Liquid Fire

by Anthony Francis

  “Jesus,” McGough said, eyes wide. He looked at the cabinet, then me. “Jesus. You had that shit lying around . . . in tattoo ink? No wonder your colors are so awesome—and you just found out. Of course. New initiate. I’m surprised they let you have the ink before—”

  “Damn it, stop being so smart,” I said. Frankly, I’d been surprised that they had, until I realized that it was a test of a candidate’s loyalty—and that the rules of the Skindancing Guild predated the tools of modern chemistry. “I’m counting on you to keep this secret—”

  “Oh, yeah,” McGough said, rubbing his chin. “The Wizarding Guild won’t want that knowledge going around anymore than you do. And we need your pet spook in on this—”

  “Do we really want to bring Davidson in?” I asked. “He’s good at keeping secrets only so long as his bosses don’t decide otherwise—”

  “Give him more credit,” McGough said, still rubbing his goatee. “Davidson didn’t trigger that werehouse raid—you did, when you called in that attack on Tully. And it was the right thing to do. Don’t beat yourself up about it—or blame him. Sometimes, crap just goes down.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said, staring at my broken cabinet.

  “Who knows how freaking valuable that ink was?” McGough asked.

  “Nobody that I know who doesn’t already have their own supply,” I said. “But . . . I’m told that supplies of the real deal, of liquid fire, may be running out.”

  “I’ve heard the same rumors,” McGough said. “Shit. And you’ve had everybody and their brother in here, haven’t you? All right. All right. This is how we handle this. Put a Magical Security Council hold on this investigation—”

  “I can do that?” I said.

  “Same thing you did with the magic graffiti,” McGough said. “The investigation goes forward normally, but the MSC and the Black Hats get first crack. No public announcements, control of all evidence, complete lists of everyone that’s been on site—”

  “I got it, I got it,” I said. “You get that started inside, I’ll talk to your boss.”

  I picked my way out of my office, carefully avoiding the broken glass, and wormed my way out of the Rogue and past the Herbalist’s Attic. Parsons was staring at the giant spinning symbol glowing on the side of the building, and I motioned to him.

  “I’m putting an MSC hold on this investigation,” I said quietly. “Police procedure keeps going forward as normal, but the Black Hats get first crack—and no announcements, complete control of who sees the evidence, we need lists of everyone on site—”

  Parsons nodded, without batting an eye. “All right,” he said, motioning to an officer. “Though I’ve never worked under a MSC hold before. I don’t know how that works—”

  “Me neither,” I said, and he glanced at me. “Same procedure we used for the magic graffiti, but we need to make it formal now. Something that’s not going to tie your hands, but . . . some heavy shit may have gone down here and we can’t let that out, not just yet.”

  “You, me, and the Detective can powwow once we’ve got the scene under control,” Parsons said. His eyes glinted with excitement, like he’d seen something valuable, something I didn’t yet understand. “Thanks for taking me into your confidence, ma’am. I won’t let you down.”

  He walked off. I took a deep breath. When I started the Magical Security Council, it was almost a joke, a pure bravado play designed to keep my daughter out of trouble and defuse a brewing human-vampire-werekin civil war. But now . . .

  I really was the head of the Magical Security Council.

  I called Tully and clued him in. Cinnamon’s childhood squeeze was becoming a reliable right-hand man—perhaps because his service to the Council kept Scara off his back. We picked out a team, and Tully hung up to alert Philip in the DEI while I gathered more info on site.

  After the call disconnected, I stared up at the spinning magical mark crackling against the side of the building. I had to crack this thing. Me, and the people under me. The war for liquid fire had reached Atlanta, and by God, they were going to regret ever bringing it here.

  With my new eyes, I could see more structure than before—circuits of power, ratchets of rotation, projectors of light—and that revealed more clearly why Cinnamon thought it a code. The spinning letters were cut off from the rest of the magic, intent almost encapsulated.

  Already, I could see there were no new symbols in the design. If I was right, there was a shot that some obscure letter like Z hadn’t shown up yet, but if Cinnamon was right, if all the letters were evenly distributed, the chances were better than nine in ten we had them all.

  Twenty-six symbols, twenty-six letters in the English alphabet—one-to-one. It felt right. Five messages, now six, sixty characters each—totaling three hundred. It felt hopeful. Sixty characters, in eight billion combinations . . . with six more trillions following that.

  It felt hopeless.

  I scowled. Someone could read this, and I would crack it. I pulled out my phone to take a picture—then sensed something. I turned and saw Jewel, standing a few feet away from me, outside the yellow tape, staring up at the symbol, holding her octopus bag in both hands.

  “Jewel,” I said warmly, glad that at least one thing in my life was going right. But when she heard my voice, she swallowed. She’d been looking at the symbol intently, like she was reading it—but now she looked at me with fear. “Jewel, what’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “You were attacked because of me—”

  “You don’t know that,” I said, trying sound reassuring, but she shook her head slightly, a look of pity on her face that usually meant someone thought I was completely out of my depth. “You do know that? Jewel, if you have any idea what this means—”

  “I—” she began, then looked away. Then she stared back at it. “I won’t lie to you. The symbology is an ancient fireweaver’s curse. Jinx may think it’s hoodoo or whatever, and maybe it is, but Daniel isn’t content to just beat us. He wants us to suffer.”

  “And you know this because—”

  Jewel struggled with something. “Well . . . because of the symbols.” She gestured at a trio of signs at the center of the circle. “Ancient symbols put together to form a simple meanings, like subject, verb, object. These symbols mean guardian, transport . . . and prison.”

  I glared at the symbols—three of them, at the center of the message. Each message had these, and I’d just assumed they were part of the design. Damn it! Three more symbols that made . . . what? Nothing? A key to the code? Or another gazillion combinations on top of the mess?

  “Daniel is trying to do something with these messages,” I said. “To communicate, to cast a larger spell, hell, maybe it is a curse. I don’t care to speculate; I have to know. They attacked my place of business. It could have been my home, or, if you go back to Hawaii, your home—”

  “I—” Jewel said, and then her eyes went wide. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I’m not minimizing the public assaults on you, but this attack, and the one on your friends’ home in Sunol, are worse. It’s one thing to attack a target of opportunity when they’re out and vulnerable. A planned attack on someone’s stronghold is something else entirely.”

  “Jesus,” Jewel said, hands tightening on her purse. She looked at me, struggling with something, then sagged. “Dakota . . . you’re right, more than you know. I do know what the message means, and this is something else entirely. I . . . I really need your help.”

  “I am trying to help you,” I snapped, “but I need information. You have to tell me everything you know about this fireweaver code—”

  “The code isn’t important,” Jewel said. “The message is. I couldn’t translate the code if I wanted to, and even if I could, it’s a secret for initiates—but we’re past that. More than moldy old se
crets are at stake. Dakota, I’ve got to . . . I’ve got to come clean. Can I trust you?”

  “Of course,” I said, looking at the spinning symbol. “So . . . the message is important. What does it mean? The guard-transport-prison part, that is? Does that mean this curse is designed to . . . what? To get you arrested—”

  “No,” Jewel said reluctantly—and something about the tone of her voice chilled me. “It uses the language of a curse, but it isn’t really a curse. It’s just to get my attention.” She raised her phone. “And I don’t need to translate it . . . if Daniel’s done it for me.”

  I stared at the phone in horror, seeing a text from UNKNOWN NUMBER: «we have what you lost-come back to maui»

  My blood ran cold. “Jewel,” I said. “Is this what I think it is?”

  ———

  “It’s a ransom note,” she said quietly. “They’ve taken Molokii.”

  49. Philip to the Rescue

  The Georgetown was a Moffat-class airship—eight hundred feet long, held aloft by seven million cubic feet of helium, with five Shadowhawk stealth copters in its belly. Itself sheathed in stealth fabric, the Georgetown sliced through the air quietly . . . taking us all to Hawaii.

  “I didn’t know we had these,” Jewel said, staring out the forward observation window.

  “Just declassified,” I said, standing behind her. “Apparently, black agencies have been using them for years to get strike forces where they’re needed. The Department of Extraordinary Investigation uses the Georgetown because the whole craft’s mystically shielded.”

  “Jesus,” Jewel said, pressing her hand to her throat. “Way to feed a girl’s conspiracy theories, Skindancer! Tell her the U.S. Government not only has black helicopters, but can drop a whole stealth army on magic users any time it wants—”

  “Well, not an army, Fireweaver,” I said. “Maybe a platoon.”

  “Dakota,” Special Agent Philip Davidson chided. “Giving away all our secrets?”

  I turned around. Philip leaned against the jamb of the door to the observation lounge, devilish goatee framing an easy grin. He’d stripped off the jacket of one of his thousand-dollar suits, but he still looked handsome in a subtly patterned white shirt and narrow tie.

  “The Georgetown is all over CNN and the History Channel,” I said. Remembering, I grinned. “Speaking of which, I finally did get the full story on how you got mugged.”

  “Oh, God,” Philip said, standing up straight, hand behind his head. “I deny it—”

  “A—hem,” Jewel said pointedly, elbowing me.

  “Ah,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. She was actually jealous. I liked that. But things had moved so fast—“Sorry I didn’t get to introduce you earlier. Special Agent Philip Davidson, please meet Jewel Grace, our special informant—and my current girlfriend.”

  Philip and Jewel looked at each other, forced smiles on their faces.

  “Well,” Philip said, “pleased to meet you, Miss Grace.”

  “Likewise,” Jewel said frostily, shaking his hand.

  “Did Dakota explain how this works?” Philip said. “We’re going to a safe house in Maui which will serve as our base of operations. We’ll use a cell rerouter and land lines that will make it appear that we’re in Honolulu, but we’ll be able to strike quickly—”

  “So I don’t see why you needed us,” Jewel said stiffly. “While I can defend myself, I don’t approve of violence, Special Agent Philip Davidson. I deliberately focus on defensive spells. I’d be useless in a firefight.”

  “I certainly hope it doesn’t come to that,” Philip said, “but if we end up dealing with some nasty fire magic . . . I’m given to understand that there’s no one better than you.”

  Jewel pursed her lips. “So, what’s your role in this circus?” she asked me.

  “Your bodyguard,” I said, laughing.

  “And I’m yours,” Nyissa croaked, stepping from the shadows, pale face and violet hair seeming to glow inside her hood. Her eyes fell over Philip, drinking him in, and he looked both uncomfortable and intrigued. “But I agree with Philip. Let’s not let this turn into a fight.”

  “Our first priority is rescuing Molokii,” Philip said. “I’m not allowed to use the word ransoming, and the United States government does not negotiate with terrorists. But . . . we will facilitate an, ah, orderly transfer, if you decide to meet their demands—”

  “I’m not sure I can do that,” Jewel said. “They want me to abdicate.”

  “Do . . . what?” I said.

  “Of course,” Philip said, putting his hand to his forehead. “Necker Island—”

  “How do you know—” Jewel said, then stopped herself. “Damn it. The lawsuit—”

  “I’m sorry,” Philip said, “but I have to know everything about the kidnap victim and the potential ransomer to understand how to fight the kidnapper. Dakota, Necker Island is a heritage site that Jewel’s Kanaka Maoli group sued the government to get back. Successfully.”

  “And now that you’ve got a chunk of land to call your own . . . Daniel wants to lay claim to it. That’s the point of all the attacks, the messages,” I said. My eyes tightened at her. “All those messages we couldn’t decipher . . . were challenges to your authority.”

  “I am a Fireweaver Princess,” Jewel said. “One of a small number of individuals with a magical bloodline who can command our Order and lead certain key rituals. Daniel’s a low-ranking prince, challenging my”—her face screwed up in distaste—“ ‘throne.’ ”

  “Jewel, you told me you were going to come clean,” I said. “Molokii’s life is on the line here. We need to know everything you know. You claim you can’t decipher these messages, but you’ve got a hell of a lot of context we don’t and you need to cough it up now.”

  “You always were too smart for your own good,” she said, eyes fixed on me. “Yes, I know the point of those messages, and more you haven’t seen. He’s demanded that I yield, that I keep quiet, that I defend myself, that I defend my actions—and that I give up my crown.”

  “That’s pretty damn specific. I thought the one on the Rogue was a ransom demand,” I said. I’d wrestled with it for the whole trip, trying every trick in Cinnamon’s books to find a handle, and now Jewel just coughs it up? “The one you claimed you couldn’t decipher—”

  “Of course I couldn’t decipher it,” Jewel said. “It’s ancient ritual challenge magic, and I’m no historian. But I don’t need to decipher it . . . Daniel has been sending me texts.” She pulled out her phone. “The last one was just before we took off.”

  I looked at Philip. “Could we track him with that?”

  “No,” Philip said, with a quick shake of his head. “A disposable phone, untraceable—”

  “How do you know?” Jewel said. “I haven’t even shown it to you yet—”

  “He probably read it before you did,” I said, and Jewel hissed and turned away.

  “The call was made from the airport in Los Angeles,” Philip said. “I doubt they moved Molokii on a commercial aircraft, but some of their people may have. That leaves us about twelve thousand suspects, but we’ve narrowed it down to about two hundred likely—”

  “I hate this!” Jewel said, turning and stomping to the forward window. “A secret strike-fortress in the sky, full of black helicopters, led by a man who sifts through the people like they’re grains of wheat! Why did you show me this, Dakota?”

  “Why are you still keeping secrets?” I asked. “I’m trying to save your best friend.”

  “And there’s a living calculus to that,” Philip said, hands in his pockets. He didn’t look hurt by Jewel’s accusation—he just looked resigned, standing there in his expensive clothes. “I don’t recommend negotiating with terrorists . . . but is your title worth Molokii’s life?”

 
Jewel’s head lowered . . . then she looked back at me, fearfully.

  “I can’t,” she said, voice so quiet we could barely hear her over the drone of the engines. “Daniel doesn’t care about titles, just what he can do with one. He wants to lead a very specific magical ritual, which will have a very terrible result. We’ve seen hatchsign, Dakota, and now the Order of the Woven Flame is split between those, like me, who want nature to take its course, and those who . . . well, want it to happen so badly . . .”

  “That they’re willing to kill,” I said, “to get a supply of liquid fire.”

  Jewel looked at me in shock. I don’t think she expected me to be that up front, but I’d never have gotten Philip to spring for this expedition if he hadn’t had an inkling of what was at stake—and neither Philip nor I had realized how key Jewel was to the whole affair.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Philip said. “We’ve got a magical war over a dragon hatching.”

  “Precisely what Devenger was afraid of,” I said. “This is such bad news—”

  “You have no idea. Wizards nearing the ends of unnaturally extended lives don’t care about consequences,” Nyissa said, her voice ominous beneath her hood. “Trust me, I was one. I became a vampire because my side lost the last war for a supply of liquid fire—”

  “When was this?” Philip said. “I haven’t heard about a recent magical war—”

  “You’ve heard of it,” Nyissa said. “Before your time, but you’ve heard of it.”

  “Almost everyone on Earth has heard of it,” Jewel said. “And everyone on the Indian or Pacific Oceans heard it when it happened. The wizards and the fireweavers battled over the last hatching, and it got . . . far . . . before someone a lot like Daniel finally got their way—”

  “And failed,” Nyissa said. My Dragon shifted on my back, whispering dark things to me about wizards and their crimes . . . which Nyissa quickly confirmed when she said, “The spell went horribly wrong. It killed the hatchling . . . and thirty thousand people—”