Frost Moon (3 page)

There was no way to know. I’d give the book to Rand at the first opportunity and hope he could find out. But then I started thinking: Sumners was tattooed himself, and some of those tats had to be marks of great magical power.

I flipped to the bio, trying to find out a clue about how he died, but it was no help. It had been printed in 2003, and the most interesting piece of information was that Sumners had ‘recently had his hands insured with Lloyd’s of London for over a million dollars.’ Useless.

I’d originally gotten the book to try to find out who had worn that tattoo. But now here was a new question: did Sumners die near a full moon.

And then a creepy voice breathed in my ear: “Give me some skin, Dakota.”

3. ENTER THE RAT

“Jeez!” I cried, recoiling from the foul-smelling breath behind the voice, splattering my mocha across the table. “Spleen, don’t do that!”

Life had cursed Diego “Spleen” Spillane to look like a rat—long, pointed nose, thick, scattered, grey-brown hair, and one yellowed, fake eye. Generally he played above type. Today he was full of himself, and apparently couldn’t resist working it.

“Come on,” he said, curling his head around my shoulder, breath foul. “Be a sport.”

And then I saw his hand hovering over the table, held out for five. “Garlic,” I snapped, grabbing his hand and pulling him round to deposit him in the opposite seat, nearly losing the rest of my mocha when I brushed it again. “Don’t be such a fucking sneak—”

“Cops give you crap?” he said, grinning.

“No—how did you know—wait, how
the fuck
did you find me?”

“Mary’s,” he said. “I showed up just in time to see ya snatched. You weren’t in cuffs—”

“I tried,” I said, but Spleen didn’t take the bait.

“—so I figured you were all right, but I tailed them anyway, figuring—”

“What do you have for me that couldn’t wait?” I leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “I keep telling you, no one needs an emergency tattoo—”

“Ah,” Spleen said, suddenly knowing. “But this time you’re wrong.” He got up and held his hand out to me. “Let me take you on a little trip.”

I got up from the table. “This is a bad idea.” I started to leave the mocha and the book. Then I stopped, and looked down at the book, stained on one corner where I’d splattered it. The ghetto library had given me what I wanted; but I wasn’t a college dropout anymore. In a good year I made over fifty thousand dollars tattooing. And besides, it was a clearance book, probably about to go out of print; I’d be a butt if I pointed Rand or the Fed to it and it turned up gone.

“Just let me pay for this,” I said.

“Need it for
reee
-search,” Spleen said, “or just wanking?”

I glared at him. “What do I ‘wank,’ Spleen?”

“Anything that moves,” he responded.

“You’re
moving,” I pointed out.

“Touchy,” he said, though it sounded like he meant
touche.
“Let’s tango.”

We tore south on Moreland at what felt like two hundred miles an hour in Spleen’s battered old Festiva, though we couldn’t really have been doing over forty. He’d bought the car off of me, well-used, five years ago and had not treated it well. The engine squealed like a worn-out carnival ride. At one point we hit a tiny bump and my hair scrunched against the roof.

“Spleen!” I said. “Thought of new shocks?”

“Shocks?” he said. “Just another mechanic’s scam—”

We bumped on, getting a brief panorama of downtown Atlanta as we crested Freedom Parkway. I stared over at the glittering spires, glowing with fairybook promise denied to those of us who lived across the canyon of the Downtown Connector. Somewhere in there was the real Five Points, financial heart of Atlanta, but the view was quickly cut off by the King Center. We kept going, and I kept staring to the right, as if by keeping my eyes turned away, to the city, to the King Center, to John Hope Elementary, oh hey, look, there’s Javaology—that I would not notice when we crossed Auburn Avenue.

“Thinking about her?” Spleen said, suddenly serious.

“No,” I said. “We split two years ago, Spleen—”

“Never too late to catch up on old times,” he responded, livening up a bit. “I could whip it back around, take a little detour down Auburn to Old Wheat—”

“You do, I get out and roll.”

“This is the vampire district,” he reminded me. “Nasty to have a scrape—”

“I don’t care. And I thought you said this was an emergency?”

“I’m not saying we should stop, just, it’s not out of our way—”

“If you really cared about making time you’d have taken Glenn Iris—” and I suddenly drew a breath. Glenn Iris turned into Randolph—

“That would have taken you right past her front door, dipshit.” Spleen said, scowling again. “Give me a little credit. I was just needling you.”

True to his word, he kept driving, taking us onward, south of Auburn, south of Decatur and the tracks, growing perilously close to the foggy, haunted tombs of Oakland Cemetery—Margaret Mitchell, Bobby Jones, Reb and Union soldiers from the Battle of Atlanta— before finally hooking round the Mill Lofts back up north into Cabbagetown.

“I thought you said we were going to the Krog Street Tunnel—”

“Not Krog Street, babe,” Spleen said. “Just Krog. The Krog Tunnel—”

“Oh, hell,” I muttered. “The Underground.”

To most locals, “the Underground” means “Underground Atlanta”—a subterranean tourist trap downtown near Five Points, reclaimed from turn-of-the-last-century storefronts that had been covered over by modern streets and buildings, rediscovered in the 60’s. An ordinary historian might know that
before
then, “the Underground” referred to the Atlanta sewer system. But ask an
Edgeworlder
… and they’ll tell you that the
real
Underground is a series of tunnels beneath Atlanta, covered over by the Confederates just prior to the burning of the city, and forgotten to the wider world since the Civil War.

Spleen parked on a side street off Wylie and led me through someone’s back yard downstairs to an ancient, crumbled well, half hidden in the curve of the slope by a newer upper room held up by rusted pipes. Scattered around were magical tags—wards and wayfinders scribbled on walls with chalk or spray paint. The magical Edgeworld was alive, here.

Something fragile crunched under my boots when I stepped back to let Spleen lift the grating, and I scowled. I didn’t want to look down to see whether they were crack bottles or blood vials. I’d thought this area was coming back—I often ate a block or two away at the Carroll Street Cafe—but it’s amazing what even an Edgeworlder like me can miss.

We climbed down a rusted steel ladder about one floor before stepping off into a damp tunnel. The air was foul, and the floor was piled with garbage. I heard the rustle of something moving and, in the distance, the clink of a bottle falling to the stones. Spleen looked off sharply into the darker part of the tunnel, eyes narrow; I saw nothing, not even a rat, but after a brief moment Spleen saluted the darkness, then turned his back on it and marched on.

The garbage trailed off quickly as the tunnel brightened. This part looked new, with utilitarian lights that were part of the actual sewer system, but with tags hidden in corners and on sills that marked this as the border of the Underground. We went north for maybe a quarter mile until we could hear the squeal of a train overhead, and then Spleen pried open a dingy, metal door and gestured down a dirt-encrusted, well-warded stairwell.

“After you, my dear,” he said.

“Fuck that,” I said.

“I’m just messin with ya,” he said, and led the way down.

Here, there was no light other than a dim, yellow, fluorescent wand he carried as he stumbled down worn steps. The stairwell switchbacked through a grim, cinderblock shaft—one flight, two flights, three flights, four: by my count, three stories beneath the streets, maybe more. The door doubled back the way we came, revealing a wider, vaulted tunnel, paralleling the one above us, filled with still, black water. A rowboat floated in the bile, waiting.

“You have to be kidding,” I said, as Spleen got in the boat.

“The old Confederate runoff tunnel,” he said, looking down into the water. “Or maybe a secret train tunnel that got flooded. Everyone who knows… is
looong
dead.”

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, getting in behind him grumpily.

“Ready? Ready. Ready!” Spleen said, pushing off and clambering forward to grab the oars. “You sit yourself back and enjoy the ride.”

“Whatever you say, Spleen,” I sighed.

The bastard grinned, and then started singing.

“We’re off to see the werewolf,” he warbled terribly, and my blood grew cold. “The wonderful werewolf of Krog. He is the were the wonderful were—”

“The full moon is like, ten days away,” I muttered. “No, I’m not
at all
worried.”

4. ENTER THE WOLF

At night you can’t see the color of my tattoos—unless I want you to. The darkness robs the blue from the scales of the dragon, the red from the feathers of the eagle, and the gold from the wings of the butterfly, leaving a black pattern of tribal runes like columns of hieroglyphics.

They’re mesmerizing—at least I
hoped
that’s why the werewolf stared at me so intently with his gleaming eyes. Oh, he looked human, even handsome, crouched on the dock under the yellowed lantern light, but his white incisors were a bit too sharp, his brown beard a little too scraggly, and something hungry lurked behind the lashes of his green eyes.

I stared back, frozen. Deep in a maze of tunnels marked with magical signs I couldn’t decipher, surrounded by blocks of stone that rose above us like a dungeon, trapped in a rocking boat too precarious to even stand, here I sat with the bare flesh of my arms exposed to a werewolf staring at me like dinner. Charming.

The tension grew thick enough to scare me out of my wits before the werewolf said, in a deep, rumbling voice that chilled me to my bones, “Such exquisite color. Such attention to detail. I could gaze on them all night, and not ask the question—can you do
this?”

The werewolf flicked an old photograph at me, but I was too stunned to catch it.

“Don’t lose it,” Spleen cried, reaching out impulsively and damn near falling out of the boat, and both the werewolf and I reached to steady him.

Our hands touched—the werewolf’s was shockingly warm—and we both jerked away. Spleen leaned back up, one hand drenched where he’d pitched forward, but the other—and the photograph— still held high and dry.

“Idiot,” Spleen snarled at me, shaking stinking drainwater off his hand. “Why do you think I brought you down here? So he could eat you?”

“No,” I said, staring at the werewolf a bit sheepishly. We were both holding our hands carefully, mirroring each other, and I’d caught a lively spark in his eyes that seemed to promise that he was interested in more than dinner. “That wasn’t what I was worried about.”

“What then?” he asked, handing me the photograph.

I ignored him, holding the photograph gingerly, trying to parse it. It depicted a… stone carving of a wolf—a wolf in chains, which looped around it in an elaborate design.

“A control charm?” I guessed.

“I’m told you are the best,” the werewolf said. “Seeing your work—” he stared hungrily, no, appreciatively, at my arms—”I’d trust no one else. Can you ink the image on me?”

I pocketed it. “Of course, but I have to get this vetted by a local witch. I don’t ink marks I haven’t done before without a second opinion—you never know what lurks in the magic.”

The wolf pursed his lips. He had nice lips.
Very
nice lips, and a strong jaw beneath the scraggle. I notice these things.

“Of… course,” the werewolf said. “But this cannot take too long—”

“She
can
do it,” Spleen said, jerking forward slightly. “Believe me. Dakota, give him the show. He needs to know what he’s buying—”

“No need,” the wolf said, eyes fixed on me. “I can see the magic in her marks.”

I held his gaze, then cracked my neck a little and prepared to breathe a word. It didn’t really matter
what
word; an old-school magician or one of my Wiccan friends would no doubt have a whole vocabulary of nonsense for every different occasion. But the specific word didn’t matter: with magical tattoos, all that mattered was the intent of the wearer.

“Show him,”
I said, and the tiniest magical tremor rippled through my body, the barest fraction of power, gleaming down my tats, spreading through the vines, illuminating the scales, the feathers, the wings in a sparkling array like a cloud of fairy dust marching down my skin. I even made the wings of the butterfly on my left wrist lift up and flutter in the air. The big bad werewolf’s eyes lit up like a little child, dancing over my form, drinking in the magic, edges crinkling up in a smile.

“All but these are mine,” I said, holding up my right forearm as the last glimmers of magic sparkled away, “and the man who did my inking arm works with me in the Rogue.”

The wolf leaned back, impressed. “I would say I am now convinced, but I was before.”

I glared at Spleen. “You could have brought him to the Rogue—”

“NO,” the wolf said. “It’s not safe—”

“This,” I said, “is the twenty-first century. In Atlanta. In
Little Five Points.
Trust me, no one is going to hassle a werewolf. Heck, no one will even notice you.”

“I didn’t mean it wasn’t safe for me,” the werewolf said, still staring at me with those hungry eyes. His eyes no longer lingered on my tattoos, but roved all over me, like I was a particularly delicious banquet. Then he caught himself and looked away, shaking his head, face twitching in a pained grimace—I was a banquet he was forbidden to touch.

He was embarrassed. I felt sad for him, forced to hide in these tunnels, afraid of himself, holding on to what little scraps of dignity he could, like his battered suit. Even looking away, his chin was held up with pride, as of he were trying to be more than the monster most people would choose to see.

Not that a twinge of fear wasn’t still nagging me: here I was, facing a real Edgeworlder, ripe with danger, popping his cork monthly, all too interested in my tattoos. I couldn’t help but think of that skin-covered lid in the evidence tray. But I sensed no malice in this werewolf—in this
man,
this dangerously scruffy but still charming man with gleaming green eyes. And behind the hunger and the pain in those eyes I saw sadness… and interest?