“He can do that, and he doesn’t even need a computer,” I said, with a tingly ‘aha’ feeling. “He’s created graffiti that can draw itself-a self propagating intent, we’d call it.” I explained I’d seen it first with fire at the tagger’s playground, then at the Candlesticks.
“I strongly suspected that,” Doug said. “Lines of graphomancy that use mana to make more lines, one idea leading to another, a recursive pattern, unfolding forever, an infinite conceptual field. There’s no limit to how far magic can build on magic-”
“If you have the mana,” I said. “But he’d never get enough to create a whole world.”
“That’s where I’m going,” Doug said. “To link space, I think he’s using magic to create a ‘spin network.’ But a magic cave painting that held a whole world would take as much mana as creating a small universe. But if the cave painting mapped between two spaces-”
“If it was a gateway,” I said. “It’s a magical gateway.”
“Exactly,” Doug said. “If the painting is mapping points in one space to another, then there’s no need to create a whole world. All the geometry of the painting would need to do is create the map. That spin network could be atomically thin, magically thin.”
“That sounds like surface-to-surface link,” I said, “but Calaphase and I seemed to travel through an actual space, if a distorted funhouse version of one.”
“You can create arbitrary geometry with a spin network,” Doug said. “He could create a twisted little pocket space propped up by several tags. In fact, I’m guessing all the tags are connected together, like a network-and it will get stronger the more that are plugged in.”
“Jeez, Doug, that’s heavy grade magic,” I said. “How am I going to fight this shit? This guy is a Michelangelo of the genre. According to Drive, he could make his tags look like anything if he wanted to. Any reasonably sized tag could be one of his traps.”
“No,” Doug said. “You can fight it, because I can tell you what to look for. Jinx and I think the spin network will show up as some repeated pattern, like a grid or a spiral.”
“There is a spiral that’s like a grid,” I said. “There are coiling vines and barbed wire that showed up in almost every tag, looping tightly at the center to make a grid like a sunflower’s. It’s the vines, Doug, the spiral of vines. That’s your spin network.”
“Maybe,” Doug said. “I thought of that, but they don’t seem to cover the whole tag.”
“No, they don’t,” I said. Damnit. Every time I thought I had figured out how the tags worked, I ran into a brick wall. We thought it was graphomancy, quantum physics, whatever, but there were always missing pieces to the magic, like something… hidden beneath the surface.
And then it hit me. “He’s using multiple layers! I thought it was oil chalk, but Officer Horscht found an aerosol spray can. Spray painted graffiti isn’t like tattoos. It’s layers of paint.”
“I thought tattoos had layers too,” Doug said. “I’ve seen you go over designs-”
“To build up colors, but it all ends up as plaques of pigment in the dermis-a single layer that’s magically active. But we already know the graffiti doesn’t work that way.” I explained what Keif had explained to me about whitewashing the tags and using induction. “He can use several layers of paint to build up a pattern as complex as needed and we’d never see the whole of it-except the spiral of vines, which have to reach outside the canvas to pull someone in.”
“Right. And look for echoes. If it is a gateway, you’ll see echoes of your environment in the tag, and maybe distorted pictures of the target on the other end.”
“Like ghost images in a two-way mirror,” I said.
“It’s more like a television. The idea is simple, but the implementation is not,” Doug said. “There is too much physics involved. There is no way a backwoods graphomancer cooked this up on his or her own. None whatsoever.”
I was silent for a moment. “Like I said, maybe it’s hidden knowledge. Some ancient wizarding trick, developed in secret, hidden for centuries-”
“Maaaybe,” Doug said. “But I looked, Jinx looked, even you looked, and the three of us found bupkis. Now, maybe you’re up against an ancient cult of wizards, with magic beyond anything that I could find at the Harris School of Magic, or maybe some modern wizard with access to a physics lab. Or maybe, just maybe, it isn’t even human knowledge at all.”
“Not… human,” I said. “You mean like… vampire? Werewolf? Fae?”
“No,” Doug said. “The answer to your question combined thousands of years of magic and decades of study of the output of two-mile-long particle accelerators. I strongly, strongly doubt anyone just stumbled onto this on their own just dicking around. It would be like finding the design of a solid state laser in da Vinci’s notebooks, centuries before quantum theory.”
“Go back to the not human part,” I said. “If it’s not human knowledge… ”
“The graffiti links two spaces,” Doug said, “but the other side doesn’t have to be ours. ”
The Detective from Space
I spent the night in a box under a bridge halfway to Macon, Georgia. I had woven my way through the heart of Atlanta on surface streets, then risked exiting the Perimeter again on the highway, heading to Macon but intending to cut back towards Blood Rock.
The tingle as I went OTP was invigorating, but by the time I passed Stockbridge I was flagging. I turned off a few miles later, wound through smaller and smaller country roads until I found an industrial looking area with a small bridge running over a creek. I didn’t see any signs of trolls or other Edgeworld nasties, so I pushed the Vespa under the bridge, stole a box out of a nearby Dumpster, crept back under the bridge and into the box, and went to sleep.
Early, early the next morning, a truck running over the bridge woke me. I stretched, sore and cramped, and stood up. My neck hurt, my back hurt, and then both hurt more when I abruptly ducked down as I heard voices. After a moment the voices faded, and then I saw a couple of workmen walking down the road, turning in to the very place I’d stolen the box.
I leaned back against the bridge and took stock. I expected to feel sorry for myself, but I didn’t. Sleeping in a box had been cold and uncomfortable, but it had ended in a new day. Even the dingy, trash-strewn underbelly of the bridge was brightened by sun flickering off the burbling water. I saw a little scribble, near the abutment, stared at it curiously, and pegged it as a hobo sign-a graffiti precursor-that marked this place as a good rest stop. And it was indeed.
This too would pass, like the water slipping by in the stream.
“I can sleep in a box under a bridge,” I murmured to myself. “I can do anything.”
So my next step: get real help, and with all of my other contacts dry, that meant Arcturus. Of course, he didn’t answer, not after any number of rings, not after three calls. I don’t know why he even had a phone. And I certainly couldn’t call Zinaga.
I considered trying to slip in uninvited, but if my ‘banishment’ was real, the last thing I needed to do was show up at Arcturus’ door with a horde of vampires and vampire thugs on my heels. Heck, even if I did make it, the first thing Zinaga would do would be to sell me out.
Come to think of it, there was no guarantee Arcturus would receive me. Zinaga had tried to poison the well. What I really needed was something to get in his good graces. And for the man who eschews material goods… the best currency I could think of was a favor.
So I needed to get into Blood Rock… and to get on Arcturus’ good side.
There might be a way to do both at the same time. Two birds, one stone.
I thumbed backwards through my text messaging log. January, December, November-and then I found it. I swallowed. I was going to do this. My thumb hovered over the call button; but I wasn’t that brave. Instead, I texted… the vampire Transomnia: ‹‹Need to talk. Coming to Blood Rock. Be cool.››
There was no response. I wasn’t certain I’d get one. It had been months s
ince he’d texted me after kidnapping Cinnamon, and he could have ditched that phone. Even then, he was an old-school vampire, probably asleep. I stared off into the distance, thinking.
Then the phone rang, and I nearly dropped it. I answered immediately. “Transomnia?”
“I don’t want to know why you’d think he’d be calling you,” Philip said coldly.
“Philip!” I said, brightening. After all the static he, McGough and Rand had given me, I hadn’t even thought of actually calling him. “Look, I didn’t know who else to turn to. I-”
“Dakota,” he said firmly. “I understand why you ran. I might even have done the same thing. But I can’t help you, except to tell youturn off your phone. We can track you by it.”
I hung on the phone, stunned. “Philip, you know I didn’t do it.”
“I know, and I know you’re probably working the problem right now, but you’re wanted for murder and arson. So hang up, and turn off your personal tracking and recording device,” Philip said. “You spent a hell of a long time on the phone last night-I’m surprised they didn’t pick you up already. If I could find you, it’s only a matter of time before someone else will.”
“But Philip-”
“Between Stockbridge and McDonough,” Philip said. “Under a bridge, it looks like.”
“Damnit!” I said, killing the call, then powering off the phone. Damnit, damnit, damnit! I knew cell phones were insecure, and had gone and been a fucking amateur anyway. Quickly I gathered my things and pushed the Vespa out into the street, started her up, and hit the road.
I puttered up State Road 20 until I got close to Conyers, then pulled off and got some food, again at a Waffle House, tucked just off the highway. I got directions to the nearest library from the waitress, and headed down there to try to get some Internet.
The library was larger than I’d expected, a two-story affair with large triangular roofs and a little gazebo-like structure near the entrance. I got an out-of-state visitor’s pass so I didn’t have to use my library card, fired up a computer, and started to figure out how to find Transomnia.
That’s right. That was the first stage of my brilliant plan: go straight up to the door of the bad guys and knock. The green-haired vampire, Transomnia’s apparent second in command-what was her name, Nyissa?-had snarked that I didn’t know where I was, but I hadn’t lied: there were only so many roads in Blood Rock.
And as for what house on what road? They’d held me in a big room, but not a warehouse: more like a furnished basement. That meant a multi-level house, possibly new, which in turn ruled out most of Blood Rock, which was primarily single-storied and falling apart.
They’d been threatened by my presence, which mean they were near Old Town. They also had the Sanctuary Stone, which means they had to be close to the Rock itself-if not right on top of it, nearby, on a ley line intersecting the Rock.
That left a lot to look for, but I had satellite and aerial imagery from MapQuest, Yahoo, Microsoft and even Google to help me out. So, feeling like a detective from space, I zoomed in on Blood Rock and started looking for Transomnia.
My real goal was ultimately Arcturus, but MapQuest showed there was no “back door” to Arcturus’ pad: just steep hills and deep creeks. I was no woodsman, nor did I want to get shot cutting through backwoods Georgia, much less find myself stumbling around in a ravine while vampires tracked me down.
At the front door, I was pretty sure that I’d be spotted by Steyn or his peons. In the short time I’d been in town last, I’d seen Steyn twice. And now, Steyn could do more than turn a blind eye to the vamps or run me out of town: he could turn me over to the APD.
So I had to approach the vampires directly, hands up. I looked for what felt like hours, and was about to give up when, absently closing a window I was done with, I saw it.
Inadvertently I’d created two windows with two different views of the same area, side by side. It was the top of Blood Rock hill proper, zoomed in on the new complex of houses that I’d seen on the map. The complex was half built in one set of pictures dating from a year ago, nearly complete in the other, six months later-with something that looked like a mansion or clubhouse off a narrow access road, not visible on any street map, but clear as day from the air, especially in the shots taken during construction.
I tilted my head, looking at the complex of roofs, barely visible in the trees. It felt right: new, multistoried, on the Rock itself. And then I pulled up the map of ley lines: the building was smack dab at the crossing of three of them, with the most powerful line going through the Rock itself.
“Gotcha,” I murmured.
I wrote down the address (and two or three other likely candidates) and closed up shop, much to the relief of a young college student waiting on the machine. I found a nearby Chic-Fil-A, gratefully chowed down, then hopped back on the Vespa and headed to Blood Rock.
It was nearly dark by the time I found my way through the winding roads to Blood Rock. Once again I felt a tingle as I passed the boundary… and then, a slowly growing headache, just like when Nyissa had banished me. I’d looked into the magic: it wasn’t enough to hurt me, but, like Nyissa had said, if the vamps still had the Sanctuary Stone, they’d know I was here.
But I didn’t let that stop me. I just drove to the new subdivision atop the Rock, where I found my path barred by a simple, unmarked gate with an equally simple buzzer and camera. I stopped a few feet short, nerving myself to drive up and press that buzzer.
Before I did, a car passed me on its way to the gate. A hand reached out and pressed the button. Moments later, the gate slowly slid back. I debated tailgating. Transomnia’s guards might take that as a threat, but the point of driving all the way to their door was to force an audience. On the other hand, I might have guessed wrong and could be tailgating a man into his home.
And then the man in the car looked back at me: not a vampire, not a thug, just a pleasant good-old-boy Georgia businessman in a black suit. He didn’t have the hard look people get when strange women on motorcycles are sitting outside their driveway waiting for them to come home. In fact, he actually smiled, staring at me, curious, then started to turn forward.
“Hey, bud,” I called. “I’m a bit lost, and I’m wondering if I’m at the right place.”
“All right, let’s see if we can straighten you out,” the man said, in such a classic Georgia accent I imagined ‘Bud’ was probably his real name. “Looking for Stone Rose Sanctuary?”
My eyes widened. Good Lord, the vampires were brazen: the seals on the Sanctuary Stone were roses. They certainly weren’t trying to hide. “That… sounds like it.”
“Applying for a job?” Bud said, looking me up and down. “Or are you a client?”
My mouth opened. I had no way to translate what he was saying into something I understood. Finally I managed, “Looking up a friend who works here. And you?”
“Oh! I’m not, you know, staying at the, ah, inn,” Bud said. His face reddened a bit, then split into a wide grin. “Just here for the food. Great restaurant. Follow me in.”
He rolled the car forward, and I started the Vespa up and followed.
As I rode through, the gate squealed shut behind me. So this was it: I was heading through creaking iron gates towards a mysterious chalet nestled deep in the woods. My Vespa would be taken away by mysterious valets just as the sun would set, trapping me to dine under candlelight under the watchful eyes of predatory vampires, served by black-garbed waiters trained not to notice when their masters started noshing on you instead.
Or not to notice when Transomnia had me dragged out and shot.
Either way, I was committed. I was going to ask for help from my worst enemy.
Beard the Lion
“My name is Dakota Frost, but I doubt I’m on the guest list,” I told the maitre d’, tucking my gloves into my helmet. “I’m just here to see Lord Transomnia.”
The Stone Rose Sanctuary was plantation-style rather than Victorian, new rather than old; b
ut everything else was as I expected. A valet did indeed whisk my Vespa and Bud’s Volvo away, a doorman opened a door onto a plush red foyer, where a black-garbed maitre d’ ushered Bud off to join his party before returning his attention to me. He stared at me, not really seeming to comprehend. Apparently I wasn’t dressed fancy enough to overcome the language barrier.
“Lord… Transomnia?” the thin, hawkish man asked. His face was lined, and he had a long shag of graying hair, almost a mullet; but his eyebrows were dark and his eyes sharp, making him look far younger. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that name.”
“Really?” I said, hopes falling. But this place had been here for at least six months, back when Transomnia had been trying to hide from Valentine by playing junior wharf rat at the Oakdale Clan. At least one of his people had been here. “What about the Lady Nyissa?”
At her name, the maitre d’ rankled. Jackpot. “The proprietor of the Sanctuary,” he said crisply, “prefers her privacy. The Stone Rose Cafe has a policy not to mention her, or her associates, by name. If you are a client of the club, however-”
“As I said, I’m not a diner or a client,” I said, glancing around the foyer. “I’m here on personal business with one of the associates of the proprietor of the Sanctuary.”
The front door opened, and a charming older couple walked in, a cheerful, vaguely Asian man and an older woman with hair strikingly dyed half black, half blond. She smiled at me, then murmured to her companion, and a gold nose ring sparkled as she turned her head. Interesting.
“ Please, ” the maitre d’ said quietly. “Are you a friend of the proprietor?”
“No, I’m her worst enemy,” I said, and the headache I’d been nursing suddenly got a little worse-probably the effect of the Sanctuary Stone. Interesting. “Well, technically, the worst enemy of her master, the Lord, uh, ‘T’. I called ahead. They should be expecting me.”
The maitre d’ stared at me, then the new couple. He raised his hand to them for a moment’s grace, then leaned forward to me. “Ma’am,” he whispered, “the proprietor and her associates are not… disposed… at this time-”
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