Liquid Fire (33 page)

I nodded at the Dragon in respect, and the Dragon glanced down at me in the briefest acknowledgement—then the vast magical beast trumpeted, launched itself, and again flew away, disappearing into the night sky with three huge beats of its powerful wings.

A huge chunk of masonry cracked loose and tumbled down into the mesh. One by one, the strands snapped, and we all leapt back as a piece of stone, stucco and Spanish tile the size of a mailbox smashed the table in front of us and then shattered on the floor.

“What . . . the
fuck?
” Cinnamon said, staring up at the sky.

“Holy shit,” Vickman said, staring at the dented table.

“Holy shit,” Jewel repeated, staring up at the sky, though I got the feeling she meant it in entirely different way than Vickman had. “
And
 . . . what the fuck?”

What had just happened?

That had been
my
Dragon. I thought of that tattoo. Of all the time I spent tattooing it; of the tattooing talk I was supposed to give in Burlingame. Of the colors of the tattoo; of the colors of Castro Street which we were supposed to visit on Saturday. Of the magic fire the Dragon could breathe; of all the fire magic we’d seen over this crazy week. Of the horrific circumstances under which I’d detached it, saving myself from Valentine’s knife . . . and of all of this week’s chaos, and the unknown horrors it might promise. That chaos had robbed Cinnamon of her award, had forced Jewel to flee, and had woken my new tattoo to a weird kind of life—but
my
mission, the mission to secure the funds for Cinnamon’s future, had been accomplished.

I thought of all of that . . . for all of five seconds.

Then I revisited my command decision.

———

“Screw the Bay,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

34. The Player of Games

In under two and a half hours, we were on a plane, flying out of the San Francisco Bay Area. We were back in Atlanta by morning—and then things slowed down
considerably
. There were no more assaults by crazy fire ninjas, no more mysterious messages writ in fire on the streets, no nighttime visits of improbably detached tattoos grown impossibly stronger.

But we were not out of the woods. Not by a long shot.

We still had to face the music.

“So, Dakota Frost,” the lich rasped, “your mission to San Francisco was a failure.”

Like a vulture, the lich loomed forward, dead white skin of his skull gripped by dark rivulets of black hair, white pinpricks gleaming in the black sockets of his eyes. His lips parted in a piranha smile, his cold bony fingers reached out . . . and he drew his queen across the chessboard in one decisive motion. Then the sparks in his eyes shifted up to me.

“You failed, as I said you would, but even more spectacularly—home three days early, with your tail between your legs, with nothing to show for your expensive boondoggle,” the vampire said. “Your move, Dakota Frost.”

I swallowed. The “lich” was Sir Leopold, the leader of the Vampire Gentry of Atlanta. Saffron might be the most physically powerful vampire in the city; her master, Lord Delancaster, held the highest public rank. But Sir Leopold, the dark vulture with white skin standing in an Victorian suit like a failed reanimation of Professor Moriarty, held the keys to the kingdom.

I blinked at the chessboard, trying to think. I hadn’t expected to be playing this game. When we’d arrived at the lich’s mansion to give our report, the sun had barely set, but the bony old creature was already waiting for us; I hadn’t known he was that resistant to the sun. Even now, the warm glow of twilight still leaked in through the open windows of the study, forcing Nyissa, my ostensible “bodyguard” to remain bundled up in her dark traveling cloak, huddled in a chair as far from the light as possible while
I
had to stand before the lich.

Cinnamon shifted in her chair. I scowled—I didn’t like having her here, but I had hoped to drop her off with her schoolmate Joya, who had not yet arrived at the lich’s house. Then I realized Cinnamon was nervous because the lich was waiting for me to speak.

“First off, it wasn’t your mission,” I said, “it was a trip for Cinnamon—”

“And yet you failed to bring home even a plastic statuette,” the lich said.

“The ‘mission’ wasn’t a complete failure,” I said defensively, eyes flickering between Cinnamon and the chessboard. Nothing to show for it? No, I came back with a contract for two million dollars—but I wouldn’t tell the lich that; above and beyond it being none of his fucking business, I didn’t want these ancient, powerful vampires to have too clear an idea of how much treasure was stored at my castle. “We had to leave early, but we learned a lot.”

“Really,” the lich hissed, gesturing at the chessboard. “Show me.”

Oh, hell. I glared at the chessboard. It was early in our game, but the position was already confusing, and I was a knight down with no real plan. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. The lich wasn’t playing with me—he was playing me, and wanted me to know it.

“We learned some games aren’t worth playing out,” I said, tipping over my king—and the lich hissed. “We were under fire, almost without reason. We made friends, we got aid from allies—but when you’re down before you start, sometimes the best move is to regroup.”

“I did not mean you to demonstrate it so literally,” the lich said, laughing softly. “But I did warn you. That San Francisco is a warzone. That you sought allies where others have tried and failed. That you lacked the knowledge you needed to make the trip a success—”

“Well,” I said, “like I said, we learned a lot—”

“What did you learn?” the lich hissed. “That there is far more to magic than you know? That your child was too young for the schools you indulged her fancies on? That the people who owe you are no likelier to give you your due to your face than over the phone?”

I narrowed my eyes. “What are you saying?”

“This . . . trip,” the lich rasped, “was not the business of the Council. It was not even a vacation. It was a thin excuse to gather your loved ones under the wing of new allies, with a new source of funds. Surely you see that was futile now. You cannot escape our grasp—”

“If you mean to say you had us tailed while we were out there, we could have used the help of those agents when we were under attack,” I said evenly. “If you mean to say you were actually behind those attacks . . . you will find you cannot escape my wrath.”

The lich chuckled softly. “You and I are too dangerous for cheap threats or stunts. I simply meant that you will not find allies in San Francisco useful enough to keep you out of the situations you . . . and yours . . . have created.”

Cinnamon drew herself up even more tightly in the chair.

“You know, this creepy insinuation thing, it’s not working for me,” I said. “If you’re referring to the graffiti attacks, those could have happened just as easily in San Francisco as they did here. Remember, the Screetscribe hated all vampires, not just Atlantans.”

Something flickered behind the lich’s eyes, ever so slightly, so I rolled on.

“If you’re referring to cleaning up that mess . . . the Streetscribe’s blackbook is circulating widely now. We have to not just clean it up here, we need to stop it from starting there.” I said. “Yes, we had to bail without meeting all the people I wanted, without even Cinnamon’s award. That doesn’t mean we didn’t find allies. They might even be useful to you.”

The lich considered that for a while. Then, slowly, he smiled.

“I think they shall be useful . . . to me,” the lich said. Then his bony hand reached out and righted my king. “Which turns to my next lesson—some games you cannot easily stop playing, Dakota Frost. It is still your move—even if you know, in the end, you are going to lose.”

That hung in the air like a lead balloon.

“Ooo, boogedy,” I said, taking his queen with my knight.

The lich blinked. “You fool,” he said, moving his knight. “I have you forked—”

I moved my king—because I had to, I was in check—but I’d get that knight before he forced mate. “If I’m going down, I’m going to have some fun.”

The lich hissed and knocked the pieces from the board.

“Oh, you concede?” I said. “How wonderful for me—”

“No, for you are a fool, and are not seeing what I am trying to teach you here,” the lich said with a hiss. “Even for one such as you, who delights in the rules of the game . . . you have much to learn before you can win. Girl! Reset the board!”

I blinked in shock; he was speaking to Cinnamon. She glanced away from him a moment, then seemed to jerk and hopped out of her chair, gathering the fallen pieces from the floor.

“Don’t, Cinnamon,” I said sharply. “I won’t have you doing his dirty—”

But when I glanced up, the lich had drawn a long bony finger to his lips. Nyissa had stood as well, slowly letting her dark hood back to show pale skin, violet hair—and glittering jeweled lace choker covering her healing scars. She too put her finger to her lips.

I suddenly realized that twilight had passed and true night had fallen. I swallowed. Nyissa shifted, rolling her poker between her fingers imperiously . . . but with a hint of fear. There was a quiet creaking in the old bones of the house in which we stood; then a sliding panel opened.

The Lady Scara stepped from the shadows to see Cinnamon placing the chess pieces back in place on the board between me and Sir Leopold. Scara was a black, matronly vampire, whose eyes literally glowed red with the closest thing I’d ever seen to pure bottled hate.

“We are done with you here, girl; you are not needed in the Council tonight,” the lich said harshly, cuffing Cinnamon behind the ear—for show, I hoped. “Lord Iadimus is here. Receive him, then go entertain his daughter while your mother details for us her failure.”

“Yes, Sir Leopold,” Cinnamon said, quickly turning away and bolting out. My blood boiled, but I kept my mouth shut. The lich, it seemed, was actually on my side against his protégé, Scara, and was willing to put on a little show to protect Cinnamon.

Scara watched Cinnamon go, then turned her red gaze back upon us. I could feel the flush of “heat” from her gaze, a mana field flooding out of her irises, as a prickling along my tattoos. I didn’t need to feel the religious symbols on my knuckles burn to know she meant me harm.

“You cannot shield the stray from me forever,” she said, and I could not tell whether she was speaking to me or the lich—but I could tell that Cinnamon remained on Scara’s little black book of enemies. The vampire said, “One day there will be an accounting.”

“Maybe,” I said, moving my king’s pawn forward two squares, “but not today—”

Now Scara knocked the pieces from the board. “Enough games,” she hissed.

“You forget yourself,” the lich said softly to her, eyes still on me.

“I see through both of you,” she said.

Cinnamon opened the door to the study, and beyond her, I saw a tall, blond man kiss the forehead of a tall, blond girl; Lord Iadimus, and his dhampyr daughter, Joya. Lord Iadimus stepped forward, and Joya stepped back, quickly darting off with Cinnamon.

“The Lady Saffron is detained,” Iadimus said coldly, eyes quickly flicking over me, the lich, Scara—and the scattered chess pieces. “But since she was a witness in San Francisco, we wished to interrogate her separately in any event. We have a quorum. Shall we proceed?”

“Of course,” the Scara said, brushing past Nyissa—then her dress caught on the end of Nyissa’s poker. Nyissa’s eyes bulged—Scara was the vampire who gave her those scars. Scara slowly looked aside, to fabric hooked on metal. “Do you need the lesson again, my dear?”

“Do
you?
” Iadimus asked, stepping forward quickly, releasing her dress. Iadimus had saved Nyissa from Scara—saved me too, though I guessed that was incidental to protecting a fellow vampire under truce from unprovoked violence. He said, “Behave yourself.”

“As you wish,” Scara said, sweeping forward. “Another time.”

Iadimus shook his head, almost imperceptibly, then followed. The lich was impassive . . . but did he look pained? Then that ancient monster followed his protégé—and the second vampire that he needed to keep his protégé under leash—into the chamber.

Damn it!
This was precisely what I’d feared when Saffron became a vampire—not that I’d get sucked
on
by a vampire, but that I’d get sucked
into
her vampire world. Now I was about to enter the lion’s den with a vampire who was my former
enemy
as my only protection.

———

Nyissa and I stared at each other helplessly . . . and then joined the Gentry in court.

35. To Summon a Dragon

The Gentry interrogated me for hours, a long session over a conference table where I explained we were still in communication with the fae and werekin we had not had the chance to meet with before I hit the eject button. And, disturbing as they had been, the attacks had actually made our mission easier; defending Jewel gave us instant credibility.

I was just explaining what I’d learned about liquid fire—oh, and the many requests we’d had to broker a meeting with Lord Buckhead—when Scara hissed softly and raised her hand. Nyissa shifted, ever so slightly, but she remained completely silent while Scara spoke.

“And what of the dragon?” Scara said.

“And what of it?” I said evenly. “I had to defend Jewel—”

“Do not dissemble,” Scara snapped. “I do not mean that little display in Union Square. We have seen your tattoo magic. I meant the summoning.”

“The . . . summoning?” I said, perplexed.

“Of the spirit of a dragon,” Iadimus said, so seriously that I realized it was not just poetic language. “Ghostly visions, first sighted when you arrived in San Francisco, and continuing until you departed. Even excluding the Union Square sighting, there were five visitations—”

“All of that was me,” I said dismissively. “I used my dragon tattoo, first in Oakland, then in the Square, later at Stanford, and . . . and . . .”

And then I paused. I’d only used my Dragon three, maybe four times.

“You used it in the Square twice, at the same time?” Scara asked, and my eyes widened. I
had
gotten double vision—and several people had referred to the
dragons
at Union Square. Scara continued, “And used it atop a theater at Palo Alto?
And
atop the Golden Gate Bridge?”

“Atop the Golden Gate? That was
real?
” I asked. “I saw the video at the Drake Cage, but though it was a promotion, ripping off one of my designs—”

“We are not talking about your tattoo magic,” Scara barked.