Frost Moon s-1

by Anthony Francis

  "Come quickly, Dakota," he said. "Or it will be too late."

  "Too late for what? What's happened, Buck?"

  "Your friend Spleen," Buck said, "was just attacked by a werewolf."

  28. STORYTELLER SQUARE

  Phil's Prius screeched through the knotted traffic of Buckhead. Once, crossing these congested streets at speed would have been impossible-but the block party that was Buckhead was dying, the victim of a hostile business alliance and a colluding City Council that had dialed back bar hours all over the city except at the city-owned boondoggle, 'Underground' Atlanta. So now the traffic was thinner, and had occasional gaps that Philip squeezed through expertly, greased by the flashing blue light he'd clamped atop his car.

  So in moments we pulled up to "Storyteller Square", a tiny little triangular park where Roswell forked off Peachtree Road. At the center of the rings of cobblestones that paved the square, a little crowd was gathered, huddled about the metal statue of the Storyteller and his woodland companions. Phil didn't even bother to get a parking space: he just bumped the Prius up onto the sidewalk, kicked open the door and pulled out his gun.

  "What the fuck-"

  "Stay in the car, Dakota," he said.

  "Fuck that," I said, kicking my door open and reaching for the crutches. Then I saw what he saw, and stumbled out of the car without them, limping.

  Spleen lay gutted in the center of Storyteller Square, his thin body bleeding out into the concentric cobblestones radiating out from the statue of Buckhead. A ruddy Native American man I instantly recognized as Buck himself squatted over him, cradling his head.

  "Black Mayday, Black Mayday," Philip was saying into the air, approaching with his gun out, but pointed to the ground. "D-E-I asset down. Black Mayday, Black Mayday. I need a medevac at the intersection of Roswell and Peachtree, GPS coordinates-"

  The crowd parted in alarm, and Philip flipped a badge out of the breast pocket of his immaculate suit. A beefy man stepped forward, nervous, holding a cell phone. "Thank God, Officer," he said, bossy yet uncertain. "This-this man came up holding this other man-"

  "Thank you, sir," Philip interrupted, with a quiet voice that just radiated authority. "Remain on the scene and we'll take a statement. Right now, my associate is injured-let her lean on your shoulder." "Sure," the man said, stepping up beside me. "Ma'am?" "I'm all right," I said, but I reached out for his shoulder anyway. "Where did you find him?" Philip asked with tightly controlled rage, staring down at Buck, gun still out but carefully pointed away from anyone.

  "A place you cannot go," Buck said. He wore the same breeches and loincloth he had before, with keys and a cellphone now on his belt. His human face was rugged but surprisingly young, and his black hair spilled down onto a proud, bare chest covered in only the barest excuse of a vest. "I brought him here-"

  "Ruining the crime scene," Philip said. "We want to catch the guy. Right now it looks like you did this-"

  Buck waved his hand over the long, raw gouges in Spleen's abdomen. "We both know what manner of beast did this," he said. "Now the question is, who?"

  "I'm cold," Spleen said. His voice was so weak, and my hand tightened on the rough jacket of the man beside me. Philip jerked, then holstered his weapon, took off his thousand-dollar suit jacket and laid it over Spleen's body, patting him gently.

  "Medics are on the way," Philip said. "Who did this to-" Spleen reached up and grabbed Philip behind the ear, pulling his head down towards his ratlike face and yellowed eye. Philip just let him do it, listening as Spleen whispered something. Then Philip turned to me and motioned me down.

  "Dakota," he said quietly. "He wants you." The Good Samaritan helped me bend. I tried to kneel, but couldn't, so and sat awkwardly in the spreading pool of blood. A second coat-ruined.

  "I'm here, Diego," I said.

  "Kotie," Spleen said in a whisper. "Nobody calls me that no mores."

  Suddenly his hand reached out and pulled my head close. "Kotie, Kotie, you hearing me?" he said. His breath was foul, and I had a close up look of his great, yellowed eye. I'd always thought it was a bad glass fake; now I could see it was real, and diseased. What had happened to his eye? How long had I known Spleen and had never thought to ask?

  "Yeah, I hear you," I said. "Who did this to you?"

  "A wolf," Spleen said, drawing a ragged breath. "Werewolf. Big fucker-"

  "No!" I said. "Not Wulf-"

  "Not Wulf," Spleen said, wheezing. "Don't think. Never caught up with him tonight. Wasn't supposed to pick him up for another half hour. Don't think it was Wulf-"

  "You don't think,?" I said, my gut sinking. "You mean, you don't know? How could you not know?"

  "How the hell could I know, Kotie?" Spleen said. "I never asked the bastard to change into a wolf for me. I just took his money."

  "But-"

  "Don't matter. Whole thing's got too messy. Stay clear of him. Stay clear of this. Don't let them get you too," Spleen said intensely-and then his grip slipped on the back of my neck, his left eye went as dull and expressionless as his right, and he sagged back into Lord Buckhead's arms-still breathing, but not much.

  I looked up at Buck. He shook his head sadly and gently lowered Spleen to the pavement. Philip stood, holding his finger to his ear. "How far away is that evac?"

  I stared down at Spleen. How long had I known Diego Spillane, and learned nothing about him other than his nickname? How many times had he been there for me and how little had I been there for him? Had I been scared of him all this time just by a little halitosis and a bad eye? Then I saw the antlers of a stag shifting in the shadows, and looked up at Buck.

  It had just been a trick of the light as he stood, a moment where the shadow of his statue form overlapped the shadow of his human one. He stood there, tall, proud, and sad. "He is going. I am sorry," he said. "There's nothing more I can do here."

  "No, for starters you can tell us what happened," Philip snapped. Sirens and ambulances were sounding in the distance. "You can help us find who did this-"

  "I found him like this in a place he should not have been, a place where you may not go," Buckhead said, with folded arms. "I brought him here for help. That is all."

  "That is not all," Philip said. "This is not a fucking joke, 'Lord Buckhead.'"

  "You are not ready to learn all of the secrets of the Edgeworld," Buckhead said.

  "I've seen things even you wouldn't believe," Philip shot back.

  "Guys," I said. "He's… he's going."

  A long, low sigh escaped Spleen's lips, and his head slowly slumped to the left.

  I stared at him a long time, then looked up to find Philip, Buckhead and our Good Samaritan all standing at attention. Then Buckhead sighed. "I am going," he said. "I am sorry. Lady Dakota, I will pass along anything I learn of this crime."

  Then he stepped round the statue of the Storyteller, or into it; because when Philip ran around the statue after him, he emerged from the other side alone.

  "Holy fucking shit," the Good Samaritan said.

  "Damnit," Philip said. "Stupid Edgeworlders. No offense."

  "None taken," I said, staring down at Spleen. "I think both sides of the Edge see me as a citizen of the other."

  An ambulance screeched up next to Philip's Prius.

  "Oh, Phil," I said. "This looks bad for Wulf-"

  "Yeah," he said, staring off into the distance. "Spleen was about to meet our werewolf friend, who told us himself he had trouble with control. That gives him means, motive and opportunity-or maybe Wulf s supposed 'enemies' want us to think that. You heard Spleen- he didn't blame Wulf. A defense lawyer would make hay with that."

  "But he never saw him as a werewolf," I said. "So… it still could have been Wulf."

  "So Wulf is a leading suspect;" Philip said. "I love that word: 'suspect'. I love its precision. Suspect. That's it, until we get more hard evidence, one way or the other."

  "But how are we going to do that?" I said. "Spleen was his contact. We're never gonna know where Wulf
was when-"

  "Cell phone records. Irritated hospital staff. Rental car records or bus terminal cameras," Philip said. "We'll find out, one way or the other. Eventually, we'll find out-but right now, I have a question for you."

  "For me?" I asked.

  "Did Spleen ever give any hint that Wulf was hostile to him?" Immediately he caught it in my eyes. "What was it?"

  "Before I was attacked, Wulf called Spleen, agitated, asking about his tattoo," I said. "Spleen called him 'a goddamn menace.' "

  "'Goddamn menace,' " Philip repeated. "Sure sounds like he was threatened by Wulf-"

  "But he met Wulf that night," I said. "That's why Wulf was even there to save me-"

  "I remember," Philip said. "But something's just not adding up. Spleen wasn't an idiot-he said stay clear of them. Plural them. But who was the 'them' he was talking about, his attacker and-who? Whoever took a potshot at you? Whoever was messing at Wulf? That vamp? Someone else? There's an awful lot of 'incidents' around you, Wulf and that tattoo."

  "You don't think," I said, "all of them are connected?" "What I think," Philip said quietly as the paramedics came up, "is that we'd better find your 'friend,' Wulf-because if he didn't kill Spleen, he may be next."29. WORKING IT OUT

  I stomped towards Emory's Student Activity and Athletics Center on my crutches. In the back of my mind, I knew time was running out on Wulf s tattoo, but with Spleen gone the whole picture had changed. First, I now had no way of contacting Wulf; second, I now felt very unsafe in his presence-whether from him or from his enemies, I couldn't say. So it was time to visit the only person who seemed like he really wanted to help me kick ass: Darren Briggs.

  You need to buy at least a fourteen-day pass to use the Athletics Center, but I had no intention of paying for that until I'd seen the goods. I'm no Philip; I can't pull his Jedi mind tricks to just make anyone do what I want. But I am a six-foot-two, attractive, largebreasted woman, and that-plus a little preparatory research on Google-usually turns the trick.

  "Hello," I said, friendly but firm, propping my crutches over the counter of the Center and leaning down on the tousle-haired college boy behind the counter. "Where can I find Darren Briggs? He witnessed an assault on a police asset, and I need to ask him a few questions."

  I started to pull out my Stratton Police Department booster card, which my dad got for me years ago when we were still speaking. It's horribly out of date, but it has the Stratton police shield, my Mohawked picture on it and no expiration date, so it can pass as some kind of official ID as long as I'm showing it off to a complete idiot. But this time it didn't turn out to be necessary; the kid got up immediately and walked around the counter.

  "No problem, I'll escort you," he said, a bit too eagerly, while glancing at his counter mate. "Wendy, can you-"

  "Fine," she said, rolling her eyes.

  "I take it you are the police asset?" he said, eyeing me as he escorted me through the turnstiles and down to the elevator. "And Darren is more than a witness?"

  "He was the savior of my ass, is what he was," I admitted.

  "The guy is a machine," he said, walking me up to room 211, a large classroom with double doors, beyond which I could hear rhythmic shouting. "I sneak down here to watch his Taido class sometimes-"

  He opened the doors to a floor covered in blue mat. In its center was a ring of students in white uniforms, all in a low, wide stance that was practically a squat, punching in unison. Two had black belts and blue jackets-including Darren, who was counting in what sounded like Japanese.

  "EEEtch-nee-saan-shee-gOH-rok-sheech-hatch-kyooo-yooo/" he shouted, finishing up with a punch that just seemed to pop from his waist. The whole class stood frozen in that final punch; then Darren's head cocked slightly to the side, as if he saw me. Then he said, "Come back," and the students popped out to a standing ready stance. "Toe-et-tay," he instructed. "Stretch out."

  As the class stretched, Darren walked over quickly without running, smiling without grinning. "Dakota Frost," he said. "This is a surprise. Come to check out the class?"

  "I have a few questions," I said with a grin. I was surprised how young he looked in his uniform; I hadn't realized a college karate teacher could also be a college student. "I thought this might be a good place to start."

  "Sure thing. But I can't let you on the mat," he said, spreading his hands apologetically. "You have to sign a waiver, and Wendy at the front desk would bust my balls if I didn't have one for you. Even then, with you still healing up, I wouldn't let you on the court."

  "Aw, come on," I said, miming Savannah. "Surely you could show me a few punches-"

  "Rary, Clarence, over here," Darren said, without even looking. Two of the brown belts quit stretching-the woman rolling out of a full split-and came over to join us. "Side stance for punching. Clarence, keep the fist set, but put your feet together, toe-et-tay style."

  Rary spread her dainty feet shoulder width, right fist out; Clarence put his huge feet together, looking at Darren quizzically before his head snapped forward to attention. After surveying them a moment, Darren said. "Double punch-go!"

  Both popped out their left fists with a kind of twist, then shot the right one out while the left snapped back. Their karate gis made little whizzing motions when they moved. Darren had them do it a few more times, but I could already see where this was going-Rary was solid as a rock, but with his feet together Clarence was wavering, trying to keep his balance.

  "Again-go!" Darren said, slipping his hand into a red padded mitt and stepping straight into Rary's punches. He caught her punches and pushed back hard, but she stood her ground, shoving him back with each blow. "Again-go!" he repeated, stepping in front of Clarence-and this time it was Clarence that was shoved back when Darren caught his punch.

  "Good, good," Darren said, walking past Clarence to the end of their short little line. "Come back to the same stance." But as soon as Clarence did so, Darren pushed him, hard, and he nearly fell over. He then stepped up quickly to Rary and pushed, and while she got shoved around a bit, she never lost her balance, her legs bouncing around on the mat under her.

  "You can't throw a good punch without having a conversation with gravity," Darren said, "and your legs do the talking. If your injured leg was just naturally weak, I'd invite you out here on the mat, help you figure out how your particular body could talk to the ground with the right accent. But since you're healing, all I'd be doing is helping you tear that leg up."

  My student escort waved and left us, and I sagged into my crutches. "I know that… it's just… one of my best buddies got murdered last night," I said, trying to piece together all the things running through my head. "And a client took a bullet for me-"

  Darren's eyes bugged. "Just since I saw you?"

  I nodded. "It's been a busy week, and I'm feeling more than a little vulnerable."

  "Sorry to hear all that, but it's even more reason to take it easy, sit back and watch, and see if this is right for you," Darren said. The other blue-jacketed black belt stepped up behind him, and Darren nodded to him. "I'll be there in a second. We've got a lot on our plate tonight-but stick around, maybe we can help you out during family fun time. All right! Brown belts and higher: over there; everyone else: with me-"

  After that it was like watching out-takes of a karate movie. The white belts lined up and did standing punches and kicks; the greens and purples did spinning punches and kicks; the browns and higher did weird, funky kicks that seemed to involve throwing one's head at the ground while simultaneously kicking an opponent in the face. My knee throbbed just looking at them, but they still did it.

  That's around the time I realized I wasn't ready for any of this.

  Sure, my dad had taught me some self-defense moves, and I took two years of tae kwon do in college. But I was woefully out of shape. I hadn't been to a gym in years, hadn't been running in months. And I certainly couldn't perform any of the basic self- defense moves now, much less stretch my leg so far I could scratch my own damn ear from
the topside.

  The younger instructor came to join me. "So, are you really joining the class?"

  "I'm not going to let this stop me," I said, pointing at my knee, "but… looking at you guys in action, my knee sure is going to try to hold me back from getting started."

  "You do need to be healthy to get the most out of this," he said. He hesitated, then continued: "And I don't mean just the knee. You've been banged up, and it will leave you with a victim imprint. You may not feel it right this minute, but a serious assault will leave you with a lot of issues. You should do more than just learn some kicks."

  "What? Like get my head examined? Find a victims' counselor to help me work through the issues?" I cracked. He smiled faintly, and I sighed and said: "All right. I get it. You guys are big on mind, body, spirit being one, or whatever. I'll… consider it, OK?"

  He held up his hands. "All right, no pressure," he said, then rejoined the class.

  Then my phone buzzed, a text message from Jinx: «elegant, this watch»

  With some difficulty, I thumbed back: «But will it work?»

  Jinx texted back, seemingly instantly, all in lowercase: «like a charm»

  «What about Wulfs tattoo?» I responded. If I ever did get back in touch with him, I wanted to be able to say we could go ahead and get started.

  «marquis still sitting on it» was the quick response.

  «Keep on him. The full moon is Saturday,» I replied. For once Jinx didn't reply; I hesitated, then asked: «Should I take Valentine's challenge?»

  Another instant lowercase ping: «o, dakota»

  I sighed. Oh, Jinx! I messaged back: «Translate, O cryptic one.»

  Jinx: «elegant ink + $1M reward? srsly! take'im on»

  I grinned. Then I looked at my hand. There were two ugly scabbed lines on the undersides of my first two fingers and healing scrapes all over, but it functioned. I would be able to ink just fine. For all Transomnia had done to me-even knocking out two of my back teeth- he'd still obeyed the rules. I was alive, unspoiled-with two good hands.

  It was time to get back to work.