Liquid Fire (13 page)

“To the Lady Nyissa,” he said, “for reminding us that the relationship between vampire and human . . . should be more than just predator and prey.”

As he stared, I realized he was talking about Nyissa’s relationship to
me
.

“To Nyissa,” I said, abruptly raising my water glass to her, grateful to be out of that almost-staring match with Lord Varguson. For a flicker-quick instant, Nyissa was rattled, then regained her “too cool for the room” vampiric composure. I smiled at her. “Thank
you.
”

“Thank you,” Nyissa said, struggling to keep her expression cool as her voice rasped out. It was sad—her Irish lilt had been exceptionally beautiful, and now she could narrate a horror movie. She raised her blood-filled glass with a wounded smile. “And thanks to my hosts.”

And then she drank the entire glass, like she was taking a shot.

“Drink as much as you need,” the Lady Astryia said, passing over her glass, from which she had only taken the slightest sip. Astryia sounded Israeli, though as an old-school vampire, she probably predated the state of Israel—but I presumed she was not Orthodox, or she would not be drinking blood—or, hell, I didn’t know how being a Jewish vampire “worked,” any more than I understood how Saffron could be a Christian vampire. “You must feed to fully heal.”

Nyissa took the glass from the “special collection” gratefully and drank it down, more gracefully this time. Lord Varguson watched her carefully, beckoning with his hand to the waiter, then he returned his eyes to me, and I looked away.

“I hope,” he said, “this action on our part is an ample demonstration of our good faith.”

Saffron nodded, but silently; then she looked at me. Apparently, she’d taken that “entourage” comment by Carnes to heart, and it actually made sense. If she really was out here just for me, and not as a power grab, then it was my responsibility to take the lead.

“Of course, Lord Varguson,” I said, looking back at him nervously. “Simply by being open about what you needed to make you feel safe, and by not threatening us, you have shown more grace than others we’ve met on this trip.”

Lord Varguson nodded gravely. Looking off-center in his face, I was impressed by how compact and muscular he was, how much the weathered skin, superficially human, reminded me of boot leather. Even though his eyes did not glow, I felt more aura from him than anyone else here, except Saffron. With that kind of control and power, he would be a fearsome opponent.

“So, tell me, Lady Frost,” he said, taking a slow sip, then putting down his glass. “To what do we owe this trip?”

I frowned. Speaking to ancient, powerful creatures who drank blood and read minds made me feel oddly unqualified as the Chair of the Magical Security Council, but I didn’t think I could afford to show weakness. I decided to focus on my immediate goals.

“My reasons are simple,” I said, smiling at Cinnamon. “My daughter won a prize—”

“Surely you have seen that San Francisco is a hornet’s nest—and surely you know that disturbing a hornet’s nest can have . . . unfortunate results.” Varguson’s eyes glittered, tiny sparks of light appearing in them for the first time. “Have you really no other motive for visiting?”

Yes, of course
—
getting my money for winning a magical challenge last year,
I thought,
but I can’t tell you that.
And I had no desire to tell these vamps I was trying to keep Cinnamon safe from Scara. But why was I letting them rattle me? The MSC
wasn’t
just a game, nor should its principles be limited to Atlanta. I really believed what I had said to the Conclave earlier.

“Many vampires died earlier this year,” I said, as clearly as I could, focusing mentally on the reasons that followed from that, and no others. “The Vampire Gentry demanded action. But I can’t save the world all by myself. We—the vampires, the werekin, and the wizards of Atlanta—are trying to stop the next magical catastrophe before it kicks off witch hunts in which we’d all suffer. That’s a political threat. You can’t fight politics like a mortal opponent—not alone.”

And then, they listened. Or seemed to listen. Or let me rant. The point is, I spent the rest of the meal articulating the charter of the Council, its problems, my plans, and how we might work together with the Edgeworld of San Francisco. Finally, Saffron raised her hand.

“She is as I described to you, is she not?” she said politely.

“Guileless,” Lord Kitana said. It was the first word the Japanese vampire had said all evening, and I was not sure whether it was a compliment or an insult.

I felt my cheeks burn, and took a bite from my plate; my crispy tofu had grown cold. But Cinnamon grinned at me, wolfing down her
second
helping of nearly-raw wagyu beef—whose price had made my eyes water, until Astryia had told us the entire meal was on the house.

“We shall not meet with the wizards of San Francisco,” Lord Varguson said. “We shall, however, allow you to do so on our behalf, and in exchange for that invaluable service, we shall allow you free rein to operate within our domain during the duration we have prescribed.” He passed a small envelope to Saffron, who slipped it into her corset. Then he said, “And in thanks, now we have something special for you all . . . and not just from the special collection.”

Then the waiters brought an absolute bounty of desserts: house-made ice cream in three flavors and Mexican donuts dipped in caramel and several different dessert “liqueurs” that definitely were from the special collection. Cinnamon practically cooed; so did I.

But despite the bounty, I was getting antsy—the hour was getting late. I glanced at Saffron, who nodded and bowed her head again to Lord Varguson.

“Thank you for your warm welcome and your extremely generous hospitality,” she said. “But now, if you will excuse us, we have another engagement. An art opening—”

“Really?” Lord Varguson said. Pinpricks sparkled in his eyes, and then on my exposed skin. “You wish to abandon our hospitality?” Varguson said, his icy tone making it seem like we were abandoning them on an ice floe. “In favor of . . . an
art opening?
”

“The invitation,” I said, trying to rescue Saffron, “was extended by the local commune of fire magicians, and their visiting guest. It would be unwise to abandon that opportunity.”

Lord Varguson’s pinpricks settled on me again. They were bright enough now to see their color, little sparks of red in his dark, leathery face. “Local magicians, not part of the Wizarding Guild . . . and yet within their territory,” he said. “Most interesting.”

“I am aware of them,” Lord Kitana said. “They call themselves the Fireweavers, and are largely harmless.” His voice was surprisingly forceful, once he used it; he could have been a radio announcer. “Though they usually operate in the East Bay.”

“Fire wizards, come to our stronghold, without consulting us, or the Guild,” Varguson said. “Even more interesting. We would like to accompany you to this . . . art opening.”

I stared back at him, just off-center. Me and my damn mouth. I knew, even without looking, that I should not turn to Saffron or Darkrose for rescue, and they weren’t jumping in to volunteer an out either. Come to think of it, there
was
no out: it was a public performance.

———

“Wonderful,” I said, pulling out my smartphone. “Let me get the address.”

13. Window Shopping

We had over an hour before Jewel’s fire show, so the vampires, to my surprise, suggested we
walk
from Asia de Cuba to Liquid, which was a block or so northeast of Union Square. Cinnamon eagerly agreed, claiming she wanted to “get the feel of the streets.”

Before we left, however, Nyissa excused herself . . . to track down our waiter.

“It’s nice, no longer being the prettiest girl in the room,” Saffron said. The other female vampires glanced at her, Lady Astryia angrily, Lady Darkrose hurt. But they did not contradict her, nor did I; it was just the truth. “It feels good to see someone else get all the attention.”

“That may be true,” I said, watching Nyissa speak to the waiter, give him her card . . . then kiss his hand, lingeringly. The waiter almost swooned, but I swore I saw fangs glint when her lips pulled away. “But she’s not into boys. I don’t think it’s his affection she’s after.”

We stepped out into the night air. It was surprisingly cold, worse than I’d expected from our night in Oakland, but neither Cinnamon nor the vampires minded; Lady Astryia even loaned me her cloak. Vickman gave me an odd look, and I suddenly wondered what I’d done wrong.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I became acutely aware that I was a normal human—as normal as you can get covered with two square meters of magically tattooed skin—amidst a whole crowd of supernatural creatures who fed on blood.

And I’d stepped out with them onto a dark San Francisco street. Wasn’t there some horror movie rule about this? Even my so-called “bodyguard,” Nyissa, was one of them. The only humans here were Vickman and Schultze, and if the vamps did something, we were toast.

I shook my head. These were my friends. My
daughter
was a were. I had chosen this life. Picking at it, my real fear was the Vampire Court of San Francisco, insinuating themselves into our evening, insisting they oversee us as we walked through their stronghold.

We had made it through dinner, but . . . these vampires were an untested quantity.

But nothing came of my fears. Lady Astryia and Saffron discussed their respective Vampire Consulates; Vickman muttered with the bulky bodyguard with the well-inked tats. The others were silent, and eventually Cinnamon and I relaxed enough to notice window displays.

We paused in wonder at one closed shop, which displayed carved statues in dozens of materials. Several were of Chinese origin, carved from elephant tusks I hoped were collected before the ban. One was even carved from what was claimed to be a mammoth’s tusk.

And then my eyes focused on one ornate dagger, carved in the shape of a tooth. I stared at it curiously. It wasn’t a dagger carved in the shape of a tooth—it was a tooth carved in the shape of a dagger. It was huge, jagged, dark, almost translucent—but clearly had once been alive. Yet it wasn’t from any animal I recognized. What was it from? A sabertooth? No. Too wide at the base. A T-Rex? No. Too elegant. I felt a shiver ripple through my tattoos.
Was it a—

“Oh my God,” I said, pressing against the glass. “Is that . . .”

“Yes,” Lord Kitana said, leaning in next to me. I could see his reflection in the glass, eyes glowing slightly; vampires not having a reflection was a myth, but reflections did give their auras an eerie, distorted feeling that ran shivers up my spine. “Technically, it’s not a true tooth, but a papilla or ‘tonguehook,’ a fact which staggers the imagination, if one has any—”

“My God,” I said, again shivering—
this is real
. I let my own tongue glide against the roof of my mouth, then run against my teeth, thinking of the size difference between those teeth and the papillae, the tiny feelers that coated the tongue. “That’s just a
papilla?
Unbelievable.”

“Yes. I had the item appraised when considering it for my collection. It is genuine.”

After some hunting, I finally found the tiny little tag at its base:

FOSSILIZED DRAGON’S TOOTH DAGGER

$350,000

“That’s a steal,” I said.

“It is indeed,” Lord Kitana said.

“Those carvings aren’t contemporary,” I said.

“No, they are not,” he replied. “My appraiser estimated them at ten thousand years.”

“It isn’t fossilized, is it?”

“No, it is not,” he replied. “Desiccated, though. There is no magic in it.”

“Still . . . don’t they know what they have here?” I said. “It’s just in the window—”

“No thief would dare take it from
this
shop—not when
I
am its patron.” Lord Kitana chuckled. It was a chilling sound. “No magician would buy it—desiccated dragonbone and dragonhorn can be acquired far more cheaply. No art collector would want it—they do not understand. And no museum would acquire it—they do not believe.”

We leaned back from the glass.

“You desire it?” Lord Kitana said.

“Surprisingly . . . very much so,” I said. “There are only a handful of nonfossilized dragon relics in the world; the idea of an artwork made from my totem animal is . . . intoxicating.”

“One day,” Lord Kitana said, smiling at me with something between genuine respect and infinite coldness, “perhaps, if you prove to be the crusader you claim to be, I shall gift it to you, Dakota Frost. If not . . . one day, perhaps, you shall receive it another way.”

I swallowed.

“Dakota,” Saffron said, concerned. “Isn’t . . . that Liquid up ahead?”

“Damn it,” Vickman cursed. “This looks bad—”

And then I saw it—a crowd milling outside the very same building that Jewel had described, all pointing and gawking at an ominous blue light in its window.

“Aw,
shit
,” I said.

Vickman and one of the human servants scoped out the crowd, inspected the window, then waved us forward. Liquid was embedded in the bottom floor of a narrow four-story building, like a brownstone; but a façade of sheer black marble had been added to the bottom floor, beneath a sign that read
LIQUID: artworks -cocktails -dancing
. But hovering just above the surface of plate window beneath that sign, crackling against—and cracking—the glass, glowed an intricate magical mark four feet in diameter, burning with a blue-white flame.

Arcane symbols spun lazily in five concentric rings around a central mandala of Chinese design that looked, vaguely, like the abstract lines of a dragon. The spinning rings around it were suggestive of a magic circle or a light spell, but I’d never seen anything precisely like it.

Apparently, the patrons and the staff hadn’t either—they were still pouring out into the street to inspect it from a cautious distance, or peeking at it nervously from the inside. As we approached, the blue flame began to flicker, then went out at once, leaving the glowing rings of red letters spinning within intricate circles of blue-white light—and the shift of light made the dragon design in the center mandala stand out even more prominently. Now that I saw it more closely, the Chinese design looked more like Chinese
characters
, woven together.