Frost Moon s-1

by Anthony Francis

  And then a second Mirabilus appeared. The first eyed the phone, and his clone reached in, snatched it and answered it. He began talking animatedly while the juggling Mirabilus glared at him; then a third Mirabilus appeared, also yakking on a phone and tossing a deck of cards. Enraged, the original Mirabilus started tossing the balls at his counterparts, who tossed the phones and deck of cards back in a brief display of three-way juggling. Then the clones took the balls and phones and whirled off-while the original caught the deck, broke the wrapper off, and grinned widely to the crowd as he fanned out the cards.

  Now the Mirabilus went straight back to the basics. The spotlight zoomed in, and two enormous screens projected a close-up view of his nimble, graceful hands, shuffling the cards with incredible skill. I wondered if the two projectors and the unseen camera had a big hand in the dueling Mirabiluses we had seen earlier, but I couldn't see how and frankly I didn't care: like everyone else I was mesmerized by his supremely deft prestidigitation. Cards blurred through the air, became flowers, then coins; then the coins were between his outstretched fingers, turning to marbles and gems and dice in rapid succession.

  And then I looked up at his face. The lights weren't on it, but I could see Christopher was tired and sweating, scowling with the effort. The Mirabilus was getting old, and I felt saddened. Then his eye looked down and caught me, and he winked, throwing his hands up and turning the glittering marbles into ten sparks of fire.

  And with that, all too soon, it was over, the Mirabilus bowing to the crowd and its thunderous applause. He motioned for the mike, also flicking his fingers down at me-and as an assistant named Elijah brought him the mike, I was shocked to see Savannah leaning down to release the bumpers on my wheelchair.

  "What are you doing?" I asked, as she started to push me forward. "He's not done-"

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the Masquerade," Christopher called out to the crowd warmly, waving his arms so no-one would notice he was pausing for breath. "I am the Mysterious Mirabilus, and I hope you have enjoyed my little show tonight."

  The crowd went wild-as did I, as Savannah pushed me up next to Darkrose and turned my wheelchair around to face the crowd. "What, what are you doing-"

  "And while the date and venue are yet to be decided, I'm proud to announce here on this very stage-my next Valentine Challenge!" he cried. The crowd went a little less wild-apparently the skeptical set didn't make a big showing at goth-fetish-techno dance clubs-but they cheered anyway as he continued: "You've seen me throw down the gauntlet before to psychics and seers and dowsers and all sorts of mystics, and each time I've won-but this time, I may have met my match: Atlanta's own magical tattooist, Dakota Frost!"

  My mouth opened-and then Darkrose and Savannah reached down and effortlessly lifted my wheelchair and set me gently down on the stage next to Valentine, who put his warm hand on my shoulder and winked at me.

  The crowd gasped-many of them were close enough to realize that many of my bruises and cuts were not just makeup, and many of the rest realized that my Mohawk was gone. But Valentine raised his hand, calming. "Now, Miss Frost has had a rough time of late, having recently come back from the brink of death-" and everyone laughed, a bit nervously "-but she told me she was willing to go ahead with the challenge."

  "No-one would blame her if she backed out," he continued, looking straight at me, ignoring the crowd, "after all she's been through."

  I reached up and pulled the mike towards me. "Not a chance, old man."

  "Hear that? You hear that?" he cried, smiling out at the cheering crowd. "She's a trooper, and I respect that! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you-"

  "Dakota Frost!" a man yelled from the upper railing, and there were screams and shouts as I looked up straight into the barrel of a gun. "You'll never ink that Nazi bastard, Frost!"

  There was a terrific bang, everything tilted sideways, and my knee exploded in pain as something slammed into me. There were shouts and screams as I fell off the stage, wheelchair and the world tumbling down on me. I lay frozen a moment, gasping, watching the surge of feet recede; but there were no more shots. So I lifted the wheelchair off me with difficulty.

  When it fell aside I saw Christopher Valentine sprawled across me, gasping for breath, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand.

  And bleeding. Bleeding fast.

  26. VALENTINE'S DAY

  Christopher Valentine's head lay tilted on the pillow, hair disheveled, an oxygen tube running under his nose. His eyes were closed, slack, and his breathing was labored. His body seemed as thin as sticks under the flimsy hospital gown-except for his left shoulder and upper left chest, all swollen out of shape, and covered in an array of bandages.

  I stood there, on crutches, staring down at him. "Is… is he going to live?"

  "I don't know," Philip said. "I just don't know."

  After a long period of waiting, Philip had worked his magic to get me and Alex through the police guard and the hospital staff. It was amazing, like watching a Jedi out of a Star Wars movie pull his mind tricks. But once inside the ICU, I was too afraid to ask any of the staff anything for fear they would ask us to leave, so I just stood there, hunched over the crutches that had replaced my ruined wheelchair, staring down at the old man who had saved my life.

  Valentine opened his eyes to slits. "Miss Frost," he said, voice hoarse and ancient, holding nothing of his normal stage presence… but still a bit of his devilish humor. "I may need to delay the challenge a bit."

  "Whatever you say, old man," I said, with forced bravado. The old geezer had taken a bullet for me. Christopher Valentine took a bulkt-for me! "Whatever you say."

  His eyes slipped down to the bandages, and he held up his left hand slowly. He could barely move his stiff, swollen fingers, and the arm somehow looked… limp, as if more than the muscles weren't working right. "Good thing I'm a righty, eh?"

  "Good thing," I said, choking up. "A good thing."

  "Hey," Valentine said. "I've been through worse-no, really, through worse."

  "Hello again," said a voice behind me, and I whirled guiltily to see Doctor Hampton-the older doctor that had called in the yummy Doctor Blake to operate on my knee. He eyed me curiously. "Should you be walking around?"

  "The wheelchair was smashed in the attack," I said. "But I'm using crutches."

  "Could I ask you to step out for a moment?" the doc said. "I need to talk to Doctor Valentine about his condition-"

  "That's all right," Valentine said. "She's my… protege. Consider her family."

  "You're just everyone's family, aren't you?" Doctor Hampton said. He had a smile that didn't seem at all forced-clearly he had been schooling Blake on his bedside manner, or Blake had rubbed off on him. "Doctor Valentine, I'm a bit concerned about your bloodwork. You've got some spikes that can indicate an opportunistic infection-"

  "Let me guess," Valentine said. His voice sounded oddly ragged, and he took very deep breaths. "MRSA?"

  "What?" I asked. "What's that?"

  "Drug-resistant staph," Hampton said. "We don't know that yet, but the micro lab's looking it over now. We might need to move you into a different ward."

  "I get it, I get it," he said, waving his hand. "Common in enclosed populations-"

  "I'm so sorry," the doctor said.

  "Should you be saying that?" Valentine said, a twinkle in his eye. "What if I were likely to sue you for giving me a bug I didn't come in with?"

  "Somehow I think that won't happen," Hampton said. "Let's see your hand."

  "It's a little stiff," he said, as Hampton felt it gently. "But I have feeling. I told you, not to worry."

  "You hear that?" Hampton said, looking at me. "When I heard a sixty-seven year old man had gotten shot I was afraid he wouldn't last the night, and now he tells me not to worry. You're one hell of a tough old bird, Doctor Valentine."

  "You doctors," he said, rolling his eyes. "Always underestimating

  "I won't underestimate you, old man," I said.

  "Sure
I'm not faking it?" Valentine said hoarsely. He tried to grin, but coughed and spat up something black. "You-you don't get off that easy."

  He sank back into the pillow, and Hampton looked at us visitors disapprovingly. "I think Doctor Valentine has had enough excitement for-"

  "Dakota!" Valentine said. His good hand shot out, gripped mine tightly, for a brief moment incredibly strong, then rapidly fading as he sank back into the bed. "You find the guy who did this, hear me?" he said. "Don't take him on yourself, but you help the police find him and you put him away for me. You'll do that as a favor for old Valentine?"

  "Cheer up, Chris," I said, squeezing his hand back. "This one's for free."

  27. PIOUS

  Stumping up and down rickety wooden stairs in crutches is not the smartest way to speed up your rehabilitation, but I was determined to get back into the game as soon as possible. I'd never realized how handicap-unfriendly the Rogue became when the elevator was out, and after finding out, I was loud and vocal to the rest of the staff about it. Of course, I'm sure my sore jaw from my morning's trip to the periodontist-and the bad news that it would take upwards of six months to fix my teeth-had nothing to do with my mood.

  They let me putter around the office taking care of administrative stuff so I'd feel useful, but in the end, at five o' clock, when one of Savannah's crew was scheduled to pick me up they shooed me out and told me-with odd smirks-to "Go enjoy the rest of the day."

  I refused help, and stumped down the stairs expecting to see one of the red Volvos from the Consulate. Instead I found a black Prius in the parking lot, and my mouth fell open. It had two bumper stickers: one said COEXIST, written with each letter as a different religious symbol; the other said Osama Bin Laden Hates This Car.

  I smiled. "Secret aaaagent man," I said, and heard a creak behind me.

  Philip Davidson leaned back from the wall beneath the stairwell, stepping up beside me in his immaculate black suit-and with new sunglasses in his pocket. The sun struck his face, and for a moment, the warm light on his skin, glowing against his beautiful blue-gray eyes, made him look like a seer of the future-or a GQ Lawrence of Arabia.

  Then he squinted and slipped on his black shades. "Ok, I tried," he said. "I just feel naked without them."

  "They're very you," I admitted. "I take it you're my escort to meet Spleen and Wulf?"

  Philip nodded. "Saffron was concerned they might be spooked by Consulate muscle, but both of them have already met me. Hopefully I'll be a bit less threatening."

  "Less spooked by the spook," I said. "Well, we'll give it a shot. Hey, my shift just ended and I'm starving, and we still have a couple of hours before I'm supposed to meet Spleen and Wulf to set up the appointment to do his tattoo. I was hoping to-"

  "Catch a little dinner?" he said with a broad grin that warmed me to my toes. He held his hand out to his Prius. "Thought you'd never ask. Your chariot awaits-"

  "We need to talk about this one," I said, pointing at a small black square on his car window that said W – Still the President.

  "Well, he is," Philip said mildly, stepping up to the car. It unlocked on its own. Slick. "But don't worry. Your boys will sweep the House and I'll be crying in my beer."

  "Yeah, yeah, throw me a bone," I said, as he opened the door for me and took my crutches. "Rent a Prius, talk nice to the liberal, get down her pants-"

  "No, I'm serious," he said. He opened the door for me and took my crutches, stowing them in the back seat. "When I was driving down from Virginia, I caught one of my boys duking it out with some host on NPR, man, what a bunch of progressives-" slam, he walked around the front of the car, deliberate but eager, nice butt, and open "-and, then, the host asks about the polls, and my boy loses it."

  Philip pressed a big black POWER button and the car hummed quietly to life. He looked back, and the car started backing out silently, without the gas engine ever engaging. I was in love. And not just with the car, though his politics I could do without.

  "My boy rails on how he's reading all these super secret Republican polls and whatever and when the host starts nailing him on specifics, he gets even more flustered and tells him that 'you can come up with whatever math you want, but I'm entitled to THE math.' And I'm hearing this and the whole time thinking-'Liar!*'

  He said the last word so fiercely I jumped, and at last the gas engine engaged as he turned out onto Moreland and started heading north.

  "In my job, I've got to pick out the truth every day-and when I heard my boy claiming we were going to win, all I heard was spinning." He cut left onto Freedom Parkway, the car humming louder. "So I looked at the polls, at all of them-"

  "And how did you get access to the super secret Republican polls?" I asked.

  "Let's just say the NSA has nothing on the DEI when it comes to information gathering," Philip said. "They may trawl wide, but we go deep-"

  "Special Agent Davidson," I said, mock shocked. "Don't tell me you used the vast powers of your office to fact check an NPR story! But do tell me the juicy bits."

  "Our remote viewers will do anything to settle a bet," he said. "And as for the juicy bits… well, let's just say I think you'll be happy come November seventh."

  "You don't know how I vote," I said. He looked over at me, and we both snorted in laughter. "Hey, where are we going-"

  "Does fish sound good?" he said. "Rand had a few recommendations-"

  "Yes," I said, feeling my cheek; it felt like I would be able to eat. "I'm starving-I haven't had a bite since my trip to the dentist. The meeting with Spleen and Wulf is near Buckhead, and there's this great place, a little pricey, called the Fish Market-"

  He looked over at me again in shock. "Well, what do you know," he said with a grin. "That was at the top of my list."

  We crested the hill of Freedom Parkway just as the sun was setting, seeing the same panorama of downtown Atlanta I'd seen with Spleen the first night I met Wulf. This time we shot towards the glittering spires and slid into the canyon of the Downtown Connector, heading north into the fairybook playground for adults that was the Buckhead Village.

  "There," I said. "Straight onto Buffered Extra-Strength Highway-"

  "Buford, eh?" he said, slipping over a lane onto the long frontage road that paralleled the connector. "He said I had to check out the big fish. Is it that good? I'm on a diet-"

  "If you can eat the big fish," I said, "I'll vote Republican." The Buckhead 'Village' was technically within the city limits of Atlanta, but had its own distinctive feel: upscale shops at the feet of high-rise offices and condos, high-end yuppie restaurants side-by-side with come-as-you-are bars. As the boxy, brightly lit shape of the Atlanta Fish Market became visible on Pharr Road, I stared straight at Philip to get his reaction.

  "Oh. My. God," he said, staring up at the giant, three-story copper fish statue that adorned the front corner of the restaurant, curving towards the sky in all its grand, ostentatious Statue-ofLiberty-colored glory. "He wasn't kidding. That's a Big. F-ing. Fish-"

  "Philip, your lane," I said, as he started to drift over the double yellow line.

  A valet took the car, and after we got our names on the waitlist, we walked-well, he walked and I hobbled on my crutches-back to the towering fish and stopped on the little bridge that climbed over its tail.

  "Holy cow," he said. "It's got that Statue of Liberty color-"

  "Ah, Philip," I said, smiling, leaning my crutches and myself on the railing of the bridge. "It's the copper."

  He leaned on the rail opposite me, and I stared at him… at the cleancut young Republican in his trim suit and devilish goatee, wondering how on earth I had ended up on a date with him and why I was liking it so much.

  But there was a lurking weight on my shoulders, now heavier after the attack on Valentine. Whoever had done that had meant to get me.. . and in the confusion the police hadn't caught the guy. That had me more worried about Wulf s improbable 'enemies' that Philip had found all so probable… and the hanging question about whether Wulf wa
s tied to our tattoo killer.

  Another thought struck me about Wulf and Spleen. "You know-" I began.

  "I was thinking-" Philip said, almost simultaneously. "Sorry."

  "You go," I said.

  "Ladies first."

  "Fuck that," I said, and when Philip arched his eyebrow I raised my hand in surrender. "Seriously. Spleen is Wulf s point of contact. If we can find out when they talked-"

  "We could figure out when Wulf rode into town from Birmingham, maybe eliminate him as a suspect?" Philip said. "That's what I was thinking. But Birmingham's only a few hours away. If he was our serial killer, he could have gone back easily, killed the blonde, and returned here. Or he could have used an accomplice-"

  "But Spleen talked to him several times," I said. "If we could nail down a window of when he talked to him, we could either eliminate Wulf as the man on the scene in Birmingham or establish that he was AWOL from Atlanta during the last killing."

  Philip shook his head. "Oh, man," he said, with a huge grin. "Have I mentioned how much fun it is to hang out with you, Dakota?"

  My phone beeped. I started to ignore it, but Phil scowled. "What if it's-"

  "Buckhead?" I said, staring at the number.

  "Aren't we in-"

  "Lord Buckhead," I said, pressing it. "Buck, this is Dakota. What can I do you for-"

  "I sensed your presence in my stronghold," Buckhead said. "Come to the Storyteller."

  "The… Storyteller?" I said. It was a statue-the statue of Buckhead, in Buckhead-not more than a block or two away. "But- we have our name in at the Fish Market," I protested.