Frost Moon s-1

by Anthony Francis

  "I'm sure you did your best," I said.

  "Not likely," he snorted. "We could have found out at least half of what you've told me without knowing Sumner's name. Five minutes listening to you and I feel like I'm caught with my pants down-"

  "Well… not yet you're not," I said.

  "Don't you start," he said, eyes back on me with that same appreciative look he'd had scoping out my tattoos. "Scratch that- do."

  Oh, Lord. Me and my smart mouth-I hadn't meant to open that can of worms. I already had a werewolf as a secret admirer; I didn't need another suitor. I held up my hands, which made his eyes light on the yin-yang and magic circle tattoos on my palms. "Agent Davidson," I began. "I'll do what I can to help you find the killer-"

  And then a horrible thought struck me. All the other tattoos, presumably, had been ripped from someone's body. But this time, we had the tattoo, not the victim "What?" he said sharply. "What else have you thought of?"

  "You… you don't have a body for the last one, do you?" I said. Davidson scowled, hand clenching on the book, and my stomach churned. "I mean… at least I hope the victim was dead when they. .. when they took the tattoo."

  There was an ugly pause. He just looked at me. Oh, God.

  "I'll talk to my clients, and to the witch," I said.

  "I'll talk to my agents, get them on this," he said, holding up the book. "And talk to Nighy about releasing images of the lid, maybe even some of the other tattoos-"

  "One more thing," I said. It had been bugging me the whole time, but still I hesitated a moment; this would reopen that can of worms. But that held me back only a moment.

  I reached out and took his glasses off carefully. He twitched, just a little, and I guessed it was more from our eight-inch height difference than the invasion of his space. I waggled the glasses. "I could see the smile in your eyes even through these. You have wonderful eyes." I slid the glasses into his pocket. "You shouldn't hide them, Special Agent Davidson."

  He smiled at me, the same warm, quirky smile he'd given me back at Homicide, given me a few minutes ago, now enhanced by warm, blue-grey eyes.

  "It's Philip, Miss Frost."

  "Dakota," I said, turning and walking away.

  I'd just met one of the fabled "black-helicopter men," of conspiracy theories and New World Order fame, and he was darned cute.

  Talk about having men falling out of the sky.

  9. Elegant Gothic Lonta

  The Starbucks in Little Five Points is on Moreland, at its farthest northern edge, as if the raw power of LFP's eclectic vortex had repelled the chain's sterile corporate heart and this was as close as it could come. Me, I come for the dark roast-at least Starbucks claims it's made from sustainable beans.

  My young witch pored over a book, murmuring, dressed in head to toe in frilly black-ornate petticoat and satin dress, Victorian corset and ruffled jacket, black bonnet and folded-back veil, all outlined here and there in shocking white lace. Elegant Gothic Lolita, the style was called, though you rarely saw it outside of a science fiction convention.

  Yet here Skye "Jinx" Anderson sat, decked out in the middle of the Starbucks, oblivious to the stares of the college boys at the next table as she moved one hand over a spiral-bound book, still murmuring. Whenever she took a sip, raising her coffee to her lips with a delicate hand wrapped in a fingerless black lace glove and jingling charm bracelets, the boys drew in a breath; when she set the cup back down with deliberate grace, they all seemed to sag.

  I knew the drill by this point-Jinx already knew I was here, but didn't care to be interrupted. So I waited in line and got some coffee, creamed it, and joined her.

  Jinx looked up at me over her black disc sunglasses, and now I drew in a breath. I never failed to be shocked by her eyes: blue, gleaming, the iris inlaid with a milky white ring, like a snowflake embedded into the surface of blue marble. She caught me looking and pushed her glasses up with one delicate gloved hand, at which point I could see the glowing nub of a Bluetooth mike poking out of the lace mesh and curls of dyed, blue-black hair. Beside her book, there was a cute little laptop with raised spider decals. She'd been dictating notes.

  "Hi, Jinx."

  "Dakota," she said, smiling, drawing her fingers over one last line of Braille before closing the book. "It's been too long. You're normally not so shocked."

  "Actually, I always am, spooky-eyes," I replied. She scowled, and I said, "You'd prefer 'Little Miss Anderson'?"

  "NO!" she said, throwing her hands to her cheeks in mock horror. "Shame on you for dredging up high school memories, Miss Frost!"

  "Don't you start," I said. "I've heard that far too much over the past few days-"

  "So," she said primly, leaning her elbows on the table, folding one hand over the other, and propping her chin atop them, "Let's see this tattoo you've got for me."

  "Actually," I said, pulling out the envelope, "I have two today, and maybe one later-"

  "Oh, goody," she said, clapping her hands together.

  "Don't get too excited, I may be taking one of them on spec."

  "Anything for you, Dakota." She leaned her head against her hands. "What are they?"

  "The one I called you about is a werewolf control charm. Spleen-"

  "Feh," Jinx said. "He smells."

  "Spleen hooked me up with a were who wants more control over his beast." I grew uncomfortable, but Jinx kept 'staring' at me from behind her black glasses. "I think it may be a Nazi design, or something they collected. Frankly it scares me. I'm not comfortable inking it without knowing what it does."

  "As you should be," she said. "And the rest?"

  "A magical wristwatch."

  "Oh, my," Jinx said, making gimme, gimme motions with her fingers.

  "This one is a… stunt," I said, holding off. "I don't know if I'll get paid, but I'll cut you in for ten percent if I win the contest."

  "Dakota," she said reprovingly. "Anything for you. But really! A contest. That's so unlike you. What's my cut going to be?"

  "One hundred thousand dollars," I said.

  "Mmm. hmm," she said. I couldn't tell whether she believed me. Or maybe she missed the 'thousand' part? "Well, anything for you, Dakota. Let's see what you've got."

  I slid the flash out of the envelope and arrayed it on the table. She stared down at it for a moment, then let her fingers run over it, looking off into the distance, murmuring. Then she pushed her glasses down and picked the flash up, holding it close to her spooky geode eyes, staring first at the detailed joins of the clock, then at the edge of the wolfsbane charm.

  I felt so sad. Growing up, Jinx had always had the best vision of any of my childhood friends; now she could see little more than a murky blur. It was painful watching her rock her head back and forth, trying to eke some sense of the figures through the ruin of her eyes. Finally she put the flash down on the table, drummed her fingers, and nodded.

  "It will take me a day or so to 'look' them over," she said.

  "I figured," I said, pulling out a USB key. "I have some files if you want the originals-TIFF, JPEG, PNG, and for the clock, even something called SVG-"

  "Scalable Vector Graphics," she said, suddenly breathless, upraising a gloved hand into which I dropped the key. "Excellent. That will save me a step."

  "I don't have the other one. We're trying to get a picture now-"

  "Do you know the general kind of inking it's going to be?"

  "It's…" I stopped, deciding how much to tell her. This was police business, nasty stuff, and I knew how she felt about the police-heck, I felt the same way. But this was Jinx, after all. What could I hide from her? "I'm not inking it. Someone ripped a tattoo off one of Richard Sumner's clients."

  "A copyright infringement case?" she said, shocked. "Dakota-"

  "No," I said, very flatly.

  Jinx's face drained. "Oh, Dakota," she said, horrified. "You mean literally. Oh, Dakota! What have you gotten yourself into? How did you ever come across such a thing-"

  "Andre Rand
," I said. "He wanted to warn me. Somebody's targeting people with magical tattoos." Her hands went to her mouth. "I'm, uh, trying to help them-"

  "Well, duh," she said. "Quit dancing around it, I can smell your reluctance from here."

  I didn't say anything. I was a bit embarrassed. Jinx hated the police, for reasons she never disclosed. In fact she'd nearly cut me out when she found out my dad was a cop, and even now she barely tolerated him-though on that score I knew how she felt.

  "Well," I said, "It's just, I didn't think you'd like me working with them-"

  "'Them,'" she said. "Say it. 'The police'-and 'the Feds,' I'll bet. You're helping the police, and you're worried about what I'll think."

  "Yeah," I said.

  "Well, stop worrying, Dakota." She sat up straighter. "Someone may be stalking you, and has already killed somebody else. Of course you're helping the police. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I know you better than to think you'd engage in a modern witch hunt."

  I let out a breath, relieved. "So, if we could get them to release the pics, you'll help?"

  "Dakota," she said reprovingly. "Oh Dakota. Of course. Anything for you."

  Her phone beeped, and Jinx sighed. "I have class," she said primly, closing her little laptop, slipping it and the spiral-bound Braille book into a brown leather satchel, and then withdrawing a spirit cane.

  "I know," I replied.

  "Walk me to the bus stop?" Jinx said, standing, all black ruffles and white lace, unfolding the springloaded white cane to its six foot length sharply, tik-tik-tik-tik-CRACK.

  "Certainly," I said, stepping to the door and opening it. She walked forward towards my voice, sweeping the cane back and forth, click-clack, acutely aware of her effect on the boys at the side table as she swept past them. She took my extended arm naturally as she stepped through the door, and we walked out into the warm Atlanta sun. "Just like old times."

  "More than you know," she said. "I think I can evaluate the clockwork flash, but as for the control charm… we'll want to call in an were-expert."

  "Let me guess," I said. "Not a wereologist, but an actual were."

  "Right, first time," Jinx said. "Goes by 'the Marquis.' We're texting all the time, but he's a real Edgeworlder. No email, no fixed address-you'll have to take the flash to him physically, in person, at the local werehouse-"

  "Which warehouse?"

  " Were-house," Jinx said, pronouncing the first syllable distinctly. I still heard little or no difference, other than she was leaning on the were, but I got the gist.

  "Fine, fine," I said. "I actually like werewolves, or werewhatevers-"

  "You've never been to an actual werehouse, though," she said. "They're homes for werekin who can't 'pass'. I've only been once, and I had the distinct sensation that I was tolerated only because I'm blind. Humans just aren't wanted there, so you'll have to be escorted in."

  "Wonderful," I said.

  "Oh, it gets better," Jinx said. Now she was dancing around something, which wasn't like her. "There's a new wrinkle, so." "So what? What's the wrinkle?"

  "The werewolf clan has contracted with some… low-lifes… for protection."

  "Oh hell," I said. "Vampires. No, let me guess-rogue vampires. I'm going to need an escort to deal with my escorts!"

  "It's not that bad," she said. "They're a vampire gang, yes, but they do abide by the protocols. So you can get protection from them… but, it's just… as a Little Fiver…" ^

  "Oh, hell," I repeated. "I have to ask for help from my exgirlfriend."10. The Junior Van Helsing Detective Agency

  If you follow Auburn Avenue east from Boulevard to Randolph Street, just where Auburn splits back off from Old Wheat, there's a small, unassuming box of a building sitting at the narrowest of the five corners of the intersection. It's shy on windows and has broad double doors pointing straight at the street, giving it a small-church feel; and indeed it was once a church, now deconsecrated. And inside, in the karmic convergence of holy ground built on a ley-line crossing near a five-pointed intersection (found by our very own Jinx), lived the vampire queen of Little Five Points.

  My ex-girlfriend, Savannah Winters.

  Back when I had my Festiva, you parked on Old Wheat; Auburn had some kind of city right of way and you'd quickly get towed. With the Vespa I expected to be able to putter right up and park on the sidewalk, but when I arrived, there was a new wrought-iron fence up around the whole main building. Finally I parked behind a small connected Victorian building that had once been the church school, next to a couple of unfamiliar cars. Had she moved?

  But the church buildings had been reworked too, now with a semi-formal entrance and several carved wooden signs, like a doctor's office:

  L5P VAMPIRE CONSULATE DARKROSE ENTERPRISES JVH DETECTIVE AGENCY

  I scowled. Apparently Savannah was setting up her own little business empire trading on her vampirism. I wondered if she was ever going to get her Ph. D-not likely, at this rate.

  Once she'd dreamed of becoming the world's very first vampire vampirologist, becoming a vampire herself to try to "study the vampire world from within." I told her not to do it, the 'vampire world' would eat her alive. She went and got herself turned anyway. We split.

  I'm not bitter.

  As I predicted, the vampire world consumed more and more of her time and life, pushing everything else out. The careful planning she put into her change made her into an extremely powerful-and sought after-vampire. Soon, Savannah Winters became the head vampire of the Little Five Points district, helped by a little bit of vampire nepotism from the vampire who made her.

  She'd called to tell me she was now the Lady Saffron. I'd hung up.

  It was the last time we'd spoken.

  Now here I was, staring at the signs, nerving myself up for this. Finally I rang the doorbell and was buzzed in.

  Inside, the remodeled building felt even more like a doctor's office. It was a small but brightly lit room, in earthtones, with padded chairs, magazines on coffee tables, and even a couple of potted plants. A reception desk served as gateway for three doors going left, back and right. Except for the blonde girl behind the desk, the room was empty-things had to be slow at nine-thirty on a Friday night. Then the phone rang, and I realized that it was only a couple hours past sunset. Vampire business might just be starting to heat up.

  "Hello, Junior Van Helsing Detective Agency," said the girl into her headset. Surely she couldn't be in college. She had to be a high schooler… or a something.. "I'll put you through to Detective Nagli." She pressed a button, then looked up at me. "How can I help you?"

  "I'm here to see 'the Lady Saffron,'" I said, pronouncing her vampire name carefully, trying to hide my resentment. "Is she still-"

  "Ah, Vampire Consulate business," the girl said, oddly embarrassed. "You're, um, you're in the right place, but… I'm sorry, can you wait maybe an… hour?" She cringed at my glare, and said hastily, "The Lady Saffron is here, but she's… ah… entertaining the Lady Darkrose right now. They won't receive visitors for at least an hour-"

  Huh. She'd gone and shacked up with someone else-another vamp from the sound of it-and built up a whole entourage. I don't know why it pissed me off, but it did.

  "She'll receive me," I said. "I'm an old friend of 'Saffron'-"

  "Are you now?" said another voice. A young, young man, wearing a suit with all of the grace of a bum, had come to slouch in the side door. Just beyond him was a hard-looking man with a dark beard, openly staring at me with an unfriendly scowl. The boy's gaze had no such hostility, but still pinned me with a calculating eye. "If you're an old friend, surely you know Saffron doesn't like to be disturbed when entertaining Darkrose."

  "Or maybe I don't," I said. "I don't know who this Darkrose is."

  "An old friend of Saffron who doesn't know who Darkrose is?" The boy raised a manila folder to his lips. "An old friend… or an estranged friend, perhaps?"

  "Both," I said. "Now take me to see Saffron. I'm headed to a werehouse, and I need to
ask for her protection-"

  "Ah," the boy said. "Makes sense now. Show her in."

  "You do it," the girl said. "They're in there with Doug-"

  "You're the secretary," the boy replied.

  "You're the idiot who wants to interrupt her after she gave orders not to be disturbed-"

  "You're forgetting they're vampires," the hard-faced man said, with a sudden, bitter laugh. He had an odd accent, not English but maybe somewhere from the ruins of the empire. "They'll love the chance to show off their little court."

  The boy and the secretary looked at him, then each other. "Vickman's right," she said.

  "Fine," the boy said, handing the envelope to Vickman. He whipped out his phone and tapped off a few quick instant messages, then snapped it closed and said, "Come on, old friend of Saffron, and let's see how you handle this."

  He opened the door to the left into a small hallway that led to a conference room, dimly lit, with a wetbar and overstuffed couches opposite a conference table. The hum of a refrigerator came from a set of built-in cabinets behind the bar, and I swallowed. What kind of drinks would a vampire serve at a bar? The boy stepped between the table and wetbar to an elaborate, heavy wooden door, and pressed a button on an intercom.

  "Just who the hell are you?" I asked.

  "I work for the Junior Van Helsing Detective Agency," he said. "We have an… arrangement with the Consulate to handle their reception in exchange for the office space."

  He pressed the button again. After a moment, a woman answered in a strong but oddly clipped variant of an English accent, like Vickman's. I didn't recognize the voice.