Anthony Francis - Frost Moon

"And while the date and venue are yet to be decided, I'm proud to announce here on this very stage-my next Valentine Challenge!" he cried. The crowd went a little less wild-apparently the skeptical set didn't make a big showing at goth-fetish-techno dance clubs-but they cheered anyway as he continued: "You've seen me throw down the gauntlet before to psychics and seers and dowsers and all sorts of mystics, and each time I've won-but this time, I may have met my match: Atlanta's own magical tattooist, Dakota Frost!"

My mouth opened-and then Darkrose and Savannah reached down and effortlessly lifted my wheelchair and set me gently down on the stage next to Valentine, who put his warm hand on my shoulder and winked at me.

The crowd gasped-many of them were close enough to realize that many of my bruises and cuts were not just makeup, and many of the rest realized that my Mohawk was gone. But Valentine raised his hand, calming. "Now, Miss Frost has had a rough time of late, having recently come back from the brink of death-" and everyone laughed, a bit nervously "-but she told me she was willing to go ahead with the challenge."

"No-one would blame her if she backed out," he continued, looking straight at me, ignoring the crowd, "after all she's been through."

I reached up and pulled the mike towards me. "Not a chance, old man."

"Hear that? You hear that?" he cried, smiling out at the cheering crowd. "She's a trooper, and I respect that! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you-"

"Dakota Frost!" a man yelled from the upper railing, and there were screams and shouts as I looked up straight into the barrel of a gun. "You'll never ink that Nazi bastard, Frost!"

There was a terrific bang, everything tilted sideways, and my knee exploded in pain as something slammed into me. There were shouts and screams as I fell off the stage, wheelchair and the world tumbling down on me. I lay frozen a moment, gasping, watching the surge of feet recede; but there were no more shots. So I lifted the wheelchair off me with difficulty.

When it fell aside I saw Christopher Valentine sprawled across me, gasping for breath, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand.

And bleeding. Bleeding fast.

Christopher Valentine's head lay tilted on the pillow, hair disheveled, an oxygen tube running under his nose. His eyes were closed, slack, and his breathing was labored. His body seemed as thin as sticks under the flimsy hospital gown-except for his left shoulder and upper left chest, all swollen out of shape, and covered in an array of bandages.

I stood there, on crutches, staring down at him. "Is… is he going to live?"

"I don't know," Philip said. "I just don't know."

After a long period of waiting, Philip had worked his magic to get me and Alex through the police guard and the hospital staff. It was amazing, like watching a Jedi out of a Star Wars movie pull his mind tricks. But once inside the ICU, I was too afraid to ask any of the staff anything for fear they would ask us to leave, so I just stood there, hunched over the crutches that had replaced my ruined wheelchair, staring down at the old man who had saved my life.

Valentine opened his eyes to slits. "Miss Frost," he said, voice hoarse and ancient, holding nothing of his normal stage presence… but still a bit of his devilish humor. "I may need to delay the challenge a bit."

"Whatever you say, old man," I said, with forced bravado. The old geezer had taken a bullet for me. Christopher Valentine took a bulkt-for me! "Whatever you say."

His eyes slipped down to the bandages, and he held up his left hand slowly. He could barely move his stiff, swollen fingers, and the arm somehow looked… limp, as if more than the muscles weren't working right. "Good thing I'm a righty, eh?"

"Good thing," I said, choking up. "A good thing."

"Hey," Valentine said. "I've been through worse-no, really, through worse."

"Hello again," said a voice behind me, and I whirled guiltily to see Doctor Hampton-the older doctor that had called in the yummy Doctor Blake to operate on my knee. He eyed me curiously. "Should you be walking around?"

"The wheelchair was smashed in the attack," I said. "But I'm using crutches."

"Could I ask you to step out for a moment?" the doc said. "I need to talk to Doctor Valentine about his condition-"

"That's all right," Valentine said. "She's my… protege. Consider her family."

"You're just everyone's family, aren't you?" Doctor Hampton said. He had a smile that didn't seem at all forced-clearly he had been schooling Blake on his bedside manner, or Blake had rubbed off on him. "Doctor Valentine, I'm a bit concerned about your bloodwork. You've got some spikes that can indicate an opportunistic infection-"

"Let me guess," Valentine said. His voice sounded oddly ragged, and he took very deep breaths. "MRSA?"

"What?" I asked. "What's that?"

"Drug-resistant staph," Hampton said. "We don't know that yet, but the micro lab's looking it over now. We might need to move you into a different ward."

"I get it, I get it," he said, waving his hand. "Common in enclosed populations-"

"I'm so sorry," the doctor said.

"Should you be saying that?" Valentine said, a twinkle in his eye. "What if I were likely to sue you for giving me a bug I didn't come in with?"

"Somehow I think that won't happen," Hampton said. "Let's see your hand."

"It's a little stiff," he said, as Hampton felt it gently. "But I have feeling. I told you, not to worry."

"You hear that?" Hampton said, looking at me. "When I heard a sixty-seven year old man had gotten shot I was afraid he wouldn't last the night, and now he tells me not to worry. You're one hell of a tough old bird, Doctor Valentine."

"You doctors," he said, rolling his eyes. "Always underestimating

"I won't underestimate you, old man," I said.

"Sure I'm not faking it?" Valentine said hoarsely. He tried to grin, but coughed and spat up something black. "You-you don't get off that easy."

He sank back into the pillow, and Hampton looked at us visitors disapprovingly. "I think Doctor Valentine has had enough excitement for-"

"Dakota!" Valentine said. His good hand shot out, gripped mine tightly, for a brief moment incredibly strong, then rapidly fading as he sank back into the bed. "You find the guy who did this, hear me?" he said. "Don't take him on yourself, but you help the police find him and you put him away for me. You'll do that as a favor for old Valentine?"

"Cheer up, Chris," I said, squeezing his hand back. "This one's for free."

Stumping up and down rickety wooden stairs in crutches is not the smartest way to speed up your rehabilitation, but I was determined to get back into the game as soon as possible. I'd never realized how handicap-unfriendly the Rogue became when the elevator was out, and after finding out, I was loud and vocal to the rest of the staff about it. Of course, I'm sure my sore jaw from my morning's trip to the periodontist-and the bad news that it would take upwards of six months to fix my teeth-had nothing to do with my mood.

They let me putter around the office taking care of administrative stuff so I'd feel useful, but in the end, at five o' clock, when one of Savannah's crew was scheduled to pick me up they shooed me out and told me-with odd smirks-to "Go enjoy the rest of the day."

I refused help, and stumped down the stairs expecting to see one of the red Volvos from the Consulate. Instead I found a black Prius in the parking lot, and my mouth fell open. It had two bumper stickers: one said COEXIST, written with each letter as a different religious symbol; the other said Osama Bin Laden Hates This Car.

I smiled. "Secret aaaagent man," I said, and heard a creak behind me.