It screamed, its power draining out along the magical conduit of fire it had created, its essence beaten back by the destructive intent that it had projected. Then the feedback leapt onto that torrent of fire itself, a vicious circle that began ripping the monster apart.
I leaned back as far as I could, trying to hold myself at the rim of the shield, where the flames died but before the raging magic storm began. And for a moment it worked.
But when I released the vines on my arms, I had forgotten that all the vines on my body were connected. The vines I had extended bloomed and flourished along the vicious circle of the conduit, a lightning bolt made of leaves, sucking backward from the book to the tagger to the monster and back again—whipping past me, and taking the rest of my vines with it. I screamed as the torrent of vines followed the current, ripping off my body, spinning me like a top.
—
Then all the energy in the cave converged with a clap of thunder.
Postmortem
I stared up into blackness. I smelt acrid smoke. I felt incredible pain. Shimmering auroras of blue and red drifted before my eyes, like the churning Rorschach images you get if you squeeze your eyes far too tight.
Then Cinnamon’s worried face appeared against the red, upside down and staring at me, ears poking out of her wet headscarf, eyes wide and scared. “Mom?”
Tully’s face appeared too, at my left, tilted at an odd angle. “Miss Frost?”
I blinked. The shimmering redness was in the ceiling, glowing blue fungi and flickering red embers, shimmering in and out as smoke drifted across them. Cinnamon and Tully were quite real, and I sat up, wincing in pain.
The master tag was destroyed, a huge blackness of soot licked by a dying streamers of real flame. I couldn’t see the Streetscribe, only burnt embers of the spiderweb that had enmeshed him, half obscured by an oily column of smoke. Beyond the mound, a vast misshapen mass was sinking into the ground—the head of the monster, lopped off when the tag short-circuited.
I winced again in pain, and held up my hand: my hand, my forearm, my whole body was red, sore and burning—and my vines, my beautiful vines, all of them, were gone. I felt my hand, my skin, frantically. I was burned—but not badly. I rubbed my forearm with my thumb, then winced. Actually, that was a good sign: a really severe burn would have killed the nerves.
“Stupid!” Cinnamon said, biting her knuckle. Then she said, “I means, don’t pick at it.”
“I know, I know,” I said, feeling my other hand, more gently this time. Then I looked around. Most of the cavern ceiling was cracked and sooted, and plaster and masonry fragments were fluttering down like confetti everywhere I looked. “Give me your knife, Tully.”
“S-sure,” he said, fishing out the switchblade. “What … ”
“Both of you, walk the perimeter of the cave, make sure that none of the tag is left,” I said. “Spray over anything that’s left—but if you start to feel woozy, head for the exit. The fire may have eaten the oxygen. I don’t want to beat this thing only to die of asphyxiation.”
“W-what are you going to do?” Tully asked, staring at the knife.
I opened it with a snikt. “Make sure the Streetscribe is dead.”
Cinnamon and Tully both stared at me for a second, then ran off to the wall of the cave. I shook my head, and turned towards the wall that had held the tag. At its base, the decapitated head of the monster was disintegrating, fluttering away in giant leafy embers, like flakes of burnt newspaper drifting out of a fire. I then inspected the wall itself. After scanning it for a minute, I convinced myself that whatever had been there was well and truly gone.
Then I walked around the mound and made sure the same was true of the Streetscribe.
When I returned, Cinnamon and Tully were waiting at the shore of the little lake, near where they dove in to avoid the flames. Their eyes grew wide as I approached.
“Gaah,” I said, wringing my hands to try to rid them of the black grease. I spied an old piece of burlap atop the debris and picked it up. As it peeled away from a mound of white powder, it cracked and crumbled in my hands, but there was enough left to get the gunk off. I wiped off Tully’s switchblade, tossed the rag, snapped the blade closed, and extended it to him. “Thanks.”
“Y-you can keep it,” he said, horrified.
“Thanks,” I said, slipping the blade into my back pocket. “Let’s go.”
“Mom,” Cinnamon said. “Mom, your face. You’ve gone … hard.”
I stared at them both a moment, and they both backed up a little. I wanted to tell them it was a hard thing to cut off a man’s head and have it flop out onto the earth beside your feet—and it didn’t make it any easier that it was a blackened corpse. I wanted to chew them out, to list all the people who had died, to scream at them that this wasn’t over.
But there was no point. There was no way, even with a solid knowledge of magic, that they could have known that spraying a little graffiti could have led to all of this. The real sinner was the Streetscribe—and he’d paid for it in full.
“This was a hard day, Cinnamon,” I said. “And I had to do some hard things. But all that matters now is you’re all right. You too, Tully. We made it. Thank you.”
Cinnamon grabbed me suddenly. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” she said. “I’m so sorry … ”
“Don’t you be sorrying me, little Cinnamon,” I said, patting her head. “It’s all over but the shouting. There will be shouting. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
We wove our way out of the cavern, found our way to the dark stone tunnel (after three tries) and tromped back through the sludge to the archway. Half the graffiti was scorched and blackened, but the other half was barely touched—some of it, disturbingly clean.
But when we got to the arch, my hopes fell. The gateway looked like it had been sprayed with a flamethrower, and in spots was actually still smoking. There was nothing left of the tag, which had burst with such force even the stones of the arch were cracked and splintered.
“Well, fuck,” Cinnamon said, kicking a fallen archstone away.
“Great,” Tully said. “A ten mile walk through the Underground.”
“I think we should have expected this,” I said, staring at the blackened arch. The stones were warm to the touch. “Tully, you know the tagger’s magic—do you think that all the tags will have been destroyed along with the master tag?”
His brow furrowed. “N-no,” he said. “Only the gateways, the ones plugged into the … the master circuit. All the freestanding tags will still live.”
“Do any of them have designs like the one we just destroyed?” I said, and at a glance to his face knew the answer. “Oh, damnit, you little fool.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Frost,” he said nervously. He glanced around. “But—but I knows these tunnels, I thinks. I wasn’t lying about that. We can get out if we follows this one.”
“No,” I said. “Actually, I think I know a shorter way out. If we backtrack a little and go one level up, there’s a passage that comes out at Cabbagetown, right near Grant Park.”
“That’s … that’s the lair of the lich,” Cinnamon said. “No, Mom … ”
“No way,” Tully said, jerking back. “No way am I going back there.”
“You’re right, no way,” I said. “Not after all we just went through to get you out of their hands. First, we get you safe. Then, I go deal with the lich.”
“Mom! You can’t go back there,” Cinnamon said. “Your-your vines are gone. Those were your shield! The vamps will be able to—”
“Darkrose is in a cage!” I said. “Delancaster and Saffron are prisoners. And no matter how tough Vlad the Destroyer is, I don’t think he’ll stick his neck out to save them.”
“Don’t you understands,” Tully said. “They’re going to kill you.”
I stared off into the distance a moment. Then I drew out my cell phone.
“Maybe if I play their game,” I said, “but not if I play my game by their rules.”<
br />
Storming the Fortress
“The deal is the same,” Nyissa said, eyes wide, fingers gripping the poker so hard her knuckles had turned white. “You can have my protection for a drop of blood and a quarter.”
I was back in the limo again, asking a favor of the House Beyond Sleep. But this time, the tables were turned. I was calm and Nyissa was terrified.
Nyissa didn’t want to help at all. As Philip had predicted, Transomnia had skipped town shortly after Philip had called him. The Stone Rose Sanctuary was once again hers. But Arcturus had convinced her she had to do her part in the larger battle—to help free Saffron and Darkrose.
“It is a token of the, of the traditional toll of blood and money,” Nyissa said thickly, “an amount of blood too small to object to, and an amount of money too small to count as consideration under the laws of Georgia.”
“I’m not sure you’ve got the law right on that last one,” I said wryly.
“There is a thin line between vampire dominatrix and outright whore,” Nyissa said, “but I like to keep it drawn. So a token toll is all I demand for my clients to claim protection.”
I stared at her, twisting the poker in her hands. She was scared out of her wits. Then I reached forward and put my hand on her knee to comfort her, as she had on mine … when we were last in the limo headed towards a confrontation. This was getting to be a habit.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “And I’m not asking you to physically defend me.”
“You’re asking me to walk between the Gentry and Vlad the Destroyer,” she said. “The Gentry is unpredictable. You don’t know what they’re capable of. The Destroyer is all too predictable. You have no idea how powerful he is. He’s slain entire armies.”
“He’s not so bad, he’s … ” Cinnamon’s math teacher. But could I say that? Was that betraying the privacy of a man who could slay armies? “He’s, well, he’s not so bad, but that’s not the point. I’m not asking you to fight for me. I’m asking you to give me legitimacy. Weapons won’t save Darkrose. I want to walk into that room with something far more powerful: an idea. The idea that someone not in that room, an unknown quantity in power and capabilities, cares about the outcome. The idea that a fellow vampire lord has authorized me to speak for him.”
“But,” Nyissa said, “Transomnia is not here.”
“They don’t need to know Transomnia has skipped town,” I said. “And we’re not going to tell them the House Beyond Sleep is three vampires in rural Georgia missing their lord. You are the second of a great house, their emissary, and have every right to take this stand.”
Nyissa stared at me. Then she said, “Take out a quarter.”
I dug in my pocket, found one, held it up.
“Lick it clean,” she commanded.
“Ew,” I said. “That’s gross, it’s money, you don’t know whose hands—”
Her mouth quirked up. “Do it,” she commanded. While I did, she pulled out an ornate finger ring spike and slipped it on. “Now hold out the quarter, and extend your other hand.”
I held the quarter out in my right palm, then extended my left. She pricked my left index finger with her metal claw, then guided the welling drop of blood atop the quarter. Then she gripped my right hand softly, took the quarter from my palm, and slipped it into her mouth.
I disliked that image, a twisted communion. That was a bit much, even for a lapsed churchgoer like me. But, for the purposes of the magic, my religious discomfort didn’t matter. When the blood touched her tongue I felt a tingle shiver up my whole body, and then Nyissa released my hand, falling back into the seat in bliss. After a moment, she sat up, took the quarter, and slid it into her bosom.
“I have tasted your blood, felt your aura.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll know if anyone spoils me,” I said.
“More importantly, an experienced vampire will know we are linked,” she said. “When I present you, I may touch you to emphasize that. That may be a bit gauche since you just lost your boyfriend, but it will help sell it. Please don’t be offended.”
“It’s all right,” I said distantly, as the limo started to slow down.
“We’re almost here. Damnit. If they try to sway your mind, squint, like down to slits,” Nyissa said. “It sounds cheesy, but your retinas are part of your brain. Vampires hypnotize people through their eyes by extending their aura, establishing a brain-to-brain link … ”
“I love it when you talk science to me,” I said, and the limo stopped. We were in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Atlanta: Grant Park, not a stone’s throw from the Park proper, a tree-lined valley that held Zoo Atlanta and the Cyclorama. Here, one side of the street was lined with houses over a century old; the other was dominated by a looming fortlike building built after Sherman took Atlanta. “Grant Park was a guess on my part. You’re sure this is it?”
“Based on what you saw, and what I know of the Gentry, this is where you were taken,” Nyissa said, peering out the window. “Besides, did not your lover in the DEI confirm it?”
“Philip is my friend, not my lover. Hell, I’m not even certain he’s my friend,” I said, “and just because the other end of my call to Vladimir ended up in this area it doesn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t surprise me to find an empty room with a signal repeater.”
“No,” Nyissa said. She was trembling. “I have not taken you to an abandoned warehouse. This is the Gentry’s stronghold. We shouldn’t even be here; the Gentry does not like to be approached. In the olden days vampires were staked for merely showing up uninvited.”
“And this is their stronghold, guarded by Scara,” I said. I stared off into the distance, thinking. Then something on the other side of the street drew my attention. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it … and then it hit me: one of the old mansions was a bit too shuttered, and had several black vans parked in front of it. Something was tickling my brain, a bit of Civil War trivia I’d learned from Michael Bell. “But maybe there’s another way. Vladimir gained entry, somehow, through a point relatively undefended—and I think I know just where that is.”
Nyissa followed my glance. “What are you suggesting?”
“Some of the generals who moved into Atlanta after the Civil War built houses with underground passages, crossing the street,” I said, struggling to remember what Michael had told me, years ago. “Vladimir came in from a side entrance. I’m betting he used that as his entrance to the stronghold. When we left, he was still standing there—it was his exit. If we enter that way, we can avoid fighting our way through armed guards just to deliver my report.”
“You really think there’s a back entrance over here?” she asked dubiously.
“Worst case scenario,” I said, “it’s not, and we apologize for waking someone up early.”
“Or late,” Nyissa said, drawing up the hood of her cloak. “It’s almost dawn.”
“I take it you’re not on the Saffron diet,” I said. “Oh, hell. Let’s do this.”
We got out of the limo and approached the house. The black vans looked all too familiar, but I’d had enough jumbled encounters with black vans and boots flying in my face that I didn’t trust my memory. But when we stepped up to the porch, the front lock was busted.
“Now, that’s blatant,” I said. “I expected Vladimir would have more subtlety.”
“Maybe he was in a hurry,” Nyissa said. “Or maybe this home is being burgled.”
“Then the two of us get to play superhero,” I said. “Either way, I think you’re up.”
Nyissa glanced at me from beneath her hood. Then she rang the bell.
A spinsterly old black woman came to the door—but not half-asleep in her bathrobe, or irritated. Instead she was alert, in haute couture, and wary. She looked almost perfectly made up, but her hair was a touch disheveled, and she had a bruise on her forehead. “Yes?”
“I apologize for waking you,” Nyissa said carefully. “I am the Lady Nyissa of the House Beyond Sleep, and this is my clie
nt, Dakota Frost.”
“I know who she is,” she said, glaring at me. “And you know you did not wake me.”
“Ah,” Nyissa said. “Then you know we would like passage to see Sir Leopold.”
“Go to hell,” the woman said. “After what your wolf did to my poor boys.”
“My apologies, ma’am,” I said, spreading my hands, “but it’s almost dawn, and it’s like an armed camp down there. I’d like to deliver my report while he’s still awake, and I don’t have time to negotiate my way in through the front. We would like to use the tunnel, please.”
“You bitch,” she said, staring between the two of us. Then she opened the door. “You know I can’t stop you. I can’t even call to warn him, with what your wolf did to my phone.”
We entered into a picture book from the Atlanta History Tour. Victorian furniture was decorated with art deco lights. Yellowed pictures climbed horsehair plaster walls. An ancient violin leaned against a Victrola phonograph. And a corridor jetted forward into the house, right through its center, towards a parlor in the back where I could see stairs up—and down.
But we didn’t get that far. A dark-suited security guard was standing by one of the corridor doors, openly holding a crossbow. He saw us—he had clearly been watching the door the whole time the woman had been speaking—and he touched his finger to his ear and murmured.
“Oh, hell,” I said, glaring at the older black woman, who was smiling viciously. “Figures that the unguarded back door was a trap.”
The low voices speaking in the room behind him stopped—and then the door burst open, and the Lady Scara stomped out towards us, two guards on her heels. “Well, well,” Scara said, baring her fangs in an equally vicious smile. “Look who we’ve caught sneaking in, trying to mount a rescue. Dakota Frost—”
“My client is not here to mount a rescue,” Nyissa said clearly.
Scara scowled and stomped up to Nyissa. “And who the hell are you?”
Blood Rock Page 44