We screeched round the corner down the old ironworks drive, debris rattling up a storm beneath the green loaner as it slid through loose gravel at every curve. Calaphase gripped the dash in fury, hunched forward, eyes intent, hands curled like the claws of a predator.
“Hurry,” was all he said.
But I was already stepping on it. Vines and bushes tore greedily at the Accord’s exterior. Then we were through, darting through chainlink and rumbling over concrete, speeding towards a vast pillar of glowing smoke looming over ruined buildings lit by yellow flame.
“And God moved over the desert in a pillar of flame, destroying everything in his wrath,” I said, eyes wide. “My daughter is in there! In a cage! ”
“Get as close as you can,” Calaphase ordered. “Then we do what we can. Everyone gets out. Stop here! I don’t want your car to catch on fire, we may need it to evacuate the wounded.”
I hit the brakes and we scrambled out. The rollup doors to the werehouse were open and Fischer burst out of the smoke, beard grimed with soot and eyes glowing with power. A young boy was in his arms, and an endless stream of animals swarmed out around him: mostly wolves, but also mountain lions, deer, even a horse-but no Cinnamon.
“Those are all the cages,” he shouted at Gettyson. “I checked the whole level!”
Gettyson nodded-he was in the throng, gesticulating, using the vampire guards and the unchanged elders to sort predators from prey. He caught sight of us and waved. “You two, take the side wing,” he shouted. “Get anyone out of there before the flames cuts them off!”
We ran round the right side of the building, opposite the wall where I’d saved Tully from the graffiti. Here was a long, low blockhouse, half buried in the ground, that had perhaps once been a storage area. It abutted the main building of the werehouse, where smoke was already billowing out an open door and jetting through cracks in the dark, sooty windowpanes.
“I’ll take the upper level doors, you the lower,” Calaphase said, vaulting up over the railing onto the next level and touching the first door with his hand. He cursed and jerked his hand back, then ran to the next door.
Stairs led to the lower level doors. They were all in a long low trench, sealed off by a chain link fence like a cage. The stairs stopped at a chain link grate with a simple padlock. I tried to bolt forward down the stairs, hoping to snap the padlock with one of my snakes, but was pushed back by a new wave of smoke from the door closest to the stairs.
“Help us!” a voice screamed, and I caught a glimpse of cat eyes and furred hands reaching through the links for help. Not Cinnamon, but for the grace of God-” Help us! ”
But the fire wouldn’t let me: wind goaded it on. Ugly, roiling yellow smoke boiled out of the door, breathing in and out like a living thing, surging every time I tried to get past. I tried crouching and slipping past, but the heat was so intense it staggered me, and when I tried to catch my breath the hot stale air and the tightness of my corset left me dizzied and coughing.
Well, fine. There’s more than one way to save a cat.
“ Spirit of fall,” I murmured. “ Extend my reach.”
A long vine uncoiled from my wrist and curled past the smoke, down the stairs, and I prepared myself, stretching my body, as best I could in the corset, to bring the snake to life. It began to crawl down the vine, and I willed it to slink down and snap the link on the chain And then the door screamed with rage and vomited forth a great blast of flame. The roiling fireball knocked me back, the flash of heat singing my skin even from dozens of feet away. And for a brief moment, the fire enveloped the snake on the curving vine.
Pain hit me like a live wire.
I screamed. The vine recoiled, trailing sparks through the air-sparks of flame, not mana, as heat destroyed the delicate pigments. The vine snapped back onto my skin and I jerked back uselessly, curling up into a little ball as white-hot pain burned into my flesh.
“Dakota!” Calaphase said, coming to my side. I tried to answer, but the corset was still crushing my diaphragm and I just gasped for breath. “Dakota!” he said. “Are you all right?”
I held up my hand. The snake itself was completely gone, the vine tattoo’s color had faded to a dull brown, and the skin around it was red and beginning to blister. The fire had burned me, burned me through the magic, even though my skin never touched the flame.
I caught my breath and looked at Calaphase helplessly. “I can’t help with this.”
“You know what? I can’t wade through fire either. So screw magic,” Calaphase said, punching my shoulder. “Get up, let’s help these people.”
He sprinted, no, shot down to the end of the low building with vampire speed. By the time I caught up with him, gasping, limping, my knee throbbing, he had torn the chain link fence away, and all I had to do was help lift the poor trapped werekids out of the dark hole.
“Where’s Cinnamon!” I asked the werecat. “Cin! Stray! Where is she?”
“Down by the weight room,” she said, coughing. “Lucky bitch was going on a hunt-”
“Show me,” I said.
We ran back around the werehouse, past the main entrance, jumping down onto the lower level, again curving around towards the same area where I’d fought the graffiti yesterday. When we got there, I paused, gasping again, looking up at the fire, at the tongues of flame now licking through the smoke-curling, artistic, like brushstrokes.
“Oh, hell,” I said. It wasn’t just fire.
“Come on, Dakota,” Calaphase said, beckoning from the corner. A great orange glow came from behind him, and I ran around him, bracing myself for the horror of the flames.
Rippling tongues of flame coiled up the wall that had held the tag, starting about ten feet off the ground. Above was all concrete, all concrete and yet it still burned; below, where the tag had been, was a huge expanse of cracked, sooty darkness that had once been white.
“Where would Cinnamon be?” I said, holding my side.
“Damnedest thing,” Gettyson said, staring up at the flames creeping up the cinder blocks. The fire reflected eerily off his odd eyes, like two slits of flame. “The damnedest thing.”
“Gettyson! Where would-what the hell,” I said, staring at the remaining wall. They’d gone back over it since the night of the assault on Tully. “You whitewashed it? All of it?”
“Of course,” Gettyson said, glaring. “It damn near killed Tully-”
“You fool! ” I shouted. “ This is a magic fire! How are we gonna fight it now, if we can’t see or even touch the magic mark that’s generating the flames?”
Gettyson stared at the wall, and then he saw it too. “Oh, shit-”
“Get anyone not needed to fight the fire and comb the woods,” I said, glaring across the parking lot at the dark green Oakdale forest. “Somewhere out there, the prick that killed Revy is fanning these flames, and we gotta stop him. Short skater dude, white or maybe Latino, baggy clothes, big-ass hat-and if he’s wearing the same shit-ass grin, kick his teeth in for me.”
Gettyson grabbed a half-changed wolfling that passed. “You heard her,” he said. “Go!”
“And if he’s got any spray cans don’t touch them! ” I screamed after him. “They’re filled with magic pigment, and can blow up in your face, literally!”
“What does we do about the fire?” Gettyson said. “What does we do?”
“We get everyone out,” I said, holding up my burned arm. “We get everyone out, and then let it take the damn building. And we start with Cinnamon. Where is she? ”
He pointed at a low side building jutting out of the back of the werehouse. Its roof was in flames, and as we watched the whole front awning collapsed so that there was no way inside.
“Oh, hell no,” I said, staring, looking at a small barred window that was the only remaining exit. I half expected Cinnamon’s hand to reach out, to slap the glass-but more of the roof collapsed around it, barring even that entrance. “Tell me there’s another way in there.”
“Through the living quarters,” Calaphase said.
“Fischer already tried that,” Gettyson said. “The smoke will kill you-”
“Then we go this way,” Saffron said, stalking past us towards the flame.
My eyes followed her, but I could barely overcome my shock. “Saffron!”
“Where the hell did she pop up from?” Calaphase said.
“We were right there when you said there was a fire, and right behind you most of the drive in,” Saffron said, staring up at the building. “With all my power, did you really think I’d just sit by and let innocent people die, much less a child under a vampire queen’s protection?”
“Well,” Calaphase began-and then shut his mouth at her quick sidelong glance.
“My Lady Saffron,” Darkrose said, running up after her, white-lined cloak flying open, gleaming black catsuit reflecting flickering red as she flinched back from a sudden surge of flame. “ Saffry! Please, it is fire! Not even you-”
“Then stay back!” Saffron said, red dress whipping past her in the sudden wind. She looked around, scowled, then said, “Dakota, we’re getting weather effects like you reported at the Revenance kill-send the werekin out looking for the rogue magician.”
“I already have,” I said.
“Good. Calaphase, Darkrose, go make sure the other entrance is clear,” Saffron said, turning her back on us. “I don’t like the looks of this roof.”
Then with one hand she lifted the huge iron beam that had been part of the awning, tore it aside in a groaning shower of sparks, stepped forward with a savage blow that burst the metal door inward off its cinderblock frame. Then she disappeared inside.
“Oh, hell, she’s as powerful as they say she is,” Calaphase said.
“Why is she so strong?” I said, bewildered.
“She’s almost completely vegetarian,” Darkrose said. “Her vampire and human flesh exist in near perfect symbiosis. But it doesn’t make her fireproof.”
Then the flames picked up, started punching through the roof of the low outbuilding. Moments later, the whole structure collapsed, leaving half of one wall holding up smoking embers and the glowing bones of the roof.
I stared at the others. “You heard her,” I said. “Let’s go clear the path.”
But flames licked at the big roll-up door that had been the entrance to the werehouse, thwarting our attempts to get inside. Before we came up with another plan, Saffron strode out of the flames like the Terminator, holding Cinnamon half-changed in her arms. Saffron’s flaring red dress caught fire as she stepped through the threshold, but she ignored it and stomped straight up to me, holding Cinnamon. Gratefully, I took Cinnamon in my arms and held her tight.
Saffron patted her dress out idly, as I kissed Cinnamon’s half-feline face and tried not to wince at the embers that were burning my skin. My little girl was half-conscious, but breathing normally. She was safe. “Thank you,” I said.
“Do not mention it,” Saffron snapped. Her mouth pursed. “As for her collar-”
“Please,” I said, eyes jerking down to Cinnamon’s throat, to her silver collar. I couldn’t imagine a clearer demonstration of the value of Saffron’s protection. My eyes returned to Saffron, pleading. “She’s no part of whatever I have done to-”
“Don’t mention it,” Saffron repeated, more softly, then turned back towards the flames.
“No,” Darkrose said, seizing Saffron’s bare arm firmly in her glove. “You’ll die.”
“Please, dear Rose,” Saffron said, extracting her arm. “There are more to save.”
“Saffry, no,” Darkrose said, shaking her head. “There aren’t. It’s too late.”
And then we were all pushed back as a new surge of fire blossomed out of the werehouse. The flames grew more intense, burning white, streaming out of every orifice, screaming under the pressure like steam escaping a teakettle-or tortured creatures screaming in pain.
Then the main roof collapsed inward on itself and a huge backwash sprayed out of the door like a river of fire-then was abruptly sucked back with a rattling gasp, snuffing out all the flames at once. In its wake, a roiling black cloud erupted through the ruined roof.
“I’m no fireman,” I said, “but that wasn’t natural. ”
“Agreed,” Calaphase said. There was little left of the fire but embers. A few tongues of flame were springing up again, but intermittently, almost like the fire’s heart was no longer in it. “The rush of fresh air should have made it worse, but it’s like-”
“It’s like she said,” Gettyson said heavily. “It was a magic fire.”
We pulled back to my loaner car, an impromptu island in the parking lot for a group of survivors. According to Gettyson, there were a few still missing, but…
“We were lucky,” Gettyson said. “Damn lucky. Full moon proper was at eight this morning. Half the kin are gone, and most of the rest were out on an early hunt.”
“Not that lucky-we lost the werehouse,” I said. “Damnit, Gettyson, you knew covering it with paint didn’t work, you knew I needed to take pictures, and you went and painted it anyway! Not that I know we could have stopped it if we could have seen it-”
“I thought if the paint dried, maybe… ” Gettyson said. “He sure showed me.”
Saffron, Darkrose and Calaphase made one last sweep for survivors and returned empty handed. “Do you have any further need of me?” Saffron asked, as Gettyson and I tended to Cinnamon on the hood of my loaner car.
“No, my Lady Saffron,” Gettyson said. “On behalf of the Bear King, our thanks.”
Saffron nodded, then glanced at Cinnamon. She sighed, seemed about to say something, then looked up at me and Calaphase and stomped off. Darkrose bowed slightly, eyes lingering on me in apology, then followed her mistress back to their Mercedes, which quickly squealed off.
“Mom?” Cinnamon said weakly, coughing. “Mom, why are you here?” Then her eyes widened. “Oh my God! What-what happened?”
“A fire, little Cinnamon,” Gettyson said, tousling her hair. “Don’t worry. Your little wolf cub is safe. I gots Tully out looking for the punk that set this, and when we finds him… ”
“You’ll bring that little punk back alive,” I said, patting down Cinnamon’s brow with a wet-wipe. “You’ll bring him back alive. He is not working alone, and I want to question him.”
Gettyson started to retort, then looked at my eyes. Remembered what ignoring me had already cost us. He looked away, then back at Cinnamon as I cradled her. “All right,” he said, relaxing a little. “We does it your way. You earned it. We knows where your loyalties lie.”
Then the blinding white light of a spotlight pinned us all where we were, and we looked up to see a knot of smoke pushed away by a black helicopter, descending in silence.
“This is the D-E-I!” a loudspeaker screeched. “Everyone stay where you are!”
Attack on the Werehouse
Werekin scattered like cockroaches. Two more helicopters appeared-sleek as fish, black as night, quieter than vacuum cleaners: Shadowhawks, the stealth helicopters favored by the DEI. And then the loudspeaker blared again: “This is the D-E-I! Stay where you are!”
“Oh thank God,” I said, staring up into the light. I knew the voice. “That’s Philip!”
“Hell,” Calaphase said. “We need to get out of here.”
“Why?” I said. “We need the help, and we’ve done nothing wrong-”
“ You maybe,” Gettyson spat, tearing off his jacket. “But the werekin here just got outed!”
“But… ” I said. “But I never gave away the werehouse’s location.”
“You idiot! You let them track you! ” Gettyson shouted, throwing his jacket at me.
The moment he said it, I knew he was right. Stunned, I watched him tear off into the distance as DEI agents slid down from two of the helicopters on wires. Several followed him, and a team of four converged upon us as the Shadowhawks swung round and settled towards the ground. They had their guns out. They had their guns out. I had to stop this.
“Let me handle this,” Calaphase said, starting forward. “I-”
“No,” I said sharply. “Stay here. Cop doesn’t mix well with vamp. You too, honey, you just lie here,” I said, patting Cinnamon’s head. “Let me deal with the police.”
“Mom?” she asked, then sat up sharply. “ Mom! ”
“Hey, hey,” I cried, waving my arms at the flak-jacketed agents. “Thank God you’re here, but what’s with the ordinance? We need fire fighters, not a fire fight.”
“On the ground!” the lead agent shouted, a big, tough black man with close-trimmed hair and a no-nonsense demeanor-but his eyes were a bit wild. “On the ground now!”
I was appalled, but I didn’t let him stop me. He was a cop, and, fundamentally, we were on the same side. All I had to do was keep everyone talking until we were all calmed down.
“Whoa, gentlemen. I’m the official representative of the Little-of the Oakdale vampire clan,” I said, spreading my hands. “We provide security on this site under the umbrella of the Vampire Consulates of Atlanta, and as you can see we’ve got a situation here-”
“Shut it!” the agent shouted-enraged, buzz cut, jaaaar head. “On the ground.”
“Where the hell do you think you are, federal land?” I said. “Maybe you didn’t notice zip-lining down from Shamu the Flying Leafblower there, but it’s posted-you’re trespassing. If you ain’t here to help, I sure as hell hope you have a no-knock warrant-”
“What the hell’s this?” a second DEI agent said, training his shotgun on me. It was a Benelli, the kind Philip used. “A street lawyer?”
“More importantly, what the hell’s that? ” a third agent said, pointing behind me. “It’s like she’s half tiger or something.”
“Oh, shit,” the second one said. “We’ve got a lyke changing here.”
Oh, hell no. “What you’ve got is more than you can handle,” I said, raising my hands towards them and sliding one foot back, “unless you cough up a warrant-”
“Shut it!” the first agent said, as the others tried to flank me. “All right, street lawyer, back to law school. Myers, cuff her. Johann, Briggs, secure the lyke before she changes.”
“ Spirit of justice, shield my stand,” I said-and shot both hands out wide.
My vines unfolded, and in shock the agent fired. The blast scattered off my growing shield, stung my skin- what were they using? silver? salt? a mixture? -and knocked me back. I was shocked by the noise and impact and my face flushed in terror-but there was no way the agents could see that through the green glow of my vines shining on their astonished faces.
I settled into a solid karate stance, extending my vines out into a thicket to bar their path to my child and friends. As I settled and my vines thickened, they glowed brighter, their green overpowering the red light of the flames-and the officers backed up. Apparently skindancing was rare enough they simply weren’t prepared, and just looked dumbfounded.
“Settle down, gentlemen,” I said, trying not to let my shaking show. Jesus Christ. I just got shot in the chest. But these men had been coming after my child, and if I’d learned anything from Taido, it was this: don’t initiate violence, but once your guard’s up, never let it down. “Until I see a warrant, you aren’t badges, you’re just trespassers on private property.”
“Down, Dakota,” said Special Agent Philip Davidson, striding briskly forward from the now-landed copter, shotgun over his shoulders. He wore a flak jacket over one of his thousand-dollar suits, his brown hair looked black in the dying light of the flames, and his goatee made him look like a villain-but he was smiling. Part of me was glad to see him; the rest wanted to punch him for letting his officers get this far out of hand. “And stand down, gentlemen.”
“This ain’t your op, Davidson,” the first officer cracked. “And Namura said-”
“ I’m the ranking officer,” Philip said, “and I’ll deal with the Director. Stand down.”
“Philip,” I said, easing down, furling my vines-slowly. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“Dakota, you should know better than to interfere with Federal agents. I should arrest you on general principles.” But he stopped next to the agent who’d fired, radiating the calm disapproval he was so good at. “I said there would be civilians on scene. Did you just discharge your weapon point-blank onto my unarmed girlfriend while her hands were empty?”
“But there’s a lyke-and she was-” the agent began. “Uh, no, well, uh, sir-”
“Make that ‘uh, yes sir’-he did shoot little old unarmed me,” I said, not giving Philip ‘girlfriend’ after the ‘valuable resource’ crack-but folding my arms so he wouldn’t see my hands tremble. “And yes, my hands were indeed up-”
“But she was resisting,” the agent said, as Philip just stared at him.
“Standing with my hands out pleading for calm?” I said, glaring. “Look, maybe I was being hardnosed; but that’s my daughter back there. You didn’t leave me any choice.”
“Only you, Dakota, could take a shotgun blast to the chest and then apologize for being hardnosed,” Philip said, amazed, stepping right up to me, hands touching a hole in my vest.
“Holy shit,” I murmured; my vines had protected me, but not my clothes. I deflated a little. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Lucky woman is the phrase I’d use,” Philip said. “After your ‘emotional experience’ you had toned your bravado down; I take it the volume’s back up?”
“I wish you hadn’t brought that up,” I said. ‘Emotional experience’ was a bit of Fed jargon for getting the shit kicked out of you-in my case, by the vampire Transomnia. It didn’t take much for me to see his cold red eyes, to feel my fingers in those garden clippers, to remember that I could tattoo now only because he’d let me go. “I was trying to forget.”
“I was trying to make you remember,” Philip said, finger picking at a hole in my corset. “You’ve got to think things through. No agent will take chances arresting a werekin-at the first sign of resistance they’ll shoot first and sort it out later. What if you’d been a half second slower with your shield? You’d be dead and probably would everyone else on your side.”
“What was I supposed to do?” I said. “Lie down and hope?”
“That’s the law,” Philip said firmly. “Anything else is resisting arrest-”
“The phrase I’d use is defending my daughter,” I said hotly. “Philip, I was raised on the force and I reject the idea cops can’t listen to reason. Why didn’t you prep the agents?”
“I tried, but I can’t be everywhere watching over every agent’s shoulder-and what if I hadn’t been here at all?” He reached out and briefly squeezed my shaking hand. “You can’t count on me to always ride to your rescue, no matter how much I’d like to.”
“I know,” I said. I was still steamed, but I still tingled at the brief brush of his fingers. Then Calaphase shifted behind me uncomfortably-and Philip caught it.
“That your new beau?” he asked, leaning slightly so he could stare around my shoulder. Philip was shorter than most, though it didn’t show, given how he carried himself. “The fang? ”
“If you mean the blond vampire,” I said, frowning, “we’ve had one half -date, and if you feel jealous, you should have seen the look on Saffron’s face when she ran into us.”
Philip looked up sharply, saw the missing collar. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Though I could see how she would see it as a breach of trust.”
“Breach of trust?” I said. “ You had me tailed-”
“I’d never have you tailed,” Philip said, glancing over his shoulder, “and you have to know sending an assault unit into a werehouse filled with children was not my idea.”
I followed his gaze to see a trim young Japanese man striding towards us in a neat, pinstriped suit. He surveyed the officers, the huddle of survivors around my car, and then me and Philip, and then stepped up and said, “So, Agent Davidson, I take it you have secured the scene.”
“Yes, Assistant Director Namura,” Philip said. “There’s the issue of-”
“Not quite,” I said, folding my arms again. “There’s the small matter of the warrant, not to mention the illegal surveillance you had to be doing to follow me here.”
“And you must be Dakota Frost,” Namura said, black eyes inspecting me with amused displeasure. “Are you aware it is illegal to practice magic in Georgia without a license?”
“I’m a licensed magical tattooist,” I said. “Licensed to ‘ink magical marks and perform related tattooing magic.’ Just because people don’t understand what tattoo magic can do… ”
But Namura closed his eyes suddenly, and you could see them working back and forth rapidly beneath his lids, like he was scanning something. “Yes, yes of course,” he said, voice almost bored as he withdrew something from his coat pocket. “That will do.”
“What, aren’t you going to claim to be offended?” I asked, staring at what I guessed was a warrant in his hand. “To make a case that I’m skirting the law-”
“The point of the law is that you have training to use magic and know how to handle magical materials safely,” he said, unfolding the papers. “Clearly you have training, and if your skin is the spellcasting material, there’s no danger of it falling into the wrong hands.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Philip and I said simultaneously.
The man raised an eyebrow, then held the letter out. “Our warrant, Miss Frost.”
I took it. I’d never seen a Federal warrant before; I had no idea what they looked like. I hadn’t even known they were issued by the U.S. District Court. For all I knew they’d made this up at Kinko’s-but it looked official, and I took careful note of the most important details:
Takashi Namura and any Authorized Officer of the United States,. .. having trumped up the necessary evidence and waved around the scary word ‘werewolf’, are hereby authorized to roust the nearby werehouse for… concealed on the person or property Un-Licensed Lycan-thropic (sic) Housing Facility.
“You see this is a no-knock warrant,” Namura said. “This conversation is a courtesy.”
“As long as everyone’s talking, no-one’s shooting or biting,” I said quietly.
“My apologies,” he said, more quietly. “I saw you take a shotgun blast and not strike back. Most impressive. On behalf of my men, thank you for trying to defuse the situation.”
“Maybe I did that a little for them,” I said, “but mostly it was for my daughter.”
He glanced at her, then closed his eyes again, letting them flicker behind his lids. Then he opened them, nodded, and turned to his men. “Where are the sirens? Where is our police backup, the ambulances, the fire trucks? There are injured people there. Why are you not helping them?”
The agents jerked at the sound of his voice, like he’d cracked a whip; yet he had barely raised his voice, and you could tell nothing from his face. Even Philip twitched, but Namura said, “Stay with this group. I don’t want to lose them, even if they aren’t the fish we hoped to catch.”
“All this wasn’t a response to the fire,” I said, understanding growing in my mind. “It couldn’t have been. You were going to roust the werehouse anyway.”
“This,” Namura said, “is the inevitable fallout of the attack you partially reported earlier. You called in attempted murder by magic, but didn’t give us enough information to perform a proper investigation. We had to follow up. You should know that.”
“Of course,” I said. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
“Maybe,” Namura said, turning to survey the fire, the swarming agents. “But, now that we are here, know that ‘rousting’ the werehouse is going to take a back seat to responding to the fire. In the end, the safety of these… well, these people is our first duty.”
“All right,” I said heavily. “On that note… we couldn’t get everyone out.”
“There’s always a further complication,” Namura said, striding off towards his men, motioning to one of them. “We’ll send rescue crews in everywhere we can-”
“Have them watch out,” I said. “I have strong reason to believe this was a magic fire.”
Namura scowled. “We’ll want to question you,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
We all stood there in uncomfortable silence, not wanting to look at each other. Philip remained damnably quiet. I expected my big bad vampire beau to bust out with some creepy bullshit to knock his human rival off guard, but Calaphase looked actually embarrassed. Every time he looked like he wanted to say something, he just bit it off and kept quiet.
I certainly wasn’t going to say anything
In minutes there were sirens in the distance, followed by police cars, ambulances, and three or four fire trucks. The firemen made short work of what was left of the blaze and stopped a fire that was left in the woods. Only the tag itself kept “burning,” but it was no longer real fire: it was just colored streamers of magic that only looked like flame, slowly weakening.
Namura summoned me back to the tag to explain to the firemen how to set up a magic circle. They nodded, but I don’t think they were really listening. They just kept their eyes on the tag hoping that the magic would fade on its own without them having to deal with it.
“Oh, hell, it’s you,” cursed a familiar voice, and I turned to see a dwarf Columbo wannabe stomping up to me-McGough from the Black Hats magical crime squad.
“It is indeed me,” I said, smiling back at him, surprised to realize I liked the guy. Something about having been through this before put us on the same team. He radiated calm, thought on his feet and the look he gave Namura’s team spoke volumes. I was betting he didn’t like Namura’s tactics any more than I did. “And how the hell are you?”
“I was fine until I saw you, you tattooed witch,” he said, trying to suppress a smile: apparently he liked me too. He leaned back and stared at the slow rainbow fire leaking out of the top of the whitewash. “What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into this time?”
“I didn’t get myself into anything, you little toad,” I said, holding up my hands. “This was Cinnamon’s home. She was having a bad change, and we came here for help. Then all hell broke loose.”
“Yeah, yeah, likely story,” McGough said, still staring, his wrinkled little face lit up by the strobing light like he was standing on a dance floor. “Before anyone from the D.A.’s office shows up and tells me to lock you in the clink, any ideas?”
“Oh, I’ve got ideas,” I said, reaching out and touching the whitewash. A bit of it came off on my finger, and I held it up to him. “Under this shit is the mural that attacked T… the werekin I reported. The other werekin painted it over before I could take pictures, but it was definitely by the same tagger, or more likely, crew of taggers that killed Revenance.”
“Oh, shit, don’t tell me it’s a crew,” he said, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck. “Don’t you tell me that. How are we going to track them now?”
“Different hands, but the same style,” I said. “Also, we noticed some wind effects, like when we tried to save Revenance. I think at least one tagger was within eyesight, helping fan the flames. I wouldn’t be surprised if they set the fire as revenge for whitewashing the tag.”
“I’d believe it, the jerks,” McGough said, nodding. Then he smiled. “Alright, go back and wait with the civvies before someone notices you’re over here. Last thing I need is some idiot D.A. trying to force your foot into a ‘misuse of magic’ slipper.”
“Namura asked me to come over here,” I said. “You don’t really think-”
“-people look for their keys under the lamplight because it’s where they can see without having to think to hard?” McGough said bitterly. “Yeah I do, just like I think a DA tired of chasing her tail might decide you’re guilty because you’re always around. Now get out of my crime scene before someone decides to pick you up and see if you’re the key to a promotion and new Lexus. Shoo! I might need you later.”
I went. But, OK, I had to admit it: I really was starting to like the little toad.
But when I got back to my car, the pit fell out of my stomach. The Mercedes had returned, bringing Saffron and Darkrose. A tanned, ripped Native American man was there too, the human form of Lord Buckhead, the fae Master of the Hunt and patron of the werehouse. Saffron, Buckhead and Calaphase were arguing with Namura, who looked unhappy. But none of them moved to stop the officers arresting Gettyson, Fischer and half a dozen other elder werekin.
“These people are under my protection,” Saffron snarled.
“And mine as well,” Lord Buckhead said, glaring down at Namura.
“ And mine,” Calaphase said.
“That’s fine in the Edgeworld,” Namura responded, “but they still must follow the law.”
“What the hell is going on?” I asked.
All of their eyes turned on me. When Saffron’s eyes met mine, Namura abruptly cursed, and something white and gleaming dropped out of his hand. Calaphase and Darkrose flinched as a cross fell to the ground and bounced before Saffron’s feet, white hot.
Saffron winced, but she stood her ground, still glaring at me. Finally, she bent down, picked up the cross, grimacing in pain, and then stood, holding it in the palm of her hand as white magical fire rose off of it, fueled by feedback between her power and her hostility.
Her eyes locked with mine, red and glowing. “I forgive you,” she said. But the cross was still burning. She meant me harm. She still meant me harm-her flash of rage at Canoe hadn’t evaporated; it had crystallized into a grudge. And, worse, she saw me as the guilty party.
Eventually I realized she expected me to respond. I was flabbergasted: I could barely believe she was letting our spat at Canoe get in the way of dealing with the very real problem of Namura arresting the weres. Calaphase was right: she wasn’t acting like a vampire queen.
“Apology accepted,” I replied, you spoiled brat.
Her expression flickered-she caught that I wasn’t going to take the blame. Her face fell, her eyes softened. She drew in a breath, let it out slowly, and the flame in her hand went out. She flicked the cross to Namura, who cursed and dropped it, holding his hand like he’d been burnt.
“This isn’t over,” she said, not looking at Namura. “The Consulate will be in touch.”
“Of course,” he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Of course it will.”
He picked up the still-hot cross and looked around at all of us, worried and afraid. His eyes fell on Philip, who was sitting next to Calaphase, talking in a low voice.
“A daywalker ruling the vampires? Vampires working with werekin? An entire werekin compound? And skindancers out in the open? I’m disappointed, Agent Davidson,” he said. “To let this kind of power build up-”
“It was in all my reports,” Philip said, standing. “You just didn’t listen.”
“Frost!” a voice shouted, and I saw an officer putting Gettyson in a squad car. Gettyson threw him off and glared at me. Apparently running an “unlicensed werekin housing facility” merited more than a slap on the wrist. “I told you this would happen!”
I started to say a dozen things, but stopped as I realized it didn’t matter. At the end of the day, I was walking away-and Gettyson was being arrested.
As one officer, then two, then three wrestled futilely with him, Gettyson just glared at me with pure contempt burning out of his wide-pupiled eyes. I swallowed. No matter how this came out, regardless of who was to blame, I had made a true enemy.
“I was wrong earlier,” Gettyson snarled. “ Now we knows where your loyalties lie.”