"Oh fuck," I said. "How the hell am I going to pay for all this?"
"Don't you have healthcare at the tattoo parlor?" Davidson said.
I lifted my head to look at him. "Are you kidding?"
"Don't worry about it," Savannah said. "You were under our protection. The Consulate will pay for everything."
"The 'Consulate?'" the doctor asked.
"The Vampire Consulate of Little Five Points," Savannah said. "That collar of hers is a sign of our protection." Her voice grew icy. "It should have been enough of a warning."
"Well, I'll be," Doctor Blake said, smile a little more forced. "When she said vampire I thought she was just being metaphorical."
"Doc," I said. "About my hand-"
"Well, you had a lot of bruises and scrapes, which is common when some son-of-a-bitch kicks you when you're down. And I won't lie to you-you're going to get some ugly looking facial swelling over the next few days. You'll get even prettier than you are now."
"Hard to believe," Savannah said. I laughed, halfheartedly.
"But, on your hand, there were… cuts," he said. "Do you remember what happened-"
I looked up, saw my fingers in the curved beak of the pruner, and his unsmiling face. "I can walk away from here with ALL your fingers and leave you with stumps. I'll put them in the blender when I get home, one by one, and think of your stumps. You'll never tattoo again."
"He-he had some pruning shears," I said, eyes tearing up, unable to catch my breath, feeling my heart race and a charge of adrenaline tingle up my spine and churn my gut. "He got my fingers in them. He got my fingers and he squeezed-"
"Lord have mercy," Savannah said.
"He said he could take them any time," I said. I didn't bother to hide the tears leaking out of my eyes. "My fingers. All of them. That he'd leave me with meat flippers if I crossed him. That I'd never tattoo again-"
"The police will take a statement later, I think," Davidson said, in his supremely calm voice, stepping forward to put his hand on the bed in a way that made me feel like he'd put his arm around my shoulders. "You don't need to go into all the details now-"
"That's right, Dakota," the doctor said, reaching out to touch my bandaged hand. "I've heard enough. Your hand is fine. You will tattoo again. And you have good friends. They're good people. I don't think they'll let anyone hurt you again."
He squeezed my hand very gently, emphasizing it, as if to let me know everything would be all right. I winced a little, but I could feel my hand was still whole. The doc was all right. He was all right. But the effort to smile made my head hurt, and I reached up to rub my temple.
My Mohawk was gone.
My forehead, cheek and temple were bandages, scrapes and bruises, but beyond that there was no 'hawk, just a ragged brush of hair. I tore my bandaged hand out of his grip and raised it to my head, groaning, afraid to touch it. It was almost completely shaved in front, and behind that only tufts of hair were left, like someone had weedwhacked the front of my head. Only the hair at the back of my head had been wholly spared. "Awwwww-"
"You were like that when I saw you," Doctor Blake said, embarrassed. "But I think they did that in the emergency room when they were treating you. They needed to clean your wounds, but your head and face were covered with some kind of paint -"
With a tremendous CRACK the world went black, leaving me choking for oxygen through a sludge of white sticky goop. A splintered five-gallon paint barrel lay splattered around me, and my hands were covered in a thick layer of white paint. "Let's see you use your marks now," Transomnia said, eyes twin red coals.
"Oh, God," I said, hands cradling my bruised, plucked head, hovering over it, afraid to leave it, afraid to touch it. "That bastard got me good, he got me good-"
Savannah came to my side, patting my hand, saying something soft and bracing.
"Leave me alone." I said, eyes squeezed shut. God, what a horrible way to find out how vain I really was. Someone's hand touched my shoulder, and I shook them off. "I don't want anyone to see me like this. Just-please. Leave me alone."
Philip said a few quiet words, and I let my face fall into my hands. After some time the door closed, and when I looked up, I was alone.
I fell back against the bed. I stared at the ceiling. And then, I cried.
23. Never Again
"If I wanted to maim you for life, you'd be lying there wearing a bloody pair of meat flippers. And I can have you again. You're my bitch, anytime I want-bitch. And next time I will get creative. So never cross me again. Ever. Ev -er."
I lay there in the hospital bed, drifting in and out.
At first all I could think of was how close to death I'd come. Not just with Transomnia-with all the monsters I had just insulted, taunted or spurned. The Bear King. The Marquis. The 'Lady' Saffron. Even little Cinnamon could have torn my throat out.
What was scarier is that any one of them could have done far worse-made me a werewolf, or vampire, or God forbid, a vampire's slave. Transomnia had proved that my tattoos and all the power I drew from them would not stop a determined opponent. I shuddered. He'd let me off relatively easily, when he could have raped and drained me and made me his mindless thrall. Compared to what he could have done, he'd been a cream puff.
And nothing he had done required any vampire powers. Sure, tossing the paint bucket had been quite a feat, but any big bruiser could have done it. But a big bruiser with a tire iron would have just left me dead or close to it. What was really scary about Transomnia was not his powers, or his strength, but his mind. His… creativity.
And then my fingers started tingling and I started thinking about his threat to creatively amputate them. At first it made me even more scared. I didn't dare cross him. Then it made me mad. How dare he cross me? And then I got scared again. The loop continued until I drifted off into a haze of anger and fear, hearing Transomnia's warning, "Never cross me again, ev-er," play over and over in my mind like a broken record-until my mind itself put a stop to it.
"Never again," I said firmly, sitting up in the bed. "Ev-er."
Davidson was sitting in his usual seat, and lifted up. "That sounded promising."
"What day is it?" I asked.
"Monday," Davidson replied. "Around noon. Savannah's crashed in the waiting area."
"Of course," I said. "Even she can't burn the candle at both ends forever."
"I thought vampires 'died' during the day," Davidson said, holding his fingers up in scare quotes. "I never met a real daywalker before."
"Fishing for information from the vampire's girlfriend?" I asked. "Wrong pond. We split after she started drinking blood."
"I was just asking," Davidson said. "We don't get a lot of vampires in the black helicopter division."
"What does your division handle then? Aliens?"
"Maybe," Davidson said. "Fishing for information from the man in black?"
"Touche," I said.
"No, it's not a problem, I've got my flashy thing right here," he said, fishing in his coat pocket. "I can tell you anything you want and then just erase-oh, drat. Left my flashy thing in my other coat."
"You can flash me anytime," I said halfheartedly.
He laughed. "Sounds like our Dakota. You up for a few visitors?"
"Visitors?" I said, suddenly horrified, hands going to my head. Under my fingers my face felt worse than yesterday, and I was pained to feel the tender bald spot which had been the start of my deathhawk, much less the ragged tufts on my crown where they'd run out of paint-encrusted hair to whack off. Oh, no. Oh, hell, no. "You can't let anyone in here with me looking like this!"
"Dakota," Davidson said gently. "We haven't been letting them in here at all. Until you woke up we didn't know anything about your assailant other than 'a guy in a black coat.' Now we know his name and that he's a vampire, but you were too distraught to give a statement. Not even Miss Winters knows what this Transomnia looks like, though she is checking. So for all I know he's waiting to take another crack at you, sitting
in that crowd-"
"Crowd?" I asked. "What crowd?"
"There are a lot of people here to see you, Dakota. A lot of people. You need to see them sometime," Davidson said, in that ohso-calm voice that let you know he'd back your play, but you'd be disappointed in yourself for not stepping up.
Finally I gave in. "Oh, all right. But not in here. Clean me up and take me to them."
"I don't think-" Davidson said, looking back at the hall. "You've just had knee surgery. You shouldn't be walking-"
"Get me a fucking wheelchair, then," I said. "Just don't let anybody in here, not with me laying in bed looking like a… like a damn victim."
Davidson abruptly turned and stepped out the door. After a minute he returned, stepped into the bathroom for a hot wet towel, and sat down next to me. His expression was tender as he patted down my forehead; his hands were delicate and dextrous. I closed my eyes as the cloth wiped my cheeks, smiling once when his thumb brushed a bit of grit from beneath my eye. When I opened my eyes Philip was holding up a comb.
"Mind if I use mine?" he asked. "I'm clean."
"I don't have enough hair left to give a shit," I said softly.
"You still look beautiful," Philip said, running the comb over the crown of my head.
"Liar," I replied, as he straightened out the remainder of my hawk.
"But I do it so well," he responded. My hair no longer fell in my eyes, so I'd ignored it; but when he was done, the hair that was left climbed straight back, and I felt much better.
"Philip," I said. "I… I want to learn to defend myself."
"Defend yourself?" Philip asked. "But you-"
"It's just bravado," I admitted, near tears. "I play it big and bad… but it's all talk. Just talk. I need to learn to back it up-"
"Whoa, whoa," Philip said. "What exactly are we talking about? You mean, as in, to fight? To fire a gun?"
"I mean, whatever it takes," I said. "Just this… never again. I mean, ev-er."
"Dakota," Philip said. He sounded worried. "Even trained agents get mugged. Me-heap-bad-man-in-black tried to fight off a mugger and got pistol-whipped, lost the briefcase I was supposed to be protecting and ended up in the hospital, just like you."
I stared at him. I knew what he was getting at-with all his training, with all his equipment, he'd still got caught off guard and ended up in the hospital, just like me. Even if I'd had training, there always was a chance that Transomnia could still have caught me off guard-and so no amount of training would guarantee that this wouldn't happen again.
Philip had a point. It was a good point, but I didn't want to get it, refused to follow it through. In the end, it didn't matter. I couldn't go through this again, not without knowing I'd done everything I could to keep myself safe.
"I-don't-care," I said deliberately. "I want to learn to defend myself."
"Alright, Dakota, I'll help you," he said, though I wasn't sure what he meant by 'help' was what I wanted. "Now let's go see your friends."
Philip did a little 'social engineering' to get the chair-it was amazing. If you listened to what he said, he never exactly told the nurse that the doctor had ordered a wheelchair so I could leave my room, but he certainly left that impression and within minutes he was wheeling me out into the hall. Outside my room, I saw Vickman, the hard-faced man from the Vampire Consulate, speaking quietly with a policeman; when he saw me he raised an eyebrow.
"Is the waiting area clean?" Philip asked.
"Yes," Vickman said. "We're checking out everyone who goes in there."
"Great. Thanks for your help, Mister…"
"Just 'Vickman,'" he replied, his eyes curiously flat as he looked at me. "The Consulate is just following up on its responsibilities."
As we drew closer to the waiting area, I started to hear voices. Then I started to smile.
"I can just hear her now," someone was saying. "What the fuckingfuck de fuckedy fuck do you fucking think you are fucking doing? "
I put my head in my hand, embarrassed. That sounded like me, all right. When did an ex-Bible Bowl girl end up with the mouth of a sailor? Then I raised my head as Philip wheeled me into a corner waiting room, seeing the raft of friends waiting for me.
Savannah was still crashed on a sofa, blissfully asleep, head and hands leaning on the lap of an older, priestly gentleman in a beige coat, black shirt and white collar. In a pair of chairs next to them, Andre Rand talked with a wiry, bright-eyed young man with wavy hair and a lumberjack shirt that barely contained his barrel chest. Catty-corner to them sat Doug and Jinx, clasping hands, him rapt, her staring straight ahead as she explained something animatedly.
"… fungal corneal opacity," Jinx was saying. "It's like… take a piece of construction paper and punch two eyeholes in it with a pencil. Off-center is better to get the full effect. Then tape a piece of wax paper to the back and hold that over your face, so all you see are two blurry dots with some diffuse light leaking in from the sidesDakota! Is that you?"
"Yeah, she's here," Doug said, squeezing her hand. "I'm sorry for you-"
"I survive," Jinx said, patting his hand with her free one. "But does she?"
"I survive," I croaked, voice unexpectedly weak. "Ahem. I'm all right. I'm all right."
"Oh, Dakota," Jinx said. "I'm so pleased. We were all so worried. So worried."
"Well, speak of the devil," Rand said, looking up at me. He had been the one I'd heard miming me in the hall, and the athletic young man he was talking to was starting to look oddly familiar. "Welcome back from the dead."
"I didn't actually die," I said. "But it sure did feel like it."
"I'm so sorry I couldn't get to you sooner," the young man said, eyes bright on me, and then he made the same sliding motion with his hand I'd seen back… back at Manuel's Tavern! The Guinness dude. "That bastard sure could run."
"You were the cavalry," I said, remembering the shouting voices. "Thanks."
"I wish I could take all the credit," he said. "As soon as I saw him standing over you, I yelled for help and started running-but then this huge dog leapt out of the bushes and chased him off before I could even get to you guys. Crazy. The thing looked big as a wolf."
My eyes widened and I wasn't sure I liked the direction my mind was talking. Could that have been… Wulf? "Well, however it went down, thank you," I said. "Who knows what he could have done if he'd had more time?"
His nostrils flared, and he shook his head. He had a strong jaw and cleancut features, and now that I'd been wheeled a bit closer I could see that while he wasn't weightlifter bulky, his whole body seemed to bulge underneath his clothes wherever they touched him.
"I gotta level with you," he said, embarrassed. "I ran after you to ask for your number."
"Dakota Frost," I said, extending my hand. "And it's 404-"
"You don't have to do that," he said, shaking it. His grip was gentle, but beneath the surface I could feel muscles like marble. "Darren Briggs."
"I think I do have to. It's a rescue rule or something," I said. "At least come by the Rogue Unicorn when I'm back tattooing-I'll give you a free Frost bite."
"Oh, you're that Dakota," he said, impressed.
"Best magical tattooist in the Southeast," I responded.
The older, priestly man, in whose lap Savannah still lay, looked up sharply when I said that, and I realized he probably had the same feelings about magical tattooing Savannah did. "Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to offend you with that 'Satanist crap.'"
He looked surprised. "Offended? No," He looked over my shoulder. "Agent Davidson, could you work your magic and get us a blanket? The sun's creeping up on her."
"No problem, Canon Grace," Phil said. "Back in a minute, Dakota."
As Philip left, the priest looked back at me, smiling. "What Satanist crap?"
"The tattoos," I looked at the ground guiltily. "Savannah calls them Satanist-"
His eyes widened, and he seemed to take me in anew, looking over my tattoos. "I don't think Satan ever made a flower,
or a jewel, or anything for that matter. Savannah really said that?" He sighed, patting her head. "I need to have a talk with her. I have two tattoos."
"You have tattoos?" I said, surprised.
"On my shoulder," he admitted, taking a blanket from Phil. "One says Leviticus 19:28, back from when I was a biker fresh out of Special Forces, and the second one says John 3:16, which I got when I went into seminary."
"Cute," I laughed. The quote from Leviticus prohibited tattoos; the John one promised salvation through faith, not works. The second sort of canceled the first, but-"I wouldn't have done either of them. I don't do religious marks."
Canon Grace's eyes narrowed at my hands, and I stared down at the symbology of the world's major religions tattooed across my knuckles. "Well, not on anyone else, at any rate."
"And why is that?" he asked, mildly surprised.
"They're forbidden by traditional Christianity, and sacred in other traditions," I said. "I can take responsibility for inking myself, but I'm not a priest and I don't do sacred. I don't believe all that mumbo-jumbo, even if crosses do make vampires break out in hives."
"That's just a psychic/psychological effect," Canon Grace said, patting Savannah's head. "Our little Christian bloodsucker here proves that."
I stared down at her, then up at him. "I can't believe you can condone that-"
"It would not be my choice of diet, but I think Savannah's proved you can make the lifestyle into something morally neutral, if not even admirable," the priest said. "And contrary to what some people say, God doesn't take sides. Even when he directed the Hebrews to take the Holy Land, he told Joshua son of Nun-"
"He came neither for them nor their enemies," I said, waving my hand. "Yeah, yeah-Stratton Christian Academy, Bible Bowl, eighth grade champ."
"Good," the priest said, laughing. "My point is, God cares about what you do, why you do it and most importantly what-who-you believe in, not whether you've traded sunlight and liquid food for longer life. How is condemning vampires really any different from saying someone's going to hell for eating food and punishing their bodies on a treadmill?"
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