Liquid Fire

by Anthony Francis

  “You need?” he said. “I thought you said you weren’t a cop?”

  “I’m chair of the Magical Security Council of Georgia.” I said.

  “So,” he said, eyes tightening a bit, “your jurisdiction in California—”

  “Is still to be determined,” I said, and Brookstone got even more skeptical. “Six months ago, there was no MSC. I’m here on a, well, call it a fact-finding mission, but this just became an investigation. Both of these were magical assaults, so I’d like to pull in the DEI—”

  “Oh, good fucking luck,” Brookstone said. “I don’t know how things work back in Georgia, ma’am, but you’ve got to pull teeth to get the Department of Extraordinary Investigations to show up in California.”

  “I have a contact,” I said. “His jurisdiction’s also East Coast, but I can almost guarantee I can get this started—if you’d like the help and I’m not stepping on your investigation. I’m not here to wrestle over jurisdiction. You tell me to back off—and I back off.”

  Brookstone stared at me, then pulled out a piece of paper. “I’m going to give you my star,” he said, writing a number. “That identifies me with the department, and this is my cell. I’m not going to lie to you, Ms. Frost, there is no way we can sweep this under. The performers need to come down to the station, but I’ll do my best to keep them out of jail.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it. Really. I’ll contact Oakland PD. You got a case number—”

  “I do,” I said, pulling out my smartphone and entering his number. “And the officers that took it down. Mind if I get your picture?” He stared at me, and I took it, adding his surprised face to the contact; then I thumbed through to my notes from the previous night. “Here.”

  “I want your phone,” he said, staring at it in his hand. “This is new?”

  “If you need something, buy the best or make do without,” I said.

  “Apparently,” he said, copying my notes. “All right, Ms. Frost. I’ll contact this Officer . . . Illowsky, and if your story checks out . . . oh, hell, go ahead, you can call the DEI. But no offense, ma’am, I hope you’re just bullshitting me to get your friends out of a charge.”

  I took my phone back from him. “Oh, wouldn’t that be a nice world?”

  He stared back over his shoulder at Macy’s, where the vast magical mark still glowed, faded but flickering with cold fire. The Chinese-lettered dragon at its center shimmered, almost as if it was trying to break free of its spinning, symbolic prison. “Sure would, ma’am.”

  It did take jurisdictional wrestling to decide what “the station” was, as the attack had spilled out into the Central, Southern, and Tenderloin police districts. Ultimately, the police took us to the Southern district’s Field Operations building, a massive block of concrete in SOMA, not three blocks from our shopping sojourn earlier that day. After they finished with me, we waited on the firespinners out on the steps on Bryant Street.

  It was pushing one in the morning when the spinners came out, looking bedraggled and whipped. Brookstone followed Jewel out, giving her a lecture about performing magic in public in California. He pointed at me, said something firm, then went back inside.

  “Did I hear that cop right?” asked Jewel’s friend Zi, staring back at the building, running his hand through his close-cropped hair. He looked incredulous, staring between Jewel and me. “Did Frost here pull strings to get us a get-out-of-jail-free pass?”

  “I guess so,” I joked.

  “You saved me,” Jewel said. She had actually started crying when Brookstone had been lecturing her, and the glitter and mascara on her face had run, not unflatteringly. “Again.”

  “All part of the service,” I said, putting my hands on her shoulders and giving her a gentle squeeze. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, gulped, looked back over her shoulder at police station.

  “All right, then,” I said. “Now. Listen to me. Cancel whatever you’ve already planned for your trip to San Francisco. You don’t have to hide under a rock, but . . . do something different. Your schedule is your key for your opponents to get to you.”

  Jewel nodded. Over her shoulder, Vickman nodded in curt approval.

  “That goes for all of you,” I said, looking at the rest of the fireweavers. “Mix it up. If you were going to practice on Thursday, do it on Wednesday. If you were meeting for lunch, do it for dinner. If you were going to a protest, volunteer in a soup kitchen instead. I don’t care. Just don’t be where anyone expects you to be—and don’t go anywhere alone. Got it?”

  “I’m sure not sticking around,” Zi said. “I’m going back to Salinas until it blows over—”

  “I can stay with some friends in Sunol,” one of the female dancers said. “Or—”

  “Discuss that later,” I said. “Just in case one of the black pajama squad is devious enough to hit a spy store and spring for some long-range listening gear, stop detailing your plans when you’re standing in a public street. Catch a cab, then figure out a destination—”

  “Can—can I go with you?” Jewel said, swallowing, looking right at me.

  “Oh, uh,” I began, cheeks coloring. I stole a quick glance at Vickman, who appeared to be suppressing a frown, but I couldn’t depend on him; this was all on me. “I cannot guarantee it will be safer. Actually, I can guarantee based on past experience it will not be safer.”

  “I-I don’t care,” Jewel said. “There were five of us, and they went after us anyway.” She must have seen some hesitation in my face, because she held up her hands. “I’m not trying to impose. I can sleep on a cot if I have to. Just . . . I’m very scared.”

  “All right,” I said gently. “We can work something out.”

  ———

  Cinnamon snorted. “You’ve gone and done it again, Mom. Picked up another stray.”

  16. To Our Fortress on Cathedral Hill

  I don’t know why Cathedral Hill is called that; I never saw a cathedral near our hotel. I do know why we called the Cathedral Hill Hotel our “fortress”: its parking garage was gated and underground, its formidable entrance was closed and guarded at night, and its looming ramparts gave it a castle-like feeling. Also, Vickman made a deal with the hotel to get a linked set of suites with “extra security,” and each night, we went through elaborate procedures to keep us safe.

  In the lobby, we paused for drinks at the bar while Schultze went up and checked out the suites; about five minutes later, Vickman’s phone rang, he stepped out of earshot and exchanged a few terse words, and then cleared us to go to our rooms.

  Waiting for us upstairs were friends from Atlanta I hadn’t seen in a while—Jinx and Doug, Skye “Jinx” Anderson being Saffron’s and my oldest friend, and Doug Suleiman being Jinx’s new husband. Doug was in fuzzy flannel pajamas and a bathrobe, but Jinx was still dressed to the nines in Gothic Lolita finery—black and white, corset and lace, gloves and bonnet.

  You’d think he’d just turned in earlier than her, but I knew better. They were both a bit flushed, and as Doug guided her round the corner, Jinx surreptitiously adjusted her suspiciously rumpled dress. You didn’t need a playbook to realize that Doug dug every inch of her outfit, but you’d need some inside info to know that if you pulled back Doug’s bathrobe and pajamas, you’d most likely see straps of black leather crossing his muscular chest. They were perfectly matched for each other. I smiled, but kept my observations to myself—the last thing they needed after their honeymoon was for Cinnamon to start calling them “Goth Girl and Dog Boy.”

  Jinx tapped her way up with her spirit cane. “Dakota, Cinnamon,” she said, giving us a slightly formal nod warmed by a sly, impish smile. Then she abruptly canted her head. “And well, hello. Who is your wonderfully-perfumed companion, Dakota?”

  “Hey, Jinx, I’m so glad we finall
y got to see you after all this mess,” I said, shepherding forward Jewel, who still seemed rattled. “And . . . Skye ‘Jinx’ Anderson, my oldest friend, please meet Jewel Anne Grasslin, my newest one.”

  Jinx took Jewel’s extended hand and held it delicately; then she raised her other hand to her dark glasses and pulled them down. Jewel drew a sharp breath; Jinx’s eyes were blue and milky, like two geodes covered with black snowflakes. Jinx leaned forward, still holding Jewel’s hand, as much for the feeling of the bracer under her thumb as to pin her target there, I think; then she rocked her head back and forth, trying to catch Jewel from every angle.

  “Oh, my,” she said, releasing Jewel’s hand. “You must be such a beautiful woman.”

  Jewel’s mouth fell open, as she realized Jinx really couldn’t see more than a blur.

  “That she is,” I said, squeezing Jewel’s shoulder, and she glanced back and smiled.

  “Beautiful, delicate skin, and a wonderful scent,” Jinx said, pushing her glasses up. “Well, at least I can appreciate two of those properly. It is my very great pleasure to meet you, Jewel Anne Grasslin. You always have such interesting friends, Dakota.”

  “That she does,” Jewel said.

  We convened in Saffron and Darkrose’s suite, the largest, to powwow. Carnes wanted me out of town, maybe, Daniel wanted Jewel shut down, definitely, and mysterious “fire ninjas,” associated with one or both of them, or possibly neither, had assaulted Jewel and left mysterious messages that were a threat, a warning, or, based on our experiences in Atlanta earlier this year, possibly a part of a larger spell whose ultimate outcome was unlikely to be good.

  “Have you ever seen anything like those symbols before, Jewel?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, glancing away. “Oh, damn it, I won’t lie, they’re fireweaver signs—a specific kind of sign fireweavers use to communicate. The disc pattern is a standard base used in certain fire magic, and the symbols running through the rings are also used in fire magic—”

  “I think we got that,” Vickman said. “Tell us something we don’t know—”

  “I don’t know what you have against me, Mr. Vickman,” Jewel said, “or maybe I’m just not making myself clear. Yes, they’re fire symbols left by fire magicians. I’m saying I recognize those specific combinations of rings and spells from secret fireweaving texts.”

  “What are they used for?” I asked.

  “Like I said, they’re secret,” Jewel said. At my glare, she spread her hands. “Oh, hell, Dakota, they’re used for . . . well, everything. To light the walls, as a base for more complex spells, and sometimes, well, sometimes just to send a message.”

  “Can you read the message?” I asked.

  “I didn’t mean a literal message—more like a warning,” Jewel said. “That ring of fire symbols on the outside just looks like jumbled up gibberish. But the symbols on the inside are easy to read. They make it a threat—like pictograms of a severed dragon’s head on the bed.”

  “Ew,” I said, flashing on The Godfather. But Jewel looked troubled, strangely reticent, and I felt as if she knew more about these symbols than she was telling. “Jewel . . . surely there’s more to this than just a fireweaver’s version of an offer you can’t refuse?”

  “I . . . shouldn’t say,” she said. “It’s better not to talk about it. It can give it power—”

  “Jewel,” I said, chilled. “What else can these fire mandalas be used for?”

  “Sometimes,” Jewel said, swallowing, “they’re used to cast a curse.”

  I drew a breath. “Curses” were a contentious topic in the magical community. The old school believed in them; modern practitioners often dismissed them as woo-hooery. I was in the latter camp, but accusing someone of woo just led to arguments, so I kept my mouth shut.

  Unfortunately, I did not have the psychic ability to deliver that memo silently.

  “I thought curses and hexes were largely a myth,” Doug said.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Jinx said, “but hexes are largely toy spells—”

  “And just what kind of magic do you do, Skye ‘Jinx’ Anderson?” Jewel said.

  “I am a graphomancer,” Jinx responded coldly. “A proficient graphomancer.”

  “Well that explains . . . wait, how does that work?” Jewel said. “You’re blind.”

  “Mostly, now,” Jinx said, even more coldly, “but I wasn’t once—and that part of my brain works just fine. And I don’t need to be able to see to know that most spells that purport to deliver a curse are the magical equivalent of useless fireworks.”

  Jewel bit her lip. “I’ve stepped in it, Ms. Anderson, and I’m sorry, that was just plain rude of me,” she said. “But my point stands. Graphomancy is the most prosaic of the magical arts. It’s the Euclidean geometry of the magic world, all cut and dried points and lines—”

  “What you call ‘prosaic’ is the backbone of most tattoo magic,” I said, “and actually, of most of the fire magic we saw tonight. I’m not saying that there are no curses—but most of the time, once you’re out of range of a spell . . . you’re out of range of the spell.”

  “Now I see why they call you the skeptical witch,” Jewel said, shaking her head. “But how can you possibly be a practitioner thinking like that? After what I saw tonight, I’d think you’d be the last person to underestimate what can be accomplished by magic—”

  “I’m not,” I said. Even now, I could still feel my masterwork trying to settle back on my body. “But I do want to set your mind at ease. A real curse generally requires physical contact with the victim, like a potion or a brand or a tattoo—”

  “That’s the origin of the myth that a spell will turn back on its caster,” Jinx said. “Benevolence rituals work to better your own life because you’re essentially casting them on yourself. Try to wish ill to another based on the same scheme, and it will hurt you first—”

  “You told me,” Jewel said, looking at me, “about some giant curse in Atlanta—”

  “Generated by a mammoth city-wide network,” I said, “of magic graffiti.”

  “Jewel has a point,” Jinx said, canting her head. “It’s theoretically possible to achieve a curse-like effect with hair or blood samples and magical resonators, but, still, remote vodoun spells have a five-to-ten mile range. To be safe, we could move out of the City proper—”

  “Argh. You people,” Jewel said, staring around at us. “Technical practitioners. You act like magic is some kind of technology, some prosaic little thing you can program up and stamp down and pack into the stores for Christmas—”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple,” I said, “and I’m not even denying that there are spiritual powers at work in this world. But the sad truth is that most of what people think magic can do is just superstition mixed in with fear, uncertainty, and doubt peddled by magicians.”

  “Dakota!” Jewel said. “How can you say that? You summoned a dragon tonight—”

  “I didn’t ‘summon a dragon,’ ” I said. Even though I knew the Dragon’s manifestation had been impressive tonight, I also knew it was important to deconstruct that, so Jewel didn’t take it as more impressive than it was. “I energized a tattoo and projected an intention—”

  “That’s what you want to see,” Jewel said. “But that’s because you’re shutting it out. Dakota, I know you claim to be the ‘best magical tattooist in the Southeast,’ but no matter how good you are, no tattoo is going to deflect a bullet, much less grow into a magical fire-breathing dragon two hundred feet high smashing every window in Union Square!”

  “Well,” I said, “not every window—”

  “Pretending you can graph magic with lines on paper misses the point of magic,” Jewel said. “Magic is whole, and holy, and you can only see that if you let it in as a whole. If you keep trying to break it into pie
ces, then all you’ll get are broken pieces. You’ll end up witnessing a . . . a miracle like we saw tonight and think it was nothing more than fireworks!”

  Everyone was silent.

  “So, what would a fireweaver say about what we witnessed tonight?” I asked.

  “Fireweaver legends say a powerful magician can summon the spirit of a dragon in times of crisis,” she said. “You know I’ve been travelling the world trying to summon a dragon—and I could only have dreamed of summoning the spirit you did tonight.”

  My eyes narrowed at her. “Did you weave a summoning into your performance?”

  Jewel’s mouth opened . . . then she smiled. “I can’t share the secrets of the Order with the uninitiated,” she said, smile growing into a smirk. “How’s that for a non-answer answer? But leaving magic out of it, all my performances invoke dragons as spirit animals.”

  “All right,” I said, though, skeptical little me had no idea how a tattoo on my own back that I’d inked myself could be a “spirit of a dragon.” “That’s how you see your magic—and mine. What about Daniel’s? What do fireweaver legends say about those rings of fire?”

  Jewel’s lip trembled. “That . . . they are the mark of death for those who see it.”

  “Rings of fire, marks of death,” I said, putting my face in my hands. The Dragon stirred uncomfortably on my back; I didn’t like how reactive it was becoming, even when inactive. “And a dragon appearing in a time of crisis. Sounds like it fits the legends to a T—”

  “Surely you’re not giving credence to this,” Doug said.

  “I’m taking everything under advisement,” I said. “I’m a scientist, not a skeptic. Well, actually I am a skeptic, or more accurately skeptical—oh, hell, I don’t have time for another dissertation. We need to pool our knowledge, not fight with each other about theory.”

  Doug rubbed his face. “No, no, you’re right. Sorry, Jewel, I’m not trying to diss you—”