Liquid Fire

by Anthony Francis

  “Jesus,” I said, making Darkrose flinch slightly. “One wizard “guarded” by the queens of not one but two vampire Houses? This has to look like a full-on invasion. And we can’t explain that our forces in Atlanta were decimated by the fires, so this is basically all we have left.”

  “No, we can’t,” Vickman said, closing his phone as he entered the room. “And, just in case someone’s bright enough to hit a spy store and pick up some long-range listening gear, let’s not even talk about any of our vulnerabilities while we’re here in San Francisco, all right?”

  “Damn it,” I said. “If it’s that dangerous, should we just leave?”

  “She can be trained,” Vickman said. “But we can’t leave Nyissa with the Vampire Court, we can’t retrieve her until tonight, and if we’re going to stay the day in San Francisco, we have to make at least a token appearance at the Northern California Practitioner’s Conclave.”

  “Great. The vampires won’t let us leave,” I said, “but the wizards want us gone—”

  “Ferguson’s faction is the least of our worries,” Vickman said, waggling his cell phone. “The leader of the Conclave just contacted me about new ‘security concerns,’ and we have to tread carefully. We expected vamps, witches, and werewolves . . . but now there will be fae.”

  “No one mentioned the fae would be there,” Darkrose said quickly. “Dakota?”

  “First I’ve heard of it, but relax, the fae aren’t that bad,” I said. In fact, Lord Buckhead, the fae lord of Atlanta, was a close friend. Well, a good friend. Well, he’d kept me out of trouble. Well—“Regardless, I thought the fae didn’t usually send a rep to these gatherings.”

  “That’s what we were told,” Vickman said tightly. “That’s what we agreed to. But the fae have a standing seat in the Conclave, and have chosen to exercise it. No one knows why they’re crashing the party; my guess is that they also are interested in meeting you, Dakota.”

  “That’s . . . charming,” I said. Lord Buckhead was a friend, but he could change shape, walk through walls, command the werekindred, and, if legends were true, grant you prosperity—or curse you to ruin. If he was an enemy . . . “I’ll put my best foot forward, then.”

  “That sounds like a great idea—because a fae delegation will be at Conclave,” Vickman said. “And because the fae will be there—this is very important—we give them no real names. We don’t want to give them any more power than they already have.”

  “But . . .” I said helplessly. “But they know my name—”

  “And Cinnamon’s,” Vickman said, an ironic smile on his face. “But we only bring vamps who have pseudonyms, and Schultze and I, who operate under nom de guerres. Even then, we will do no introductions, and the rest of our party has to stay here.”

  “Vickman,” Saffron said. “I agree with Dakota. This sounds too dangerous—”

  Vickman smiled more tightly.

  ———

  “I’m not saying we can’t jump off the train,” he said, “but it has left the station.”

  8. Conclave

  Our rental cars crawled up a steep—I mean, stereotypically San Francisco steep—street toward the top of Russian Hill, a densely packed elevation in the City which I remembered from our last visit as the home of the world’s steepest and crookedest tourist trap, Lombard Street.

  But while many of the side streets were essentially staircases, we didn’t see Lombard itself, and eventually pulled into the gated parking lot of a Spanish Mission-style building nestled amidst looming canyons of apartment buildings and three-story homes.

  The place was eclectic: the warm brown stone and curved arches of the mission were Spanish, the dark indigo inscription over the door was cryptic Russian, and inside, the mission was thoroughly modern, with cool carpet and wall hangings in blues and greens.

  “I am the Warlock,” said the tall, genial man who received us in the antechamber. He was pleasant, and kindly, if a bit dated, wearing a three piece suit and sporting a seventies shaggy haircut . . . but I got a peculiar tingle from him, not a spell precisely, but a magical echo in my tattoos, which definitely caught his eye. “Your clan’s inkwork lives up to its colorful reputation. Did your security man warn you about our naming protocol . . . Dakota Frost?”

  I let out a breath. “Yes, and why you have that protocol, on which note, my name—”

  “And Cinnamon Frost’s name, are well known,” the Warlock said. I glared, but he raised his hand. “Don’t worry—celebrity is its own shield. Speaking your names openly may actually help dispel fae threats . . . but please don’t introduce your companions.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I said. “If there’s this much danger—”

  “There must be an equal or greater reward,” the Warlock said, his eye glinting. “You don’t know me, Dakota Frost, but I invited you, and I promise this isn’t a trap. Please trust that I’ve contrived this peculiar situation for everyone’s benefit—”

  “I don’t see how,” I snapped.

  “—because our members can be difficult,” the Warlock continued smoothly, “and you had surprising success dealing with difficult factions back in Atlanta. I think many of us would be grateful if you told us how you did it; please indulge this imposition.”

  I sighed. “All right,” I said, “but I don’t have to like this.”

  The Warlock escorted me, Cinnamon, Saffron, Darkrose, Vickman, and Schultze up to a large conference room with a lopsided figure-eight floor plan that took up most of the upper story of the mission. A ring-shaped mahogany table filled the larger lobe of the room, while behind the ring’s podium, in the smaller lobe, an arc of couches sat beneath mammoth glass windows with a spectacular view of the house-encrusted hills of San Francisco and the blues of the Bay.

  The Warlock gave me the podium. Saffron and Darkrose sat at my left and right, with Vickman and Schultze standing behind me like black and white pillars. The Warlock made space for himself and Cinnamon next to Saffron; then he raised his hand in a beck.

  The oak doors opened, and the Conclave began filing in.

  If the muggers had been a walking UN, the Northern California Practitioner’s Conclave was a buttoned-down Mos Eisley cantina. Each of them was different: squat, thin, bulky, and petite; European, Asian, Native, and Latino; men, women, straight, and gay; witches, wizards, werekin, and, yes, the fae. Each was the same: dressing conservatively, entering in silence, and regarding me with cold suspicion. Each contingent—wizards, witches, werekin, and even the fae, but no vamps—came in threes, in coordinated outfits. Perhaps this was a sign of some unspoken truce, some way of ensuring that no group had sufficient power to ambush the others.

  As the room filled with more and more Edgeworlders, Cinnamon became more and more nervous, and I smiled to reassure her. But I had the podium, and I’d unwisely let the Warlock put himself and Saffron between Cinnamon and me. Now Cinnamon’s head-snaps and exhalations became more and more pronounced as she tried to bottle her Tourette’s tics. I could see why she was nervous. As the assembling members of the Conclave sized up our party, they all glared . . . and they were still all arriving in threes. With Vickman and Schultze standing behind me like bodyguards, and vamps on my left and right, I started to wonder whether we had broken some rule against bringing larger groups. Surely the Warlock would have told Vickman—

  “Loser freaks,” Cinnamon snapped, immediately clapping her hands to her mouth. She stood up abruptly, tail switching, then bolted to the observation area behind us. I turned to follow her, but the Warlock rose and extended his hand, gesturing for me to stay where I was.

  “I’ll sit with her,” he said. “You stay. The gang’s all here now—and you’re on.”

  I stared after them, dismayed—but while the couch she’d thrown herself on was behind me, Cinnamon wasn’t far, or out of earshot. Still . . . I looked
at Vickman, who nodded and turned subtly so Cinnamon and the Warlock would be visible in the corner of his eye.

  I turned back—and saw the oak doors closing. The last entrants, a trio of probable wizards, were just taking their seats; and their leader, a blond man in a beige suit, who had also been looking at Cinnamon, caught my eye and gestured to me.

  “Dakota Frost,” he said, taking his seat directly opposite me. His eyes glinted, and, as if in deliberate challenge to the fae, he spoke his name. “Charles Carnes, of the Wizarding Guild. I believe you have something to tell us about why you’re visiting San Francisco today.”

  I stared at him, gathering my thoughts. The Warlock had not set an agenda. Carnes was a crew-cut blond in a stylish banded collar who didn’t look like an obvious magician; at first glance, I might have mistaken him for a Baptist preacher—or even a televangelist.

  Magic often draws the different; of all the cavalcade of races, minorities, and classes here, he looked the most normal. But, like the power-suited man and woman on his left and right, he had ornate, jeweled rings, discreet, complex earrings—and arcane symbols subtly woven into his clothing. To those in the know, the three of them gave off an unmistakable vibe of “wizard.”

  Those who are different are drawn to magic because it gives us an edge—an advantage in a world that has dealt us disadvantages. But there’s another kind of person drawn to magic, a person who wants more than an edge or an advantage—a person who wants power.

  The Warlock might be in charge here. But Carnes was gunning for an angle.

  “Actually, I thought this meeting was about my work on Atlanta’s Magical Security Council,” I said. “But, since you asked why I’m in San Francisco, that’s simple. I am out here for my daughter. She’s a mathematician, and won an award—”

  “Is that really why you brought an entire entourage all the way across the country?” Carnes said, surveying Cinnamon and my companions. “It strains credulity to think that you’d cart half of this ‘Magical Security Council’ out here just for your child’s award ceremony.”

  OK . . . so you’re not even going to pretend you’re interested in pleasantries. Fine.

  Part of me was angry. San Francisco was one of the most advanced cities in the world; clearance from two different Edgeworld groups shouldn’t have been necessary just for a young girl to pick up a math prize. Part of me felt strangely embarrassed, talking to this Conclave of powerful magical creatures as if I was an authority. But the largest part of me was wary.

  Clearly, Carnes didn’t buy the honest truth that I was out here for Cinnamon’s award—and by focusing on the MSC and my “entourage,” I wondered if he saw this trip as a power play. From the hostile glares around the table, I guessed the others had similar suspicions.

  I didn’t know how I could reassure them. But I was going to do my best.

  “All right, Mr. Carnes,” I said. “I’ve told this story to the Wizarding Guild, but for the benefit of the rest of the Conclave, I’m sure most of you are aware of the wave of arson that hit Atlanta this winter. But you may not know that those arsons were set off by magic.”

  Stony silence.

  “They were caused by a corrupt graffiti magic spell, distributed under false pretenses,” I said. “Most of the graffiti writers didn’t realize what they were doing, but dozens of people still died, so Georgia set up a Magical Security Council to prevent that kind of abuse—”

  “Meaning, you set up,” Carnes said. “I’m told the MSC is your project.”

  “I proposed it,” I said, “but it was convened by Lord Delancaster, Master of Georgia—”

  “Vampire Master of Georgia,” Carnes said. “And you’ve met with the vamps out here—”

  “No, our vampires have met with the vampires out here, because the vampires out here demanded it,” I said, “and even then, that was more vampire politics than anything to do with me. Look, Mr. Carnes, the Wizarding Guild is involved in the MSC—”

  “Because we demanded it,” Carnes said, “but even then, our rep, Nicholson, is—”

  “Is barely there, I know—I have the same beef with him,” I said. “Look, I don’t care who’s on the MSC’s roster. I was almost killed by that graffiti, and some of my friends did die, so we decided—I decided—to establish rules for magic so that wouldn’t happen again—”

  “So you put a tabu on your magic,” interrupted one of the fae, a kindly-looking green-haired matron . . . whose eyes glowed a hostile red. “And now want to inflict it upon us?”

  I looked at her warily. A strange glamour was on the creature, making her look like a middle-aged woman in Bohemian dress—but look again, and her eyes shimmered like candles shining through red wine, the gaze of a night predator gleaming beneath a thicket of holly-green hair. She was actually the most sympathetic-looking of her companions, who included a stoic druid boy with oak leaves for hair and a younger fae girl who looked half Cinnamon’s age—except for the strands of white hair partially shielding her piercing, hate-filled eyes.

  “No,” I said at last. “I believe in educating, not banning, enforcing, not eliminating. Yes, people may break the rules, but I don’t want to go back to the old days of hidden magic. But I need support, both politically and practically, to find the right balance—”

  “So you wish us to help perfect your geas . . . and then dance to your tune?” the boy fae said, eyes glowing like twin moons beneath his leafy bangs. “Yet another human shaman trying to seize control of our power, rather than follow ways which have lasted us a millennium.”

  “I’m not here to convert you to my ways,” I said, though to be frank, the more flak they gave me, the more I was convinced that my ways were probably better than whatever they had. “I-am-out-here-for-my-daughter. Her itinerary is Berkeley and Stanford, so I wasn’t planning to spend much time in San Francisco proper—until you all demanded I come and speak to you.”

  “Really,” said a trim man whose sandy hair and muscular frame made me think were-mountain-cat. “The story I heard is we caught you planning to sneak into our territory, but you claim we actually invited you? Now why would we have wanted you here?”

  “The Warlock,” I said acidly, “seemed to admire the Council’s ability to head off a war brewing between Atlanta’s vampire and werekin factions. For my part, I wanted to find out how California’s magical community works. What we’re trying to do on the Council is entirely new, at least in Atlanta’s Edgeworld. The Conclave, in contrast, has been running for a hundred fifty years. I think the point of this meeting was to introduce ourselves to you . . . and to share experiences . . . dealing with these problems . . .”

  I trailed off. The Conclave was no longer looking at me; their attention had focused on two ends of the table. Opposite me, Carnes looked worried, and tilted his head at Saffron . . . and then at the youngest of the fae, who was leaning forward, staring at Saffron intently.

  I leaned forward on the podium until I could see Saffron. She sat there, head canted, red hair sweeping out from beneath a brown beret she wore at an angle . . . not entirely unlike the angled placement of flowers in the fragile fae’s delicate white hair. Saffron wore a long rumpled casual business suit in many layers and buckles, covering her skin almost completely; the fae wore a long rumpled shirt over a short buckled crop top, exposing her porcelain-pale midriff and neck. Their outfits were superficially different, but clearly from the same designer; they could have switched outer layers and headgear in an instant.

  And then I felt a prickling spread across the table, like when a vampire tries to roll your mind. I spread my hands out, closing my eyes; the flux of mana was coming from Saffron, and, to a lesser extent, from the little fae. At first, it was just a trickle. Then it became a torrent.

  I opened my eyes, to see most of the members of the Conclave frozen, leaning back as far as they could from a shimmering m
iasma that spread over the table, barely visible except when you moved your eyes. Heat waves seemed to be coming off Saffron as she stared at the girl.

  The white-haired girl fae was rocking now, leaning forward; her older, more Bohemian companion speaking in her ear to calm her. But it wasn’t working—the little girl flicked her head, moving her hair off her left eye so she could lock gazes with Saffron.

  ———

  “I could take her,” the fae whispered, her blue-white eyes glowing like chips of ice.

  9. Standoff

  No one moved. No one spoke. No one dared look into the eyes of the girl or Saffron. From where I stood, the mana surging across the table was so strong, I could feel its flux against my skin, feel it try to activate my tattoos. Oh, the hell with this.

  “Bulllllshit,” I said, as loud as I could.

  Saffron and the fae jumped, along with the rest of the Conclave. Even the Dragon on my skin twitched as the magic between the would-be combatants surged across the table. But when the Warlock pivoted around, he merely had a genial smile, and pulled out his pocket watch.

  “I mean, what the hell?” I said, glaring at Saffron, then the fae. Both were shocked into embarrassment. “The first ‘official” meeting of Georgia and California magicians in twenty-five years and y’all are throwing it for a ‘who wore the same dress’ catfight?”

  Saffron jerked. “No, I—”

  “You dare mock me,” the little fae hissed, turning her glittery eyes on me, the prickly feeling sweeping over my skin, making the Dragon again twitch. This one is dangerous. The tiny creature—clearly not a “little girl” at all—hissed, “None dare mock Sidhain—”

  “Eeeeenough!” I roared, waving my hands through the air to soak up stray mana and slamming them down on the podium, the impact amplified by mana discharging from the yin-yangs in my palms as they hit the wood. The sudden bang rattled the windows, far more showy than I intended—but I had everyone’s attention now. “I take back what I said about needing your help. If you don’t have the sense to control yourselves in a simple meet-and-greet—”