell, I started to hear the world around me again. Then a deep, resonant voice spoke, closer than I expected, and I ducked down.

“Show me,” the voice commanded.

“Let’s save it, at least until the guards bring her in,” a petulant, higher-pitched voice responded. “After all, I prefer to work with an audience—”

“Stop balking,” the voice said. “Show me what you mean by ‘creative.’”

“You don’t get it, do you,” the petulant voice said. “Sure, you’ve got the guts to strip off a bit of skin of someone you’ve killed—”

“I
must
work on the living,” the deep voice said. “The magic will not work otherwise—”

They were at the far end, at the little dance area past the DJ stand. I crouched low, trying to worm my way along the right wall to the bar, to get closer. There were piled boxes and glasses at the end of the bar; slowly I raised my head up, to get a better view. There was a rough table, a steaming black kettle, and—

Transomnia, holding the pruners in one hand—and Cinnamon aloft in another.

38. GLOVES OF LIQUID FIRE

“Sure, you work on the living, but you never make it last,” Transomnia said. He’d upgraded his coat to a long, black Hellraiser affair. In one hand he effortlessly held Cinnamon, whimpering and bleeding, arms bound behind her with silvery barbed wire. In the other, he held the pruners, twitching, snipping the air with them. “You’ve got guts. But no strategy.”

“You’re stalling,” the other figure said, a shorter, hooded figure in an ornate brocaded robe whose face was completely hidden from view. “You don’t have the will to—”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” Transomnia said. “You’re an expert at sacrifice, but you don’t know the first thing about torture. Punching, slapping, bruising—fine for foreplay. But snipping— you can’t take it back.”

“We’re going to kill them,” the robed monk said. “We need hold
nothing
back.”

I gathered my power into the yin-yangs. If I could hit him hard enough with a burst of lightning, it might knock Cinnamon from his hands and give me a chance to save her.

“If you’re gonna kill them, fine, you can do things you can’t take back, but for hostages—you
save
that,” Transomnia said. “If you keep the hostages unspoiled, it leaves you free to say: ‘That’s far enough, Dakota.’ “

I froze. The hooded figure looked around sharply, and Transomnia grinned widely, showing his long, sharp teeth as he raised the pruners and pointed straight at me. The hooded figure looked over in shock, but I stayed frozen behind the bar… until Transomnia drew the pruners back aside and pointed in front of the two of them in invitation.

“Now, Dakota,” Transomnia said, “or I show you both what I mean by ‘creative.’”

I stepped out to the end of the bar. Nothing now stood between them and me but the table, and the steaming kettle of black fluid… sitting atop a tin of canned heat.

The hooded figure shifted slightly. “Are those the last whispers of a
silence
spell, Miss Frost?” he said, extending his hand in a slow movement through the air. “And fire?
And
a bird-of-prey projectia?” He rubbed his fingers together, as if he could feel the very texture of the mana in the air. “I am impressed. You have exceeded my expectations.”