Anthony Francis - Frost Moon

"They'll still cover your eyes," Philip countered.

My jaw dropped, and I looked back up at Philip; he looked sincere. I liked him, almost instinctively, but I couldn't figure him out: one minute he was wanting to take Cinnamon off the streets just for being furry, the next he was giving away two-hundred-dollar MP3 sunglasses to a crazy paranoid werewolf. What was up with that?

Wulf started to hand them back. "I can't accept-"

"Take them and go," Philip said. "They're almost on us."

Wulf looked over at the cops and snarled; when they saw the expression on his face, they drew their batons and started running towards us, shouting.

"Later," he said. "I will contact you through the Rogue!"

And at that he whirled and ran off. One cop chased after him, while his older, more obese partner stomped up to us, wheezing. "Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"

"No," I snapped. "He's my friend. He came to see me in the hospital."

The cop's eyes widened, and he looked over at the running pair.

Wulf ran straight out into traffic, dodging one car, then another; at the double yellow line he leapt straight up and over a passing semi like an agent out of the Matrix. The other cop stopped midstream, in the midst of squealing tires and blaring horns, as Wulf leapt from streetlight to rooftop and disappeared into a canopy of red October leaves.

"Quite a friend," the first cop said, still gasping for breath. "You're telling me," I said, reaching up to hold Philip's hand as it squeezed my shoulder. "You're telling me."

Tuesday morning they let me out of the hospital at last, but I was not yet on my own, or even on my own two feet; I was stuck in my wheelchair, at least for a few more days. Philip insisted that I have some protection until I was walking again, and reluctantly I agreed to stay at the Consulate and suffer through Savannah's mothering-a peace-offering, from me to her. She said nothing about my reaction to her fangs, but at twilight she pushed my wheelchair through the Consulate's garden… and we talked. Our little conversation wasn't enough to heal any old wounds, but at least it patched them up for a while. Then we talked-I talked-about my meltdown, and after listening for a long time, Savannah said some soft but bracing things. They weren't enough to put the attack behind me, but at least I could put it away for a while.

Savannah agreed with Philip that I should do Wulf s tattoo, but she was insistent that I not try it before I was out of the wheelchair. For once, I had no argument; no matter how badly Wulf wanted the tattoo, I wasn't ready to get back in the saddle yet. Besides, the full moon wasn't until Saturday, and I couldn't imagine trying to do a tattoo sitting in a wheelchair.

But then night fell, on Tuesday the thirty-first of October: Halloween. And wheelchair or no wheelchair, escort or no, I was not going to miss the last hurrah of The Masquerade.

The Masquerade was a mammoth dance club and live music venue on the other side of North Avenue from City Hall East. It was huge, divided into three levels-Heaven, a live music venue; Purgatory, a traditional bar; and Hell-a goth/industrial/techno dance club that had taken the title of "my home away from home" after City Hall dialed the nightclub hours back and my first fave, a fetish dance club called The Chamber, folded.

Now the Beltline project was sweeping around Atlanta, eating up a whole ring of the city like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, and turning every low-rent district in its path into mixed-use monoblocs or greenspace. Supposedly the whole district around The Masquerade and City Hall East was next on the list, and this Halloween was The Masquerade's blowout swan song.

Savannah pushed my wheelchair along the sidewalk through a cavalcade of people in Halloween costumes, fetish gear, and combinations of both. There were zombies, vampires and werewolves, or at least people dressed like zombies, vampires, and werewolves. Women dressed as Wednesday Addams and men dressed as The Crow mugged for the cameras. There was even a pair of fetching young lesbian Borg from Star Trek, turning heads in leather, rubber and laser pointers. Savannah herself wasn't in costume per se, but in a long leather coat over a matching leather bikini and thigh-high boots, she turned heads all the same.

As for my costume? Savannah had heartily approved of my desire to get out of the house and get on with my life, but guessing what outfit I'd had in mind, she'd tried to derail my choice several different ways-rescuing a long leather coat and shiny T-shirt from my apartment, getting Lord Delancaster to loan his cape coat so I could be 'Sherlockina', and even hopefully pulling out a whole array of fetish gear, complete with gas mask.

In the end, I did my own costume: I sprayed the remaining tufts of hair so they stood up in spikes, tore and muddied up an old pair pants, and poured on layers of makeup accentuating, rather than hiding the bruises and scrapes. It was hard to get the makeup right around my neck because of the collar, but in the end 'Roadkill' lived again. I did such a good job, I actually felt a little bit guilty as I wheeled myself out of the guest room, but Savannah was so bossy even with me injured and us split that it felt good to have something to needle her with. Sure enough, she took just one look at me before getting nauseous and excusing herself to the bathroom.

Success.

The queue came to a halt as we got closer-the police had stopped the line as it crossed North Angler Street and were letting people across in bursts as the doorkeep let them in. You could see the flaring lights of firedancers reflecting off the surface of the Masquerade's towering, blocky surface, and I whined. A few days ago, when I'd been nai've and healthy, I'd have bulled across the street, counting on the crowd behind me to overwhelm the police while I darted ahead for a better view.

Now I looked at the tired cop standing in the street, holding up his hand to the crowd while he waved traffic by with his little yellow airport light. That man could just as easily been Rand, or Gibbs, or even Philip, a hero who'd stumbled and was now directing traffic. I looked up, at the dark shape of City Hall East not five hundred yards away. Somewhere, up on the sixth floor, men were working late to track someone who was ripping the skin off my clients, and working to find the man who had beaten me.

Somehow, dicking with the police didn't seem funny anymore, and when we trundled across the street, I threw up my hand for five and told the man Happy Halloween. His eyes lit up. "That is a bad ass costume," he said, calling after me. "The bruises look totally real!"

"They are," Savannah hissed back at him.

"Be nice, 'Lady Saffron,'" I said, and she squeezed my shoulder. It was surprisingly difficult to remember she became 'Saffron' in public, but she seemed to really appreciate it.

We came to a stop at the end of the line. The pumping music from inside The Masquerade was louder now, and the flickering fire was brighter. Occasionally, the crowd gasped as a fiery baton flipped end for end high up into the air, but from where I was sitting, I could see nothing.. I itched to get out of the chair, and Saffron actually put her hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down.

"Be good," she said, breathing into my ear. "Or I'm turning the car around."

My cell rang. "Dakota Frost," I answered. "Best magical tattooist in the Southeast-"

"This is Philip," came his crackling voice.

"Phil!" I cried. "We're missing you-"

"I'm missing you," he said. "I just wanted to tell you-keep yourself safe, call Rand and the boys for backup if needed, but I think you should do Wulf s tattoo."

I couldn't answer for a second. "And just how did you come to that conclusion?" I asked. He didn't answer, and I grew suspicious. "Philip. What did you do?"