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  I stared at him: as his smile faded he was left calm, like that little discussion hadn’t just happened, and he was actually taking notes. He hadn’t taken it personally, like I had. Doug was going to be a good scientist someday. Maybe he’d be open enough to listen.

  “Tully was trapped against it, and while I was pulling him out it got a really good grip on us,” I said. “It’s really weird, but it felt like … it was sucking us inside. Not just pulling us against the wall, but into it, like the graffiti had made a doorway into a space beyond.”

  Lenora, walking past with a fresh disc rolled her eyes. “Oh, for the love of—”

  “This time I agree with her,” Doug said. “That sounds impossible.”

  “If you’re that susceptible to new age mysticism,” Lenora said, “maybe I should loan you some back issues of the Skeptical Inquirer—”

  “Whoa!” I said, holding up my tattooed hands. “I am simply reporting an experience and asking you to help me interpret it. I’m the last person to go in for cosmic woo-hooery.”

  “You supposedly have magic tattoos,” Lenora said. “What are we supposed to think?”

  I glared at her. “Fine,” I said, and flexed my hand.

  I have large tattoos—vines, snakes, tribal patterns—but small ones too: flowers and jewels and butterflies. The littlest ones are easy to tattoo. I can do them in one sitting—so I’m not above using them to make a point.

  My skin glowed. Lenora’s eyes widened. And then a pretty little honeybee I’d tattooed on one of my vines came to life, buzzing up into the air. Lenora cried out in delight, and Doug laughed. Only Jinx seemed nonplussed. With a gentle wave of my hand, I guided the sparkling bee over the test membrane, and it gently settled down and became two dimensional again.

  “You can pretend that’s a yellow jacket,” I said—the Tech mascot—and folded my arms. “Look closely at the connections that make up the design, particularly the Euler circuits. Skin only holds essentially one layer of ink, so it’s the design that holds the magic. Using a grid pattern in your tester, you were almost guaranteed to fail, except maybe at the edges.”

  “I tried to tell them that,” Jinx said, nudging Doug with her shoulder, “but my little scientist here kept going on about his need for proper controls.”

  “Holy cow,” Lenora said, rubbing at the membrane. The bee stubbornly remained where it was and did not smudge off. “Holy cow. I can see why Doug had a bee in his bonnet.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. “And for the record, I’ve subscribed to the Skeptical Inquirer for the last ten years.”

  “Oh!” Lenora said. “That’s … uh … can I put this in the tester?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I said, and Lenora took the membrane into the test chamber like she was carrying a baby made of gold. I looked at Doug. “How can she not see the evidence right before her eyes? I mean, isn’t that the point of science?”

  “She’s come a long way,” Jinx said defensively. “You shouldn’t pick on her … ”

  “But it’s so fun,” Doug said, ducking when she whapped him with her cane.

  Lenora moved behind a sheet of glass, touched some controls, and then a rising whine started at the top of the tower. I’d heard it earlier—I’d thought it was an air conditioner—but now I could see it came from a big device far above the magic circle, like an upside-down glass jar wrapped in hundreds of sheets of metal: a massive magical capacitor. As it charged up, I could see a dance of light sparkling off a silver spear, pointing down out of the glass.

  “So, now that we’ve established that I don’t make wild claims without something to back them up,” I said, “can you answer my question about how the graffiti bent space?”

  “Sure. It didn’t. It had to be an illusion—you didn’t go anywhere, after all. There’s no way graffiti could affect the metric enough to change its topology.” At my baffled look, Doug tried again. “Look, it isn’t likely that any magic could bend space. It’s a matter of gravity.”

  The rising whine reached its peak, and with another crack of thunder, a beam flashed down from the point of the spear. The test membrane flared with blue-white light, and the bee buzzed back to life. Doug looked back at it, amazed, as Lenora frantically took pictures of the moving tattoo. Then he shrugged and used what we’d just seen as his argument.

  “That’s the largest magical capacitor on the East Coast,” Doug said. “Two hundred layers of infused papyrus and cold iron. When it fires, it puts out more mana than any magician in history—and it doesn’t affect gravity. If it can’t, then your graffiti can’t. It just can’t.”

  “But it didn’t feel like the graffiti was affecting gravity,” I said. “Like you said, our feet were on the ground. The tag was … I don’t know what else to call it but bending space … ”

  “But bent space is gravity,” Doug said. “Gravity is just … a kink in time that makes matter want to move together. It’s like setting two bowling balls down on a trampoline—first they’ll dent its surface. Then, slowly, the dents will come together.”

  I squinted. “I’m … I’m not quite seeing it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Doug said. “There are PhDs in physics that never get it. But the point is, bending space is so hard it takes the entire mass of the Earth just to keep our feet on the ground. And that’s just attraction, a dent in the trampoline. To make a tunnel from place to place—”

  “You … couldn’t do that,” I said, starting to get it. “That’s not just bending space, it’s punching a hole—changing the topology, like you said. You can’t stretch a surface to make a hole—the trampoline would burst and the springs would snap back, going everywhere.”

  “I’m not sure what that would mean in terms of my little example,” Doug said. “But either way, the amount of mass needed would be … astronomical.”

  “But the tags aren’t using mass,” I said. “They’re using magic, and magic breaks all the rules. We don’t know how it works, or what its limits are.”

  “And that’s why I hope you’re wrong,” Doug said. “Magic gravity would be completely new—and the last time that happened in physics was when we realized matter was energy. No one ever thought we’d be able to use that, but a few years later, we had atomic bombs.”

  I felt my eyes widen.

  “So that’s why we’re stuffed in this building,” Doug said. “We’re afraid magic can make nuclear weapons look like firecrackers. And if the graffiti can affect gravity—”

  “If a tag on a wall,” I said, “can bend space harder than an entire planet—”

  “—then graffiti magic,” Doug said, “is powerful enough to crack open the planet.”

  Vampire for Dinner

  There was nothing left to do. I’d finished the paperwork and gotten Cinnamon’s books. I’d made an appointment to inspect the school’s safety cage and picked up a cage of our own. I’d worked out a schedule at the Rogue Unicorn that let me juggle my tattooing, karate workouts, and shuttling Cinnamon to and from the Academy. I’d even found an auto repair shop that had given me a loaner while they repaired the seats; with any luck, I’d be back in the blue bomb when I picked up Cinnamon at the werehouse tomorrow.

  There was nothing left to do but dress, drive, and meet the vampire for dinner.

  Canoe was only a short jaunt up I-75, a river of black asphalt swimming through hills green with trees. Red taillights blinked northbound, and scattered headlights winked on to my left as the sun went down. I rarely went to Vinings, but somehow I remembered Exit 255 and soon found myself going into deep green hills along the winding path of Paces Ferry Road.

  I’ll admit I was apprehensive. I had no idea what kind of restaurant a vampire would have as a current favorite. Based on its name, I was pretty certain Canoe wasn’t an ancient Victorian nestled deep in the woods, with creaking iron gates or mysterious valets to take my car, trapping me there to dine by candlelight under the watchful eyes of my predatory companion, served by black-garbed wa
iters trained not to notice when the vampire started noshing on me instead.

  And I had a moment’s fright as I came to the Paces Ferry bridge and snatched a glimpse of graffiti. But it turned out to be what I was now calling wanker graffiti: white lines, hastily drawn, not magically active. And then I was over the bridge into Vinings, staring down into a cluster of quaint, cozy, houselike shops.

  I gave the loaner Accord to the valet without a second thought, and stood before a warm wooden canopy topped by a glowing sign that spelled C A N O E, watching uber-chic yuppies from the Buckhead party district and upper-crust natives of Vinings itself flowing in and out of the restaurant with warm, friendly, satisfied smiles.

  OK, this is the last place I’d expect a vampire to have as a favorite.

  Even more heads than usual turned towards me as I ascended the steps, but I tried not to mind. I knew I was doubly out of place. In addition to my deathhawk and tattoos, I now wore a tight, patterned corset bustier, my most stylish leather pants and my best matching leather vestcoat. The outfit went so well together there was no doubting that this was eveningwear, but there was no escaping that it wasn’t normal eveningwear either.

  Inside was warm, cozy, brick, with huge glass windows looking out onto garden paths. I was early; even with traffic it was still only six-ten, so I decided to wait by the bar. The sun had set only minutes ago; it was highly unlikely that the vampire would be … early?

  Calaphase glanced up from the bar and smiled at me. He was wearing another long-tailed coat, narrowly pinstriped, expertly tailored, that gave the impression of impossible elegance from a bygone age. He saluted me with a glass of what looked like liquid gold, finished the last swigs with a flourish and grimace, and then pushed the squat empty glass back to the bartender with a wink and a twenty. I just stared, as the man I’d once known as a biker walked up to me, as sharply dressed as a Victorian James Bond—and twice as appealing.

  “Dakota,” Calaphase said, with a smile and a gracious bow. “I’m glad you made it.”

  “Afraid I’d jilt you?” I responded.

  “Never,” Calaphase said, his eyes drifting over my tattooed midriff, my corset, my breasts. Then he caught himself and looked up. “Sorry. That is quite the outfit.”

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling. “Yours is easy on the eyes as well. Shall we dine?”

  “We have fifteen minutes,” Calaphase said, extending an elbow. “Care for a stroll?”

  I looked outside. “Are you sure you want to go out there? The sun just went down.”

  “I like twilight,” Calaphase said, pulling out sunglasses. “A benefit of the Saffron diet.”

  Canoe’s garden was as inviting as its interior and as friendly as its clientele. Another glowing sign hung over the patio, lending electric color to the warmth of the torches; under their luminous glow we strolled through green, inviting gardens, watching the Chattahoochee ripple past. Somehow the river looked cleaner here, even though I knew it was the same water that flowed past the werehouse only a few miles to the south.

  “So … ” I said. “How much does a vampire on the Saffron diet eat?”

  “Not much,” Calaphase admitted. “I rarely have more than the squash bisque and a glass of wine. If I indulge in too much solid food, I have a thermos of cow’s blood at the werehouse.”

  “Appetizing,” I said. “It looked like the drink was killing you.”

  “It’s difficult,” Calaphase admitted, stopping to stare out into the black flowing water, barely lit by flickering torches. “But the Lady Saffron is right. It’s worth it. I hunger less, and stay awake longer, every day. I’ve seen the aftermath of sunset, and withstood the onset of sunrise. I can’t yet face the sun, but the day is coming.”

  Staring out over the water, he looked noble, even heroic, like a sea captain of old contemplating time passing in the night, the essence of his profile, pale skin and blond hair captured by the torchlight, abstracted and made eternal, like a statue of brass.

  “And I have the Lady Saffron’s bravery, and your challenge of vampire assumptions, to thank.” He glanced back, weighing something, then smiled. “I bet you usually go Dutch,” he said, again extending an elbow, “but may I buy you dinner in thanks, Dakota Frost?”

  “You know, Calaphase,” I said, taking his arm, “perhaps I can make an exception.”

  “Here’s to promising exceptions,” he said, patting my hand with his free one.

  I smiled, looking down bashfully. Calaphase was charming. Well, yes, handsome, sexy, and in all reality terrifyingly dangerous, but—absolutely charming. I felt no pressure from him, nothing to fear. We would have a nice dinner, and that would be it.

  Then Calaphase froze in his tracks. “Speak of the devil … ”

  And I looked up just in time to meet the eyes of the Lady Saffron and the Lady Darkrose as they stopped dead not five feet from us on the path.

  Saffron wore a stunning red dress of flaring silk with matching red gloves that left her shoulders bare beneath her flaming hair. Her South African vampire consort, the Lady Darkrose, wore a white-trimmed robe open over a black leather catsuit that went well against her dark skin. A typical evening out for them. I could see echoes of smiles and laughter on their faces, and Saffron even had her arm in the Lady Darkrose’s, just as mine was in Calaphase’s; but as they registered my arm in Calaphase’s, the Lady Darkrose’s face went carefully blank … as Saffron’s face turned beet red. I hadn’t even known vampires could blush.

  At first, I just thought innocently, Oh, this is awkward.

  Then the shouting started.

  “Dakota?” Saffron said—not in her indoor voice. “Why are you here with him?”

  “Sav—” I began, then bit it off as she glared. “Uh, my Lady Saffron—”

  “I thought you disapproved of vampires,” she said, voice rising, “but you just disapproved of me!”

  My jaw dropped. When had I ever loved this petulant bitch? Her voice rose further.

  “What, did you get tired of your man in black and decided to move on to the next cock?”

  “Saffron!” Calaphase said, shocked as I was. “That was completely out of line—”

  “You shut your mouth,” Saffron snapped. “And it’s Lady Saffron to you.”

  “I thought we were friends now, but if you really want the respect due a vampire queen, you have to be a vampire queen,” Calaphase said, tilting his head. Diners on the nearby patio had recoiled in shock at her outburst, and Darkrose had intercepted an angry waiter and was speaking in quiet tones. “Is this the example the leader of a great house sets, much less the Queen of Little Five Points?”

  Saffron flinched. She opened her mouth, then immediately closed it. Then she nodded to Calaphase, not meeting my eyes, and turned to Darkrose, who was still calming the waiter.

  “No, Lady Darkrose, please do not cover for me, that was my fault,” she said, spreading her hands graciously. “Ladies and gentlemen, forgive my rudeness, I was just startled. Please accept my apologies … and a complimentary dessert, courtesy of the House of Saffron.”

  With a nod to Darkrose to arrange it, Saffron stalked off. “Walk with me.”

  We followed her to a secluded part of the path, and she turned to us.

  “Thank you, Lord Calaphase,” she said coldly. “I had that coming. I was out of line. Becoming a vampire hasn’t turned out as liberating as I expected.”

  “I know that feeling,” Calaphase said—lightly, but it backfired.

  “Don’t think I’m distracted,” Saffron said, “from this … this insult.”

  “Saffron!” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, but you’re the one who turned on

  me—”

  “That excuse worked when you stuck to humans,” she said coldly, “but not when you’re parading around with a rival vampire lord while wearing the sign of my house.”

  “I’m so sorry to have offended you,” Calaphase said. “I made my offer to dine with the Lady Frost as gracious thanks to someone
who helped a friend.”

  “She’s still wearing the sign of my house,” Saffron said, glaring at the collar around my neck. “You’re a vampire—and a clan leader. You should have cleared it with me.”

  Calaphase stiffened. “Yes, yes of course, my Lady Saffron.”

  “What? No, no of course not, ‘my Lady Saffron,’” I said. “Calaphase said you didn’t share well with other clans, but this is ridiculous.”

  “You’re being naïve,” Saffron snapped. “If I had the reputation of ‘sharing,’ the Gentry would eat me alive—or, more likely, eat you alive, first chance the Lady Scara got—”

  “But this is Calaphase,” I said. “He’s a friend—our friend. And we’re here for dinner-as-food, not dining-on-companions. He’s on the Saffron diet, maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  “You’re wearing my token,” Saffron said. “Calaphase still needed my permission.”

  “Look, Saffron,” I said testily. “I’m a full grown adult, not a teenager on curfew.”

  “If the sign of my house means nothing to you, we can dispose of it,” Saffron said, voice unexpectedly level. “Lady Darkrose, bring me the key please.”

  My hand went to my throat. The steel collar I wore was my shield against the world of vampires, my guarantee they would treat me decently. I’d only worn it for a few months, but it had been fitted just for me, so I had gotten used to it—and forgotten that only Darkrose had the keys that could take it off. As possessive as Saffron was, I never thought that would happen.

  In moments, Darkrose rejoined us, her dark face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. Without a word, she slipped a leather-gloved hand inside her robe, briefly exposing the hard ribbing of her corset, boots that seemed to come to her hips, the handle of a whip. But she was Saffron’s dominatrix only inside their bedroom. Outside, Saffron called the shots. And when Darkrose’s hand returned, it held a single silver key on a golden chain.