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  Saffron took it and stepped up to me. “Turn ’round.”

  I just stared at her in shock. “Saffron … ”

  “I said, turn ’round,” Saffron snapped, reaching out, then jerking her hand back.

  I felt my hands tingling, and looked down to see the religious symbols tattooed on the back of my knuckles glowing slightly as they reacted to the hostility in her aura. That never happened—Saffron normally kept her aggression under such a lid that she could safely live in a deconsecrated church, complete with exposed crosses. She was more steamed than I thought.

  “Don’t touch me,” I said quietly, meeting her cold red gaze. Scratch that—she was much more steamed. “Vampire queen or no, do not touch me without asking.”

  “As you wish,” Saffron said. “But you have something of mine and I want it back.”

  “Fine, then,” I said, turning, sweeping the long tail of my deathhawk out of the way.

  I felt Saffron step up behind me, felt her hands fumble at the lock, felt the coolness of the keychain against my neck. Then there was a pop, and the lock opened—freeing my neck from the collar for the first time in two and a half months.

  Saffron pulled it off, scraping my neck, and angrily I turned to face her. We glared at each other a moment, her holding the collar—and then Saffron flung it into the darkness over the Chattahoochee, where it vanished with a distant plop.

  “But … you had it made for her,” Darkrose said, staring after it.

  “That was a long time ago. A different life—when I believed we could still be together. Or at least close,” Saffron said. I felt my throat. I’d never liked it, but now I was sorry that it was not just off, but … gone. “I should have abandoned that hope long ago, and the collar with it.”

  “That … was … foolish,” Calaphase said, fangs clenched, pale face livid. Saffron glared at him, but he just straightened his jacket with a sharp jerk. “Dakota—the Lady Frost—has performed invaluable services to my clan and our clients.”

  “Then you give her protection,” Saffron said.

  “Perhaps we will, but she has provided even greater services to you,” Calaphase said. “You do not know how much her dispatching that magician last year helped your reputation with the clans. It’s bad enough you’d withdraw her protection, but it is worse that you’d do so as such a public stunt in front of the humans. Not even old school vampires would—Oh, damnit.”

  Suddenly Calaphase cursed and pulled out his phone, which I now could hear faintly buzzing. Never underestimate vampire hearing. His brow furrowed, his thumb hovered over the button to kill it, but after a long pause he said, “Sorry, I have to take this.”

  “What? Am I not here? Is this not important? Don’t you have voicemail?” Saffron said, looking legitimately astounded. “Am I really nothing to you two?”

  “Yeah Gettyson, now isn’t the best—” Calaphase began, waving her off. “What? What? What the f—speak up, I can’t—Holy crap!”

  It was hard to believe, but that pale stone face became paler, drained of all color. “Do we need help? Should I tell—” and he looked up at Saffron, then at me. “I’ve got them both right here. Yes, yes, no promises. Yes, I’ll hurry—I’m on my way.”

  Calaphase closed the phone, and I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  —

  “We have to go,” he said. “The werehouse is on fire.”

  The Tagger’s Revenge

  We screeched round the corner down the old ironworks drive, debris rattling up a storm beneath the green loaner as it slid through loose gravel at every curve. Calaphase gripped the dash in fury, hunched forward, eyes intent, hands curled like the claws of a predator.

  “Hurry,” was all he said.

  But I was already stepping on it. Vines and bushes tore greedily at the Accord’s exterior. Then we were through, darting through chainlink and rumbling over concrete, speeding towards a vast pillar of glowing smoke looming over ruined buildings lit by yellow flame.

  “And God moved over the desert in a pillar of flame, destroying everything in his wrath,” I said, eyes wide. “My daughter is in there! In a cage!”

  “Get as close as you can,” Calaphase ordered. “Then we do what we can. Everyone gets out. Stop here! I don’t want your car to catch on fire, we may need it to evacuate the wounded.”

  I hit the brakes and we scrambled out. The rollup doors to the werehouse were open and Fischer burst out of the smoke, beard grimed with soot and eyes glowing with power. A young boy was in his arms, and an endless stream of animals swarmed out around him: mostly wolves, but also mountain lions, deer, even a horse—but no Cinnamon.

  “Those are all the cages,” he shouted at Gettyson. “I checked the whole level!”

  Gettyson nodded—he was in the throng, gesticulating, using the vampire guards and the unchanged elders to sort predators from prey. He caught sight of us and waved. “You two, take the side wing,” he shouted. “Get anyone out of there before the flames cuts them off!”

  We ran round the right side of the building, opposite the wall where I’d saved Tully from the graffiti. Here was a long, low blockhouse, half buried in the ground, that had perhaps once been a storage area. It abutted the main building of the werehouse, where smoke was already billowing out an open door and jetting through cracks in the dark, sooty windowpanes.

  “I’ll take the upper level doors, you the lower,” Calaphase said, vaulting up over the railing onto the next level and touching the first door with his hand. He cursed and jerked his hand back, then ran to the next door.

  Stairs led to the lower level doors. They were all in a long low trench, sealed off by a chain link fence like a cage. The stairs stopped at a chain link grate with a simple padlock. I tried to bolt forward down the stairs, hoping to snap the padlock with one of my snakes, but was pushed back by a new wave of smoke from the door closest to the stairs.

  “Help us!” a voice screamed, and I caught a glimpse of cat eyes and furred hands reaching through the links for help. Not Cinnamon, but for the grace of God—”Help us!”

  But the fire wouldn’t let me: wind goaded it on. Ugly, roiling yellow smoke boiled out of the door, breathing in and out like a living thing, surging every time I tried to get past. I tried crouching and slipping past, but the heat was so intense it staggered me, and when I tried to catch my breath the hot stale air and the tightness of my corset left me dizzied and coughing.

  Well, fine. There’s more than one way to save a cat.

  “Spirit of fall,” I murmured. “Extend my reach.”

  A long vine uncoiled from my wrist and curled past the smoke, down the stairs, and I prepared myself, stretching my body, as best I could in the corset, to bring the snake to life. It began to crawl down the vine, and I willed it to slink down and snap the link on the chain—

  And then the door screamed with rage and vomited forth a great blast of flame. The roiling fireball knocked me back, the flash of heat singing my skin even from dozens of feet away. And for a brief moment, the fire enveloped the snake on the curving vine.

  Pain hit me like a live wire.

  I screamed. The vine recoiled, trailing sparks through the air—sparks of flame, not mana, as heat destroyed the delicate pigments. The vine snapped back onto my skin and I jerked back uselessly, curling up into a little ball as white-hot pain burned into my flesh.

  “Dakota!” Calaphase said, coming to my side. I tried to answer, but the corset was still crushing my diaphragm and I just gasped for breath. “Dakota!” he said. “Are you all right?”

  I held up my hand. The snake itself was completely gone, the vine tattoo’s color had faded to a dull brown, and the skin around it was red and beginning to blister. The fire had burned me, burned me through the magic, even though my skin never touched the flame.

  I caught my breath and looked at Calaphase helplessly. “I can’t help with this.”

  “You know what? I can’t wade through fire either. So screw magic,” Calaphase said, punching my
shoulder. “Get up, let’s help these people.”

  He sprinted, no, shot down to the end of the low building with vampire speed. By the time I caught up with him, gasping, limping, my knee throbbing, he had torn the chain link fence away, and all I had to do was help lift the poor trapped werekids out of the dark hole.

  “Where’s Cinnamon!” I asked the werecat. “Cin! Stray! Where is she?”

  “Down by the weight room,” she said, coughing. “Lucky bitch was going on a hunt—”

  “Show me,” I said.

  We ran back around the werehouse, past the main entrance, jumping down onto the lower level, again curving around towards the same area where I’d fought the graffiti yesterday. When we got there, I paused, gasping again, looking up at the fire, at the tongues of flame now licking through the smoke—curling, artistic, like brushstrokes.

  “Oh, hell,” I said. It wasn’t just fire.

  “Come on, Dakota,” Calaphase said, beckoning from the corner. A great orange glow came from behind him, and I ran around him, bracing myself for the horror of the flames.

  Rippling tongues of flame coiled up the wall that had held the tag, starting about ten feet off the ground. Above was all concrete, all concrete and yet it still burned; below, where the tag had been, was a huge expanse of cracked, sooty darkness that had once been white.

  “Where would Cinnamon be?” I said, holding my side.

  “Damnedest thing,” Gettyson said, staring up at the flames creeping up the cinder blocks. The fire reflected eerily off his odd eyes, like two slits of flame. “The damnedest thing.”

  “Gettyson! Where would—what the hell,” I said, staring at the remaining wall. They’d gone back over it since the night of the assault on Tully. “You whitewashed it? All of it?”

  “Of course,” Gettyson said, glaring. “It damn near killed Tully—”

  “You fool!” I shouted. “This is a magic fire! How are we gonna fight it now, if we can’t see or even touch the magic mark that’s generating the flames?”

  Gettyson stared at the wall, and then he saw it too. “Oh, shit—”

  “Get anyone not needed to fight the fire and comb the woods,” I said, glaring across the parking lot at the dark green Oakdale forest. “Somewhere out there, the prick that killed Revy is fanning these flames, and we gotta stop him. Short skater dude, white or maybe Latino, baggy clothes, big-ass hat—and if he’s wearing the same shit-ass grin, kick his teeth in for me.”

  Gettyson grabbed a half-changed wolfling that passed. “You heard her,” he said. “Go!”

  “And if he’s got any spray cans don’t touch them!” I screamed after him. “They’re filled with magic pigment, and can blow up in your face, literally!”

  “What does we do about the fire?” Gettyson said. “What does we do?”

  “We get everyone out,” I said, holding up my burned arm. “We get everyone out, and then let it take the damn building. And we start with Cinnamon. Where is she?”

  He pointed at a low side building jutting out of the back of the werehouse. Its roof was in flames, and as we watched the whole front awning collapsed so that there was no way inside.

  “Oh, hell no,” I said, staring, looking at a small barred window that was the only remaining exit. I half expected Cinnamon’s hand to reach out, to slap the glass—but more of the roof collapsed around it, barring even that entrance. “Tell me there’s another way in there.”

  “Through the living quarters,” Calaphase said.

  “Fischer already tried that,” Gettyson said. “The smoke will kill you—”

  “Then we go this way,” Saffron said, stalking past us towards the flame.

  My eyes followed her, but I could barely overcome my shock. “Saffron!”

  “Where the hell did she pop up from?” Calaphase said.

  “We were right there when you said there was a fire, and right behind you most of the drive in,” Saffron said, staring up at the building. “With all my power, did you really think I’d just sit by and let innocent people die, much less a child under a vampire queen’s protection?”

  “Well,” Calaphase began—and then shut his mouth at her quick sidelong glance.

  “My Lady Saffron,” Darkrose said, running up after her, white-lined cloak flying open, gleaming black catsuit reflecting flickering red as she flinched back from a sudden surge of flame. “Saffry! Please, it is fire! Not even you—”

  “Then stay back!” Saffron said, red dress whipping past her in the sudden wind. She looked around, scowled, then said, “Dakota, we’re getting weather effects like you reported at the Revenance kill—send the werekin out looking for the rogue magician.”

  “I already have,” I said.

  “Good. Calaphase, Darkrose, go make sure the other entrance is clear,” Saffron said, turning her back on us. “I don’t like the looks of this roof.”

  Then with one hand she lifted the huge iron beam that had been part of the awning, tore it aside in a groaning shower of sparks, stepped forward with a savage blow that burst the metal door inward off its cinderblock frame. Then she disappeared inside.

  “Oh, hell, she’s as powerful as they say she is,” Calaphase said.

  “Why is she so strong?” I said, bewildered.

  “She’s almost completely vegetarian,” Darkrose said. “Her vampire and human flesh exist in near perfect symbiosis. But it doesn’t make her fireproof.”

  Then the flames picked up, started punching through the roof of the low outbuilding. Moments later, the whole structure collapsed, leaving half of one wall holding up smoking embers and the glowing bones of the roof.

  I stared at the others. “You heard her,” I said. “Let’s go clear the path.”

  But flames licked at the big roll-up door that had been the entrance to the werehouse, thwarting our attempts to get inside. Before we came up with another plan, Saffron strode out of the flames like the Terminator, holding Cinnamon half-changed in her arms. Saffron’s flaring red dress caught fire as she stepped through the threshold, but she ignored it and stomped straight up to me, holding Cinnamon. Gratefully, I took Cinnamon in my arms and held her tight.

  Saffron patted her dress out idly, as I kissed Cinnamon’s half-feline face and tried not to wince at the embers that were burning my skin. My little girl was half-conscious, but breathing normally. She was safe. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Do not mention it,” Saffron snapped. Her mouth pursed. “As for her collar—”

  “Please,” I said, eyes jerking down to Cinnamon’s throat, to her silver collar. I couldn’t imagine a clearer demonstration of the value of Saffron’s protection. My eyes returned to Saffron, pleading. “She’s no part of whatever I have done to—”

  “Don’t mention it,” Saffron repeated, more softly, then turned back towards the flames.

  “No,” Darkrose said, seizing Saffron’s bare arm firmly in her glove. “You’ll die.”

  “Please, dear Rose,” Saffron said, extracting her arm. “There are more to save.”

  “Saffry, no,” Darkrose said, shaking her head. “There aren’t. It’s too late.”

  And then we were all pushed back as a new surge of fire blossomed out of the werehouse. The flames grew more intense, burning white, streaming out of every orifice, screaming under the pressure like steam escaping a teakettle—or tortured creatures screaming in pain.

  Then the main roof collapsed inward on itself and a huge backwash sprayed out of the door like a river of fire—then was abruptly sucked back with a rattling gasp, snuffing out all the flames at once. In its wake, a roiling black cloud erupted through the ruined roof.

  “I’m no fireman,” I said, “but that wasn’t natural.”

  “Agreed,” Calaphase said. There was little left of the fire but embers. A few tongues of flame were springing up again, but intermittently, almost like the fire’s heart was no longer in it. “The rush of fresh air should have made it worse, but it’s like—”

  “It’s like she said,�
� Gettyson said heavily. “It was a magic fire.”

  We pulled back to my loaner car, an impromptu island in the parking lot for a group of survivors. According to Gettyson, there were a few still missing, but …

  “We were lucky,” Gettyson said. “Damn lucky. Full moon proper was at eight this morning. Half the kin are gone, and most of the rest were out on an early hunt.”

  “Not that lucky—we lost the werehouse,” I said. “Damnit, Gettyson, you knew covering it with paint didn’t work, you knew I needed to take pictures, and you went and painted it anyway! Not that I know we could have stopped it if we could have seen it—”

  “I thought if the paint dried, maybe … ” Gettyson said. “He sure showed me.”

  Saffron, Darkrose and Calaphase made one last sweep for survivors and returned empty handed. “Do you have any further need of me?” Saffron asked, as Gettyson and I tended to Cinnamon on the hood of my loaner car.

  “No, my Lady Saffron,” Gettyson said. “On behalf of the Bear King, our thanks.”

  Saffron nodded, then glanced at Cinnamon. She sighed, seemed about to say something, then looked up at me and Calaphase and stomped off. Darkrose bowed slightly, eyes lingering on me in apology, then followed her mistress back to their Mercedes, which quickly squealed off.

  “Mom?” Cinnamon said weakly, coughing. “Mom, why are you here?” Then her eyes widened. “Oh my God! What—what happened?”

  “A fire, little Cinnamon,” Gettyson said, tousling her hair. “Don’t worry. Your little wolf cub is safe. I gots Tully out looking for the punk that set this, and when we finds him … ”

  “You’ll bring that little punk back alive,” I said, patting down Cinnamon’s brow with a wet-wipe. “You’ll bring him back alive. He is not working alone, and I want to question him.”

  Gettyson started to retort, then looked at my eyes. Remembered what ignoring me had already cost us. He looked away, then back at Cinnamon as I cradled her. “All right,” he said, relaxing a little. “We does it your way. You earned it. We knows where your loyalties lie.”