Frost Moon (21 page)

“So I dropped into jodan, it’s your basic low stance, and just sat there. The guy stood there in front of his buddies, cussing, calling me a coward—and then walked off, thinking he’d showed me. If I’d tussled with him, I would have ended up hurting three people—or getting hurt by three people. Instead, we had a perfect outcome—we both walked away winners.”

He seemed to notice he was in a ‘low stance’ and uncoiled, windmilling his hands so he went back to a normal standing position with seemingly no effort.

“I tell my students to turn the other cheek because that shit works,” he said. “It keeps you out of trouble. Everything else I or these guys can teach you is all about how to deal with trouble if you’ve failed to keep out of it. First rule of martial arts—if there’s trouble, don’t be there.”

“Don’t be there,” I said. “Easier said than done.”

He nodded. “But you can learn to look out for trouble, with a little practice. In the meantime, listen to your friends,” he said, indicating Philip, Rand, the priest, all with a simple gesture. “They’re looking out for
you.
You’re not going to go give up tattooing and go become a cop just to get back at this guy, are you?”

“No,” I laughed. “Don’t think so—”

“Lord knows we need the help,” Philip said, a little forced, but holding the green monster of jealousy at bay. “Darren, I think I misjudged you earlier. Where do you teach?”

“I teach the Emory University Taido karate club,” he said, “and also I teach some of the children’s classes at the main Taido school in Norcross.”

“You’re a… kid’s karate teacher?” Rand said, arching an eyebrow.

“I also do some mixed martial arts,” he said, shrugging.

“Well, soon as I get out of here,” I said. “I want you to show me how to mix it up.”

“No promises, other than hard work won’t bring miracles,” he said.

I looked at Jinx. “Speaking of miracles… tell Savannah to come back,” I said. There was a horrible pang in my heart when I said it; I hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, or maybe I did, because the words kept on spilling out and I couldn’t stop them. “I want to say I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” Doug said. “She bolted to protect you.”

“She didn’t have to,” I said. But I flashed again on her yawn. Her fangs. Those terrible fangs. Her eyes. Transomnia’s cold eyes. My fingers in his pruners. His foot in my gut. Sudden pressure grew in my abdomen, and I hunched over, trembling. I wanted to say something else, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

“Maybe… maybe she did,” Jinx said at last.

“I think,” Phil said softly, “Miss Frost has had enough excitement for the day.”

24. WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE…

Intense pain spiked through my hands. I opened my eyes to a darkened hospital room. A black figure with ominous red eyes stood at the end of my bed. He held up something shiny and dripping, like a little sausage. I held up my trembling hands: the first two fingers of each hand were gone, leaving raw stumps. As I watched, the other fingers fell away, one by one, leaving me with two bloody flippers instead of hands. And Transomnia laughed.

I screamed and sat up bolt upright, fingers tearing at the sheets of the hospital bed. It was midday; I had dozed off and fell straight into the same damn nightmare. My fingers throbbed painfully, but they were there. Thank God, they were all there. I rubbed the two fingers of my right hand with the thumb and fingers of my left until the tingling went away.

“I have
got
to get the fuck out of here,” I said.

And at that moment Philip strolled in the door, carrying flowers and a wry smile that both indicated he was up to something.

“Up for a tour of the campus?” he asked.

“Up for
anything,”
I said, “that gets me outside.”

Philip worked his magic on the hospital staff again and got them to cough up a wheelchair. Within minutes he was wheeling me out in the crisp October air, wrapped in his overcoat and feeling sunny.

“They say you’re going home Tuesday morning,” Philip said. “I’m actually surprised they’ve kept you this long, if you’re well enough for a tour of the grounds.”

“It’s the knee,” I said. “I think if it was just the cuts and bruises they would have sent me home already, but the doc’s keeping my knee under close observation.”

We curved round the grassy hollow in front of Emory Hospital, turning just short of the buzzing traffic on Clifton Road that cut the hospital and school in half. I looked up through the trees, at the sky: through the peeling red and orange leaves, a contrail slipped lazily by, the body of the jet that made it gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Through it all, Philip kept dropping little hints—notes of caution for dealing with Edgeworld clients, innocent-sounding little questions about the tattoos that I’d been working on, and so on. Finally I could stand it no more.

“All right,” I said. “You know something. I’ve felt the question hanging over me for the whole ride: ‘So, Miss Frost, knowing I’m hunting a killer that strikes the tattooed on the full moon, when were you planning on telling me you were doing a tattoo for a werewolf?’”

Philip laughed. “Okay. We can start there.”

“I met with him just after Rand released me from Atlanta Homicide—”

“That was the urgent tattoo you blew me off for the next day,” Philip said.

“One of them, yes,” I said. “He wants me to ink a control charm, claims he wants more control over his beast—”

“Making him a perfect target,” Philip said.

I hunched over in the chair, feeling defensive. ‘Wulf was a hardcore Edgeworlder, but I’d gotten a good vibe off him. He was sweet, in a rough, direct way, and would have been more handsome—though lost some of his wildness—if he cleaned up that scruffy—

My eyes widened. What I’d taken to be a homeless man, shambling along with a group of students suddenly broke free and began walking towards us with strong, purposeful strides. As he crossed the street, his face turned straight to me and I found myself staring straight into the firm jaw and direct gaze of Wulf.

“Speak of the devil,” I said.

“Hmmm?” Philip said. Then he caught sight of Wulf barreling down on us and brought the wheelchair to a halt calmly, without a word. He started to step forward, but I reached up and grabbed his hand.

“It’s all right,” I said. “This is Wulf. He’s a friend—I think.”

Wulf stopped straight in front of us. He was bigger and tougher than I remembered, but had considerably cleaned up. His wild mane of brownish-blond hair was swept back, his beard trimmed, his face washed. Even his worn beige suit had been laundered to the point you could tell it had once been finery. It stood out sharply against a torn but clean t-shirt, whose rips exposed hints of the tanned skin and rough fur of his muscular chest. He stood over me, staring, soaking my injuries in, pale yellow eyes growing more and more wolflike with rage until they were practically glowing.

“Damnit, I was too slow!” he said, voice crackling with anger. His eyes flicked briefly up at Philip, then dismissed him and fell back on me. I tore my eyes away from the rips in his shirt, from the glimpse of the fine concentric lines of some long-faded tattoo, and met his gaze. He studied me for a moment, then snarled. “I’m so sorry. I wish I’d ripped his throat out.”

“Wulf,” I said, throat constricting in fear. “Were you stalk— following me?”

His eyes widened.
“No,”
he said, kneeling before me, reaching to touch my hand. “No. When I collected my design from Spleen, he said you wanted me to feel free to contact you—”

“I
did,”
I said, and Wulf flinched a little. “And still do, Wulf.”

“Thank you, Dakota. He said he’d just met you at Manuel’s, so I… uh… ran down there,” Wulf said, with a little smile that sounded like he meant that
literally.
“When I arrived I heard shouting in the parking lot, caught the end of the attack—”

And then his hand met mine, and he looked down in shock to see the bandages.

“Oh, no,” he said, jerking back. “Oh, God, no. Please don’t tell me—”

“It’s all right,” I said, as he stared at my hand. “Just cuts and scrapes. I—I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ll still be able to do your tattoo.”

Wulf looked up sharply. “Even after all you’ve been through?”

I drew a breath at the longing and fear mixed with his concern. Up close, he was suddenly more human than he’d been since I met him, all my attention was on the pain in his eyes. Somewhere deep inside, this wolf of a man was a scared, hurt puppy, running from everyone. Ok, maybe a two-hundred-fifteen-pound werewolf was technically not a puppy—but he was hurt, all the same.

“Of course,” I said, reaching out to touch his hand. I was still surprised by its warmth, even through the bandages. “Takes more than a sicko to stop me.”

“Who was he?” Wulf said. “He was fast—I lost him. Didn’t smell like a were—”

“A vampire,” I said, and Wulf nodded in recognition. “The other vampires are working with the police to handle it. He’s a lot more dangerous than he looks—don’t tackle him.”

“I don’t plan to,” Wulf said. “I’d step up to defend you from an attack, but I won’t go hunting someone down for revenge. I can’t afford to tangle with the police.”

He stood abruptly, tense and jumpy, clenching and unclenching his fists, bare feet padding almost silently on the sidewalk.

“I shouldn’t even be out here—the moon will be rising shortly.” He looked at his watch—and even
I
could tell it was a nice watch— and cursed. “I can’t trust myself to be out among people, this close to the time.”

“Dakota tells me the tattoo you want her to ink is a control charm,” Philip said, oh so reasonably. “Won’t that help?”

Wulf suddenly stopped and stared at him, nostrils flaring, feet planted, indignant and inquisitive all at once. “Might keep me from making trouble,” he said, but his eyes had grown more wary—and more yellow, almost to the point of glowing. “But it would do nothing to keep my enemies from making trouble for me.”

“Enemies?” I asked. “You have enemies?”

“Everywhere,” Wulf said, staring back at the hospital. “Always making problems for me, wherever I go—even here. I washed up before I came, even got this old thing drycleaned, and still they wouldn’t let me see you—”

“Sorry,” Philip said. “The guards on her floor have a list of names. I’ll put you on it.”

Wulf’s eyes tightened more, glaring at Philip. “I never got to her floor,” he said. “Security guards turned me away at the front door. They were ready for me. They had complaints about an obnoxious homeless man fitting my description—”

“How the heck could you know that?” I asked.

“I heard the man behind the front desk talking to the guards as they ushered me out. Never underestimate a werewolf’s hearing,” Wulf said. “And… I think someone is stirring up more trouble for me.”

I had started to put Wulf’s picture next to ‘paranoid’ in the dictionary, but damned if two police officers didn’t come out of the hospital entrance, look around, fix on us, and quickly start heading in our direction.

“Harassment for being obnoxious, even for being homeless, is natural,” Wulf said, clenching his fists, “but persecution for nothing—
that
is the work of my enemies.”

“O-okay,” I said. “Philip, can you call them off—”

“They’re not on your detail, and they don’t look like they’ll listen,” Philip said. Abruptly he took off his sunglasses and extended them to Wulf. “Take these.”

Wulf’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why would you give me your—”

“Your eyes are starting to show, my friend,” Philip said.

Wulf took the glasses slowly, staring at them. They were thick and heavy, with odd bulges and two earpieces. “These are Oakley Thumps,” he said.

“They’ll still cover your eyes,” Philip countered.

My jaw dropped, and I looked back up at Philip; he looked sincere. I liked him, almost instinctively, but I couldn’t figure him out: one minute he was wanting to take Cinnamon off the streets just for being furry, the next he was giving away two-hundred-dollar MP3 sunglasses to a crazy paranoid werewolf. What was up with
that?

Wulf started to hand them back. “I can’t accept—”

“Take them and go,” Philip said. “They’re almost on us.”

Wulf looked over at the cops and snarled; when they saw the expression on his face, they drew their batons and started running towards us, shouting.

“Later,” he said. “I will contact you through the Rogue!”

And at that he whirled and ran off. One cop chased after him, while his older, more obese partner stomped up to us, wheezing. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

“No,” I snapped. “He’s my friend. He came to see me in the hospital.”

The cop’s eyes widened, and he looked over at the running pair.

Wulf ran straight out into traffic, dodging one car, then another; at the double yellow line he leapt straight up and over a passing semi like an agent out of the Matrix. The other cop stopped midstream, in the midst of squealing tires and blaring horns, as Wulf leapt from streetlight to rooftop and disappeared into a canopy of red October leaves.

“Quite a friend,” the first cop said, still gasping for breath.

“You’re telling me,” I said, reaching up to hold Philip’s hand as it squeezed my shoulder. “You’re telling me.”

25. HORROR AT THE DOGSHOW

Tuesday morning they let me out of the hospital at last, but I was not yet on my own, or even on my own two feet; I was stuck in my wheelchair, at least for a few more days. Philip insisted that I have some protection until I was walking again, and reluctantly I agreed to stay at the Consulate and suffer through Savannah’s mothering—a peace-offering, from me to her. She said nothing about my reaction to her fangs, but at twilight she pushed my wheelchair through the Consulate’s garden… and we talked. Our little conversation wasn’t enough to heal any old wounds, but at least it patched them up for a while. Then we talked—I talked—about my meltdown, and after listening for a long time, Savannah said some soft but bracing things. They weren’t enough to put the attack behind me, but at least I could put it away for a while.