The vast tag began to shimmer again, the lava regaining its glow, the rocks regaining their depth and falling away, one by one—but I was having none of that this time, and began sashaying to pour my own magic into the mix. I whipped off my jacket and let it flap away over the spreading chasm, exposing the unfinished wings of the dragon on my shoulders, already glowing with the mana my walk was pouring into it. Unfinished as it was, it couldn’t defend me—but it could still help me kick this freak’s ass.
“Spirit of air,” I murmured, “give me wings.”
Twin wings erupted from my shoulder blades just as the last rocks fell away beneath my feet, leaving me floating forward over the vast gulf like a glowing angel. This was beyond even my power, but the surge of mana rippling off the pavement buoyed me up. The more Zipperface fed magic into the chasm, the higher I flew—and the closer I got.
Zipperface’s white gleaming eyes were fixed on me, and I stared straight back at him. I saw his logic now: he was a projectia, an image created by a magician operating somewhere else. Normally that figure replicated the image of the caster as closely as possible, but this figure was inspired by graffiti’s love of distorting an image into a cartoonish parody.
I had a good idea of how to use my vines to disrupt his image and short-circuit his magic, and if the feedback didn’t kill him it would at least leave me with a huge, living master tag I could study and use to track him back to his source.
But Zipperface, snarling, drew on the air again, spray casting runes that began draining the mana back out of the lava. I drifted lower and lower as the piece on the pavement grew duller and duller. My feet struck ground and I strode forward, twisting my arms to gather the remaining mana in my wings and shoot it forward into a net of vines that would disrupt his projection.
Zipperface tensed, watching me approach, canting his head further—then abruptly he drew three quick arcs in the air with his can. My eyes narrowed. The cartoony little sigil began to solidify, taking shape, looking familiar—and then I saw it. It was a baseball.
Zipperface swung his metal bat with a ringing crack, and the ball shot out and landed in my gut, knocking the wind out of me. My wings sagged around me, their mana surging back into my body like fire. I gasped for breath, trying to say a word of power. But Zipperface didn’t wait. He stepped forward, gripping the bat with two hands, preparing to take off my head.
But then I remembered: in magic, pretty words don’t matter. All that matters is intent.
“Gaaah!” I gasped, thrusting my hand out at him. A coiling vine leapt and entangled Zipperface’s bat. He leapt back, trying to tug the bat out of my tattoo grip. I grinned and pulled, as my brand new asp curled up the vine and began sliding towards him.
Zipperface’s snarl rippled across those metal teeth like a wave. He switched to a one-handed grip and pulled out his spray can again, drawing a pair of shears in the air. I leaned back, unfurling the vine, drawing my hand back in just as the shears sliced the vine in two.
Tension released, I fell back to the pavement, gasping for breath. In moments Zipperface was standing over me, a glowing cartoon parody of a man, white eyes gleaming, lowering his bat and spray can as he savored his moment of triumph.
I clutched my stomach, struggling for breath, and Zipperface raised the bat again, hefting the coiling tattoo vines trying to find purchase on its surface, preparing to hit me with a roiling ball of my own magic. Finally, I drew just enough breath to squeeze out one word. “Sucker.”
The snake in his half of the vines struck at him, and the vines themselves uncoiled, whipping around his head, crushing his cap, tearing into his face. Zipperface tried to toss away the bat, but the vines coiled around and caught his hand, pinning the bat to him. He dropped the can, trying to wrestle the bat away from his eyes—then snarled and thrust both arms wide, breaking all the vines into pieces, crushing the snake in his hand.
I laughed weakly. Tattoo magic wasn’t graffiti magic: the broken marks couldn’t just be reduced to dust like a sandblasted tag. Tattoos are alive, and tenacious. The remnants of the vines and snake dug into Zipperface’s ‘skin,’ interfering with the magic, disrupting the projection. Zipperface began to melt, to cant over, becoming even more misshapen.
But he didn’t fall. He held his bat out like a sword, holding me off, snarling, long tongue rippling out of his metal mouth. Then he stamped his foot and summoned his skateboard out of the ground. When the board fully materialized, he skated off, sliding back into the lines he had created against the wall of the tenement, merging back into them in a rainbow spray of mana.
I sagged back against the pavement, watching the glow fade from the graffiti. Long after Zipperface had disappeared, I gathered enough of my breath and strength to stand, and began to hobble back towards Calaphase. Even though I had seen what happened to him, my mind didn’t want to accept it. Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe he was just stunned. Maybe, with vampire regenerative abilities, he would roll over, smile, and be just fine.
Before I even got to him, I knew I was just lying to myself. Calaphase’s body was drained, charred. After the magic tag had sucked him dry of blood, it had set him on magical fire. Slow streamers of rainbow flame lifted off his body, like slow-motion animation; beneath the flames was a smudge of blackness that was barely recognizable as a man.
Damnit. Damnit. Damnit! I stood there, face screwed up so much it hurt, mouth covered with my hands so no one would see, eyes squeezed tight so I wouldn’t have to either. We were friends, we’d became lovers, seemingly moments ago—and he was gone. Gone! No more walks. No more talks. No more riding to my rescue in the middle of the night with donuts and that confident yet oddly bashful charm. Gone.
Finally, after how long I had no idea, I began to shiver in the cold, and turned away, looking for my vestcoat. I found it a blackened, smoking ruin atop a graffiti’d image of glowing rocks. I snatched it up, cursing as the hot cracked leather burned my skin—but as I grabbed it, my fingers had brushed pavement and found it cool. Magic, again.
I tossed the remains of the jacket into the crook of my elbow and began massaging my singed hand. The burn wasn’t too bad, no worse than all the minor singes, dings and scrapes I’d picked up in our ordeal, but as I looked at my skin, it looked different somehow. After a moment, I realized why, and cursed again, more quietly now, at another loss.
“My dependable snakes,” I said. Emotions welled up in me, and I clamped them down, inspecting the bare skin that until minutes ago had borne one of my best smaller designs, figuring out how to replace it. I needed the distraction of planning to fix what I’d lost. I needed to focus on anything but what had just happened. “I’m going to have to tattoo another one.”
Flashing lights caught my eye and an Atlanta black-and-white shot past the end of the tenement, running silent with lights blazing. I waved hopefully, gratefully, and the car turned into the lot and screeched to a halt well short of the graffiti image of the molten lava. I ran towards it, and my heart leapt as Rand stepped out, flanked by Horscht and Gibbs.
“Rand, thank God,” I said. “Calaphase and I were just attacked by magic graffiti—and it killed him. And I think the graffiti is using vampire blood for power—Rand? What’s wrong?”
Rand stared at me, jaw clenched. Then he spoke the last words I expected.
“I’m sorry, Kotie. You’re under arrest for the murder of Christopher Valentine.”
Lockup
Beloved stage magician Christopher Valentine, AKA the Mysterious Mirabilus, had been famous for challenging “fake magicians” to perform a feat he couldn’t replicate with ordinary stage magic. In twenty-three years of issuing the Valentine Challenge, he’d never failed.
Until me.
The real reason for his perfect record? In secret, Valentine was a real magician, using his Challenge to flush out and kill other real magicians—like me. I decisively met his Challenge to ink a real magic tattoo; that ended me up on Valentine’s sacrificial altar, moments from death.
Released from my body, my precious masterwork tore Valentine to pieces. So it was true: I killed Christopher Valentine with magic. In theory, a serious crime—but I thought there was enough evidence to demonstrate to anyone’s satisfaction that it was self defense.
Rand knew this. He’d been there, or at least had helped pick up the pieces. But he showed no sign of it now. He just Mirandized me, cuffed me and stuffed me in the back of the cruiser, where I had to wait alone for half an hour until another unit could arrive … for Calaphase.
Calaphase. I couldn’t believe he was really gone. Even though I’d seen him die, had confirmed it, some part of my brain refused to accept it. I just sat there in the car, hands cuffed behind my back, eyes tearing up, face hot and red. Fuck. This sucked.
Rand opened the door and sat down beside me. “Kotie, I—why are you crying?”
“What?” I said, unbelieving. “Rand, I just watched my … my friend
die—”
“Your friend?” Rand said, eyes bugging. He slammed the door. “Oh, hell, I knew it—you hooked up with that fang.”
“His name,” I said, chest unexpectedly tight, “was Calaphase.”
“God damn it,” he said, turning away in the seat. “Gibbs, drive. Just—drive.”
“Rand … what the hell is wrong?” I asked, as the car pulled out. “I know you don’t think I did it. You know what happened with Valentine—”
“I know, I know,” Rand snapped. “Boys … take a virtual walk.”
“Huh? We’re driving,” Horscht said, confused.
“How about them Braves,” Gibbs said, flipping off the video camera.
“I’m a Falcons fan, not a—oh, oh, yeah,” Horscht said. “Virtual. I get it.”
Rand turned to me, apology and anger fighting for control of his face. “This is a conflict of interest. I could get fired, understand?” Rand said. “Your 911 call was incoherent, but we were able to get your location—and your number was flagged with an outstanding warrant.”
“They send the cavalry to arrest me for a paperwork screw up of epic proportions?”
“There is no mistake. Fortunately there are a lot of people on the force who still owe your Dad and remember you. My friends in dispatch put Horscht and Gibbs on it, who pulled me in so we could make this easy on you. But when I find you? You’re crying over a dead vampire.”
“Rand,” I began, a dozen quick, angry retorts on my breath. But then I realized Rand had just told me that he’d put his career on the line to keep me out of trouble, and had found me in a bigger stew than he’d ever expected. I drew a long, ragged breath, then let it out slowly.
“He is—was a good friend, and he’s just died. Can we let it … him … rest right now?” I said, closing my eyes and trying to refocus on my new problem. “Thanks for coming personally, but … tell me about the warrant. This is bullshit. They can’t prove murder, because it wasn’t.”
“All right,” Rand said. “You know you’re innocent, and I know, but … a couple of days after you killed Valentine there was an election. The turnover was an earthquake, and your file got dumped on the desk of Paulina Ross, a hot new prosecutor—an import from Birmingham—who decided her new job was to make an example of people who kill with magic.”
“Oh, crap,” I said. “Cops just love people who kill with magic.”
“Oh, crap, exactly,” Rand said. “With all the deaths and disappearances and suspicious fires we’ve had over the last month, everyone on the force is on edge. That’s why I decided to make sure I was the one who picked you up. I wanted you to arrive in one piece.”
“But,” I said, “Misuse of Magic? No one from the DEI said—Philip never said—”
“Your boyfriend can’t help you,” Rand said. His eyes were boring into me, staring at my neck. I reddened—he had to be looking at the bite marks. “Or is that your ex-boyfriend?”
“He is, in fact, my ex-boyfriend,” I said. “We split last week—”
“That’s a shame. You’re going to need all the help you can get,” Rand said. “The murder charge isn’t even the worst of your worries. Your use of magic is on the record.”
“So?” I said. “I was defending myself … ”
“But Misuse of Magic is still a crime—a Federal crime,” Rand said. “So the assistant DA is working with the U.S. Attorney to put you away for Felonious Misuse of Magic. The murder charge is just a way to get to her real agenda. If Ross can’t prove murder, she might go for felony manslaughter—and then the U.S. Attorney can still get you for Felonious Misuse.”
I found I was shivering on top of the churning. Misuse was a Federal charge. I’d spend a minimum of five years in Federal prison, become a felon, and lose the right to vote. Even if I ever did get out of jail, I’d never tattoo again. Not magic, not legally, not in the States.
Worst of all, I’d never get Cinnamon back.
“This sucks,” I said.
Rand opened his mouth, then closed it. “You’re telling me.”
“I’m telling you?” I asked. “I was tied to that table, having to defend myself.”
“That wasn’t your fault, but why were you there in the first place?” Rand said, glaring at me. “What sequence of events led up with that? What crowd were you running with? What were you involved in? You may be in trouble, but I’m the one who has to tell my best friend that I can’t help his little girl, who regularly plays with fire and finally got burned. Speaking of which, stop showing up at magical fires. You’re a whisker away from being brought in for arson.”
I looked away. Only then did I notice the little details cropping up around us: billboards for lawyers, bail bondsman’s offices, and broken looking people. This was a part of downtown I avoided for good reason: we were pulling up in front of the Fulton County Jail. I swallowed.
“I-I don’t remember this,” I said. “I thought we were going to the Atlanta City Jail.”
“You haven’t been arrested in a while, have you?” Gibbs said. Apparently his virtual walk was over. “They’ve been sending state charges to Fulton for years.”
“I’ve never been up on a state charge before,” I countered. “Misdemeanors go to City—”
“Damn it, Kotie,” Rand exploded. “I bounced you on my knee! You had bows in your hair! It was bad enough that you became a tattooed freak with bite marks on your neck, but how did you fall so far that you know where they take you when you’re arrested?”
My mouth hung open. Rand was absolutely enraged. I didn’t want to set him off further—but he’d really stepped over the line there. No matter how much I didn’t want to piss him off, there was no way I could let that stand. Finally I spoke.
“Maybe I’ve done some bad things,” I said, “but defending myself is not one of them.”
Rand just sat there, steaming, until the car pulled to a stop. “I won’t be involved in the investigation,” he said tightly, stepping out as Gibbs opened his door. “Conflict of interest. But I’ll find a lawyer for you, save you a phone call—”
“I have a lawyer,” I said. “Helen Yao of Ellis and Lee.”
Rand froze at the door, eyes glaring back in at me.
“I had to,” I said. “They’re trying to take Cinnamon.”
Rand cursed, leaning his hands on his knees. “Helen Yao, of Ellis and Lee,” he said at last. “I’ll call her. You … you stay safe in there, Kotie.”
“I will,” I said, and then blurted, “Don’t tell my dad.”
Rand glared, then slammed the door.
Gibbs leaned in after Rand left. “Don’t take it too personal, girl,” he said. “He loves you like you were his own daughter.”
“I got that,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. It was nowhere nea
r as fun to ride in handcuffs as I had first thought. “But it still hurts, because I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know,” Gibbs said, rubbing his dark crewcut. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I said.
And I let Gibbs help me out of the car—and put me in the pinball machine.
I really haven’t been arrested enough to feel comfortable with it, and all the procedures at Fulton County were different enough from Atlanta City to leave me completely disoriented. They shuffled me from room to room in a careful corral of one-way doors that left prisoners always at the mercy of a man behind a glass controlling the buzzer.
I was interviewed, photographed, fingerprinted, and then dumped in a massive waiting area with chairs that looked like they were from McDonald’s. After what seemed like forever my name was called, officers scooped me up again, and I was searched, examined, and even bandaged—a sharp-eyed cop had noticed wounds I’d gotten during the fight with Zipperface, perhaps when Calaphase threw me through the boards. After an officious nurse patched up my face, neck and hands, I returned to the pinball machine. Given what I was in for, at first I thought they might put me in some special cell designed to hold magicians, but I just ended up in a bland white holding cell with peeling paint, wedged in with a dozen other female prisoners.
I swallowed, trying not to show fear. There were druggies and drunks, clean-cut young women and well-worn older ladies. A small gaggle of tough-looking chicks were talking in one corner, glancing at me, but I actually found one rail-thin, ghost-pale woman more intimidating than any of the others, as she stared at me unblinking with cold black eyes. I found a seat, leaned against the outer bars, and stared out into the hallway of the jail, thinking just one thought.
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