Liquid Fire

by Anthony Francis

  12. Red Velvet and Leather

  With the blessing of the Conclave, I’d felt better—but I wasn’t kidding myself. The rest of the trip, Cinnamon’s award, even my chance to shake down Alex for my money, all hinged on the approval of a court of magical creatures who were holding my friend Nyissa hostage.

  This trip, we took a stretch limo, rather than our rental cars, and that loss of one degree of freedom made me antsy, an apprehension which grew greater as we surged through a chaos of horns and lights toward the stronghold of the Vampire Court of San Francisco.

  We pulled in front of the Clift, a forbidding monolith of gray brick and glass, a row of two-story arched windows at its base creating the appearance of a series of pillars. Vickman stepped out briskly, then motioned to Schultze, and then Saffron and Darkrose.

  “All right,” I said, squeezing Cinnamon’s hand. “Last row of the gauntlet!”

  “They hits me with sticks,” Cinnamon said, “I tears—fah!—tears ’em a new one.”

  The Clift’s exterior was grim, but the inside? Oh-so-chic. The featureless two-story gray stone walls looked clean, rather than forbidding, and the weird lights and end tables, not to mention a fantastic oversized ten-foot-tall chair, gave the room a hip Seussical vibe.

  But behind Jack the Giant’s chair, beyond two smooth stone columns, the calming gray wall rippled up into black, contorted sheets of stone. Fire roared in a pile of stones at its base—and before the fire stood a muscular, weathered man in a business suit of black leather.

  Lord Varguson, leader of the Vampire Court of San Francisco.

  The Lady Saffron stepped forward, bowing slightly (or was that stiffly) in her new red leather corset, and Lord Varguson returned the bow graciously, kissing her hand. I fumed as my ex-girlfriend exchanged court pleasantries like she was a born noble—we’d gone to the same grade school. Vampire nonsense was worse than that of the wizards.

  Then Saffron looked back at me, and Varguson’s eyes glinted—not a full glow, just red pinpricks—but that, and the leather, standing before the fire, made him look like the Prince of Darkness. But he seemed to beckon to me, and I stepped forward, not looking in his eyes.

  He looked me over, then exchanged glances with Saffron, and they both nodded. Without a word, he turned and walked off. Two mammoth bodyguards I hadn’t seen detached themselves from the shadows, one following him down a dark passageway, the other guarding its entrance.

  “Saffron—” I began, but she shushed me. Then the guard touched his finger to his ear and beckoned to us, and Schultze stepped forward, followed by Saffron and Darkrose. As I passed, I noted the guard’s excellent tribal tattoos climbing his neck. “Nice linework.”

  The guard’s mouth quirked—he’d checked out my tattoos as well. “You too.”

  We passed through a dimly lit tunnel of cut black stone into a vast square room hung with red velvet curtains that fell like frozen waterfalls of blood. Everywhere, cut glass and gleaming metal were patterned in subtle harlequins, and the faces of the patrons hovered like ghosts over glass-topped tables illuminated from beneath. We passed a high arch opening on a bar decorated with glowing portraits of uber-chic faux Victorians, and I was struck by one picture, a woman in a cocktail dress staring demurely at her hands—then her eyes moved, looking straight at me.

  I shuddered and moved on. A plasma screen. That’s what it obviously was, in retrospect. And this might be a vampire stronghold, but it wasn’t an exclusive enclave—the bar and dining area were filled with hip San Franciscans and T-shirted tourists. Vickman had said that this was a neutral ground where our three vampires could meet their three vampires in an attempt to avoid unpleasantries, but I hadn’t realized that neutral ground meant in public.

  The guards escorted us to a round table in the inner corner of the restaurant. The table’s semicircular booth was so high-backed, it reminded me of the Alice in Wonderland chair in the lobby. From another stone tunnel, three vampires emerged: a Japanese vampire in a staid black business suit, a Middle Eastern vampire in a stark black dress . . . and then, Nyissa, breathtaking in a purple leather dress with deep décolletage and a sparkling choker.

  My first reaction was to relax. Nyissa was safe, not a prisoner. But then I really noticed her outfit, and my breath caught as I followed the pale flesh from the choker down between her breasts. Nyissa gave me a cocky smirk, and I reddened a bit; then I shook it off. Her neckline went to her navel, and she knew I was bisexual, so she had to expect I would notice.

  “Lord Varguson, Lady Astryia, Lord Kitana,” Saffron said, again bowing slightly. “So pleasant to see you again, and our thanks to you for your treatment of Nyissa.” Saffron looked at me with a slight smile. “May I introduce to you Dakota Frost . . . leader of our entourage.”

  In the corner of my eye, I could now see everyone was looking at me; apparently, I was now “on.” Saffron had warned me I’d have to speak, but somehow at a dinner, I hadn’t expected the same degree of attention as at the Conclave. But my ex-girlfriend had long since forgiven me for our unnecessarily messy breakup, so Saffron hadn’t put me on the spot on purpose. Perhaps this was demanded of me by some unspoken rule of vampire politics—or perhaps the Vampire Court had demanded this of her, giving these magical creatures a chance to probe my motives before they decided to welcome us . . . or to bar us from the Bay entirely.

  “Greetings, Lord Varguson, Lady Astryia, Lord Kitana,” I said, glancing at each of the vampires: the swarthy, vaguely Spanish-looking leader, the fanged Jewish matron, the grave Japanese revenant, all in staid vampire black. “Thank you for receiving us.”

  “Thank you for following our protocols,” Lord Varguson said, extending his hand to the table. “Let us extend to you our hospitality. We have worked with the staff of Asia de Cuba to ensure the best possible experience for both our vampire and our human guests.”

  So we all sat around the vast round table, the San Francisco vampires lording it in the semicircular booth like it was a throne, flanked by standing guards; our vampires sat opposite, flanked by us non-vamps. Cinnamon sat between Saffron and me, putting me uncomfortably close to the grave Lord Kitana; Vickman and Schultze sat on the other side, apparently not uncomfortable sitting next to the curious, yet oddly reserved Lady Astryia.

  “So, vampires have met the Wizarding Guild without violence,” said Lord Varguson. The swarthy vampire lord raised politely a glass filled with a dark red liquid that was almost certainly not wine. “My congratulations to our daywalking guests.”

  I stared at that glass. Oh, shit. And so, when the waiter reached toward me with that dark, red, unmarked bottle, I hurriedly flipped my glass over. Cinnamon did so as well. Then the waiter reached Saffron, and she raised her hand.

  “With all due thanks to our hosts,” she said, “I shall have the house Merlot.”

  The waiter looked at her, befuddled. “I’m . . . not sure to what you refer, my Lady,” he said carefully, proffering that dark red bottle for her inspection, even as she leaned back from it. “Your companions have already ordered from the . . . special collection.”

  “Yes, but again with respect to my hosts,” Saffron said, bowing her head deferentially to Lord Varguson, “I shall have the house Merlot. The Merlot. As in the wine. It’s made from grapes. I’m sorry, perhaps I am not being clear—stop. Please do not pour me blood.”

  “Oh,” the waiter said, withdrawing the bottle. “I’m, uh, sorry, I—”

  “So it is true,” Lord Varguson said. “You are a vegetarian.”

  “I shall believe it,” Lady Astryia said, “when she eats.”

  “I am looking forward to the menu this evening,” Saffron said.

  “I as well,” Darkrose said. “I too shall have the Merlot, with thanks to our hosts—”

  “With thanks to our hosts,” Nyissa croaked, “I shall drink from the special collec
tion.”

  I looked up in shock—I had not heard her voice in six months. Saffron had said she’d been in the hospital—and even though Nyissa’s striking Vampirella-esque dress exposed her from navel to throat, her neck scars were covered with a wide, sparkling choker.

  I had assumed the choker was a fashion statement. I was wrong—it was a bandage.

  “And to toast another success,” Lord Varguson said. “Nyissa’s operation.”

  “Your surgeons are clearly as skilled as you claimed,” Saffron said. “Thank you.”

  “We are all in your debt,” I said. Suddenly, all three vampires of the Court of San Francisco looked at me coldly. Hopefully I was not speaking out of turn—I didn’t know the rules of these weird quasi-medieval vampire courts—but this was the twenty-first century, so I forged ahead, “I am particularly grateful, as the Lady Nyissa lost her voice in my defense.”

  Lord Varguson just stared at me. Unlike an ordinary vampire, his dark eyes did not light up with the power of his aura. His features looked young, but there was something nonetheless weathered about him, something that reminded me of Sir Leopold, the lich. Perhaps Varguson was a relic of the conquest of the New World, like our own Lord Delancaster—another European vampire who, like their human counterparts, came over and made trouble for the natives.

  The waiter returned, filled Saffron’s and Darkrose’s glasses. After the waiter disappeared, Lord Varguson, who had been staring at me the whole time, slowly raised his glass.

  “To the Lady Nyissa,” he said, “for reminding us that the relationship between vampire and human . . . should be more than just predator and prey.”

  As he stared, I realized he was talking about Nyissa’s relationship to me.

  “To Nyissa,” I said, abruptly raising my water glass to her, grateful to be out of that almost-staring match with Lord Varguson. For a flicker-quick instant, Nyissa was rattled, then regained her “too cool for the room” vampiric composure. I smiled at her. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” Nyissa said, struggling to keep her expression cool as her voice rasped out. It was sad—her Irish lilt had been exceptionally beautiful, and now she could narrate a horror movie. She raised her blood-filled glass with a wounded smile. “And thanks to my hosts.”

  And then she drank the entire glass, like she was taking a shot.

  “Drink as much as you need,” the Lady Astryia said, passing over her glass, from which she had only taken the slightest sip. Astryia sounded Israeli, though as an old-school vampire, she probably predated the state of Israel—but I presumed she was not Orthodox, or she would not be drinking blood—or, hell, I didn’t know how being a Jewish vampire “worked,” any more than I understood how Saffron could be a Christian vampire. “You must feed to fully heal.”

  Nyissa took the glass from the “special collection” gratefully and drank it down, more gracefully this time. Lord Varguson watched her carefully, beckoning with his hand to the waiter, then he returned his eyes to me, and I looked away.

  “I hope,” he said, “this action on our part is an ample demonstration of our good faith.”

  Saffron nodded, but silently; then she looked at me. Apparently, she’d taken that “entourage” comment by Carnes to heart, and it actually made sense. If she really was out here just for me, and not as a power grab, then it was my responsibility to take the lead.

  “Of course, Lord Varguson,” I said, looking back at him nervously. “Simply by being open about what you needed to make you feel safe, and by not threatening us, you have shown more grace than others we’ve met on this trip.”

  Lord Varguson nodded gravely. Looking off-center in his face, I was impressed by how compact and muscular he was, how much the weathered skin, superficially human, reminded me of boot leather. Even though his eyes did not glow, I felt more aura from him than anyone else here, except Saffron. With that kind of control and power, he would be a fearsome opponent.

  “So, tell me, Lady Frost,” he said, taking a slow sip, then putting down his glass. “To what do we owe this trip?”

  I frowned. Speaking to ancient, powerful creatures who drank blood and read minds made me feel oddly unqualified as the Chair of the Magical Security Council, but I didn’t think I could afford to show weakness. I decided to focus on my immediate goals.

  “My reasons are simple,” I said, smiling at Cinnamon. “My daughter won a prize—”

  “Surely you have seen that San Francisco is a hornet’s nest—and surely you know that disturbing a hornet’s nest can have . . . unfortunate results.” Varguson’s eyes glittered, tiny sparks of light appearing in them for the first time. “Have you really no other motive for visiting?”

  Yes, of course—getting my money for winning a magical challenge last year, I thought, but I can’t tell you that. And I had no desire to tell these vamps I was trying to keep Cinnamon safe from Scara. But why was I letting them rattle me? The MSC wasn’t just a game, nor should its principles be limited to Atlanta. I really believed what I had said to the Conclave earlier.

  “Many vampires died earlier this year,” I said, as clearly as I could, focusing mentally on the reasons that followed from that, and no others. “The Vampire Gentry demanded action. But I can’t save the world all by myself. We—the vampires, the werekin, and the wizards of Atlanta—are trying to stop the next magical catastrophe before it kicks off witch hunts in which we’d all suffer. That’s a political threat. You can’t fight politics like a mortal opponent—not alone.”

  And then, they listened. Or seemed to listen. Or let me rant. The point is, I spent the rest of the meal articulating the charter of the Council, its problems, my plans, and how we might work together with the Edgeworld of San Francisco. Finally, Saffron raised her hand.

  “She is as I described to you, is she not?” she said politely.

  “Guileless,” Lord Kitana said. It was the first word the Japanese vampire had said all evening, and I was not sure whether it was a compliment or an insult.

  I felt my cheeks burn, and took a bite from my plate; my crispy tofu had grown cold. But Cinnamon grinned at me, wolfing down her second helping of nearly-raw wagyu beef—whose price had made my eyes water, until Astryia had told us the entire meal was on the house.

  “We shall not meet with the wizards of San Francisco,” Lord Varguson said. “We shall, however, allow you to do so on our behalf, and in exchange for that invaluable service, we shall allow you free rein to operate within our domain during the duration we have prescribed.” He passed a small envelope to Saffron, who slipped it into her corset. Then he said, “And in thanks, now we have something special for you all . . . and not just from the special collection.”

  Then the waiters brought an absolute bounty of desserts: house-made ice cream in three flavors and Mexican donuts dipped in caramel and several different dessert “liqueurs” that definitely were from the special collection. Cinnamon practically cooed; so did I.

  But despite the bounty, I was getting antsy—the hour was getting late. I glanced at Saffron, who nodded and bowed her head again to Lord Varguson.

  “Thank you for your warm welcome and your extremely generous hospitality,” she said. “But now, if you will excuse us, we have another engagement. An art opening—”

  “Really?” Lord Varguson said. Pinpricks sparkled in his eyes, and then on my exposed skin. “You wish to abandon our hospitality?” Varguson said, his icy tone making it seem like we were abandoning them on an ice floe. “In favor of . . . an art opening?”

  “The invitation,” I said, trying to rescue Saffron, “was extended by the local commune of fire magicians, and their visiting guest. It would be unwise to abandon that opportunity.”

  Lord Varguson’s pinpricks settled on me again. They were bright enough now to see their color, little sparks of red in his dark, leathery face. “Local magicians, n
ot part of the Wizarding Guild . . . and yet within their territory,” he said. “Most interesting.”

  “I am aware of them,” Lord Kitana said. “They call themselves the Fireweavers, and are largely harmless.” His voice was surprisingly forceful, once he used it; he could have been a radio announcer. “Though they usually operate in the East Bay.”

  “Fire wizards, come to our stronghold, without consulting us, or the Guild,” Varguson said. “Even more interesting. We would like to accompany you to this . . . art opening.”

  I stared back at him, just off-center. Me and my damn mouth. I knew, even without looking, that I should not turn to Saffron or Darkrose for rescue, and they weren’t jumping in to volunteer an out either. Come to think of it, there was no out: it was a public performance.

  ———

  “Wonderful,” I said, pulling out my smartphone. “Let me get the address.”

  13. Window Shopping

  We had over an hour before Jewel’s fire show, so the vampires, to my surprise, suggested we walk from Asia de Cuba to Liquid, which was a block or so northeast of Union Square. Cinnamon eagerly agreed, claiming she wanted to “get the feel of the streets.”

  Before we left, however, Nyissa excused herself . . . to track down our waiter.

  “It’s nice, no longer being the prettiest girl in the room,” Saffron said. The other female vampires glanced at her, Lady Astryia angrily, Lady Darkrose hurt. But they did not contradict her, nor did I; it was just the truth. “It feels good to see someone else get all the attention.”

  “That may be true,” I said, watching Nyissa speak to the waiter, give him her card . . . then kiss his hand, lingeringly. The waiter almost swooned, but I swore I saw fangs glint when her lips pulled away. “But she’s not into boys. I don’t think it’s his affection she’s after.”

  We stepped out into the night air. It was surprisingly cold, worse than I’d expected from our night in Oakland, but neither Cinnamon nor the vampires minded; Lady Astryia even loaned me her cloak. Vickman gave me an odd look, and I suddenly wondered what I’d done wrong.