Liquid Fire (38 page)

“Damn it,” I said. “I . . . I can see that’s possible.”

“The alternatives are all worse,” Arcturus said. “It’s your own design, so I think we can rule out a control charm, and it’s hermetic, so we can rule out external intents. That leaves the idea that your tattoo picked up a stray spirit. You inked it encircled?”

I gave Arcturus my best withering look.

“Fine, fine,” Arcturus said. “Are you certain that—what’s wrong?”

“I . . .
did
activate it once, before it was fully complete,” I admitted.

“Jesus!” Arcturus said. “You activated an incomplete tattoo—”

“Not intentionally,” I said. “I was being attacked by vampires right after having my vines forcibly stripped from my body. I tried to activate
them
, I ended up activating it . . . and it was still in four components. The feedback damn near tore me to pieces—”

“But even then, it wouldn’t have picked up a stray intent,” Arcturus said. “You’re a careful inker, Frost. Each of the components was piecewise hermetic, right? So—”

“Think that leaves the notion you’re talkin’ to yourself,” Zinaga snarked.

“
Fine,
I’m talking to myself. A magical circuit
could
create weird perceptual effects. But we’re avoiding the big mystery—
how
is my original masterwork still active
ten months
after it detached from my body? It actually looked stronger. In fact, it looked
solid—
”

“I’ll give you another mystery,” Arcturus said, avoiding Zinaga’s glance. “A student walks out on her master, then waltzes back in almost
nine months later
expecting him to solve her problems for her. You always want to cut down the easy road to get the quick answers—”

“Damn it, Arcturus,” I said, glancing at Zinaga, who now refused to look at me or Arcturus. “You think you got an explanation, spill it. I don’t have time to play games here. People’s lives have been threatened, may still be at stake—”

“You don’t know that there’s any connection between the threats on this Jewel character and the appearance of your original masterwork,” Arcturus said. “It could just be coinci—”

“I don’t believe in coincidence!” I snapped. “Not when dealing with magic or mystery or threats or anything else smelling of danger. Someone is out there.
Bad people
are out there. But they’re not going tell you their targets, their plans, or their methods—they’re going to keep all that hidden. But they’re always
after
something, and
that
they can’t hide. When you glimpse the enemy sniffing around, you don’t sweep it under the rug. You go on high fucking alert!”

Arcturus frowned. “You’ll never see it coming,” he said. “Trust me—”

“You never—” I began, and stopped. Arcturus had lost his family to a kidnapping. He never spoke of it. When he said “you’ll never see it coming,” he meant
he
hadn’t seen it coming. Somehow, I doubted that—but I wasn’t going to use that against him.

“You and I,” I said, “are going to have to differ on this, because the few times I’ve had to deal with ‘someone’ out there who meant me harm, weird shit started happening
long
before the bad guys ever reared their ugly heads—”

Arcturus’s mouth slowly opened, his eyes staring into the distance.

“And weird shit is definitely happening now. Magical signs that keep glowing without a power source are one of them. Tattoos that survive long after they should have dissipated are another. They’re similar enough that it makes me mighty damn suspicious—what?”

Arcturus’s eyes had snapped back to me when I’d drawn the connection between the dragon signs and the appearance of my original Dragon—a connection I hadn’t made until I’d spoken it, right then. But he quickly shook his head and tried to brush the connection off.

“Fire magic and tattoo magic are powered in completely different ways,” Arcturus said. “Linear discharges versus planar connectors. There can’t be a connection—”

Zinaga hissed. “Damn it, Arcturus—”

“Settle yourself down,” Arcturus said. “This is between her and me—”

“
I-am-not-stupid,
” I said. “I know there’s a connection you don’t want to tell me—”

“You don’t know a damn thing,” Arcturus said. “You think you know so much, but you still quit before you learned to tell shit from sand. If you’re so smart, why do you need that blind witch or that mangy half-wolf to do your designs—”

“I have independent graphomancers
review
my designs because
that’s the law,
” I said. “And I know the flow of mana is essentially the same, no matter how it is collected. I took five semesters of magic before I came out here, Arcturus. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not blind—”

“What you’re not,” Arcturus said, “is part of this studio. You left. Twice.”

“So?” I said. “I had to leave sometime, Arcturus. The chick must leave the nest—”

“Don’t lecture me with fortune cookies, Frost,” Arcturus said. “You’re not the master.”

“What does that matter? I’m dealing with a real problem here,” I said, staring at Zinaga. She was even more independent-minded than I was; no wonder Arcturus was treating her like dirt. “Is the only way someone can have a relationship with you is worshipping at your feet?”

“No, I’m asking for a basic level of respect,” Arcturus said, voice rising. “You can’t learn anything unless you show your teachers a basic level of respect—”

“In
grade school
,” I said. “Maybe even high school. But by
our
age, you’re supposed to be sharing knowledge amongst adults. You’re supposed to learn that attitude in college because professors can be wrong, and in life you will be penalized if you take their word for gospel!”

Arcturus leaned back. “You and I will have to differ,” he said icily. “I was educated in an older school, and I demand to receive the same level of respect I gave my teachers.”

I stared at him. “If you had me drive an hour and a half out here to demand I grovel,” I said, “I’m leaving and not coming back.”

Arcturus stared back at me. “If you think you can do without me, fine. Go, then.”

I glared now. “Whatever has been discovered, can be rediscovered,” I said, standing. “I have scientists all over the country lined up to help me figure this out.”

Arcturus laughed.

“Real scientists, not closet wizards trying to lead everyone astray so they can keep magic for themselves,” I said, standing. “So they can set up tin-pot kingdoms in backwater nowhere—”

“Dakota, siddown,” Zinaga said.

“I told you, settle down,” Arcturus barked. “This is between master and student—”

“Ain’t
I
a master now?” Zinaga said coolly, and I raised an eyebrow.

Arcturus scowled. “Well,” he said, “well, technically yes, but she’s my student—”

“I thought she just fired you,” Zinaga said.

“
She
fired
me?
” Arcturus said.

“A teacher is hired by the student,” Zinaga said. “Don’tcha know that?”

“A
master,
” Arcturus said, practically underlining the word with a growl, “takes an apprentice. Don’t you know that?”

“Yeah, I sure do . . . because
I am a master
,” Zinaga said. “And didn’t you say it was high time I took on an apprentice?”

Arcturus’s face turned red as a beet. “Don’t!” he barked. “Don’t you dare—”

My eyes widened. “Now, now wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not agreeing to—”

“Both of you, get over yourselves,” Zinaga said, leaning back against the wall, shaking her head. “Every time you get together, you squabble like little kids. It’s embarrassing.”

Arcturus pointed at her. “Zinaga, this is my studio—”

“Oh, shut it, Arcturus,” Zinaga said. “I ain’t the fucking help. This may be your
house
, but it’s
our
studio. You remember that talk about partners . . .
partner?
Well, I won’t have my partner acting like a dick to our star . . . to one of the studio’s former students!”

Arcturus’s face became even more mottled, and he clenched his fists on the table—but he didn’t respond. As for me, I couldn’t get over what I’d just heard: Zinaga had walked straight up to the edge of calling me the studio’s
star student
—

“Wipe that smirk, Dakota,” Zinaga snapped. “You are such a total ass.”

I frowned to hide my smile. “Yes, yes I am. Sometimes it’s hard to shut off.”

“So,” Zinaga said, folding her arms over her chest, so that her tattoos gleamed. “We’re going to help you, Dakota, because it’s pretty damn interesting that a tattoo inked in this studio is still live nearly a year later, and the ‘studio’ oughta know how, right, Arcturus?”

“Yes, we need to know,” Arcturus said, “but she left, Zinaga. We can’t just—”

“Why not?” I asked. “If the studio is you and Zinaga, why can’t you just—”

“The ‘studio’
ain’t
just ‘Arcturus and Zinaga,’ ” Zinaga said. “It’s a whole lot more.”

“Damn it, girl,” Arcturus said. “Partners or no, this . . . this is a sacred trust—”

“
Arcturus,
” Zinaga said. “Think about what this girl can do. It’s
time.
”

Arcturus scowled, looking at her, then at me. “All right,” he said. “All right. You’re right.” Then he glanced up at the calendar on the wall. “Damn it. We can’t do the formal ceremony for a few more days yet, but if you’re saying it, it
is
time.”

I drummed my fingers on my arms. “All right, I’ll bite. Time for what?”

———

“Time, skindancer,” Arcturus said, “to stop being an apprentice, and become an initiate.”

40. Fire on Jewel

“Who kicked your puppy?” Annesthesia asked.

I stared off into the distance. It was Thursday morning back at the Rogue Unicorn, the tattoo studio where I held court, and I was in a
foul
mood. After all that buildup, Arcturus had told me to come back to Blood Rock on the next new moon for my “initiation.”

I was
incensed
, but they ignored my pleas for urgency, broke out a six pack, and told me to chill, so there was nothing for little old designated-driver me to do but grit my teeth, say farewell to the drunks, and drive back to Candler Park to stew for seventy-two hours.

I
hate
waiting. It wasn’t even eleven yet, so I didn’t have any customers to pick on; only Annesthesia, our coquettish receptionist, who could give better than she got. Finally, I lowered my copy of the
Journal of the American Academy of Dermatology
and smiled at her.

“Arcturus,” I said.

“That would be . . . the only person other than me who can take you down a peg?”

“Right the first time.”

Annesthesia smiled. “On that note,” she said. “You have a visitor. I’m letting her stew.”

“We’re not even open yet,” I said, “and even so, it’s not like you to let customers stew. Normally you springload them on me when I’m stepping out of the bathroom.”

“I didn’t say
customer,
” she said, “and you’re less of a wasbian than you let on.”

Now I smiled. “Jewel,” I said.

“Right first time,” she said, smiling. “I’ll show her right back.”

“No, let me see what she’s doing,” I said, and we both scurried down to the tattooing room—still dark, so we were almost invisible to our sole visitor in the waiting room: Jewel. She stood there, in harem pants and a leather top, staring at the Artists’ Wall, both hands behind her, holding a shapeless fringed purse over her shapely rump, her heavy copper ringlets shifting as she looked first at my picture and bio, then at the gallery of tattoos I had inked.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Annesthesia said. “You
do
have a customer.”

I felt my dragon tattoo shifting against my body, its tail slowly running over my belly, like I was rubbing my hand over my stomach. It wanted to slip lower, and my cheeks reddened. I now could see the wisdom in Arcturus’s idea that the Dragon was just mirroring my intent.

I stepped out, and Jewel turned with a slight yelp.

“Oh! Hey, Skindancer,” she said, putting her bracer-wrapped hand to her breast. She made even embarrassed reactions look graceful. “You startled me.”

“Hey, Fireweaver,” I said, smiling and giving her a hug. It felt so good to have her around again, especially with our “first meeting” barriers down and without fire coming down around our heads every other minute. “Did bad old Annesthesia make you wait?”

“I told her I didn’t mind,” she said. “I had planned to bum around this little alt-culture mecca you’ve got here, a surprise find in the Deep South—”

“Atlanta is
not
the Deep South.” My mouth quirked up; I was still mad at Arcturus, so I said, “You wanna see that, I’ll show you the town where I learned to tattoo.”

“I’ll pass on the dueling banjos, thanks,” Jewel said, flicking her hand, making me scowl. “Oh, you’re cute when you pout. Anyway, I strolled over when I thought it was time, but I was a few minutes early. Forgot my watch.”

“I can fix that for you,” I said. “Tattoo a working watch right on your wrist.”

Her jaw dropped. “You can’t seriously do that,” she said. “Oh my God. You
can.
”

“One of my more popular tattoos,” I said. “Call Alex Nicholson back in the Bay. He can vouch for it—he got my first one, and it’s been running for . . . what, eleven months now? The newer designs are better, though, calibrated to a solar day—”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s . . . that’s impressive, not what I wanted but—”

“So you were planning on getting a tattoo,” I said, smiling slowly.

Her face reddened. “Uh, I—not exactly planning. Thinking about it.”

I waved my hand about the shop. “Well, while you’re thinking, why don’t I give you a little tour, show you what we’ve got, tell you all the questions you ought to be asking of your magical tattooist and studio, and what answers you need to get, else you should run—”