24. I Said, No Cameras
“Say what?” I exploded. Somewhere in the back of my mind was outrage about being asked to profit on all that pain, but all that popped out was, “You owe me a million dollars, and want me to work for it as your trained monkey on TV?”
“Fuck,” Cinnamon said.
David Lloyd-Presse’s eyes gleamed, and I suddenly saw, concealed under his hand, the red camera light that meant he had been recording this whole conversation.
“Damn it, I said no cameras,” I snapped, clenching my fist and twirling my hand to uncoil my vines—then snapping them out to hit the OFF button on the camera. The cameraman cursed, jumped back . . . and then lifted the camera with both hands like it was a baby.
“Oh my God,” Lloyd-Presse said, looking alternately at the camera, then at the glowing vine retracting into my hand. “Oh my God,” he said, hitting REWIND, then PLAY. “Tell me I got that. Tell me I got that—”
“Maybe you got it, but you’re not going to use it,” I snarled, rising.
Lloyd-Presse cradled the camera protectively. “You don’t understand. That was an awesome shot, exactly what we need for the promos—”
“I said,” my voice rising to a shout, “my daughter is not a sideshow—”
“Mom,” Cinnamon said, very quietly. “It’s OK. Let it go.”
She stared up at me, her lower lip set.
I pursed my lips. Then I nodded.
“All of you, get out,” I said. “Everyone with a camera. Everyone with a briefcase, or with a bad attitude, or with the bad fucking idea of putting foul-mouthed foul-tempered foul-everything me on network fucking TV. I need to talk to Alex.”
“Remember,” Browning said quickly, “Alex is not authorized to negotiate—”
“No, you remember, very clearly, that I signed no fucking waiver that would authorize you to use that footage,” I barked. “None at all. And if I find another hidden camera, hidden microphone, or so much as a court sketch artist hiding behind a potted plant—”
“Miss Frost—”
“Out! Everybody but Alex out!” I barked, cracking my neck, letting mana run down my skin, making my tattoos glow. I felt the Dragon shift and twist on my back, raring for release. Let me at them! But I just shook my head and snapped. “Out! Right the fuck now!”
Browning backed up, backed out the door. Meyer stood as well, wincing, but, oddly, smiling. He and Ekundayo took Lloyd-Presse’s arms and gently led him from the room as he muttered, “But don’t you see that? I have to get that. We need to film that—”
The door closed behind them, leaving Cinnamon and me alone with Alex.
“Tell me,” I growled, “there are no hidden cameras in here.”
“No,” Alex said. “I’m surprised you let them leave with the film—”
“I was already committing assault. I wasn’t upping it to robbery. Alex! Talk!”
Alex rubbed his forehead. “First, do you see why I made them tell you?”
“No!” I snapped. Then the ridiculousness of that set in. “Scratch that—yes.”
“You’re pretty scary,” Alex said, “and not only did I not want to tell you . . . I really wanted to see the look on Browning’s face when you blew up.”
My mouth dropped. “I missed it.”
“Priceless,” Cinnamon said. “Very most sincerely gobstopped.”
“Anyway,” Alex said. “Look, this is a huge mess. In case it isn’t already clear to you, I do not run the show here. But when it was clear the Foundation was in trouble, I had some ideas, I talked, they listened—and I take full responsibility for the mess that we’ve gotten you into.”
I stared at him. My eyes narrowed. “You take full responsibility . . . meaning, you approve of what Dennis did? Meaning you approved the idea? Alex. Alex! Whatever gave you the idea that I’d let you turn me into your trained monkey?”
“Well,” Alex said, “the families of the victims are suing the Valentine estate—”
“I know,” I snapped. “I was almost party to the suit. I hear they’re settling—”
“Yes, I am,” Alex said. At my blank look, he clarified, “I wasn’t just Valentine’s protégé. I’m also his heir, and the executor of the estate. After I found out what he’d done . . . of course I settled. It was the only decent thing to do. I’m even trying to set up a fund for the victims—”
“That,” I began, then stopped. Alex was Valentine’s heir, and it was technically his money that he’d given away. And as posh as Valentine’s private little empire here was, that had to be a lot. “That . . . that’s the decent thing to do. Thank you, Alex.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” Alex said bitterly, “because that’s how I screwed you—”
“Alex,” I said. “What did you do?”
“Valentine treated the Foundation like his private bank,” Alex said. “Leeching off it, then feeding his own money back into it—oh, that’s not fair. His salary on The Exposers was outrageous, I admit, but he was also the executive producer of the show—”
“Meaning he coughed up the seed money for each new season,” I said slowly. “Like Lucas bankrolling the later Star Wars films, which gave him total creative control. But you gave that money to the victims. Leaving none for the show. And leaving none for me.”
“Dakota,” Alex said, “I’m sorry. You were—you were alive. So was Cinnamon. And I never expected that setting up the fund would leave the Foundation in the lurch, much less you—but there were so many lawsuits. So many. I had to do something to settle them.”
“No,” I said. “No. That’s right. How—how many were there? Victims, that is—”
“Seventeen,” Alex said. “That we know of. And that’s not counting the ones with his control charms, or that woman who was half skinned alive—”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said, sitting down. “Oh, Jesus.”
“So I started signing settlements, trying to do good,” Alex said, “but found out I’d very nearly signed myself out of a job. The Foundation had to mortgage its buildings to keep paying the employees. So . . . we negotiated with the network to do a special on his challenges—”
“Oh, you son of a bitch,” I said. “You son of a bitch! I knew I owed you footage, but here I was thinking you’d do a respectful ten-minute segment on the attack, and you’re planning, what, an hour-long spot ‘on his challenges.’ The only challenge he took last year was me!”
“The only person to have beaten him,” Alex said. “It would be great TV.”
“Christ, Alex!” I said. “What kind of man are you? This is the most gauche, ghoulish—”
“Pull out your thesaurus and throw every name in it at me,” Alex said, “but at the end of the day, I’m a stage magician. More importantly, a television stage magician. Keeping this show alive is my actual job, as important to me as . . . as your tattoo shop is to you.”
I folded my arms and looked away.
“Now, it may seem ghoulish or gauche or whatever, but this will be great TV. If I’d told you before you walked in that room, that moment was lost. We need your honesty to make great TV. From that, we can make some money and do a lot of good to help the victims—”
“I’m a victim,” I said.
“So was I,” Alex said. “I almost got killed trying to save you and Cinnamon—because Valentine practically led me to you with a dotted line. Remember, I had your working magic tattoo on me. I was living proof that you’d beat his challenge. He was going to murder me—”
“I remember,” I said, staring at him, arms folded. “The old fuck bragged about it.”
“Jesus,” Alex said. “But . . . working with that psycho made me a lot of money. So, the way I see it, we’re both people who stand to profit from a murderer’s illicit gains. I’ve given mine back to those who need it. Frankly,
I didn’t expect you would—”
“Don’t you dare,” I said, blood boiling. “Don’t you dare turn this back on me—”
“Given the circumstances,” Alex said, raising his hands, “I completely understand, even though I personally don’t approve of using Christopher Valentine’s money to do anything but set this right. Hell, I’d dissolve the Foundation if I could. Tell me what good that would do.”
“It might make me feel better,” I said, “but that’s a terrible reason.”
“I agree, on both counts, but . . . I don’t want to use any of his damn blood money,” Alex said, glaring at me. “And you shouldn’t either. We should wash our hands of that fucker and make our way on our own. For you, that’s tattooing, but for me, that’s television. Now, you may think it ghoulish, but we’ve got a chance to turn this tragedy into a real success. We’ll be able to pay you, honestly, without blood money, and keep the Foundation afloat for the legitimate good it does—scholarships and education. We have a chance to make things right.”
“Fuck that,” I said. “Fuck you. But . . . but . . . all right. Tell me what I’ve got to do.”
“I would like you to participate in the special,” he said—and drew a breath. “And . . . to participate in the show. Five tapings. No further commitment. In exchange, the network will pay you one million dollars, if you’re willing to write off the debts of the Valentine Foundation—”
“That’s bullshit,” I barked. “You really want to make it right? Make it two million.”
Alex’s mouth fell open. Cinnamon’s did too.
“Fuck,” Cinnamon said at last. “That’s ballsy, Mom—”
“It’s crazy,” Alex said, voice slightly high pitched. “There’s no way we can—”
“Quit dicking around, Alex,” I snapped. “I am not stupid. I’m not fooled by misdirection. The network doesn’t care about your conscience—it’s paying a million dollars for me to appear in the show, not for winning the Challenge, and the Foundation gets off scot-free—”
“Damn it, Dakota,” Alex said, jerking away from me. “Yes, you’re right. The network agreed to pay you a million dollars, and . . . I hoped to get the Foundation off the hook on what it owes. But if you’re that fucking mercenary—fine. We’ll make your cut two million. Happy?”
I stared at him. I hadn’t expected him to say yes. This was insane.
The Valentine affair was a horrific mess. I’d tried to put the pain behind me, but Alex was dredging it up again. I’d been trying to build walls around the avarice spawned by the prize money, and now Alex casually rolled up to my gates with a two million dollar battering ram.
Three words occurred to me: quid pro quo. I didn’t need two million dollars; hell, I didn’t need one million. God only knew when I’d see any of it; Alex was King of the Welsh. What I really needed was a second source of info about fireweaving—and Alex was my best shot.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it, for two million, though I’ll believe that when I see it. But even though you just put Cinnamon through college, I’ll have you know I’m not doing it for the money. I have another price in mind—a price from you, personally. Call it my quid pro quo.”
“All right,” he said, resigned. “Hit me.”
———
“You teach me fire magic,” I said. “Everything. Top . . . to bottom.”
25. Dungeons and Dancing
When Cinnamon and I left the Valentine Foundation three hours later, I at last felt free. Not because we’d negotiated a better future—that would take some lawyering to finalize—or even because I’d shot all the trailer shots they needed.
No, it was because our schedule was finally free.
Our stay in the Bay Area was bookended by unpleasantries—wizards and vampires on Tuesday, and another meet with the Wizarding Guild Friday. But today was Wednesday, and we were free to enjoy ourselves until Cinnamon’s award ceremony at Stanford Thursday evening.
Personally, I wanted to go visit the Taido dojo at Stanford—unless I wanted to hop on a plane to Japan, there were so few places I could practice Taido that I wanted to sample all of them—but that wasn’t fair to my daughter, who’d never before seen all the sights of San Francisco.
So we took a brief driving tour, mostly to see the twin orange monoliths of the Golden Gate Bridge, then rejoined our vampire friends just as they were rousing themselves. Nyissa was the first up, chatting with Jewel, who had spent the day touring San Francisco incognito.
“Hi,” I said, flopping into a chair next to strawberry-blond Jewel and violet-dyed Nyissa, who looked at me, a little shocked, as if they’d just been talking about me. I felt my ears—were they burning? “I just sold my soul for two million dollars. How was your day?”
“Good as can be expected,” Jewel said. “You look happy, Cinnamon.”
Cinnamon flopped down next to me, grinning, as she’d been doing since I’d shook Alex down and he’d unexpectedly folded. “Mom’s gonna . . .” she began, and from the drive over, I guessed she’d say, Mom’s gonna learn fire magic, which interested Cinnamon far more than two million dollars. But Jewel had refused to teach me, and didn’t need to know, so I shook my head. Cinnamon caught my glance and said, “Mom’s just . . . cool. She took me to the Golden Gate—”
“I was there too,” Jewel said, smiling as she pulled out her phone. “Must have just missed you—ah. Molokii’s texted; he says he’s coming by later. Mind if he joins us for dinner? No. Good. Afterward, I was wondering, ‘cool Mom,’ if you’d be interested in going—”
“Excuse me,” Vickman said, grumpy and haggard. I gathered he’d been up all day and night guarding the vampires on almost no sleep. “The Warlock called. He ‘requests’ we join him for dinner, privately, with the ‘Commissioner.’ It sounds innocuous, but also required.”
“Well,” Jewel said halfheartedly, “have fun—”
“Required of all of us,” Vickman said, “including you and your friend.”
“You mean . . . me?” Jewel said, hand going to her breast. “Oh, crap!”
“Ah, hell,” I said. “So much for a relaxing evening.”
THE COMMISSIONER’S favorite restaurant was a charming little Italian joint in a flatiron building in San Francisco’s Italian district, an area called North Beach—though, like Cathedral Hill’s missing cathedral, there was no beach in sight. We were ushered up to a private dining room in the building’s narrow prow, and found the Commissioner waiting at the far end of a long table, silhouetted by the lights of Columbus Street rising behind him.
Uneasily, we joined the Commissioner, seating ourselves while he stood. The man was dark-haired, solid, and broad enough that if someone fired a missile through the glass, he could have simply stood and shielded us with the bulk of his black pinstriped business suit. There was something off about him, like he was a throwback to an earlier time, and when he spoke, I got a strange tingle of magical resonance . . . both feelings I’d gotten from the Warlock.
“I have asked,” the Commissioner said, “the kitchen to spare us the garlic.”
Beside me, I felt Saffron twitch. “Thank you, Commissioner,” she said.
The vampires sat in polite silence, their guards standing behind them. I’d given up asking them to eat with us. Jewel and Molokii sat on the side of the table to the Commissioner’s right; Cinnamon and I sat on the left, and the Warlock took the opposite end of the table.
“So, Ms. Frost,” the Commissioner said gruffly, cutting open a roll, then buttering it with long, slow, methodical strokes that implied patience more than indulgence. “I understand we have you to thank for thwarting that little business in Union Square last night.”
“Yes,” I said, trying a grin. “All part of the service.”
The Commissioner looked up at me, blue eyes glinting from behind horn-rimmed
glasses. “Of course it is,” he said, eyes turning toward Jewel. “And I understand that this is the young lady who was the apparent target of the attack?”
Jewel swallowed, and I nodded on her behalf.
“Apparently,” I said. “The precise nature of the attack, its intent and ultimate goal, is yet to be determined. However . . . it certainly looked as if she was the target of the attack.”
“You understand things are not always as they seem,” the Commissioner said. He took a bite of his roll. While he chewed, no one spoke; not even the Warlock. “But things are usually just as they seem. Why might someone take offense to you, young lady? What do you do?”
“I—I’m a firespinner,” Jewel said, uncomfortably. “A performance artist specializing in fire magic. Fire magic can be dangerous unless handled properly, and my Order is somewhat secretive. Apparently some fire magicians . . . object to my public performances.”
“Understandably so,” the Commissioner said, “though I doubt it is for the same public safety reasons that might concern my office. But it does seem a bit much, do you not think? Can you think of no other reason someone might want to hurt you?”
“I’m . . . a Hawai`ian political activist,” Jewel said, even more uncomfortably. “I know people who object to that as well, but . . . I’ve never gotten so much as a death threat in Hawai`i. I can’t imagine that my political opponents would travel to attack me here.”
“Neither can I,” the Commissioner said. “Still . . . I am a bit disturbed to find both your names on two police reports in two days, Jewel Anne Grasslin and Dakota Caroline Frost.”
“You aren’t the only one,” Jewel said, swallowing again. Her delicate hands were not visible; her arms were held straight at her sides, as if she was sitting on her hands.
The Commissioner stared at her. “What is your relationship?”
Liquid Fire Page 19