Tattooed jewels glowed, snakes slithered, butterflies fluttered-and then my vines curled out from my skin into a coiling thicket around me. My finest tattoo, the Dragon, was gone-I had released it to attack the serial killer that took Cinnamon-but with the dozens of tattoos I had left I had more than enough to make a glowing shield of living ink.
“Holy-” Gibbs said, backing up, and in the corner of my eye I could see the other officers backing up further, even more afraid, faces lit green by the glow of my marks. I was getting better if you could see the glow of the vines even in the bright sun, and I smiled.
Time to show that wall-painter what real magic was.
“Spirit of fall,” I murmured. “Shield my path.”
There is no “spirit of fall,” of course. I do admit there are intangible entities in the world, but I don’t believe in actual spirits, “of fall,” or of any other kind, and I could have used any words for my incantation. For tattoo magic, what really matters is the intent of the wearer-and powered by the intent behind my words, my tattooed vines unfurled into a glowing perimeter that would keep me safe as I rescued Revy.
Or so I hoped. I stared into the churning knot of barbed wire and menacing vines, coiling over each other like a nest of snakes. How the heck did it work? I had never heard of magically animated graffiti. In theory the mana that powered it should have been draining away slowly, but it actually seemed like it was getting stronger. But how?
I stared into the design, trying to grok it. For graffiti it was so… complicated, built layer upon layer upon layer. Revenance was embedded in a rosette of vines; coiling out from that were thick, stony tentacles, a grey brick octopus clutching at cartoon images of the trees and buildings around us. Colorful lettering in the exaggerated “wildstyle” font floated behind the octopus, and behind that was a fully painted backdrop of a grassy hill against a black sky. Almost like an afterthought, the base of the design sported two groups of curving, cracked tombstones, one on the left, one on the right, drawn to look like they erupted from the base of the wall.
I considered whether the tombstones could be the graffiti’s power source… perhaps by necromancy? No, they were dry of blood. Earth magic from the hill image? No, I would have felt it if this was a ley-line crossing, and that also ruled out the idea that the octopus tentacles were drawing power from the nearby buildings. So how did it work?
Surely not… graphomancy, or something like tattoo magic? I stared past the weaving vines, into the letters, trying to see past the tag’s art and through to its logic. It was difficult: the wildstyle letters were distorted, overlapping, intertwining, and I could barely pick out a single letter. But every stroke was amazing work, and there was a glittering texture to the pigments, almost like the magic inks used in tattoos. Perhaps a variant of tattoo ink, reformulated to let the magic work on rock? But the designs of tattoo magic only work because skin is a canvas infused with living magic. Where was the graffiti getting the mana?
And then Revenance moaned, the blackened tongue in the dark hole of his mouth looking like he’d been left to die in Death Valley. No one does that to my friends.
“All right,” I whispered. “Your vines versus my vines. Let’s go.”
I stepped forward, letting my vines curl out, green and glowing. The barbed tentacles twisted towards me, and now I could see that they were a braid of wire, roses and chains. They slapped against my thicket of magic, initially just questing, then with increasing rage. I shimmied forward, then whirled and drew my glowing green blanket in. The hooked braids pounced-just as I threw my arms out and let the vines explode outward, tearing the barbs to pieces.
Colorful, bitter powder puffed through the air as the braids flew apart, a residue of the materials used in this tag. The thin layer of oil chalk was weaker than the ink woven into living flesh that made my tattoos. But there was a hell of a lot to the tag, and it kept getting stronger, two more tombstone images erupting as a dozen more tentacles hungrily pounced on me.
Instinctively I crouched back, hands raised in a guard as the braided vines whipped around me, shoving me roughly through my shield. How was I going to get Revenance out if I couldn’t even reach him? Then I noticed what my crouch and guard had done. I’d fallen back into a Taido karate middle stance, and it hit me: karate was a kind of a dance.
I dropped into a low stance my instructor called jodan, legs a low coiled crouch, one fist jutting forward to guard me, the other pointing straight backwards at the sky, the karate version of thumbing your nose. Immediately my legs began to throb: I wasn’t strong enough to use the stance yet, but it was stable, damn it, and coiled in a way I could use for my magic.
I began writhing again, making my tattoos shimmer; working with the stance; and then, just like in class, I raised my fist to protect my face, shot the back hand and leg forward together and moved, planting myself five feet forward in the mirror image of the same stance.
The thing flailed at me like an animated octopus; but with every step I poured more power into my marks, pushing in closer, closer; my vines pushing its vines back. I didn’t feel the cold anymore: I was sweating. My bum knee began pulsing with pain, but I ignored it.
The pressure was intense; my boots ground against the gravel as I punched forward, step by step, shoving myself to the heart of the barbed wire rose. Twenty, ten, five-then the wires parted, I stretched my arm out, my fingers brushed Revy’s coat Then the rose reared back and struck me square on the chest, hurling me thirty feet backwards onto the street. It would have knocked me on my ass, but as I saw my feet flying into the air, something inside me clicked, and I coiled my back and turned the impact into a roll that flipped me clear over, tumbled me roughly back into a crouch-then back to standing.
I mean, holy shit. Karate really works.
But the end effect was that I was back where I started, knee throbbing, arms scraped, back covered in gravel, watching Revenance screaming in pain as the tag coiled back inward. Sure, I was standing, but it felt like I had been knocked flat on my ass.
“If you’re so damn strong,” I muttered, glaring at the tag, “why haven’t you killed him yet? What the hell are you waiting for?”
“Good try, Dakota,” Rand said, handing off a tarp to Gibbs. Behind him other officers were running up with blankets, tarps, ropes, and poles. “We’ve got enough to cover him, but we need something tall to. .. what the hell?”
I turned to see Cinnamon and Horscht running up with a… a portable basketball goal? Where had they gotten that? Big beefy Horscht struggled to keep his grip on the backboard while little old Cinnamon easily carried the concrete-filled tire that was its base, and when he slipped, she kept going, backing towards the rosette of wires before I could speak.
The graffiti surged and pounced, but Cinnamon leapt up with werekin speed, kicking off the edge of the weighted tire so the goal flipped upright into the barbs. The graffiti caught the metal pole and shoved back against it; but the goal stayed upright, weighted by its base.
“Hah!” Cinnamon said, head snapping in her funny sneeze as the graffiti battered against it, more weakly now. “That’s not alive. It’s got nothing to trigger on now. Now we makes a tent-makes an X with the poles, so we can run a top pole from the goal to the wall-”
“Pretty damn smart,” Rand said, waving to his men.
“That’s my girl,” I replied, taking the other end of the tarp from him.
We crossed two poles against the backboard, making a rough triangle in front of the tag, which had given up whacking at the goal and had curled back around Revenance. Two officers climbed the wall and fed another pole up over the top. The vines snapped at it halfheartedly, but they were near the end of their reach, and the improvised framework was holding-for now.
“Dakota, give me a hand with this,” Gibbs said, trying to unroll the tarp and getting himself tangled in it. “The wind is a bitch-”
No single tarp was large enough to cover Revenance, but we patched together a piece as big as a sail by joi
ning eyelets and tie straps, slid it up over the back of the wall, over the tag, so it draped down over the top pole to make the sides of the tent. The tag still snapped at it, but lethargically now, and we started to nail it down, three to a side, fighting the wind.
But then the sun burst forth and Revenance screamed as light reflected off cars burned him with a thousand pinpricks. “More tarps!” Cinnamon said. “We covers the front-”
But the sun wasn’t our only problem. The wind actually started whistling, then singing, eerie cries timed with vicious surges that tore at our tent. I grabbed my end of a tarp and stood on it, looking around for a stake, a rock, anything to nail it down-and then I saw him.
He was far away, halfway across the cemetery, a dark figure leaning against a tombstone, hand extended towards us as if he were controlling the wind. He was small, no larger than a kid, and dressed the part down to baggy pants and a skateboard, but even from this distance I was struck by his horribly oversized cap, a cross between Cat-in-the-Hat and the Mad Hatter. It hid his eyes-but not his gleeful, vicious, satisfied grin.
“There’s a guy creating the wind!” I shouted-and the tarp tore from my grasp. “Fuck!”
“What?” Gibbs said, trying to look, but the corner of the tarp I’d lost snapped at his eyes. “Fuck! Frost, help me!” he said, flinching, nearly losing his corner too as the wind tore at it.
I lunged for the end I’d lost, pinning it down so Horscht could stake it. Drifts of dust surged over the hill under the wind, whipping past us in seconds like stampeding ghosts. There was no way this was natural. A terrific gust tore away a corner, letting sunlight shine on the pooled blood at Revy’s feet. It steamed and began boiling away where the light touched it.
I snagged a flapping edge of the tarp, cursing, but the wind roared, dragging me and two officers aside, exposing Revy completely. His pooled blood had already boiled away to a black crust of ugly tar, but under the full light of the sun, it began to smoke-and burn.
“God damn it,” Rand said, coming to help us. “What the hell-”
“There’s a guy manipulating the wind!” I shouted, trying to point. “We gotta stop him!”
“Dakota?” Revenance said suddenly, raising his head, his eyes staring straight at me without seeing. “Dakota! Are you there? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, Revy,” I said. “Hang on, we’ll find a way-”
“It’s already got me,” Revenance said, twisting in agony as vines drained his flesh and flames licked his feet. “Don’t let it get you or Cinnamon! You gotta take out that skateboarding fuck, but to stop him, you gotta find the Streetscribe. But whatever you do- don’t awaken it! ”
Then the wind tore the tarp away, and his body burst into flames.
Isolation Protocol
“Nobody fucking touch nothing,” McGough said, as we all stood in shock, watching firemen back away from the blackened corpse. Revy’s death had taken only a moment, but it had taken an eternity to put those tenacious fires out. “This just became a crime scene.”
“Wasn’t ‘magical assault with intent to kill’ already a crime?” I said, cradling Cinnamon against me. She was crying. I hadn’t realized how much she liked Revy. “I’m sorry, baby-”
“I liked him,” Cinnamon said bitterly. “The fang was nice to me-”
I drew a breath. “Rand,” I said. “There was someone else on the scene, a short little prick with baggy pants, a skateboard, and a huge-ass hat-”
“I-I saw him too,” Cinnamon said suddenly. “When I went to get the pole. Sittin’ on a wall, watchin’ it all, grinning with some nasty ol’ silver grill on his teeth-”
“So?” McGough said, eyes sharp. “What do you think that had to do with this?”
“I saw him right when the wind picked up,” I said.
“I caught that too,” Gibbs said. “Just a glimpse, but I definitely saw the guy-and as soon as I looked, the wind snapped like a bitch and near ripped the tarp out of my hands.”
“Can’t be a coincidence,” I said. “He may have been magically enhancing the wind-”
“Oh, hell. Thanks, Frost. We’ll search the area,” McGough said, motioning to an officer. “First things first, though-this is a crime scene now. I need you to wait by your car-”
“I wasn’t done,” I snapped. “He was pretty far off. At first I thought he was trying to watch from a safe distance, but I surveyed the ley line crossings a few years back and one goes through the Cemetery right where he was standing. He could be a technical practitioner rather than a bloodline witch, which might affect his choice of escape routes-”
“Oh, hell, we’ve got one who thinks she can be helpful,” McGough said, putting his hand to his to his brow. “Rand, get your pet witch and her pet cat out of my crime scene-”
“Now just a minute,” I began hotly. “You can’t just-”
“He can’t, but I can,” Rand said. “It’s my crime scene now.” McGough twitched and frowned, looking less like Mr. Wizard and more like an angry garden gnome, and Rand just raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you going to be a dick about this?”
McGough raised his little hands. “No, no, Homicide gets first crack at a body.”
“Thank you. I’ve called ident, but the Black Hats obviously can have the scene when the coroner pronounces,” Rand said. “Look, Dakota, seriously, McGough’s not trying to be a dick, we just need to get you physically off the crime scene. If you could wait by the car-”
“ Not until he apologizes.”
“What, about the pet witch crack?” McGough said, laughing. “Look, babe, if your skin’s that thin you shouldn’t have scribbled all over it-”
“To Cinnamon,” I said coldly.
McGough looked down at my daughter. “Hey, little lady,” he said, a little of the kindly wizard creeping back into his features. “Sorry I called you a cat-”
“I am a cat,” Cinnamon said, hissing. “but don’t be calling me a pet. ”
McGough stared blankly at her a moment, then forced the twinkle back into his eyes. “Sorry, little lady,” he said, “I was just kidding around-”
Cinnamon smiled, then suddenly barked, “Fucking toad-”
“Cinnamon!” I said.
“What?” she said, looking away. “See how he likes bein’ called a name.”
McGough straightened. “Rand,” he said. “I ain’t trying to tell you your job, but clear the site-and take some separate statements before they’re completely cross-contaminated.”
“I know, I know,” Rand said, running his hand over his bald head. “I’ll take care of it. You get on the warrant for me. I don’t want this fucked up, not for any reason-”
“Why do you need a warrant?” I said, as Rand began herding us away from our improvised tent and the foul black smoke billowing out of it. “We all saw-”
“ That was a public safety operation. This is a crime scene,” Rand said. “Technically we could get by on the permission of Oakland Cemetery-”
“What aren’t you tellin’ us?” Cinnamon said, stopping so suddenly I ran into her.
“Cinnamon, Dakota,” Rand said, motioning to a sandy-haired female officer. “I’m… going to need to split you two up for a minute. Just long enough to take the statements.”
“Fuck that-” I began, then put my hand to my head. “Let me guess, it’s-”
“Just standard procedure,” Rand finished for me, staring at me and Cinnamon cautiously. Then he grinned. “You’re not going to be a pain about this, are you, Kotie?”
“No, we’ve been around the block,” I said. The female officer smiled at us, through a dozen little white tape bandages on her face, and I nodded at Cinnamon to go with her.
Rand walked over to his cruiser, sat down on the hood, and motioned for me to join him. I did, and for a few minutes we just watched the swarm of police activity. I folded my arms over my chest: I was still trembling with adrenaline and the crisp air felt good against my hot skin.
After a few moments, instead of workin
g the case, Rand surprised me by touching a sore spot. “Look, Kotie… you are going to see your Dad, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “This Saturday, in fact.” Then I softened. “Look, I know Dad and I don’t get along… but you’re right. He deserves to meet his granddaughter.”
“Yeah,” Rand said, and then fell silent.
Instinctively, I looked for and found Cinnamon, talking with Officer Lee next to a distant grave. But ultimately my eyes were drawn back to that horrible smoke, now just trailing wisps. Revenance was gone, burned up before our eyes, and I couldn’t believe it. “We saw it. You really need to go through all this?” I asked sadly. “A warrant, separating the witnesses-”
“Absolutely,” Rand said grimly. “A robber opened up on your Dad and me in a crowded store, but the evidence-spent casings, slugs, even the gun with prints-got thrown out because we didn’t get the shopkeeper’s permission to search. Another case went sour when two witnesses convinced each other a house’s blinds were up when the cruiser’s camera showed them down.”
“And them?” I said, motioning to the officers milling about. “Aren’t they witnesses too?”
Rand looked up sharply, seeing McGough yelling at an officer who had peeked under the tarp. “This is a fucking mess. You shouldn’t have been here. He shouldn’t have been here-”
“Who is the little toad?”
“Head of Magical Crimes Investigation, the Black Hats,” Rand said, still staring. “Homicide normally calls them after whatever’s gone down.”
“Come to think of it, Revy wasn’t-” I began, then stopped. I didn’t want to say Revy wasn’t already dead out loud; my mind hadn’t wrapped around that yet. But my question remained: “So… why was Homicide here?”
“To get you,” Rand said simply, and I leaned back to stare at him. “You attracted a lot of attention with your little stunt at the Masquerade a couple of months back, and I owe McGough a favor, so.. . when he couldn’t handle this, he called me, and I called you.”
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