"I'm a foundling," she said. "My mother spent most of her time as a beast during her pregnancy so… so I wouldn't die when she changed. And after all that time."
"She couldn't change back," I said. "I'm so sor-so, you know."
"They say my dad went with her so…" She stared at her hands, at the tufts of fur between her fingers, then said, "So I don't have any parents. The werehouse is my home, but I gots to take care of myself."
"Look… uh, Cinnamon. Why are you here?"
"T-to get down your pants?" she stammered, eyes wide, a little shocked at herself. "I-I-means, I means like you said that you thought that-"
"You haven't thought this through at all, have you?" I said quietly.
I just stood there, in pajama shorts and an old Emory t-shirt, staring down at her with my arms folded. Where I'd changed clothes-except for the damn collar-Cinnamon wore the same ghetto-chic vest and crop top, the same pants: probably the only ones she owned. She was on her own, on the streets at the same age I'd been a choir girl in Stratton Christian Academy, only Cinnamon had more tattoos than I'd had at twenty.
Finally she held out her hand, the one bearing the butterfly mark. "No? Then maybe another super tattoo to match this one?"
"I can't do a tattoo on you, Cinnamon. You're a minor."
She actually hissed at me. "You gave me this-"
"When I thought you were older," I said. "Technically, transferring a mark by magical means doesn't count, but if I actually inked you-I could lose my license."
"Oh, come on," she said. "You looks so cool, but you're just a big square-"
"You like my apartment?" I interrupted.
She blinked, then looked around, at my posters, my DVDs, my books, my cats, even glancing curiously at my glass computer desk and its Herman Miller chair. "It's a cool pad, I guess. I means, cool for a square. Yeah, I likes it, in a dorky kind of-"
"So do I," I said. "I keep it by keeping my job."
"Oh, come on, who'd know?" she said. "It's so pretty. I want another one-"
"Cinnamon… you're thirteen." I said. She started to protest, but I held up my hand. "I got my first tattoo, and started tattooing, when I was nineteen. I've been doing it for nine years. I'm five years older than who you were pretending to be. You could be my daughter."
"Oh, could I?" she said sarcastically. Then her eyes grew distant.
We stared at each other for a moment.
"Oh, hell," I said. "I've gone and picked up another stray."
"I am not 'Stray' anymore," she shouted, standing up on my bed. "I'm Cinnamon!"
The bed squeaked underneath her as she shook with rage, and the noise seemed to catch her attention. Experimentally she threw her weight on it, then started bouncing. I was about to say something.. . and then my cell rang.
The number was unknown, a 770 area code-outside the Perimeter. I let it ring once more, then reluctantly answered it. Maybe it was a client. "Dakota Frost."
"Hello," said a deep voice. "This is Buck."
"Buck?" I said, confused. Then it dawned. "Lord Buckhead!"
"The one and only, but Buck will do," he said. How was he using a phone with a deer's head? Did he have one of those faux old- timey candlestick phones with the mouthpiece on its own cord? "The Bear King just called. He was quite agitated. He seems to think you may have taken something that belongs to the werehouse."
"Let me guess," I said, watching Cinnamon jump up and down on my bed, both feet together. "You're missing a cross between a tiger and a pogo stick?"
"The wonderful thing about Tiggers is, Tiggers are wonderful things," Lord Buckhead said. "But yes, that does sound like their Stray."
She looked over, enraged. "You ratted me! You fink!"
"S-T-R-A-Y seems to want to go by 'Cinnamon' now," I said, turning around, to keep the phone out of reach of her tufted claws. "And I didn't 'take' her. She followed me without my knowledge and broke into my home-"
"That does sound like their missing Tigger," Buckhead said. "Lady Dakota, I do not mean to impose, but would you do me a very great favor?"
"Certainly," I said. "After you interceded on my behalf, I am in your debt-"
"Watch over Cinnamon today."
I froze, staring back at Cinnamon as she stamped her feet and made claws at me to get the phone. "Uh, suuure, Lord Buckhead."
"Thank you, Lady Dakota," Lord Buckhead said. "She rarely has opportunities to leave the werehouse. It will do her a lot of good to see the mundane world."
"Buck," I said. "She's… not a prisoner there, is she?"
"No, it is not that she is never allowed to be out but… it is good for her to be out," he said. "The Bear King means well, but he can be overprotective of his fellow foundlings."
"Oh," I said as the full meaning of "fellow foundlings" blossomed in my consciousness. I assumed that his monstrous bear form had been a deliberate effect, or side effect of his power, or something to do with proximity to the full moon. I looked over at her ears, her tail. "She… uh, mentioned she was a foundling."
"Humans have traditionally been harsh towards the werekin, especially those who could not hide their beasts. The Bear King is merely trying to keep them safe. I do not think he realizes that a place safe from human wrath is not necessarily a safe place for a child."
"What aren't you telling me?" I asked.
"Lady Dakota, please. The werehouse is her home, and they care about her," he said. "Take good care of her today, and I'll send Calaphase to fetch her in the evening."
The line went dead.
"What wasn't he telling me?" I asked Cinnamon. She squatted rapidly, batting at one of my cats with an outstretched arm, which batted back at her like her tufted hand was a toy. "Cinnamon, did the
… did the Marquis take advantage of you?"
"The Marquis? No, he's a faggot," she said, looking away. "But in the werehouse, if you're not 'under' someone, you gets… passed around."
My hands clenched on the back of my Herman Miller.
"So yeah, I hangs with him, lets him ink me," she said. "I'm part of the prissy fuck's 'entourage,' and he keeps me safe." She saw me scowling, and shrugged. "He never once touched my stuff, if that's what you're asking."
"Other people did?"
"Only werekin," she said. "And mostly boys, ones I already likes to run with. One creepy old geezer tried hitting on me, but the Bear King gutted him." She grinned abruptly, vicious, feral. "It was sweeet. Some of his intestines flew all the way to the rafters. They says he was shitting blood for a week."
I felt better, but only a little.
"Cinnamon, if they're using you… I can't let you go back there."
Cinnamon stood slowly, opening her mouth in a feral smile. Fine orange down spread over her face, furring it up like a fast-motion movie you'd see of a growing plant on the Discovery channel. She raised her hands, lengthening them into long, vicious claws.
"You can't stop me," she said, hissing with a full mouth of teeth.
I stared at her, then leaned forward slowly until my head hung over hers and she had to crane back her neck. Her eyes widened as I said slowly, "You scratch me-just once-and I'll be able to do everything you can do, plus this."
And I let the mana in my hands flow out, quickening the butterfly in her hands until it broke free and began flitting around in the air.
"No! No!" she cried, reaching for it, batting it around. "No no no! Please! Please! Give it back! Please give it back."
It settled slowly on my hand, flapping its wings once or twice, the light going out of it as it prepared to merge back with my skin. She cried and held her long claws out over it, cradling it, breathing on it like I had, trying to coax it back to life.
"No no no," she said, as it began to sink back into my hand. "No-one's ever given me anything nice. Don't take it away. Please don't take my butterfly away. Please. Please."
I stared down at her, then waved my inking hand over the butterfly, bringing it back to life. "Oh, all right," I said. "Hold u
p your fist. I want to align it right this time."
In moments the butterfly was back on her hand, me cradling it, coaxing it into the right alignment to best show off the shape of her hand, even with the claws.
"I'm just a big softie," I said.
"Th-thank you Dakota," she stammered, as the design sunk into the skin. "I-I-mean, Lady Dakota, I overheard Lord Buckhead and I didn't mean to disrespect-"
"Oh, don't you start," I said. "If you call me Dakota, I'll call you Cinnamon."
She held up the back of her fist, showing me the tattoo that had once been mine, now brightened by her own super-sunny smile. "Okay, DaKOta!"
I kneaded my brow, falling back into my chair.
I was sure I was going to regret this. But I wasn't at all sure what "this" was. 17. Junkman's Daughter
After much negotiation, I convinced 'Cinnamon' to take a shower-and, with additional effort, convinced her to take it aloneand then took her down to the Rogue Unicorn for an impromptu 'Take Your Daughter to Work Day.'
She wanted to run behind me on the Vespa, but after another fifteen minutes of wheedling I convinced her that it wouldn't do to be caught running down McLendon at forty-five miles an hour in broad daylight.
"Ow," she said, adjusting her helmet. I hadn't realized how small she was: Savannah's old helmet seemed ridiculously outsized on her head. "Can I ditch this? It's crushing my ears."
"We'll get stopped," I said, and then, being unable to resist, fished for a little information. "You can't, you know, shrink them, like your claws?"
She lifted the brow of the helmet so she could glare at me, then got back on the back of the bike, wrapping her arms around me a bit fearfully. Ok, more than a bit. Actually "Can't-breathe-" I gasped. "This isn't going to kill you. I'll go slow-"
"I can takes anything you caaaan-"
And after some to-go from the Flying Biscuit and a short drive, we got to Little Five and climbed the steps up to the Rogue. Cinnamon's helmeted head snapped back and forth so fast I thought it would twist off, and finally I told her that she could take it off.
"My ears," Cinnamon said.
"This is Little Five," I said. "You'll be a hit."
But even Annesthesia was shocked when Cinnamon took off her helmet and then began peering down into it like a fishbowl. I hadn't noticed, but you could see down into her ears, like you would with a real cat: her weretiger features weren't just outer-cosmetic, they'd actually changed the structure of her skull. No wonder she couldn't change. I know I shouldn't have stared, but when she started scratching "I do believe you have ear mites," I said, laughing.
"If you thinks what the Bear King did to that guy was bad," she growled, "you should sees what happened to the last guy who tried to put drops in my ears."
"Who's the Bear King?" Annesthesia asked. "And I love your collar, Dakota! Where'd you-"
"Don't ask, and don't ask," I said. "I don't have the king of Siam and the queen of Sheba waiting on me today, do I?"
"Not yet," she responded.
We made it back to my office and I pulled up the blinds. "Like the view?" I asked.
"Yeah," Cinammon said, staring out over Little Five. "I mean, the place is a dirty dump, but the people-and hey, hey, that guy's even a werekin-"
"Actually, no," I said, peering out. "He's… just a Fiver. But Cinnamon-look around you. This is my office. This is what I do. This is how I pay for my apartment-"
"What, are you trying to save me, Dakota?" she jeered, throwing herself down in my chair and spinning around, jarring the computer and watching the screen hum to life. After she spun down, she kind of looked to the side and got sullen. "Ok. I'll gives it a shot."
"A shot?" I asked.
"You wants a new apprentice, or something? Need an 'entourage'-"
"No," I said. I wasn't really comfortable with her going back to the werehouse, but I wasn't prepared to take a weretiger under my wing just yet either. "You don't have to be my apprentice to hang out with me. Think of today as an outing, courtesy of Lord Buckhead-"
My phone rang again, and I picked it up hastily. "Dakota Frost-"
"Hello, Dakota," came a smooth voice. "It's Special Agent Philip Davidson."
"Philip!" I said, feeling a big grin spread over my face.
"Who's that?" Cinnamon said, her big, toothy grin mocking my own. "Your boooyfriend? Wait a minute-"
"Hush," I said. "Philip, it's good to hear from you. What do you need-"
"I think I may be able to swing approval on getting some images to your graphomancer," he said. "Have you had a chance to talk to your clients-"
Oh, Hell. "No, Philip. I-I haven't even gotten started. I feel like I've let you down, but-" I glared at Cinnamon, and she stuck her tongue out at me "-to be frank I had one hell of an evening working to sort out a complicated tat for a difficult client. And this morning-"
"It hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet," Philip responded. "I didn't expect miracles."
"Hey, if you're going to talk to your boyfriend," Cinnamon said, "can I go shopping?"
I covered the phone and stared at her. "I'm supposed to keep watch over you."
"What's someone going to do, mug me? Unless they gots silver bullets-"
"Oh, all right. Don't go far," I said, starting to raise the phone. She stared at me expectantly, and it took me a few seconds to get it. "Oh, you have to be kidding!"
"What?" she said innocently.
I opened my wallet. Typical-I only had hundreds, a five and two ones. "Here," I said, giving her a single Benjamin. "Don't go far, or spend it all in one place-"
"Thanks, DaKOta!" she said, snatching the money and darting out.
"Oh, hell," I said watching her go. What was I doing? Phil! "Sorry," I said. "I'm babysitting today."
"You? Babysitting?" he said. "I'd pay money to see that-"
"It's quite the show," I responded. "But tell me, if you weren't expecting miracles, what could you expect? I don't actually know how to go about this-"
We talked for a while, both of us slowly realizing just how hard this was going to be-after all, I wasn't the only magical tattooist in the office, and a lot of them would be hesitant to talk to Phil, much less fork over their customer lists. A lot of serious tattoo collectors are rebels: someone sporting 'FTW'-Fuck The World-wasn't likely to cooperate with the Feds. After a bit we nailed down some options and I agreed to at least raise the issue with my team.
And since Cinnamon was gone and the day was just starting, it was the perfect time. I went to Reception: there were a fair number of customers looking at flash, but nobody queued for inking, and we already had two other artists in for their shifts. I made the decision.
"Annesthesia," I said. "Call Tess and Banner and put them on conference call, my office. If you don't get them leave messages for them to call me. Kring/L, CJ-come on. Pow-wow."
"Whatever it is, it can wait," Kring/L said, kinking his head at a biker-type dude going through the big blue binder. "This one's serious-"
"It can't wait," I said, walking over to the biker. He had a surprisingly friendly face, small beard and big curly hair giving him a pointy, elfin look. "Hey dude, I'm going to borrow your tattooist. Can you hang for thirty minutes? If you have him ink something, I'll throw in something small for free."
He studied me, eyes sharp under his dark brows. "Which one are you?" he asked, pointing at the tableau of artists and collectors along the wall.
"Frost."
The huge brows went up and he grinned abruptly. "A free Frost bite? Sure thing."
"Frost bite. I like that," I said, grinning, walking back towards Kring/L. "Satisfied?"
"Damn, you're serious," Kring/L said. Then the big, beefy bearof-a-man started to look scared. "Dakota. What the hell would make you give away a hundred-dollar tat for a freebie?"
"That would be the second hundred I've given away this morning," I said. "Come into my office, and I'll tell you."
Behind closed doors, I told Kring/L and CJ, with Banner and Te
ss on the speakerphone… everything. I mean everything.
The lid, the killer, Philip, even Wulf. I even gave the short version of what I'd gone through to get Wulf s Nazi flash checked out, just enough to explain why I was babysitting a mercurial weretiger foundling for the day. But I came back to the killings, and emphasized that every single one of our magical clients could be a target.
"We've got to tell those cats up at Sacred Heart," CJ said. "And Dino's crew."
"No argument," I said.
"How the hell are we going to find all our clients?" Kring/L said.
"Half of them won't want to be found," Banner warned over the speakerphone, "especially our one percenters."
I scowled. '1%' was a tattoo worn as a badge of pride by those that didn't see themselves as one of the 99% of tattoo wearers 'who are law abiding.' I had no patience for '1%' or 'FTW'-both jinxes I wouldn't ink. But most of the rest of the crew would. Still "Maybe that's not such a big deal," I tried. "How many of them have magic marks-"
"Most," Banner said.
"They're coming here, Dakota, to the Rogue," Kring/L said. "Often they start with FTW or Lady Luck and then move up to something more dazzling-"
"I know, I know," I said. "Maybe we could start with some of our bigger collectors-Bob Sierra, Teresa Regis, Gregory, um, what's his name-"
"Gregor Alan Ivanova," Kring/L said. "Haven't seen him in a while-"
"He moved to Birmingham," Tess's voice said. "I think I have his number-"
"You can't just pass it out," Banner said. "He moved for a reason. He don't want people finding him-" "The Feds aren't after him," I said.
"How do you know that?" Banner said. "How do you know this ain't just a clever ploy to flush one of our clients out? Haven't you watched Most Wanted? They send out a thousand 'you have won a prize' letters to fugitives and then arrest the ten dumb saps who show up!"
Kring/L was scowling. "He's got a point. Dakota, how can you trust this Fed guy? How do you know he's not just trying to get a list of the magically inked so he can disappear them?"
I felt my skin growing cold, that old familiar feeling. "He wouldn't do that-"
"Dakota, you're sweet on him. I can see it-" "I barely know him. But the Feds don't do that," I barked. "They sure do!" Banner said. "You think the 'witness protection program' is to protect the witnesses? It's just to disappear them when big money don't want cases to come to trial-" "That's just an urban legend-"
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