Frost Moon (11 page)

“Luh-Lord
Buckhead,”
I stammered. For years I’d heard Edgeworld stories that ‘the lord of Buckhead’ was real, and not just a character cooked up by the marketing team of Atlanta’s party district, but now when he stood before me all I could think was how
nice
it was to stare
up
at a guy, even if he had a deer’s head. “The Lord of the Wild Hunt?”

“The one and only,” he said.

I became convinced I’d
seen
him before—and after a second, I realized exactly where. “That—that statue of you in downtown Buckhead… is for real?”

“The human sculptor Fleming used me as his model,” he said, extending his hand. “I can take you to the Marquis. Trans, you will accompany us.”

“I’m not supposed to leave my post,” he said, staring at the ground.

“Your post is well-covered by my hunt,” Lord Buckhead said. The little vampire looked around suddenly, but nothing was visible. “It is your orders that I want to clarify.”

“Yes, sir,” Transomnia said, hunched over.

We wove through the weeds along a path that was little more than a crease in the grass. Lord Buckhead seemed to move without a trace, and I suspected the rest of the werehouse’s population also didn’t leave the mess left by humans or vampires.

Lord Buckhead stopped by a weathered POSTED - NO TRESPASSING sign and lifted a heavy section of chain-link fence for us to step under. As I did so I saw a trio of magical runes and Edgeworld tags listing this as a were-lair, a no-man’s land, and a safe house. An odd combination, but it made sense.
All who are not werekin are not welcome.

The werehouse was a long, low brick building with cracked walls and rusted cranes that resembled a derelict battleship more than the fortress I’d expected. A few spotlights on the roof and at the edge of the weed-grown parking structure made pools of light, but beyond that I could only make out outlines. My tattoos tingled with a whisper of power, and I felt as if the place was crawling with movement I could not see. Figures seemed to lurk at the edge of the lot, behind the windows, on the battlements, but I could never draw a bead on a one. I could hear the din of a party, or a barfight, raucous cries of humans mixed in with rougher cries of something else. And then, shockingly close, a howl.

I looked up to see a dark form howling at the moon from the tip of a crane: he looked… bipedal, but when he quit howling and looked down at me, his eyes glowed a brilliant violet, and when he ran off he ran too low, too hunched and too fast for any man.

“Keep moving,” Transomnia said, bumping me roughly with his shoulder as he passed. “Let’s get this over with.”

He stopped at the base of a loading dock, staring up at a huge freight door, and two shadows detached themselves from either side to glare down at us with cold, blue eyes. This time, I didn’t risk looking the vampires in the eyes; I’d never been hypnotized by one before, but my experience with the quite friendly Lord Delancaster had put the fear of God in me—something these guys probably lacked.

“Brought us a snack, Trans?” one of them said, hopping down from the dock to land at our feet. He was scrawny, but confident, letting his long trenchcoat drape along his thin form with an ease that Transomnia lacked. Like the poseur vampire, his frosted locks were upswept, and keys dangled from a glittering chain at his belt; but somehow he made it look right. The other vampire’s teased locks were brown but he had a similar trench, similar chain, and equal grasp of style. The first vampire was all business, but the brown-haired hanger-back made an odd hand signal that Transomnia shot back at him.

Gang signs.
Jinx wasn’t kidding—a real vampire gang.

“You are a pretty one,” the vampire said. “What’s your name, morsel?”

I glared at him. I couldn’t make out anything about his face other than his glowing blue eyes, but I glared anyway, screwing up my forehead as if I could force myself to maintain my concentration in the face of any psychic assault that he might mount—ridiculous, of course, as my psychic training was about zip. But I could feel my tattoos start to burn as he began to project his aura, and I looked away, jamming my tingling hands in my pockets. I didn’t want a repeat of my insult to Trans, not in the middle of three vampires.

I heard a sudden exhale behind me that ruffled the hair of my ‘hawk.

“My Lord,” the vampire guard said, beginning a bow. Then he caught sight of the collar around my neck, and I saw his eyes widen—and the blue glow fade.

“My apologies,
Emissary,”
he said, with some respect. “What news do you bring from Lady Saffron’s court?”

“I am here under her protection, but on my own behalf,” I said, looking up to meet his now more-human eyes. They were blue, a clear blue that stood out even in what little light we had from the few spotlights, and his face was fine, even handsome, when he wasn’t putting out his scary vampire mojo. “My name is Dakota Frost. I’m here to consult with the Marquis at the behest of Jinx. I’m told he’s expecting me.”

The vampire stared at me, then inclined his head and spoke to his brownhaired fellow guard. “Should I know any of those names?”

“Well, the
Marquis
for starters,” Transomnia interjected sarcastically.

“And why did you abandon your post?” the vampire said sharply, and Transomnia stared at the pavement. “And why did the Lord Buckhead see fit to escort you back here, bloodied and covered in mud?”

“These two fought,” Lord Buckhead said, and I suddenly became embarrassed. “He barred her way… and she objected. Forcefully.”

“My, my,” the brownhaired vampire guard said, leaning close in to me.
“You
objected… and brought our ‘mighty’ Trans low?”

“I could have taken her,” Transomnia said.

“Knowing she was under the protection of the Daywalker?” the blond guard said. “You’re lucky Lord Buckhead intervened. You’re
already
on your third warning; had you done anything rash, we would have given her your head on a platter.”

“But I—”

“Enough! This is a good gig, and we don’t need you screwing it up. Revy! Take his post. Scare away the curious and the riffraff— especially the prostitutes. But if you get anyone persistent, do what Transomnia was ordered to have done—call the guardhouse for an escort.”

“Yes, Calaphase,” the guard said—and quicker than a blink, leapt off. I whirled, but by the time I had turned, all I could see was the fence shaking. He was gone. I looked back to find Calaphase towering over Transomnia. “Our guests should not find it necessary,” he growled, “to have Lord Buckhead watching over them.”

“How are you really different?” I asked.
“You
were going to nosh on me.”

Calaphase stared at me briefly, calculatingly. “My apologies,” he said, not sounding apologetic at all. “I was… playing the role I thought you expected. Not all fear us as you do. You have the scent of blood and vampires on you so… I thought you were a
willing
morsel.”

“We just did this stupid ceremony not an hour ago,” I said, tugging at the collar’s ring. “Besides, Sav—the Lady Saffron is my ex. Every time I see her, she gets clingy.”

“You weren’t in her court before?” he said. “You took her collar just to come here?”

“Just because I was afraid of you, yes,” I said. “Or more to the point, both Jinx and Saffron thought that I needed her protection, and the ban of Lord Delancaster, to come here.”

Calaphase glared down at Transomnia. “You have not helped our reputation.”

“Except our reputation as scary motherfuckers,” Transomnia said.

“Not even that,” Calaphase said, “Apparently, she won Round One.”

He extended an arm towards a set of stairs, and I climbed the stairs up the loading dock. Transomnia, Lord Buckhead, and Calaphase leapt up on to the dock nimbly, as if they’d just climbed a single step. Calaphase looked at me, then Transomnia, shaking his head; then with one hand he pulled the huge freight door open to reveal a carnival of light and sound.

“Come with us, Lady Frost, and the Oakdale Vampire Clan shall apologize to you for our rudeness before the Bear King.”

“And then,” Transomnia said, unsmiling, “we shall see what he will make of you.”

14. THE MARQUIS

Drums beat, strong and primal. Fire blazed from burning barrels. And on the broad floor of what had been a warehouse, a crowd of nearly-human shapes cheered on as a huge wolf the size of a tiger faced off with a stag the size of a Buick.

I started to think that maybe this job wasn’t worth it.

Ragged young boys ran the outer perimeter of the werehouse, human in form but snapping and snarling at each other with the voices of dogs. Wolves padded back and forth around the largest and scruffiest single group of men; both wolves and men stared at me with hungry eyes. There were other groups—tall, proud men I took to be werestags, another group crowded around a werebear, and many others. Or perhaps there was no relation between their human forms and their beasts—I had not seen any of them change yet.

To the snarling was added whistling. I looked up, and saw an upper set of loft structures, perhaps once offices, that had been converted into living space. Boys and young men, expertly tattooed with wolf’s heads and cat’s paws, hung from the railing, whistling down at me. I laughed.
Actual wolf whistles and cat calls!
My laughter faded as I saw girls mixed in with the boys, angry, indignant—hitting their men and glaring down at me.

Then an orange-haired girl leapt down from the railing, shoved a knot of boys apart and stalked up to me. She wore a cropped top and vest and short pants that showed off elaborate, tattooed tiger stripes—and it was good work, I mean,
I
was impressed—but the claws erupting from her fingers and the tail curving behind her were quite real.

“You thinks you can just waltz in here and get a taste of our men?” she said, glaring up at me with yellow cat eyes, which made her all the more exotic and beautiful. She held up a long, sharp set of claws. “You thinks you can go through me to do it?”

I leaned in down on her until my face was inches from her exotic, oval face, and her tufted cat ears folded back as her eyes grew wider. I closed mine, and drank in her scent. She was warm and spicy with sweat, with a hint of real perfume that tasted of cinnamon.

“Oooh, you smell
yummy,”
I cooed, opening my eyes to see hers terrified. “Why would I want
them
when
you’re
throwing yourself at me? Give me a taste, little girl.”

Emboldened, I licked her face, and she leapt back with a squeal, hissing at me and swatting like a frightened little cat. It made her all the more cute, like the younger Savannah I remembered, and I watched her back all the way to a clump of the very same boys she’d challenged me over, hissing and swatting at them as they laughed.

I licked my lips. “Definitely cinnamon.”

“
Most
interesting,” Calaphase said. “Definitely
Saffron’s
ex.”

Lord Buckhead suddenly strode forward and broke into the ring, pulling the wolf and stag apart like a pair of stuffed toys. The stag snorted and challenged him, but the wolf just whined and tried to get away. Both twisted uselessly at the ends of his straightened arms.

“Enough!” he shouted, his voice ringing out throughout the house. “We are not animals, that we should fight like dogs!”

“But this is a werehouse, Lord Buckhead,” snarled a voice that was half laugh and half roar, as Lord Buckhead slowly lowered the combatants to the floor. “This is not a place for decorum. This is a place to celebrate our beasts! And when is more appropriate to celebrate our beasts than Halloween?”

Oh, just wonderful.
Halloween was just next Tuesday… and this was Friday night. This was
literally
a Halloween party. Every werekin in the Atlanta metro region was probably here tonight, and I’d wandered straight into it.

Lord Buckhead released the fighters, and they slunk away. The stag looked back once or twice, but Lord Buckhead did not acknowledge him. Buckhead just stared up at the end of the hall, to a raised platform, and even though he had a stag’s head I could tell he was glaring.

“But what is this?” the voice said, and I swallowed as the crowd parted to reveal the massive shape looming on the platform. “What have you brought before us tonight?”

A huge chair welded from parts of cars made the throne for a massive man-bear easily nine feet tall. The long claws of his “hands” curled over the working headlights of an old Cadillac. The engine and grille had been removed to make room for a huge bench seat groaning beneath the weight of two hairy, brawny legs. The hood had been flipped up into a backrest for his hyperdeveloped chest and shoulders, which were covered in a shaggy mane that would have made a lion proud. And atop his massive neck loomed a head that looked like it could have swallowed me whole, with two glowing green eyes fixed straight upon me.

“My name is
Dakota Frost,”
I said, voice ringing out in a silence that was unexpected. “I travel under the protection of the court of the Lady Saffron and the ban of the Lord Delancaster, but I come here to see the Marquis on business of my own.”

“I think Lord Buckhead was supposed to introduce you,” Calaphase said under his breath—and I noticed he’d moved quite a few steps back, with Transomnia skulking behind him like a wayward child.

“Ooops,” I said, turning back to face the Bear King. At least, I assumed it was the Bear King; hopefully there weren’t two of these monstrosities floating around.

A wolf lying at the monster’s feet snarled something, and the Bear King snarled back so deep it reverberated in my gut. “We have a human in our court,” he spat. “If you have not learned to use a human voice in that shape, don’t talk to me.”

The wolf ran off, snarling and whining, and the Bear King leaned back, seeming to become even larger against his oversized throne. He waved a hand at the throng. “We care not for vampire politics,” he said, eyes boring into me. “Tell me, why have you dared to interrupt our Halloween revels, little one?”

“Little,” I snapped, stalking forward. The vampires hung back as I walked forward through the predominantly werewolf crowd, climbed the steps of his throne and stopped straight in front of him. The huge beast’s jowls were only a few feet from mine.