Frost Moon (22 page)

Savannah agreed with Philip that I should do Wulf’s tattoo, but she was insistent that I not try it before I was out of the wheelchair. For once, I had no argument; no matter how badly Wulf wanted the tattoo, I wasn’t ready to get back in the saddle yet. Besides, the full moon wasn’t until Saturday, and I couldn’t imagine trying to do a tattoo sitting in a wheelchair.

But then night fell, on Tuesday the thirty-first of October: Halloween. And wheelchair or no wheelchair, escort or no, I was not going to miss the last hurrah of The Masquerade.

The Masquerade was a mammoth dance club and live music venue on the other side of North Avenue from City Hall East. It was huge, divided into three levels—Heaven, a live music venue; Purgatory, a traditional bar; and Hell—a goth/industrial/techno dance club that had taken the title of “my home away from home” after City Hall dialed the nightclub hours back and my first fave, a fetish dance club called The Chamber, folded.

Now the Beltline project was sweeping around Atlanta, eating up a whole ring of the city like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, and turning every low-rent district in its path into mixed-use monoblocs or greenspace. Supposedly the whole district around The Masquerade and City Hall East was next on the list, and this Halloween was The Masquerade’s blowout swan song.

Savannah pushed my wheelchair along the sidewalk through a cavalcade of people in Halloween costumes, fetish gear, and combinations of both. There were zombies, vampires and werewolves, or at least people dressed like zombies, vampires, and werewolves. Women dressed as Wednesday Addams and men dressed as The Crow mugged for the cameras. There was even a pair of fetching young lesbian Borg from Star Trek, turning heads in leather, rubber and laser pointers. Savannah herself wasn’t in costume per se, but in a long leather coat over a matching leather bikini and thigh-high boots, she turned heads all the same.

As for my costume? Savannah had heartily approved of my desire to get out of the house and get on with my life, but guessing what outfit I’d had in mind, she’d tried to derail my choice several different ways—rescuing a long leather coat and shiny T-shirt from my apartment, getting Lord Delancaster to loan his cape coat so I could be ‘Sherlockina’, and even hopefully pulling out a whole array of fetish gear, complete with gas mask.

In the end, I did my own costume: I sprayed the remaining tufts of hair so they stood up in spikes, tore and muddied up an old pair pants, and poured on layers of makeup accentuating, rather than hiding the bruises and scrapes. It was hard to get the makeup right around my neck because of the collar, but in the end ‘Roadkill’ lived again. I did such a good job, I actually felt a little bit guilty as I wheeled myself out of the guest room, but Savannah was so bossy even with me injured and us split that it felt good to have something to needle her with. Sure enough, she took just one look at me before getting nauseous and excusing herself to the bathroom.

Success.

The queue came to a halt as we got closer—the police had stopped the line as it crossed North Angler Street and were letting people across in bursts as the doorkeep let them in. You could see the flaring lights of firedancers reflecting off the surface of the Masquerade’s towering, blocky surface, and I whined. A few days ago, when I’d been naive and healthy, I’d have bulled across the street, counting on the crowd behind me to overwhelm the police while I darted ahead for a better view.

Now I looked at the tired cop standing in the street, holding up his hand to the crowd while he waved traffic by with his little yellow airport light. That man could just as easily been Rand, or Gibbs, or even Philip, a hero who’d stumbled and was now directing traffic. I looked up, at the dark shape of City Hall East not five hundred yards away. Somewhere, up on the sixth floor, men were working late to track someone who was ripping the skin off my clients, and working to find the man who had beaten me.

Somehow, dicking with the police didn’t seem funny anymore, and when we trundled across the street, I threw up my hand for five and told the man Happy Halloween. His eyes lit up. “That is a bad ass costume,” he said, calling after me. “The bruises look totally real!”

“They are,” Savannah hissed back at him.

“Be nice, ‘Lady Saffron,’” I said, and she squeezed my shoulder. It was surprisingly difficult to remember she became ‘Saffron’ in public, but she seemed to really appreciate it.

We came to a stop at the end of the line. The pumping music from inside The Masquerade was louder now, and the flickering fire was brighter. Occasionally, the crowd gasped as a fiery baton flipped end for end high up into the air, but from where I was sitting, I could see
nothing.
I itched to get out of the chair, and Saffron actually put her hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down.

“Be good,” she said, breathing into my ear. “Or I’m turning the car around.”

My cell rang. “Dakota Frost,” I answered. “Best magical tattooist in the Southeast—”

“This is Philip,” came his crackling voice.

“Phil!” I cried. “We’re missing you—”

“I’m missing you,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you—keep yourself safe, call Rand and the boys for backup if needed, but I think you should do Wulf’s tattoo.”

I couldn’t answer for a second. “And just how did you come to that conclusion?” I asked. He didn’t answer, and I grew suspicious. “Philip. What did you do?”

“Who, me?” Philip said innocently.

“Philip!” I said.

“Just gave him my Mission-Impossible style glasses with the videocamera turned on,” Philip responded. “I got a wolf’s-eye view straight back to his lair—”

“You tracked him!” I cried. Damnit, I
knew
he was up to something when he gave away those sunglasses. “He trusted you!”

“What if he was our killer?” Philip said, slipping into his super-calm, super-reasonable voice. “I can’t afford to go weak kneed—”

“You son-of-a—”

“Hear me out,” Philip said. “First, before the power on the transmitter ran out, we did get to see his lair. No box, no blood, no
nothing
to indicate he’s a roaming serial killer—just a homeless werewolf curled up on dirty blankets struggling through pre-lunar shakes. Next time he moves we’re going in to check it out, but as far as the eye could see, he’s legit.”

I was furious, but I could see why he’d done it.
“Fine,”
I said.

“Second… I had my men check out the incident at the hospital. Thoroughly. Wulf was telling the truth. Someone gave his description to the front desk and told them to call the police, but according to the security cameras, Wulf was never in there. And—get this, I love it—it wasn’t a phone tip. Someone actually walked up to the desk and complained about Wulf in person, but from an angle
just
out of range of the security camera. Either they really got lucky, or they knew
exactly
what they were doing.”

I swallowed. “You mean… that talk about his enemies… he wasn’t off his rocker?”

“I’m not qualified to judge his mental state,” Philip said, “but as far as there really being someone out to get him… he’s right on the money. Someone is
definitely
gunning for him, though we have no way of knowing whether it’s some organized criminal element or just an irate hospital visitor who took offense to his looks.”

“I’m going to want that backup,” I said. What the hell was I thinking? Tattoo artists didn’t need backup. At least, we weren’t supposed to. “I want to help him, but now I’m more worried about whoever has it out for him than I am about any threat from him.”

“Me too,” Philip said. “I’ve already spoken to Rand and he can get you some plainsclothes that work the homeless. They won’t spook Wulf—”

“If he really is homeless,” I interrupted, “where is he getting the money for this?”

There was silence. “That’s a good question. Are you sure he
does
have the money?”

“Spleen referred him,” I said. “Spleen doesn’t work for free. I think he said he got a five thousand dollar retainer when Wulf waltzed into town six weeks ago. That doesn’t sound like someone worried about money to me.”

“Homeless
doesn’t always mean
penniless,”
Philip said. “He knew what Oakley Thumps were. That ratty old suit of his? Started life as a Caraceni. It’s Italian, ‘bench bespoke’—made to order. New, it was worth almost five thousand dollars.”

“What does all this mean?”

There was another silence. “It means Mister Wulf deserves a closer looking into.”

“Don’t hurt him,” I said.

“Dakota!” Philip sounded hurt. “This is
me
we’re talking about—”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t known you for all that long. I want to believe you. Really, I do.” I said. “But I really don’t know what you’re capable of. If that little stunt with the sunglasses was any indication, you’re manipulative.”

He paused one more time. “Maybe I am. I’m proud to be a manipulative bastard, Dakota. But I’m still a good guy. I won’t hurt him. Remember what I said in the square—”

“You called him a perfect suspect.”

“I said perfect
target,”
Philip corrected. “Once he gets that tattoo… he’s going to have the perfect profile to become one of the victims.”

“You’re going to use him as bait?” I asked, horrified.

“No, Dakota,” Philip said. “This is me. There’s always a smarter way.”

“I’m trusting you on this,” I said. “I’m walking a tightrope between human rules and the Edgeworld here. I want to help you stop this killer, but I won’t just hand an Edgeworlder to the Feds— no matter how cute the Fed is.”

“I’ll take that in the spirit it was offered,” Philip said. “Call Rand, and ink Wulf before the full moon. I’ll keep you posted on anything I find.”

He hung up, but I had already unplugged from the conversation, because the crowd had parted—and I could see Alex Nicholson juggling fire.

He had stripped to the waist and daubed faux Native American war paint over his muscled, trim chest. It was a virgin canvas, and I drooled at the thought of being the first to ink him. Or maybe I just drooled. He was whirling a flaming baton back and forth, flipping it through the air with increasing speed.

But then Alex saw me and winked, putting a flourish on his spinning that sent patterns of color through the air. This wasn’t just fire dancing—it was fire magic,
real
fire magic. I’d assumed he was a dyed-in-the-wool conjurer, a protege of Mirabilus, sticking to old-school science tricks, but here he was drawing great flowing circles in the air that left curving trails like we were watching a time lapse photo—except this one was living and real.

The splashes of color played back and forth—and behind Alex I caught sight of Jinx sitting with Doug. He had on what looked like 3D glasses, and they were leaning close, watching the show together with rapt if unfocused attention. Jinx cried with joy every time Alex shifted the color of his fire from red to green to blue and back again.

Alex traded the batons for flaming balls on chains, lighting them off a brazier with a quick snap that had none of the fumbling “dangle the poi over the torch until it catches” typical of inexperienced dancers. Alex knew what he was doing, both physically and magically. He spun the fireballs round him faster and faster, creating a swirling hula hoop of fire that slowly, surely, lifted his feet off the floor.

The crowd went wild when he tucked his feet up in the air and let the fire ring slip under him, and I damn near came out of my seat. And then he brought the two poi together sharply, dispersing the fire in a flare of magic strong enough to give everyone in the crowd good luck for a week, if you believed such a thing. He bowed, smiling, and came over to see me.

“That was amazing,” I said. “And not just because you’re the Amazing Alexi.”

“Why thank you, Dakota,” he said, bowing again. His body was covered with sweat, but his eyes were bright and alive and never seemed to break contact with mine.

“But mistake me if I’m wrong, that was more than just firedancing.”

“Digging into my secrets?” he said with a wink. “I’ll give you a hint. Not all of us are as closed-minded as Mirabilus. Magic is everywhere. You’ve just got to learn to see it.”

“And so, what about your boss’s challenge?”

“You’re going to kick his ass,” Alex said with a grin. “I
want
a working tattooed wristwatch. I wouldn’t have volunteered if I thought you couldn’t do it.”

“Can I hand Dakota over to you, now?” Savannah said. “I think I’m up.”

“Up?” I asked, but Savannah ignored me, beckoning to Doug.

“Sure, no problem,” Alex said, stepping behind me. “I’d love to watch over her.”

Doug brought Jinx over, and she put a hand on the side of my wheelchair. “Like the show?” she said, smiling, a bit giddy. “I know I did.”

“Ready?” Savannah said wickedly, holding up a leash.

“As I’ll ever be,” Doug said, letting out a breath, and pulled off his black trenchcoat. He was wearing the same black leather harness and cheekchillers I’d first seen him in, with a much more politically correct loincloth rather than the cage. He dug into a bag Jinx was carrying, and pulled out his puppy mitts and mask. “Could you?” he asked.

“Of course,” Jinx said, helping him fit the mask on, which she did creepily well for someone almost completely blind.

“You’re doing that very well for a first timer,” I said.

She grinned and canted her head slightly, never stopping the weaving of buckles. “I’m a quick learner,” she said, “and it
isn’t
the first time.”

Savannah clipped the leash to his neck, and he tossed his head, going “ruf, ruf.” The sun had set, and I saw Darkrose stalking up, her all in white leather to complement Savannah’s black, towing a black puppy servant in white leather matching her own. The two of them lined up next to each other, almost like an honor guard, and then a grizzled older man walked up to me, supported by Vickman, Darkrose’s hard-eyed, bearded bodyguard.

“Sir Charles!” I said with delight. “I’m so pleased to see you!”

Sir Charles smiled at me, dressed in a tuxedo with his signature cat-o-nine-tails whip dangling from his belt. “Dakota,” he said, releasing Vickman and putting a hand heavily on my chair. “Might you do me the honor of being my shoulder to lean on in tonight’s performance?”