Blood Rock s-2

by Anthony Francis

  “I have a good source of income,” I said. “Fifty thousand dollars a year tattooing.”

  “Well… ” she said, tilting her head, “that may not be good enough for the court.”

  I just stared back at her. “What are you saying?” I said. “You can’t mean-”

  “Magical tattooing is an unconventional profession,” Helen said, “and you’re not Cinnamon’s biological mother. If you want to keep her

  … you may have to give that up.”

  Heading For Trouble

  I drove back to the Rogue Unicorn early for my shift and talked things over with Kring/L, my defacto boss. The court let Cinnamon keep going to the Clairmont Academy, but it would be days, if not weeks, until I could take Cinnamon home. So I renegotiated my shifts, picking up extra hours in exchange for being able to bail more frequently to deal with the custody case… and the vampires, and the graffiti, and whatever else life was going to throw at me.

  As night fell and I finished my last tattoo for the evening, Kring/L came to talk to me. He’d talked to the rest of the staff, and everyone was on my side. By then I had a better handle on my schedule from Helen, and we went over it together.

  “We’re going to have to get you a revolving door,” Kring/L said with a grin. Big, beefy, bald, and completely untattooed, Kring/L was our best tattoo artist, conventional or otherwise (no, really, it hurts to say that, but he was) and the unofficial leader of our little partnership.

  “As long as I could come back here,” I said. “I’d hate to lose this.”

  “Dakota, you’re half our draw,” Kring/L said, following me back to my office. I glanced back at him, and his grin quickly faded. “Dakota, seriously. The rest of us know what you’ve been through. Hell, the publicity has made business better. Why would you even… ”

  I told him what Helen had told me, and his face turned red with rage, actually mottled.

  “You do what you have to,” he said, “but you are always welcome here. Got that?”

  “Yeah,” I said, sitting in my office chair. “Thanks.”

  My office phone rang. I glanced at the number, then savagely tore the earpiece off the cradle and snarled, “What the hell do you want, Zinaga?”

  “To be the bearer of bad news,” she said, and I could just hear that smirk in her voice. “Arcturus just gave me an earful. Like I told you not to, you didn’t show, and he’s really pissed. You’re persona non grata now, Kotie, sent straight to Coventry, whatever that means. .. ”

  As she nattered on and on about how Arcturus had said he never wanted to talk to me again, two and two came together in my mind. Arcturus had bawled her out today-so she hadn’t gone to the shop to meet me last night. She’d known I wouldn’t show.

  “Fuck you,” I said, and Kring/L backed out of my office, eyes wide. “Fuck you!”

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” she said smugly. “You’re the one who bailed-”

  “You threw me to the vampires!” I screamed into the phone. “To Transomnia!”

  There was silence. “Oh, shit, ” she said, and then the line went dead.

  I slammed the handpiece back into the cradle repeatedly. “Damnit, damnit, damnit!” The phone rang again, and I picked it up. “Haven’t you done enough damage!”

  Again the line was silent. “What did I do?” Calaphase asked, all kicked puppy.

  I laughed, an odd broken cry. “Oh. Oh, Calaphase. I’m so sorry. I’ve had a bad day, and I thought you were someone else.”

  “I’d hate to be them,” he said. “Do you have any news on the graffiti?”

  “Oh, hell,” I laughed. “Do I have news, yes. About the graffiti, no.”

  I told him everything. At first, when he heard what Transomnia’s goons had done to me, Calaphase looked ready to leap up and go tearing after him-but as I started to explain I didn’t want to pursue Trans, Calaphase got it, just like that, and smoothly changed the subject.

  And then… we talked. Really talked.

  Not about graffiti or vampires, but instead about Cinnamon and school supplies, about coffee and restaurants, about moving and meanies, about how you always get pulled over for running a red light after you’ve caught yourself getting sloppy about yellows but before you’ve learned to put your foot on the brake earlier.

  Calaphase wasn’t a vampire to me anymore. He was a person who happened to be a vampire. I wanted to more than just talk to him. I wanted to see him, to go to another stupid coffee house and watch him grimace his way through a mocha.

  But why did I need an excuse? We had talked about seeing each other. In fact, we had planned on it, sometime after the hearing was done, but never set a time.

  “You free Thursday night, vampire?” I said. “Ready to go out on a real date?”

  Thursday night, I sat on a stool before a full-length mirror, naked to the waist at the center of a magic circle. The tail locks of my hair curled round my neck and dusted my back, resting between two tattooed wings of rainbow feathers that one day would be joined together. My arm curled around me, holding the tattooing gun, slowly inking the outline of a claw.

  Once my skin had held a Dragon, a huge tattoo covering me from shoulder to toe, inked by my own hand. I’d released it to save my life, but I couldn’t just let it go. It was my icon, on my business cards and stitched on my jackets. It would be a lot of work to re-tattoo the Dragon: this was my fifth session, and there would be at least twelve more, plus touchups.

  Now, seventeen sessions is no little thing. I may be a bit of a masochist, but tattooing hurts, and it strangely seems to hurt more when you’re doing it to yourself. Skindancers have to tattoo themselves, out of fear that a rival would leave them with a subtle-and permanent-hex. Non-magical tattooists, on the other hand, rarely tattoo themselves because it’s painful, unnecessary-and darn near impossible to get a good inking angle on your own body.

  And inking your own back is quite the challenge, even for someone as long-limbed and limber as I am. The outline was barely finished, and already my neck hurt, my shoulder hurt, my back hurt, and I was getting a cramp in my lower leg. But I didn’t care: I could feel the buzzing of the tattooing gun, the insistent scratching that shimmered into a sensual, almost sexual warmth, and the vibration that fed back into my hand, giving me a feeling of power.

  The main tattooing room had a wide plate glass window that was usually covered by a screen, but I had it down so potential customers could watch-and there was quite the crowd now. I was turned three-quarters away, my breasts hidden by a long dentist’s bib, alternately inking the line carefully in the mirror and then wiping the blood away with my free hand.

  Kring/L opened the door and stared at me, then closed at it behind him. “Annesthesia said you were on the prowl,” he said. “I guess she was right.”

  “This is how I always do this,” I said.

  “Not yourself,” he said. “Not your back, sitting there half naked, blinds down.”

  “But… ” I began, then stopped. I did tattoo myself in here, with the blinds open, but always small marks on the arms, never my own back. That I had done back in Blood Rock, with no-one watching. Arcturus insisted that a skindancer ink their masterwork alone.

  “You’re right,” I admitted, wiping away some blood. “Maybe I am prowling a bit.”

  “For whom?” he asked. “I thought you were dating that Virginian.”

  “We split,” I said, eyes and hand tracing a line carefully.

  “He was nice,” Kring/L said. “You gotta learn to hang on to somebody sometime, or you’ll end up alone as I am.”

  I pulled the needle away from my flesh, then looked up sharply. He was grinning, but for the first time I could see lines of pain in the friendly wrinkles around his eyes. He shrugged.

  “I’m so sorr-”

  “Don’t,” he said, eyes on my waist. He picked up a wet wipe from the dispenser on the counter and stepped forward, before I could stop him. “You should wipe-”

  “Don’t-” I said, but it was too
late. He stepped forward across the line of the magic circle, and there was a tingling pop as the circle of protection was broken. The slight shift in the light halted him, and I jerked the needle away from my skin. “Idiot! This is a magic mark!”

  Kring/L stood halted, looking around like he’d actually felt the magic for once. “Dakota, you worry too much. Nothing will get you if you break a circle-we’re inside the Perimeter.”

  “Less likely does not mean impossible,” I said, wiping myself down. “Look, Kring, no offense, but sometimes you’re thick as a brick. You’re the most skilled tattooist I’ve ever worked with-and I really mean that-but you only think breaking a circle is safe because you ink basic magic marks, too simple to hold a stray intent. I hope you’re not inking any of Jinx’s flash on clients without drawing a circle, or you risk a nasty magical infection, or worse.”

  “What’s worse than a magical infection?” he laughed.

  “A magical possession,” I said.

  “Come on,” he said, grinning, but twisting the wet wipe in his hands. “We do moving butterflies and watches.”

  “And controlling charms that took a good friend’s mind, whenever someone wanted,” I said. “The expression of magic is dictated by its intent. Never think it can’t go the other way.”

  I stared at the mark in the mirror: I had done enough for the day. I reached for the bandages I’d prepared, and Kring/L stepped forward again. “No, don’t help me, I’m recreating my masterwork. I need to do this myself.”

  “All right, skindancer,” Kring/L laughed, dropping the wipe into the biohazard bucket. “Mission accomplished, though. You caught a big fish in your net.”

  I looked over at the big window and smiled.

  Calaphase stood at the window, trim and proper in a dark suit with a long-tailed overcoat, an even more dazzling turn on his vintage look. The frame of the window and the darker waiting room beyond made him look like a magazine model: his blond hair was perfectly styled, his pale face stern, and his blue eyes were staring at me with glittering fascination.

  “Calaphase,” I said. “So good to see you. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Then I got up and walked behind the screen, quickly wiping down, pulling on my sportsbra and a ‘vamp-hither’ top-a tight, midriff-exposing corset with shimmering rows of chains that looked vaguely like bat wings. It just popped against the slightly purple folds of my best ankle-length faux-snakeskin vest, and riffed off my tight leather jeans quite nicely. I checked my hair in the mirror, then fluffed my deathhawk a little and sprayed it out.

  “On the prowl,” Kring/L muttered, leaning against the jamb. “Girl, you’re on the hunt. ”

  I smiled at him. “He’s quite a catch,” I said, “even if he is a vampire.”

  If that bothered Kring/L, he didn’t let it show, and we walked out into the waiting room together. Calaphase waited there, lounging in the chair, one leg propped up. He had on black leather boots, a surprise beneath the suit that made him look more dashing and dangerous.

  “You guys stay out of trouble,” Kring/L said, grinning, his eyes even more sad than before. “I’ll pass on your information to your audience.”

  Only then did I see that there were three men and two women who had all been watching me. Apparently I just hadn’t seen them. I only had eyes for Calaphase. My mouth opened and I started to introduce myself, but Calaphase rose smoothly and took my arm.

  “Now, Dakota,” he said, steering me to the door, “Kring/L will look after your clients, but I am here to look after you and you need a night on the town.”

  I squeezed his hand with my free one. “Thanks,” I said, as we stepped out the door. “I would have been there all night. It’s hard to put the needle down. Your car or mine?”

  “I was dropped off,” he said.

  “You never do have a car,” I said.

  “I have a driver when I need one,” he said, “but my bike is more fuel efficient.”

  “I love it when you talk green to me,” I said.

  “Speaking of which,” he said, “I propose I watch you eat a veggie burger, at a place I know I can get a decent glass of wine. R Thomas?”

  “The best veggie burgers ever, served twenty four hours a day?” I said. “Let’s roll!”

  R Thomas was across the street from Cafe Intermezzo-and it’s odd how until recently I would have thought of it the other way round. It’s a folk-art mess right at the border of Atlanta’s Midtown neighborhood and its Buckhead party district, attracting clientele from both. So, even dressed up, we fit in quite well on R Thomas’s patio, staking out a middle ground between the couples in black evening wear and the flannelpunk lesbians who kept turning my head.

  Calaphase’s eyes, however, were only on me.

  “By the way,” he said, with a slight smile, “you should know, and should tell Kring/L, that vampires have excellent hearing.”

  I reddened. “What did you hear?”

  “On the prowl?” he said, opening his mouth ever so slightly to show a hint of his fangs. “I thought I was supposed to be the predator.”

  “You are the most non-predator predator I’ve ever met,” I said. “I felt more hunger from Darkrose than you. Interest, yes, but hunger-no.”

  “Oh, I hunger,” he said, eyes glittering on me. Then he glanced slightly aside, not directly meeting my eyes. “But for more than just blood. May I have a bite?”

  I stared at my plate: there wasn’t an ounce of meat, blood, or even egg in it; it was purely vegan. “Are you sure?” I said, breaking off a bit of the veggie burger. “It only tastes like-”

  “No guts, no glory,” he said, opening his mouth slightly. His hand started to reach out, but impulsively I stretched my long arm across the table and put the bite in his mouth. His lips pressed my fingers briefly, then closed along with his eyes as he began chewing in bliss.

  “That worked better than expected,” I said. “Maybe I should watch you eat.”

  He smiled, then frowned, beetling his brow. “It’s difficult to swallow.”

  “Spit it out, then,” I said, leaning forward.

  “No, I mean, that’s it,” he said, a lump appearing in his throat. “It’s just difficult to swallow. When I first became a vampire, I tried to eat normal food once. Vegetables tasted like woodchips. Even meat tasted nasty. But after a few months of the Saffron diet-I can taste food again. That’s what food used to taste like. What it’s supposed to taste like.”

  “That’s wonderful, Calaphase,” I said. “I’m so happy for you-”

  He coughed abruptly, catching a bit of something in his napkin-but it was just a tiny bit, far less than he’d eaten. “If I could just swallow it, we’d be in business.”

  “Maybe the problem is solid food,” I said, staring directly at him.

  “I do like soup,” he said, putting down the napkin and meeting my gaze. “But I feel like I’ve plateaued. Maybe it’s time to go further. Maybe it’s time to live dangerously.”

  “Maybe we should have a picnic under the moon,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed straight on him, and he exhaled softly. “With wine and soup and brie and soft bakery bread. I’ll chew seedcake, and feed you from my mouth.”

  At the last sentence, surprise spread over his face. “Sounds… well, I want to say ‘dirty’ or ‘sexy’ but actually that’s somewhat disturbing. What’s seedcake?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s a line from an audio book my daughter was reading. I swear, she likes the strangest things. I can’t understand half of what she reads… ”

  And then I trailed off. I stared at the table, at my hands, my tattooed knuckles. A pale white hand reached out and pressed against the top of mine, cold, yet firm and reassuring.

  “But I would like to learn,” I said finally, raising my head with a sniff. “I would very much like the chance to learn what she likes.”

  “It will be all right,” Calaphase said, squeezing my hand. “You’ll get her back.”

  Then he squeezed
a little harder, and my knuckles popped. “Ow,” I said, withdrawing my hand. “Silly vampires, you don’t know your own strength.”

  “Vampire s?” Calaphase looked to his left, then to his right. “Are you seeing double?”

  “No,” I said. “Sav-uh, Saffron nearly twisted off my wrist-”

  “The Lady Saffron?” he said innocently. “Is she here?”

  “No,” I said. “It was earlier.”

  “Then do we need her at the table?” he asked.

  I stared. “I do believe you’re jealous,” I said, and he smiled. But the lump in my stomach hadn’t gone away, and I realized he was trying to distract me. “Good try. No cigar, but good try.”

  We talked about Cinnamon; about my loss, my fight, my lawyers. “No, I’m serious,” Calaphase insisted. “The clientele of the werehouse knows a lot of good lawyers-in fact I think there are a lot of good lawyers at the werehouse, though they’ll never tell-”

  “I thought I was persona non grata after the DEI tailed me there?”

  “Yes, right up until DFACS took Cinnamon from you,” Calaphase said. “Really, some of them are still pissed, and for obvious reasons. But as for the rest-all they need to know is you’re trying to protect her. I even had an offer to help come bust her out of wherever they had her.”

  “No, please,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s the last thing I need for my case.”

  “Which reminds me, I have something for you,” Calaphase said, reaching into his pocket. As his hand reached in, he grimaced, then drew out his cell phone, buzzing.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I said.

  Calaphase frowned at his phone, then got up with a curse and walked across the patio. He muttered harshly, but it apparently did no good. Finally he hung up, returning to the table.

  “Trouble?” I asked.

  “Only for me,” he said, disgusted. “My driver bailed. I have no ride.”

  “No problem,” I said, slowly smiling. “ I planned to take you home.”

  The Vampire’s Lair