Anthony Francis - Frost Moon

"Humans have traditionally been harsh towards the werekin, especially those who could not hide their beasts. The Bear King is merely trying to keep them safe. I do not think he realizes that a place safe from human wrath is not necessarily a safe place for a child."

"What aren't you telling me?" I asked.

"Lady Dakota, please. The werehouse is her home, and they care about her," he said. "Take good care of her today, and I'll send Calaphase to fetch her in the evening."

The line went dead.

"What wasn't he telling me?" I asked Cinnamon. She squatted rapidly, batting at one of my cats with an outstretched arm, which batted back at her like her tufted hand was a toy. "Cinnamon, did the

… did the Marquis take advantage of you?"

"The Marquis? No, he's a faggot," she said, looking away. "But in the werehouse, if you're not 'under' someone, you gets… passed around."

My hands clenched on the back of my Herman Miller.

"So yeah, I hangs with him, lets him ink me," she said. "I'm part of the prissy fuck's 'entourage,' and he keeps me safe." She saw me scowling, and shrugged. "He never once touched my stuff, if that's what you're asking."

"Other people did?"

"Only werekin," she said. "And mostly boys, ones I already likes to run with. One creepy old geezer tried hitting on me, but the Bear King gutted him." She grinned abruptly, vicious, feral. "It was sweeet. Some of his intestines flew all the way to the rafters. They says he was shitting blood for a week."

I felt better, but only a little.

"Cinnamon, if they're using you… I can't let you go back there."

Cinnamon stood slowly, opening her mouth in a feral smile. Fine orange down spread over her face, furring it up like a fast-motion movie you'd see of a growing plant on the Discovery channel. She raised her hands, lengthening them into long, vicious claws.

"You can't stop me," she said, hissing with a full mouth of teeth.

I stared at her, then leaned forward slowly until my head hung over hers and she had to crane back her neck. Her eyes widened as I said slowly, "You scratch me-just once-and I'll be able to do everything you can do, plus this."

And I let the mana in my hands flow out, quickening the butterfly in her hands until it broke free and began flitting around in the air.

"No! No!" she cried, reaching for it, batting it around. "No no no! Please! Please! Give it back! Please give it back."

It settled slowly on my hand, flapping its wings once or twice, the light going out of it as it prepared to merge back with my skin. She cried and held her long claws out over it, cradling it, breathing on it like I had, trying to coax it back to life.

"No no no," she said, as it began to sink back into my hand. "No-one's ever given me anything nice. Don't take it away. Please don't take my butterfly away. Please. Please."

I stared down at her, then waved my inking hand over the butterfly, bringing it back to life. "Oh, all right," I said. "Hold up your fist. I want to align it right this time."

In moments the butterfly was back on her hand, me cradling it, coaxing it into the right alignment to best show off the shape of her hand, even with the claws.

"I'm just a big softie," I said.

"Th-thank you Dakota," she stammered, as the design sunk into the skin. "I-I-mean, Lady Dakota, I overheard Lord Buckhead and I didn't mean to disrespect-"

"Oh, don't you start," I said. "If you call me Dakota, I'll call you Cinnamon."

She held up the back of her fist, showing me the tattoo that had once been mine, now brightened by her own super-sunny smile. "Okay, DaKOta!"

I kneaded my brow, falling back into my chair.

I was sure I was going to regret this. But I wasn't at all sure what "this" was. 17. Junkman's Daughter

After much negotiation, I convinced 'Cinnamon' to take a shower-and, with additional effort, convinced her to take it aloneand then took her down to the Rogue Unicorn for an impromptu 'Take Your Daughter to Work Day.'

She wanted to run behind me on the Vespa, but after another fifteen minutes of wheedling I convinced her that it wouldn't do to be caught running down McLendon at forty-five miles an hour in broad daylight.

"Ow," she said, adjusting her helmet. I hadn't realized how small she was: Savannah's old helmet seemed ridiculously outsized on her head. "Can I ditch this? It's crushing my ears."

"We'll get stopped," I said, and then, being unable to resist, fished for a little information. "You can't, you know, shrink them, like your claws?"

She lifted the brow of the helmet so she could glare at me, then got back on the back of the bike, wrapping her arms around me a bit fearfully. Ok, more than a bit. Actually "Can't-breathe-" I gasped. "This isn't going to kill you. I'll go slow-"

"I can takes anything you caaaan-"

And after some to-go from the Flying Biscuit and a short drive, we got to Little Five and climbed the steps up to the Rogue. Cinnamon's helmeted head snapped back and forth so fast I thought it would twist off, and finally I told her that she could take it off.

"My ears," Cinnamon said.

"This is Little Five," I said. "You'll be a hit."

But even Annesthesia was shocked when Cinnamon took off her helmet and then began peering down into it like a fishbowl. I hadn't noticed, but you could see down into her ears, like you would with a real cat: her weretiger features weren't just outer-cosmetic, they'd actually changed the structure of her skull. No wonder she couldn't change. I know I shouldn't have stared, but when she started scratching "I do believe you have ear mites," I said, laughing.

"If you thinks what the Bear King did to that guy was bad," she growled, "you should sees what happened to the last guy who tried to put drops in my ears."

"Who's the Bear King?" Annesthesia asked. "And I love your collar, Dakota! Where'd you-"

"Don't ask, and don't ask," I said. "I don't have the king of Siam and the queen of Sheba waiting on me today, do I?"

"Not yet," she responded.

We made it back to my office and I pulled up the blinds. "Like the view?" I asked.

"Yeah," Cinammon said, staring out over Little Five. "I mean, the place is a dirty dump, but the people-and hey, hey, that guy's even a werekin-"

"Actually, no," I said, peering out. "He's… just a Fiver. But Cinnamon-look around you. This is my office. This is what I do. This is how I pay for my apartment-"

"What, are you trying to save me, Dakota?" she jeered, throwing herself down in my chair and spinning around, jarring the computer and watching the screen hum to life. After she spun down, she kind of looked to the side and got sullen. "Ok. I'll gives it a shot."

"A shot?" I asked.

"You wants a new apprentice, or something? Need an 'entourage'-"

"No," I said. I wasn't really comfortable with her going back to the werehouse, but I wasn't prepared to take a weretiger under my wing just yet either. "You don't have to be my apprentice to hang out with me. Think of today as an outing, courtesy of Lord Buckhead-"

My phone rang again, and I picked it up hastily. "Dakota Frost-"

"Hello, Dakota," came a smooth voice. "It's Special Agent Philip Davidson."

"Philip!" I said, feeling a big grin spread over my face.

"Who's that?" Cinnamon said, her big, toothy grin mocking my own. "Your boooyfriend? Wait a minute-"

"Hush," I said. "Philip, it's good to hear from you. What do you need-"

"I think I may be able to swing approval on getting some images to your graphomancer," he said. "Have you had a chance to talk to your clients-"

Oh, Hell. "No, Philip. I-I haven't even gotten started. I feel like I've let you down, but-" I glared at Cinnamon, and she stuck her tongue out at me "-to be frank I had one hell of an evening working to sort out a complicated tat for a difficult client. And this morning-"