Anthony Francis - Frost Moon

Shit, so much for Saffron's protection. "Hey, I just want to speak to the Marquis," I said, raising my hands higher. "And I'm glad to go through you to do it."

I said it so placatingly that he actually blinked as he processed it. In that split second I flipped my hands, and when his lids opened he got an eyeful of the crosses, stars and sickles upon each knuckle. They blazed with power, resonating with the vampire's own projected aura of hostility, and when he flinched, my right fist popped out and landed the holy symbols on his face in a twisting one-inch punch.

All the mana stored in my tattoos and all the hate feeding back through the holy symbols released with a flash and a solid, satisfying BANG, and the vampire flew back into the mud and slid halfway down the riverbank.

"I protect Saffron as much as she protects me," I said, strolling over to where the vampire lay, planting my fist in my other hand to let the charms charge up against the yin-yang in my palm. "Now would you, pretty please with sugar on it, take me to see the Marquis?"

The vampire was blinking, twitching, and I started to worry I'd hit him too hard. Then his eyes focused on me, and I felt the holy symbols on my knuckles start to tingle in a hot wave of hate. I settled back, feeling adrenaline flood me. He wasn't supposed to get back up-what the hell was I going to do if he rushed me with vampire speed? "You're dead," he snarled, fangs fully exposed. "You are so dead, bitch!"

He reached toward a bush to pull himself back up-but before he could, the bush put out a strong male hand to steady the vampire. "Enough, Trans," said a deep voice, and the bush unfolded, branches morphing into the proud antlers of a deer's head that flowed into the shoulders of a ruddy Native American warrior-a werestag, in halfhuman form.

"Homina," I breathed.

"Lord Buckhead," Transomnia stammered. "I-I didn't see you-"

"You were not meant to," the werestag said. "I was watching your watching."

Lord Buckhead carried a staff topped with the skull and antlers of a deer, adorned with eagle's feathers, but beyond that wore only a loincloth, buckskins, and an ornately woven chestpiece of beads bumping against his broad chest. His bare feet were almost as ruddy as the clay, but left only the slightest impressions as he effortlessly helped the smaller man up the bank and set him down beside me. I paid the vampire no mind. The werestag was almost seven feet tall- without the antlers-and despite the oddly solemn expression of his deer's head, there was a lively, reactive intelligence behind his eyes that I never saw in any beast.

"Luh-Lord Buckhead," I stammered. For years I'd heard Edgeworld stories that 'the lord of Buckhead' was real, and not just a character cooked up by the marketing team of Atlanta's party district, but now when he stood before me all I could think was how nice it was to stare up at a guy, even if he had a deer's head. "The Lord of the Wild Hunt?"

"The one and only," he said.

I became convinced I'd seen him before-and after a second, I realized exactly where. "That-that statue of you in downtown Buckhead

… is for real?"

"The human sculptor Fleming used me as his model," he said, extending his hand. "I can take you to the Marquis. Trans, you will accompany us."

"I'm not supposed to leave my post," he said, staring at the ground.

"Your post is well-covered by my hunt," Lord Buckhead said. The little vampire looked around suddenly, but nothing was visible. "It is your orders that I want to clarify."

"Yes, sir," Transomnia said, hunched over.

We wove through the weeds along a path that was little more than a crease in the grass. Lord Buckhead seemed to move without a trace, and I suspected the rest of the werehouse's population also didn't leave the mess left by humans or vampires.

Lord Buckhead stopped by a weathered POSTED – NO TRESPASSING sign and lifted a heavy section of chain-link fence for us to step under. As I did so I saw a trio of magical runes and Edgeworld tags listing this as a were-lair, a no-man's land, and a safe house. An odd combination, but it made sense. All who are not werekin are not welcome.

The werehouse was a long, low brick building with cracked walls and rusted cranes that resembled a derelict battleship more than the fortress I'd expected. A few spotlights on the roof and at the edge of the weed-grown parking structure made pools of light, but beyond that I could only make out outlines. My tattoos tingled with a whisper of power, and I felt as if the place was crawling with movement I could not see. Figures seemed to lurk at the edge of the lot, behind the windows, on the battlements, but I could never draw a bead on a one. I could hear the din of a party, or a barfight, raucous cries of humans mixed in with rougher cries of something else. And then, shockingly close, a howl.

I looked up to see a dark form howling at the moon from the tip of a crane: he looked… bipedal, but when he quit howling and looked down at me, his eyes glowed a brilliant violet, and when he ran off he ran too low, too hunched and too fast for any man.

"Keep moving," Transomnia said, bumping me roughly with his shoulder as he passed. "Let's get this over with."

He stopped at the base of a loading dock, staring up at a huge freight door, and two shadows detached themselves from either side to glare down at us with cold, blue eyes. This time, I didn't risk looking the vampires in the eyes; I'd never been hypnotized by one before, but my experience with the quite friendly Lord Delancaster had put the fear of God in me-something these guys probably lacked.

"Brought us a snack, Trans?" one of them said, hopping down from the dock to land at our feet. He was scrawny, but confident, letting his long trenchcoat drape along his thin form with an ease that Transomnia lacked. Like the poseur vampire, his frosted locks were upswept, and keys dangled from a glittering chain at his belt; but somehow he made it look right. The other vampire's teased locks were brown but he had a similar trench, similar chain, and equal grasp of style. The first vampire was all business, but the brown- haired hanger-back made an odd hand signal that Transomnia shot back at him.

Gang signs. Jinx wasn't kidding-a real vampire gang.

"You are a pretty one," the vampire said. "What's your name, morsel?"

I glared at him. I couldn't make out anything about his face other than his glowing blue eyes, but I glared anyway, screwing up my forehead as if I could force myself to maintain my concentration in the face of any psychic assault that he might mount-ridiculous, of course, as my psychic training was about zip. But I could feel my tattoos start to burn as he began to project his aura, and I looked away, jamming my tingling hands in my pockets. I didn't want a repeat of my insult to Trans, not in the middle of three vampires.

I heard a sudden exhale behind me that ruffled the hair of my 'hawk.

"My Lord," the vampire guard said, beginning a bow. Then he caught sight of the collar around my neck, and I saw his eyes widen-and the blue glow fade.

"My apologies, Emissary," he said, with some respect. "What news do you bring from Lady Saffron's court?"

"I am here under her protection, but on my own behalf," I said, looking up to meet his now more-human eyes. They were blue, a clear blue that stood out even in what little light we had from the few spotlights, and his face was fine, even handsome, when he wasn't putting out his scary vampire mojo. "My name is Dakota Frost. I'm here to consult with the Marquis at the behest of Jinx. I'm told he's expecting me."

The vampire stared at me, then inclined his head and spoke to his brownhaired fellow guard. "Should I know any of those names?"

"Well, the Marquis for starters," Transomnia interjected sarcastically.