Knee and hands throbbing with pain, I hobbled out across North Avenue, leaving the Masquerade behind, alternately heedless of and wincing at the gravel and glass scattered across the pavement. I headed straight for City Hall East, for the police entrance, where cop cars left after refueling in the night. One black-and-white was pulling out of the gate just as I stumbled up, and I ran straight for it. They came to a screeching halt just as I ran out of gas, gasping, depositing Cinnamon on their hood.
"Holy Mary," the driving officer said, only half stepping out of his car, holding a flashlight with one hand and with his other reaching for… his sidearm?
"Help, help, we've been attacked," I said, bending involuntarily as my knee began throbbing like mad. "I and my friends have just been attacked in the Masquerade. I need you to call for backup and ambulances-"
"What the hell you think this one's been on?" the second officer said, crawling out of the car. "And look at the state of the other one-"
I realized how I must look-bruised, naked, with a flapping black coat, carrying a bloody young girl outfitted in the most realistic tiger costume they'd ever seen. They thought we were drugged-out prostitutes, and were tuning out everything I was saying, assuming I was babbling. Fuck them.
"My name is Dakota Frost," I barked. "I'm an expert witness working with Special Agent Philip Davidson of the DEI and Detective Andre Rand of Atlanta Homicide-"
The first officer was frozen, but the second was holding up her hands and saying, "Now, far out, little lady-"
"I have just been attacked," I said. "I and my friends have been attacked. This girl is dying, and at least four other people are injured in the Masquerade. We need ambulances and backup in case Mirabilus had any other help-"
"Mirabilus?" the female officer said. "Like the Mysterious Mirabilus-"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I said, glaring at her.
"Settle down, now," the female officer said. "I now you've been through a lot-"
Damnit, they were thinking that whatever I'd been through was over, but for all I knew the guards were coming back with shotguns to clean up the evidence. I needed help. We needed help. For a moment I thought of lunging for the car's radio and calling for help myself, but my dad was on the force: I knew I'd never make it. Something more subtle was required.
So I did the first thing that came to mind. It's lame, I know, but it works: I swayed.
"Oh God," I said, tottering. Then I leaned heavily on the hood. "Can-can I sit down for a minute?"
"Sure thing, little lady," the female officer said. She stepped to the back passenger door and opened it, and I smiled weakly, leaning on the car with one hand as I walked around it-but as I passed the front passenger door I dove in and shot one long arm in to grab the car's mike.
"Black Mayday, Black Mayday, D-E-I assets down, Black Mayday, Black Mayday-"
"God damn you, you tricky bitch," the female officer said, hauling me out, twisting my arm round and slamming my cheek to the hood of the car. I screamed and bucked at the pain in my hand, but she twisted harder and pushed me down. "Jeez, she's strong," she said, and I winced as a cuff went on one wrist. "Help me-"
I bucked up and clocked the woman in the jaw with the back of my head, and then the other officer surged around the car and pinned me down in. "You shouldn't have done that," he said, grasping my other squirming wrist and cuffing it too. "She's my partner-"
"Go easy," I heard the female officer say. "Look at what they've been through. Between the drugs and whatever their pimp did to them she's probably out of her mind-"
And then the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard swept over us, a rising, high-pitched purring like a mechanical cat-or a muffled leafblower, sweeping out of City Hall East and swooping over us in a sudden gust of wind. A bright light pinned us all, followed by an eruption of red and blue flashing lights as a DEI Shadowhawk decloaked above us.
"This is the Department of Extraordinary Investigations!" Philip's voice roared over the PA. "Officers stand down! APD officers stand down!"
"Boy, that was quick," I muttered under my breath.
The Shadowhawk set down in the middle of North Avenue, its whirling blades whipping over our heads as Philip leapt out, brandishing his badge and shouting, "D-E-I agent! Officers stand down, stand down! DEI agent! Stand down, stand down!"
"Holy… cow," the officer said, releasing me.
Philip ran up, holding his badge up like a shield, shades glowing red like night-vision goggles and carrying an enormous black combat shotgun carefully pointed away from the APD officers. "Special Agent Philip Davidson, DEI! Miss Frost, Miss Frost, are you all right?"
"I'm not hurt," I said, "but the tattoo killer tortured Cinnamon to get to me."
"Damnit!" Philip shouted, staring straight at me, then surveying Cinnamon, the officers, and the rest of the scene in one quick glance.
Then he threw the shotgun over his shoulder and scooped Cinnamon off the hood of the car. "Pilot! I need an emergency evac-"
"If you disappear her, I will kill you," I shouted after him.
Philip nodded, never looking back. "Emory Hospital-special emergencies unit, stat!"
Philip deposited Cinnamon in the back of the Shadowhawk and stepped back, motioning to another officer, who was already grabbing a first aid kit as Philip closed the door and whirled his hand for the black helicopter to lift off. It left the ground in a rising whine, and Philip bore down on us in a whirlwind of debris and rage.
"Half of Little Five Points is bleeding out in the Masquerade," I shouted. "Alex, Jinx, Wulf, Buck-and would someone get these cuffs off me!"
"Do it," Philip said. "What are we facing in there?"
"The killer was Christopher Valentine-yes!-but he's dead," I said, as the female officer freed my hands. "He was controlling Wulf through a magic tattoo. And guess who was helping him-our favorite poseur vampire!"
"Transomnia," Philip snarled. "Are they still in there?"
"Transomnia skipped, and Wulf is dying and Mirabilus is dead," I said, "but they had a buttload of guards. I took them out when I arrived-"
"You took them out?" the first cop said. "How?"
"Magic," I responded. "But all of the guards were gone when I came out. I don't know if they're gone or just regrouping-"
"Aw, hell," Philip said, looking off sharply-sirens started blaring out of City Hall East, and I heard more approaching rapidly from the distance. "And now we're about to get a swarm of badges descending on a sea of Edgeworlders. It can't ever be easy, can it?"
He stood there, just a moment; then he came to a decision.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Philip said, loudly, as if he was speaking to far more than just the two officers. "We have five victims, including one witch and one werewolf-yes!-at the mercy of the minions of a serial killer. I need you at my back, but be sharp! Don't plug anyone just because they look odd or furry! Let's move."
They ran. I realized he hadn't asked me where to go, what else to look for. He just ran for the Masquerade, and the two officers followed him without a second thought. I tried to follow, but the pebbles and glass that I had sailed over before brought me to a standstill when I was halfway there. The sirens and the lights grew louder and louder, but I kept walking, walking towards the Masquerade. I was shaking when an officer stepped up beside me, covered my shoulders in a blanket, and sat me in the open door of his police cruiser.
And the rising whine of the Shadowhawk returned-one, then two, then more, backed by a deeper thrum. I and the new officer looked up to see three Shadowhawks decloak around the Masquerade, disgorging black-suited officers that rappelled down to join the fray. Above them, the long cigar shape of a zeppelin was dimly visible, its black metal hide illuminated by the backwash of a huge spotlight.
"Holy… cow," the officer said, just like the first one had.
"You're telling me," I said.
Most of Mirabilus's thugs were gone. Philip said they rounded up one minion holed up under the bar in Purgatory-Bald
y, who turned out to be the same low-rent gun thug that had gone after me during the stage show but ended up plugging 'Mirabilus'. True to form, the former stage magician had used a plant to 'fake' (or at least keep control over) his own shooting. They also picked up a confused and astounded chauffeur who had been waiting for Mirabilus and company to return to his rented car, but Philip seemed to have already checked the guy's story out by the time he got back to me, two hot steaming coffees in his hands.
"Mirabilus is dead," he said, looking back at the Masquerade, "but you're right-no sign of Transomnia."
"Transomnia helped me at the end," I said. "Said Mirabilus was using him."
"He's an accessory to murder," Philip said. "You're not suggesting we let him go?"
I pulled back my right lip to expose my missing molars. "You won't hear that from me," I said, "but you won't see me going after him, even if I thought I could take him."
"Fair enough," Philip said. He sighed. "The medics did what they could to revive him but… we were too late to save Wulf."
"I know," I said. "I know."
He reached out and took me into his arms, kissed my forehead, held me while I cried. "I know," he said. "I know."
"He just wanted my help," I said. "Just wanted a normal life-"
"Hey," he said. "You saved a young girl today, and your friends. We lose some, but we win some."
"Fair enough," I said, wiping my cheek. "What about North Carolina?"
"Goose chase," he said. "We're holding the girl. She claims she was just trying to create trouble for her boyfriend, but she's got a relatively new magical tattoo-"
"Controlling charm," I said.
"Given what I saw of Mirabilus and Wulf," Philip said, "Oh yeah."
"I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner," I said.
"Kidnappings always make for tough calls," he said softly. "You did the right thing. Jinx's boy Doug tried to call it in-"
"Good for him," I said. "Good Doug!"
"Ha," Philip replied. "But he got routed to 911 hell, very hinky-"
"Mirabilus again," I said bitterly. "He was bragging about it."
Philip nodded. "By the time he'd given up and drove down to the police station, the shit had already hit the fan."
"At least he tried," I said. "More sense than the rest of us-"
"None of this is your fault," Philip said. "None of it."
"I know, I know," I said. But I had trouble believing it, looking over at the ambulances, at the one pulling away, and the one waiting on a body bag to be loaded. "But still… I just have one question."
"Shoot," Philip said.
"That damn box," I said. "Mirabilus didn't use it to take down Buck, and it didn't look like he was going to use it in the ceremony on me. He went on and on about the Children of this and the Inheritance of that, but never mentioned the box. But it was far too sophisticated a magic to imagine it was just a trophy. So… what the fuck was it for?"
"I have a better question," he replied. "Mirabilus was killing people and taking their tattoos to put on that damn box," Philip said. "But it wasn't his damn box."
I just stared at him.
"When we got the lid, we also got some of his notes," Philip said. "I've read them. From what I can tell… up until recently
Mirabilus was just eliminating the competition. The tattoo harvesting is something new, just a silver lining, so to speak, that turned his hobby into profitable work he could do for someone else. The box was a commission."
"So, if it wasn't his…" I said, horrified.
"Then who was it made for?" Philip said, touching his hand to his ear, "Yes, this is Special Agent Davidson. Yes, I'm with Frost. No, she-there's a problem with her what?"
"What is it?" I asked. Philip's eyes had bugged and he was looking at me strangely.
"No, I don't think she has a-yes, that was the-" His eyes narrowed and his face grew hard, stony. "We'll be there right away." He took his hand out of his ear and stood, motioning to me. "We gotta go. We'll take a Shadowhawk-it's faster."
"What's wrong?" I asked, standing as well. "Where are we going?"
"Emory," Philip said. "Cinnamon is dying."
45. SILVER SHOCK
Cinnamon lay in the hospital bed, bedraggled and alone.
The rest of us recovered quickly. Buckhead healed on his own. Alex needed only minor patching. I ended up back in the hospital for one more day-mostly scrapes and bruises, but the real problem was my hands-the doctors said that if Transomnia had heated the pitch to boiling, my hands would have been scalded instantly, and the complications could have killed me. As it was, I escaped with minor burns, where goop had collected at the forks of my fingers.
Jinx was recovering as well. When Valentine opened her eyes, he dispersed the fungal opacity and let in far more light than her shrouded retinas were ready to handle-but not enough to cause damage. Her spooky geode eyes now have black snowflakes, letting her see a little. For now, she was stuck wearing darkened shades, but the doctors said that eventually, when her retinas finally adjusted, she might regain as much as ten percent of her vision. Who knew what that would do to her magic?
As for Cinnamon…
At first the doctors called it 'hyperargyria'-silver shock-a kind of blood poisoning peculiar to shapechangers that can be caused by just trace amounts of silver in the blood. With her massive dose, she slipped into a coma, face ashen gray and gums blue, heart palpitating every time they laid her on her back. When we got to the hospital she was in the middle of a seizure, and they came damn near close to losing her.
But they didn't. She survived the night, barely, and they called in specialists who knew how to handle silver shock-rolling her on her side to stop the shaking, clearing her blood of trace silver with something like dialysis, and feeding her intravenously to build up her strength.
But apparently silver poisoning also wreaks havoc on shapechangers' immune systems. Not a week into her treatment, just one day after she came out of her coma, her fever shot back up and she started hallucinating. An opportunistic pneumonia had settled in her lungs, sending her back into the ICU; and when the doctors fought that off with one cocktail of drugs, she picked up another kind of blood poisoning, a flesh eating bacteria called MRSA-same brand that had attacked Valentine's projectia-that they think she picked up from a bad IV administration. They moved her to a special ward of the hospital, and we all had to wipe our hands with sanitizer every time we left her room.
It took until damn near Thanksgiving for her to fight it off, but at long last, her fever broke and she finally started improving. I was there, every day, sometimes in the morning, sometimes on my break, sometimes in the evening-often, all three-talking with her, cheering her up, slipping her coffee or eclairs, bringing her teen magazines and audiobooks of Laurell Hamilton and gossip about the boys back at the werehouse.
So now it was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and everyone was out of town or off at parties-Philip back in Virginia, Savannah with her vampire clan, the werekin with their mundane families, the collegiates back in their hometowns, even the hospital priest was gone, helping out with a benefit for the homeless.
And so it was just up to me to show up at the hospital, seeing Cinnamon, lying there like a bedraggled cat, suddenly brought back to life when I walked in the door; and then suddenly we began talking and joking and laughing at all the were-mistakes in Underworld: Evolution as it played on the hospital TV.
And it was only then that I noticed she was wearing on her wrist one of those snap-on hospital nametags, just like I wore when I was a patient, not a month ago. And for some reason, I noticed, really noticed the name on it: Cinnamon Frost. Dimly I remembered the doctors telling me the DEI officers had to guess at her name, and had just assumed that Cinnamon was my daughter. I had laughed, saying that no mother would just have left her daughter alone with the medics, but I didn't really object. And then, as I looked at the bracelet, I realized in the whole month that I'd been there I had never objected or corrected them-n
or had she.
And around this point I realized: I'd decided to adopt Cinnamon.
"So, Cinnamon," I said, reaching out to pat her tufted little hand. "I was thinking, you know, about you not having a mom."
"What of it?" she said, suddenly sullen.
"Well, I don't have a daughter."
Cinnamon looked up at me in shock. Her eyes grew all shiny and large, though it was difficult for me to see it with all the water building in mine. Then she reached over and grabbed me and pulled me too her and held on tight, claws pricking me gently through my shirt.
"Mom?" She said the word so gently, it was like magic. And then she bawled. "Oh, Mom. Oh, my Mooooom."
"It's okay, Cinnamon," I said, patting her head. "I'm so glad I found you."
Yeah, yeah, I know: sappy as hell. Wake the fuck up. When people talk in real life, they don't make up all sorts of flowery phrases to say what they feel; they say the first thing that comes to mind and then sit there holding each other, glad to be alive.
And we did just sit there, for a long long time, her hugging me hard enough to squeeze the air from my lungs, me cradling her and stroking her soft, feline ears and cooing softly. Finally she said, "How is this going to work?"
"I don't know, Cinnamon," I said. "You're a bit big for me to tell you to clean your room."
"Oh, Mom," she sobbed. "Give me a room, and you can tell me to clean it anytime."
46. PAYOFF
The Valentine Foundation is going to pay out. I'm not joking. It's a big scandal. There are half a dozen investigations ongoing, but apparently Mirabilus was playing his cards very close to his chest, because the Foundation appears completely legit. In fact their board was mortified to find out that Valentine had been killing potential prizewinners. The money may be tied up for years in court until the investigations around Mirabilus are settled, but the hands of Alex's wristwatch tattoo are still turning, counting out one day for each turn of the Earth beneath the stars-and so they're going to pay out.
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