Frost Moon (7 page)

I felt so sad. Growing up, Jinx had always had the best vision of any of my childhood friends; now she could see little more than a murky blur. It was painful watching her rock her head back and forth, trying to eke some sense of the figures through the ruin of her eyes. Finally she put the flash down on the table, drummed her fingers, and nodded.

“It will take me a day or so to ‘look’ them over,” she said.

“I figured,” I said, pulling out a USB key. “I have some files if you want the originals—TIFF, JPEG, PNG, and for the clock, even something called SVG—”

“Scalable Vector Graphics,” she said, suddenly breathless, upraising a gloved hand into which I dropped the key. “Excellent. That will save me a step.”

“I don’t have the other one. We’re trying to get a picture now—”

“Do you know the general kind of inking it’s going to be?”

“It’s…” I stopped, deciding how much to tell her. This was police business, nasty stuff, and I knew how she felt about the police—heck, I felt the same way. But this was
Jinx,
after all. What could I hide from her? “I’m not inking it. Someone ripped a tattoo off one of Richard Sumner’s clients.”

“A copyright infringement case?” she said, shocked. “Dakota—”

“No,” I said, very flatly.

Jinx’s face drained. “Oh, Dakota,” she said, horrified. “You mean literally. Oh,
Dakota!
What have you gotten yourself into? How did you ever come across such a thing—”

“Andre Rand,” I said. “He wanted to warn me. Somebody’s targeting people with magical tattoos.” Her hands went to her mouth. “I’m, uh, trying to help them—”

“Well,
duh,”
she said. “Quit dancing around it, I can smell your reluctance from here.”

I didn’t say anything. I
was
a bit embarrassed. Jinx hated the police, for reasons she never disclosed. In fact she’d nearly cut me out when she found out my dad was a cop, and even now she barely tolerated him—though on that score I knew how she felt.

“Well,” I said, “It’s just, I didn’t think you’d like me working with them—”

“‘Them,’” she said. “Say it. ‘The police’—and ‘the Feds,’ I’ll bet. You’re helping the police, and you’re worried about what I’ll think.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well, stop worrying, Dakota.” She sat up straighter. “Someone may be stalking you, and has already killed somebody else. Of
course
you’re helping the police. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I know you better than to think you’d engage in a modern witch hunt.”

I let out a breath, relieved. “So, if we could get them to release the pics, you’ll help?”

“Dakota,” she said reprovingly. “Oh Dakota. Of course. Anything for you.”

Her phone beeped, and Jinx sighed. “I have class,” she said primly, closing her little laptop, slipping it and the spiral-bound Braille book into a brown leather satchel, and then withdrawing a spirit cane.

“I know,” I replied.

“Walk me to the bus stop?” Jinx said, standing, all black ruffles and white lace, unfolding the springloaded white cane to its six foot length sharply,
tik-tik-tik-tik-CRACK.

“Certainly,” I said, stepping to the door and opening it. She walked forward towards my voice, sweeping the cane back and forth,
click-clack
, acutely aware of her effect on the boys at the side table as she swept past them. She took my extended arm naturally as she stepped through the door, and we walked out into the warm Atlanta sun. “Just like old times.”

“More than you know,” she said. “I think I can evaluate the clockwork flash, but as for the control charm… we’ll want to call in an were-expert.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Not a wereologist, but an actual were.”

“Right, first time,” Jinx said. “Goes by ‘the Marquis.’ We’re texting all the time, but he’s a real Edgeworlder. No email, no fixed address—you’ll have to take the flash to him physically, in person, at the local werehouse—”

“Which warehouse?”

“ Were-house,” Jinx said, pronouncing the first syllable distinctly. I still heard little or no difference, other than she was leaning on the were, but I got the gist.

“Fine, fine,” I said. “I actually like werewolves, or were-whatevers—”

“You’ve never been to an actual werehouse, though,” she said. “They’re homes for werekin who can’t ‘pass’. I’ve only been once, and I had the distinct sensation that I was tolerated only because I’m blind. Humans just aren’t wanted there, so you’ll have to be escorted in.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

“Oh, it gets better,” Jinx said. Now
she
was dancing around something, which wasn’t like her. “There’s a new wrinkle, so.”

“So what? What’s the wrinkle?”

“The werewolf clan has contracted with some… low-lifes… for protection.”

“Oh hell,” I said. “Vampires. No, let me guess—
rogue
vampires. I’m going to need an escort to deal with my escorts!”

“It’s not that bad,” she said. “They’re a vampire gang, yes, but they do abide by the protocols. So you can get protection from them… but, it’s just… as a Little Fiver…”

“Oh, hell,” I repeated. “I have to ask for help from my ex-girlfriend.”

10. THE JUNIOR VAN HELSING DETECTIVE AGENCY

If you follow Auburn Avenue east from Boulevard to Randolph Street, just where Auburn splits back off from Old Wheat, there’s a small, unassuming box of a building sitting at the narrowest of the five corners of the intersection. It’s shy on windows and has broad double doors pointing straight at the street, giving it a small-church feel; and indeed it was once a church, now deconsecrated. And inside, in the karmic convergence of holy ground built on a ley-line crossing near a five-pointed intersection (found by our very own Jinx), lived the vampire queen of Little Five Points.

My ex-girlfriend, Savannah Winters.

Back when I had my Festiva, you parked on Old Wheat; Auburn had some kind of city right of way and you’d quickly get towed. With the Vespa I expected to be able to putter right up and park on the sidewalk, but when I arrived, there was a new wrought-iron fence up around the whole main building. Finally I parked behind a small connected Victorian building that had once been the church school, next to a couple of unfamiliar cars.
Had she moved?

But the church buildings had been reworked too, now with a semi-formal entrance and several carved wooden signs, like a doctor’s office:

L5P VAMPIRE CONSULATE
DARKROSE ENTERPRISES
JVH DETECTIVE AGENCY

I scowled. Apparently Savannah was setting up her own little business empire trading on her vampirism. I wondered if she was
ever
going to get her Ph.D—not likely, at this rate.

Once she’d dreamed of becoming the world’s very first vampire vampirologist, becoming a vampire herself to try to “study the vampire world from within.” I told her not to do it, the ‘vampire world’ would eat her alive. She went and got herself turned anyway. We split.

I’m not bitter.

As I predicted, the vampire world consumed more and more of her time and life, pushing everything else out. The careful planning she put into her change made her into an extremely powerful—and sought after—vampire. Soon, Savannah Winters became the head vampire of the Little Five Points district, helped by a little bit of vampire nepotism from the vampire who made her.

She’d called to tell me she was now the
Lady
Saffron. I’d hung up.

It was the last time we’d spoken.

Now here I was, staring at the signs, nerving myself up for this. Finally I rang the doorbell and was buzzed in.

Inside, the remodeled building felt even more like a doctor’s office. It was a small but brightly lit room, in earthtones, with padded chairs, magazines on coffee tables, and even a couple of potted plants. A reception desk served as gateway for three doors going left, back and right. Except for the blonde girl behind the desk, the room was empty—things had to be slow at nine-thirty on a Friday night. Then the phone rang, and I realized that it was only a couple hours past sunset. Vampire business might just be starting to heat up.

“Hello, Junior Van Helsing Detective Agency,” said the girl into her headset. Surely she couldn’t be in college. She had to be a high schooler… or a
something.
. “I’ll put you through to Detective Nagli.” She pressed a button, then looked up at me. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see ‘the Lady Saffron,’” I said, pronouncing her vampire name carefully, trying to hide my resentment. “Is she still—”

“Ah, Vampire Consulate business,” the girl said, oddly embarrassed. “You’re, um, you’re in the right place, but… I’m sorry, can you wait maybe an… hour?” She cringed at my glare, and said hastily, “The Lady Saffron is here, but she’s… ah… entertaining the Lady Darkrose right now. They won’t receive visitors for at least an hour—”

Huh. She’d gone and shacked up with someone else—another vamp from the sound of it—and built up a whole entourage. I don’t know why it pissed me off, but it did.

“She’ll receive me,” I said. “I’m an old friend of ‘Saffron’—”

“Are you now?” said another voice. A young, young man, wearing a suit with all of the grace of a bum, had come to slouch in the side door. Just beyond him was a hard-looking man with a dark beard, openly staring at me with an unfriendly scowl. The boy’s gaze had no such hostility, but still pinned me with a calculating eye. “If you’re an old friend, surely you know Saffron doesn’t like to be disturbed when entertaining Darkrose.”

“Or maybe I don’t,” I said. “I don’t know who this Darkrose is.”

“An old friend of Saffron who doesn’t know who Darkrose is?” The boy raised a manila folder to his lips. “An old friend… or an estranged friend, perhaps?”

“Both,” I said. “Now take me to see Saffron. I’m headed to a werehouse, and I need to ask for her protection—”

“Ah,” the boy said. “Makes sense now. Show her in.”

“You
do it,” the girl said. “They’re in there with Doug—”

“You’re
the secretary,” the boy replied.

“You’re
the idiot who wants to interrupt her after she gave orders not to be disturbed—”

“You’re forgetting they’re
vampires
,” the hard-faced man said, with a sudden, bitter laugh. He had an odd accent, not English but maybe somewhere from the ruins of the empire. “They’ll love the chance to show off their little court.”

The boy and the secretary looked at him, then each other. “Vickman’s right,” she said.

“Fine,” the boy said, handing the envelope to Vickman. He whipped out his phone and tapped off a few quick instant messages, then snapped it closed and said, “Come on, old friend of Saffron, and let’s see how you handle
this.”

He opened the door to the left into a small hallway that led to a conference room, dimly lit, with a wetbar and overstuffed couches opposite a conference table. The hum of a refrigerator came from a set of built-in cabinets behind the bar, and I swallowed. What kind of drinks would a vampire serve at a bar? The boy stepped between the table and wetbar to an elaborate, heavy wooden door, and pressed a button on an intercom.

“Just who the hell are you?” I asked.

“I work for the Junior Van Helsing Detective Agency,” he said. “We have an… arrangement with the Consulate to handle their reception in exchange for the office space.”

He pressed the button again. After a moment, a woman answered in a strong but oddly clipped variant of an English accent, like Vickman’s. I didn’t recognize the voice.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I have a… supplicant for the Lady Saffron,” the boy said, looking at me.

“I’m not a ‘supplicant,’” I snapped. “I’m an old friend—”

“I understand,” the voice replied. “Show her in.”

“Thanks,” the boy said. “After you, my dear—”

“For the second time in as many days,” I said, “Fuck that.”

The boy shrugged, smiling. “Have it your way, Miss Frost.”

“I never told you my name,” I said.

He tapped his head. “Quick.” Then he shrugged, as if he hated calling attention to his smarts. “Also notice ‘detective’ in Junior Van Helsing
Detective
Agency?”

“You’re a real little dick, you know that?”

He looked back in shock, saw me smiling, and then got it. “Have it your way, Miss Frost,” he said, and opened the door.

The interior of the church had been redone since I’d last seen it. The altar and pews had been long gone when Savannah had converted it to a living space, but now her futon, beanbag and Target end tables were gone too, replaced by a large L-shaped sofa and elegant coffee table, which faced a widescreen TV sitting on a circular platform. Sweeps of fabric hung from the ceiling, pouring down like tapestries on the walls where her posters had once hung. Small statues stood on pedestals beneath the stained glass windows; an elaborately dressed maid was dusting one bust carefully. And at the end of the room, on the raised dais that had once held the altar, an unfamiliar black female vampire sat on a throne, staring at me with cold blue eyes.

The door closed behind me, and I stepped forward. The vampire was stunning: tall, strong, body wrapped in a tight leather corset-like bodice that accented her bust. Crossed legs seemed poured into boots that came all the way up to her bare thighs—just Savannah’s type. Beside her, a masked man knelt, his young muscular chest harnessed in crisscrossed straps of leather, and wearing cheekchiller chaps that exposed his backside. I arched an eyebrow: the boy was wearing a collar and leash, and the leather mask was in the shape of a dog’s face. Also Savannah’s type.

I was confused. The black vampire on the throne was not Savannah… but this scene was all
too
Savannah. The colors of the fabric sweeping the ceiling were those Savannah liked. I remembered shopping for couches with her and looking at this specific one. Even the statues on the pedestals looked familiar—Savannah had once kept them in her storage unit. The entire scene was something she might have designed, down to the leashed dog.

“Who are you,” the vampire said, “and what made you brave disturbing—”

“And who the fuck are
you?”
I asked. “And where’s the Lady Saffron? I need to—”

The vampire inclined her head, and the maid turned to look at me.