Liquid Fire (2 page)

I don’t want to sugarcoat it; in modern America, where practicing magicians have talk shows and full-blooded vampires are hits on cable TV, werekindred still get the shit end of the stick. Cinnamon had been a street cat, warehoused, borderline abused, and I was happy she’d let me adopt her, gratified she’d taken to school so well, and
enormously
proud my little genius won a math prize which included a trip to San Francisco—but there was no way I’d make a vampire-collared werecat with stage fright go through post-9/11 airport security all by herself.

Or, for that matter, let her go into enemy territory alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I love San Francisco, and not just because it’s a LGBT mecca. It had a warm place in my heart from my first grownup vacation with my first childhood girlfriend, who’d left more than a few warm spots on my bottom at the dungeon of one of its fetish clubs. It held a new fascination for me as one of the few places in the United States that had a dojo for my favorite martial art, the obscure Okinawan karate called Taido. Heck, it might become a new
destination
for me; my childhood friend Jinx was going to move out here when her husband Doug graduated; they were finishing up their honeymoon in San Francisco right now.

But San Francisco was
not
Atlanta. It might not
literally
be enemy territory . . . but there was no magical shield protecting San Francisco like the magical Perimeter of Atlanta. There was no truce between vampires, werekin, and magicians in California like the mystical Compact of Georgia. There was no authority to prosecute rogue magicians in the Bay Area like Atlanta’s Magical Security Council—which I myself had created and been roped into leading.

San Francisco was the magical Wild West.

We were flying into a city where magicians and werekin and vampires were at each other’s throats . . . and I was a magician, with a weretiger daughter, both wearing the silver collars of the Lady Saffron . . . the Vampire Queen of Little Five Points.

What could possibly go wrong? All I had to do was beat sense into a whole Conclave of truceless magicians, werekin, and vampires who’d been at undeclared war for a century and a half. The Wizarding Guild actually seemed interested in what I was doing with the MSC, so, if I was lucky, they wouldn’t kill us; and, if I was very lucky, maybe I’d collect some new allies.

With that little task out of the way, Cinnamon would be free to collect her award—and, if I was very,
very
lucky,
I’d
be free to collect on a
debt
. San Francisco wasn’t just the home of the Wizarding Guild; it was also the home of Alex Nicholson, my contact with the Guild, a good friend who had put his life on the line for me . . . and a man who owed me a million bucks.

OK, technically
Alex
didn’t owe me that million; he had just inherited the leadership of the Valentine Foundation, which owed me that million for besting its late founder in a magical challenge he thought he couldn’t lose—and, therefore, never thought he’d have to pay.

I closed my eyes with a sigh, then opened them to see Cinnamon’s long bony fingers gripping the arms of the seat. “Oh, for the love, little girl,” I said, putting my hand over hers and rubbing it warmly—then with that hand trapped, I leaned in, free hand poking at her huge ear. “Statistically speaking, it’s the safest—my, are you getting ear mites again?”

“Mom!” she said, ducking away as my finger caught the tufts of hair. Cinnamon started swatting at me with her free hand, and as I continued to probe, she tried to get her other hand loose—but while she had more strength, I had more leverage. “Don’t pick at it—”

And then the tires met the tarmac, and we were down.

“Mom,” she said, as I released her hand after one last squeeze. She half smiled, half glared, holding her hand, ear twitching something fierce. “Meany,” she said, screwing her knuckle in her ear; she never used the claws on anything delicate. “Big old meany—”

“Distracted you, didn’t I?” I said, leaning back in the seat. I heard a chuckle, and looked over to see Jewel smiling. I smiled back, a little forced, still unsure of whether there was real interest there or she was just an irrepressible flirt. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, covering her smile with her hand.

After crossing the country at seven hundred miles an hour, the plane crossed the tarmac at a crawl. Everyone pulled out their cell phones; even I dug out my smartphone. I called the Lady Saffron, far up in First Class, but she didn’t answer. Jewel? She texted like a demon.

Then the arrival bell rang. Quick as a flash, Jewel hopped up and popped open a bin.

“I hate all this 9/11 nonsense,” she said, tugging at her jacket repeatedly, trying to pull it out from beneath a heavy, ancient Samsonite someone had jammed in to the overhead at the last minute. “I have to run all my gear through baggage claim—holy cow.”

I’d reached out over her head and lifted the Samsonite out of the way so she could free her jacket. Jewel glanced back at me and did a double take—even on large planes, I can usually bump my forehead against the roof if I stand tippy-toe.

Cinnamon made a little yelp, her tail apparently caught in a tangle of our unbuckled seatbelts. As I leaned to help her, a man in the opposite side stood and opened the bin. Soon, the aisle was filled with passengers unloading their bags, with Jewel two rows ahead of us.

I started forward to get her card or figure out how to continue the dragon discussion later, but irate passengers in the row ahead of me hopped up, and Cinnamon tugged at me from behind. With long arms, I scooped down our carry-ons while the row emptied.

When the logjam of passengers in front of us had cleared, Jewel was gone.

We tromped off the plane, wedged past impatient departees, passed rows of seats empty and full, and sailed out into the terminal. All the airports I had visited since I started the Council were starting to blur. All had the same blah décor—here, blue and gray patterned carpet. All tried to spice it with airport art—here, a giant driftwood horse. And all had an army of underpaid staff—here, Latinos and Asians, picking up after us wasteful consumers destroying the atmosphere with our travel.

Soon, I found the stairs to the baggage claim area, where once again I was next to Jewel.

“Surprise, surprise,” Jewel said, mouth quirking up a little.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I said, pulling Cinnamon’s bag off the carousel.

“Fancy that,” Jewel replied. A huge black bag, covered with stickers, thudded out of the conveyor and slammed down onto the carousel, and she began wedging her way with a litany of “excuse me’s.” The bag was passing too fast, so I reached in and pulled it out.

“Here you go,” I said. What
was
it about this woman? I couldn’t resist trying to help her, trying to show off for her. I tried to steel myself, to play cool, then I caught Jewel staring at the muscles in my arms as I set the bag down. I flexed my bicep and said, “Show’s for free.”

“Oh, God,” she said, putting her hand to her forehead. “Sorry, thanks.”

“No need to be sorry,” I said, “and anyway, ‘sorry’ is normally my line.”

“Who’s your new friend?” asked an impish Southern belle voice from beside us, and I saw Jewel’s head jerk aside to see the red-hair-black-dress-bonnet-and-bomber-goggles show that was the Lady Saffron—my ex-girlfriend. She looked Jewel up and down. “A
dor
able.”

“I . . . I,” Jewel said, eyes widening at Saffron, clearly not sure how to take her.

Saffron was a daywalker, making few concessions to her vampirism beyond the goggles. The dark black cloth made her red hair stand out like fire, but it exposed her face and throat. Most people never guessed that she was the most powerful vampire in the Southeast.

But you couldn’t miss her entourage. Darkrose, Saffron’s consort, wore a dark, gray-hemmed velvet traveling hood that cloaked her almost completely. Beside her stood Vickman, her sharp-eyed, bearded bodyguard, quietly menacing in his black hat and bulky coat. Collecting the bags was Schultze, Darkrose’s human servant, a tall, swarthy, reserved man in an immaculate white suit with black patterned trim that echoed Darkrose’s robe. For those in the know, a hooded figure with matching attendant and hovering bodyguard just screamed “vampire.”

But I couldn’t tell if Jewel could tell. She looked at Saffron’s imperious black dress and regal red hair pouring out of her bonnet; then at the black leather catsuit beneath Darkrose’s Sith traveling cloak, then back at me, eyes lingering on the steel collar that symbolized I was under Saffron’s protection. Jewel raised an eyebrow; I returned the favor. Perhaps this curly-haired granola girl was into more devious forms of alternative culture than just magical firespinning.

Schultze leaned forward and pulled another bag off the carousel. “The last bag, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Schultze,” Darkrose said wearily. She was upright, but sagging to the point you could barely see her dark features beneath the hood; unlike Saffron, she was not yet a full daywalker and found the day not only dangerous but draining. “All we await now is Nyissa.”

“Another of your . . . friends?” Jewel asked, trying to subtly lift her head to peer inside Darkrose’s cloak—not looking at her features, but at the collar of her leather catsuit, barely visible beneath the hood of the cloak. “Is she coming on another flight?”

“No, she came on this one with us,” I said, smiling. I had been wondering how far we could push this without actually mentioning the word “vampire,” and now, I guessed, was it—I pointed at the traveling coffin coming out of the oversized baggage area. “Over there.”

“Oh, no, I’m
so
sorry,” Jewel said, face falling. Damn it, I hadn’t intended to make her think Nyissa was
dead
. But before I could explain, her phone buzzed and she pulled it out. “Hey, my ride is here. Nice meeting you, Mohawk Lady.”

“Great meeting you, Granola Girl,” I said.

And Jewel walked off, texting into her phone. Far, far down the terminal, I saw a young, short muscular man with spiky hair waving, and Jewel waved back. But rather than running to meet him, she stopped, wavered, dug something out of her bag—and walked back to us.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I hate the whole ‘meet someone on the plane, have a nice conversation, then spoil it by passing over a greasy business card’ thing. I hate it when some slimy old businessman or lipstick lesbian does it to me. But after our conversation—”

And she handed over, not a business card, but a little postcard, a glossy little flyer for “Fireweaver’s Foray” at something called the Crucible. “We’re performing tonight,” she said, “so this may be too last minute. But it really sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

“Thanks,” I said, flipping it over. It was in Oakland, which, according to the directions, was on the far side of the San Francisco Bay. Huh—I always thought Oakland was a suburb of Los Angeles. Who knew? “No promises. We have a full schedule, and I don’t know if we can.”

Jewel smiled, and when she did so her eyes seemed to sparkle. “Great! See you.”

And then she strode off, texting into her phone as she went to join her friend.

“Did I not just say I probably wouldn’t make it?” I asked, watching her go.

“With your words,” Darkrose said, “but not your tone.”

“I heard it as ‘definitely make it,’ ” Saffron said. “Very clearly ‘definitely’.”

“Mohawk and Granola sittin’ in a tree,” Cinnamon said—then hissed. The last time she’d used that phrase, it had been “Cotie and Cally,” and Cally—Calaphase, my ex-boyfriend—wasn’t with us anymore. “Sorry, Mom. That was mean.”

“S’okay,” I said, rubbing her headscarf until it went crooked and she swatted at me. “Have to get over it sometime.”

“And tonight’s a good night to do it,” Saffron said. “We’re required to present ourselves to the Vampire Court of San Francisco, but you’re not welcome in their territory until invited—and I’m sorry, Cinnamon, that includes you too. You both wear my collar.”

“I knew it,” Cinnamon said, head snapping aside. “Nothing but trouble—”

“Cinnamon, you’re
never
trouble,” I fibbed. “Saffron, look . . . Doug and Jinx are staying in San Francisco. Are you seriously telling me that they’re safer there than we are because
we’re
wearing your collars? I thought these stupid things guaranteed us protection—”

“
In Atlanta
,” Saffron said. “But you’re not safe in San Francisco until we know that will be honored. That’s not just for your protection; it’s for ours. You both wear my collar—so to other vampires, you’re not just under my protection—you’re my minions.”

“I am not anybody’s ‘minion,’ ” I said.

“But they don’t know that,” Darkrose said, raising her head, weary, but with an edge to her clipped South African accent. “And one powerful vampire bringing a formidable werekin and a very formidable witch into the territory of another could be considered an act of war.”

“You can stay at the airport hotel, or you can go have a night on the town,” Saffron said, folding her arms, setting her chin, making the locks of red hair pouring out of her bonnet look like the mane of a red lion. “But you can’t join us in San Francisco until you’re cleared.”

“All right,
fine
, a night on the town,” I said, rubbing Cinnamon’s headscarf. “Oakland looks like it could be only, what, a thirty minute drive or so? Let’s catch some dinner, then go see Jewel spin some fire. After all—wait for it—what’s the worst that could happen?”

———

“On the streets of Oakland?” asked a sharp voice. “You could
die,
Dakota Frost.”