Liquid Fire

by Anthony Francis

  My new Dragon was surprisingly bloodthirsty, and I felt the desire to not just fight them, but chase them off. I advanced, and Daniel kicked back rapidly, cursing as he burned himself with his sword. The other firespinners were recovering, the hefty Latino man drawing his gun—so I stepped over Jewel, drew my arms together and said “Essence of flame, melt their bullets!”

  The wings of the Dragon curled down around us like a bubble of fire, and the firespinners all ran off—except for the gun wielder, who stood there, his eyes full of wonder. He grinned, shot at the barrier and watched his bullet sizzle, then laughed and ran away, whooping.

  “Not the reaction I expected,” I said, letting the wings of the Dragon spread. Its head twitched back and forth, creating dizzy double images in my eyes. I rubbed my eyes, then opened them again. The street is clear. “Not what I expected at all.”

  “Oh my God,” Jewel said, dazed, eyes following Daniel and his cronies as they melted off into the distance. Then she looked down at her right hand and seized it with her left. She began shaking. I knew that feeling. Trembling, she said, “Dakota, you—you saved me.”

  I started to point out that she’d defended my child—but then Cinnamon spoke up.

  “Yeah, Mom does that,” Cinnamon whispered, and I looked over at her with alarm. She was really rattled, ears back, tail flicking all over the place. She stepped past us, reached down, picked at a gleaming pebble, then dropped it, cursing; then looked back at me, eyes wide.

  “Like I thought. They had silver. Oh, God, Mom, I could have been—”

  I opened my arms and she stepped into them, terrified. “It’s OK, baby, I got you,” I said, squeezing Cinnamon tight, as the wings of the Dragon flapped slowly around us. “It’s OK.”

  Jewel got to her feet and turned toward us—then her jaw dropped.

  “Oh my God,” she said, staring at the Dragon, then at me, in unadulterated wonder. Her delicate hands flickered to her mouth, then covered her cheeks. “I didn’t imagine—that was real. I traveled the world trying to do it, but you did it, you really did it—you summoned a dragon—”

  “No,” I said, a little more flatly than I intended. I had already gotten a bad read on my skeptometer from Jewel, and I felt the need to step on unnecessary woo-hooery before it got started. “No,” I repeated, more gently. “It’s just tattoo magic. My tattoo, inked by my hand—”

  “Oh,” she said, deflating a little. “Oh, boo. I even saw it, on the plane.”

  “Yes. She is very pretty, but she’s not real. I can show you the design.”

  “Still,” she said, hand hovering at her lips, then reaching out. “Can I—can I touch it?”

  “No,” I said, withdrawing the Dragon’s claws, letting them merge into my skin. It hurt, surprisingly; I hadn’t realized how much mana I’d generated, or absorbed, in that performance. “It’s not a good idea for one tattoo to touch two people, especially not this one.”

  “Oh,” Jewel said, crestfallen. Her hands still hovered, and I raised an eyebrow; then she pulled them back. “Sorry. It’s hard to resist. I, uh, really like dragons.”

  “Why not, Mom?” Cinnamon asked, sniffling, then holding up her hand. There was a butterfly on the back of her hand—one that once lived on mine. “You let me have this one.”

  “One small design, transferred from me to you with just the right amount of mana,” I said, flapping the Dragon’s wings to fan off the excess magic. I want to fly free. The wind made my tattered clothes flap, and I drew calming breaths. “This one’s overloaded with mana, and firmly attached to me. Best case, Jewel would get a sharp sting and curdled ink burning her skin. Worst case, we could both get a nasty magical infection or psychic whiplash. Sorry.”

  A siren became audible, and Jewel flinched. “Oh, shit, we better scram—”

  “Be not afraid,” I said gently. “It’s just the police. And I get on well with cops.”

  “Since when?” Cinnamon said.

  “Since I spent the last eight months working with them,” I replied.

  “But we just did magic,” Jewel said desperately. “In public!”

  ———

  “It’s not illegal,” I said, as flashing lights rounded the corner. “Not even in California.”

  6. Problematic Identifications

  And so I learned a few things. First, the cops in California were far more suspicious of magicians than ones in Georgia. Second, even suspicious cops will get over it—just like my Dad taught me, cops respond to “polite, no sudden moves” and a glimpse of a police booster card no matter what state you’re in. And third, when Jewel gave her witness statement, her real name wasn’t the stage-friendly Jewel Grace . . . but a more normal Jewel Anne Grasslin.

  “Annie,” I said with a smirk, looking over the statement. “Little Orphan Annie—”

  “Oh, bite me,” she said, embarrassed. “It’s a common name—and what’s wrong with having a stage name, ‘Dakota Frost?’ What’s your real name, anyway?”

  “Dakota Caroline Frost,” I said, handing the statement back. “Huh. Interesting.”

  “Interesting?” the officer—Illowsky, according to her uniform—asked. She was thin as a bird with a pleasant, weathered face. At first, she had been skeptical of our outlandish story, but when the man who’d called in the attack from one of the row homes came down to make a statement, that had greased the wheels of her belief. “What’s interesting, ma’am?”

  “The witness statements,” I said. “Different from the ones we use in Georgia, but still recognizable. Thanks, Officer Illowsky—and for the quick response.”

  “No problem, and it’s Susan,” Illowsky said, her eyes lighting up a little. The smile quirked again, and she asked, “Why the interest, ma’am?”

  “She’s a cop,” Jewel said. “A magical cop.”

  “I am not,” I said.

  “Yes you are,” Cinnamon said. “Sort of a magical enforcer.”

  “No, I-am-not-a-cop-or-enforcer,” I said firmly. “I’m just a tattoo artist—”

  “Saving my ass? Trying to set up national rules for the use of magic?” Jewel said, folding her arms, her hands seeming to weave through each other as she did so. “You’re more than just a tattoo artist. And for that, I am graceful, Dakota Frost. Grateful. Sorry.”

  Officer Dean, Illowsky’s partner, returned from his squad car. He was a tall, gray-haired black man, thinner than Susan, with a young-but-drawn face and a similar perpetual almost-grin. “They’ve swept the neighborhood now,” Dean said. “If they’re on foot, we’ve lost them.”

  “But,” Jewel said, frustrated, “can’t you, like, go after them?”

  “We did,” Dean said, “we swept with three cars, but these guys sound careful. Large group, identical clothes, getaway car hidden out of sight—and if they ditched the hoodies, or hopped in separate cabs, they’re gone. And they were all new to you, except this Daniel guy, so—”

  “I know our descriptions are sketchy,” I said, “but it was just over so fast—”

  “Not your fault,” Dean said, “but we don’t have enough to start a manhunt. We’re dealing with an assault with minor scrapes, and a possible illicit-use-of-magic misdemeanor that could easily turn on you. I don’t like seeing you targeted, but there’s not much more we can do—”

  “Unless,” Illowsky said to Jewel, “you want to officially ask for more protection. We can run you down to the station, file formal charges against this Daniel fellow, maybe even get started on the paperwork for a formal restraining order—”

  “I’d . . . rather not go to the police station tonight,” Jewel said.

  “Few people want to,” Illowsky said, eyes scanning the air. “Your assailants were men, and you’re women with a child in tow. It’s an abuse of the system, but we can run you by a battered women’s shelter, let
you stay overnight for some peace of mind.”

  “No thanks,” I said quickly, raising my hands, conscious of my tattered jacket. “And not just because I’d like to get back to my bodyguards—I seriously need a change of clothes.”

  “And I’ve got some good people to stay with,” Jewel said. “I doubt Daniel knows where they live, and wouldn’t take on the whole commune even if he did.”

  “All right, all right,” Dean said. “We’re just trying to give you some options. Not everybody gets assaulted every day; sometimes it rattles you. Makes it hard to think.”

  “Amen to that,” I said. “Thank you, Officer Dean, Officer Illowsky.”

  As the officers drove away, Jewel rubbed her nose at me.

  “What?” I asked, thumbing my nose back at her. “Cops have a hard job. Why make it harder than it is, when they’re here saving our butts?”

  “And what did they do for us?” she asked, putting her hand on her curvy hip.

  “Secured the scene, cleared the neighborhood, so we can have this conversation in peace, without worrying that the bad guys are gonna regroup,” I said, thinking it through. “Put out their description, so said bad guys have to lay low while we hightail it out of here.”

  Jewel swallowed and looked around nervously. “OK, you have a point. Look . . . I just got a little freaked again, thinking about them hiding in the bushes somewhere, waiting for the cops to split. Can I give you a ride to your car so we can all get outta here?”

  “We took a cab,” Cinnamon said.

  Jewel stared at her, then me. “Oh, no,” she said. “Uh-uh. You’re not waiting around here for Daniel and crew to get another crack at you while I drive off in safety, not after you provided the safety. Where am I ferrying you two tonight?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” I laughed, pulling out my smartphone. “We never actually made it to the hotel, so either we’re heading to the airport, or . . .” I raised an eyebrow, reading the curious text from Vickman. “Sounds like we have been cleared for . . . a hotel on Cathedral Hill.”

  “That’s . . . a bit of a ride,” Jewel said, “but I’ll do it gladly, skindancer.”

  Back on the Bay Bridge, crawling toward downtown San Francisco, I glanced at Jewel.

  “So . . .” I said. “You live in a commune?”

  “No!” she laughed. “I’m not quite that granola, even if I did go to Berkeley. I’m just staying in a fireweaver’s commune while I’m performing in the Bay Area this week. Back in my native Hawai`i, I’ve got a plush little condo, thank you very much—”

  “You’re from Hawaii?” I asked, even as I noticed the slight but precise catch in her voice between the last two I’s in “Hawaii” that I normally drawled out as haw-way-yee. Then, unthinkingly, I said, “You don’t look like a native—”

  “Anyone born in Hawai`i,” she said firmly, “is a native Hawai`ian, whether they’re from indigenous Polynesian stock, of European descent—or a mix, as I am. And just because one of my ancestors was a Yankee invader doesn’t mean I can’t embrace Hawai`i as my home.”

  I was a bit embarrassed at having put my foot in my mouth, but Jewel had gotten a little too steamed, and I couldn’t let that stand. “I’m sorry,” I said, and for once Cinnamon didn’t correct me. “I misinterpreted what you meant by ‘native.’ I wasn’t trying to offend—”

  “I know,” she said, a bit embarrassed herself. “You just hit one of my hot buttons. I’m a hard core Hawai`ian activist, but even after years in the cause, Daniel and his crew of yahoos want to push me out because . . . well, because I have Western features and red-blond hair.”

  “That sucks—but I know how that goes,” I said. Daniel is native Hawaiian. Most interesting; I should have been able to place him. “Some people don’t want me to have a say in the raising of Cinnamon, just because I don’t turn furry once a month.”

  Jewel jerked in her seat. “Oh, hey—she’s a real werewuh—uh, werecat?”

  Cinnamon swatted at her, and Jewel laughed. Then her face grew serious.

  “Look, I didn’t want to talk with the police around,” she said. “Fireweaver business is supposed to stay within the Order—but I was serious about trying to summon a dragon, and Daniel’s serious about stopping me. You may think that’s all New Age nonsense—”

  “But he clearly doesn’t,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  We pulled up to the hotel, and Jewel dropped us off in the turnaround. We thanked her and got out, but when I waved goodbye, she rolled down her window.

  “Look . . . Dakota Frost,” Jewel said, leaning over, staring up at me through the window. “You really did save my life, at least metaphorically. I do think Daniel meant to maim me, and I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t spin. Thank you.”

  I rubbed the two forefingers of my right hand. I knew what it felt like, the threat of maiming, the fear of losing one’s profession. But I didn’t want to dump upon her all the trauma of my past, or to spook her even more. Finally I just said, “All part of the service, little lady.”

  Jewel started to lean back, then paused, wavering there in the car.

  “All right,” she said nervously. “All right. I can do this.”

  “Yes?” I said, smiling down at her.

  ———

  Jewel lowered her chin. “This time . . . can I get your number?”

  7. No One Mentioned the Fae

  The next morning, I dreamed of a beautiful, curvy fireweaver and her delicious smile. The dreams turned hotter as she spun fire, then darker as her blazing poi deflected bullets. Swirling fire coiled around her like a dragon, threatening to burn me alive.

  I awoke in a sweat, to find Cinnamon curled atop my bed like a giant cat.

  Quietly, I sighed. Predictable. Adorable, but predictable. I’d specifically asked for two beds, but unless I wanted to exile her to her own room, I could count on Cinnamon waking up in the middle of the night and coming to sleep on my bed, by my side, curled atop the covers.

  Gingerly, I extracted my arm—dead asleep from her weight—and slipped out of bed. Cinnamon didn’t stir—after staying up to go to the Crucible, she’d been absolutely wiped. She had the oddest sleep schedule, crashing as early as seven, but just for a few hours; she’d get up, bookending midnight, then crash again until it was time to get up for school. I brushed my teeth and slipped out the connecting door to Saffron’s suite without waking my baby.

  Darkrose and Saffron sat around their suite’s tiny breakfast table in matching bathrobes, murmuring to each other sweetly. When I closed the door behind me, Darkrose smiled, nodding to Saffron, who lifted her newspaper—apparently, and unsuccessfully, trying to hide her grin.

  “So . . .” Saffron said, not looking up from the newspaper, “Jinx and Doug said hello—they left about half an hour ago to catch a morning boat tour of the Bay. I think their honeymoon went . . . quite well.” Her mouth quirked. “What about you two . . . did you guys have fun?”

  I stared at her, unsure of what to tell her. She’d so wanted last night to go well.

  “Dakota,” Saffron said, putting the paper down. “Oh no. What went wrong?”

  “The performance was spectacular,” I said, “and I even got to go backstage with Jewel. She’s . . . really sweet and I felt like we hit it off. But when we were walking her to her car . . . we were attacked on the streets of Oakland by four guys—with guns and fire swords.”

  “No,” Darkrose said, straightening in her chair.

  “Nothing to do with me,” I said, “but they were really serious about hurting Jewel.”

  “What is up with this city?” Saffron asked. “First the airport, then a mugging?” She shook her head. “Initially, I was skeptical, but now I’m glad Nyissa volunteered to be your bodyguard. Hopefully the Vampire Court will release her soon—”

>   I jerked. I’d entirely forgotten the arrangements Vickman had made—Nyissa’s coffin was supposed to be deposited in our room, since she was acting as my bodyguard. But when we’d gotten to the hotel, Cinnamon and I had gone to our empty room without a second thought.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “What . . . what happened? Do they have any demands—”

  “They didn’t kidnap her,” Saffron said. “She’s just in the hospital—”

  “Oh, no,” I said, dismayed. “What happened?”

  But Darkrose, who had been taking a sip of tea, abruptly spluttered it up in a choked-off laugh. As I stood there, astounded, she shook her head at me, smiling in reassurance, then put her cup down and felt at her mouth. “Caught my fang—”

  “Dakota, I didn’t mean it like that,” Saffron said, her face a mix of embarrassment and amusement. “Nyissa will be fine. She’s still under my protection. She’s undergoing a medical procedure, thanks to the hospitality of the Vampire Court of San Francisco. If all goes well, you’ll see her tonight . . . when we introduce you to the Vampire Court.”

  I stared at her blankly. “I . . . thought we weren’t welcome in their Court.”

  “Until introduced,” Saffron corrected. “Which will happen tonight, because the Vampire Court wants to see you, in person—a powerful new magician entering their territory, under the protection of not one but two vampire lords, with a third high-ranking vampire in tow.”

  I stood there, stunned, trying to process all that. Saffron was a power broker who sat on Atlanta’s City Council, so it didn’t surprise me that the Vampire Court sat up and took notice when she rolled into town with her South African consort.

  But Nyissa wasn’t just my bodyguard; she was the Vampire Queen of the House Beyond Sleep, a vampire house officially recognized by the Gentry of Atlanta. Few people outside this room knew that the House Beyond Sleep was three vampires running a B&D B&B in east Georgia.