Anthony Francis - Frost Moon

"Come quickly, Dakota," he said. "Or it will be too late."

"Too late for what? What's happened, Buck?"

"Your friend Spleen," Buck said, "was just attacked by a werewolf."

Phil's Prius screeched through the knotted traffic of Buckhead. Once, crossing these congested streets at speed would have been impossible-but the block party that was Buckhead was dying, the victim of a hostile business alliance and a colluding City Council that had dialed back bar hours all over the city except at the city-owned boondoggle, 'Underground' Atlanta. So now the traffic was thinner, and had occasional gaps that Philip squeezed through expertly, greased by the flashing blue light he'd clamped atop his car.

So in moments we pulled up to "Storyteller Square", a tiny little triangular park where Roswell forked off Peachtree Road. At the center of the rings of cobblestones that paved the square, a little crowd was gathered, huddled about the metal statue of the Storyteller and his woodland companions. Phil didn't even bother to get a parking space: he just bumped the Prius up onto the sidewalk, kicked open the door and pulled out his gun.

"What the fuck-"

"Stay in the car, Dakota," he said.

"Fuck that," I said, kicking my door open and reaching for the crutches. Then I saw what he saw, and stumbled out of the car without them, limping.

Spleen lay gutted in the center of Storyteller Square, his thin body bleeding out into the concentric cobblestones radiating out from the statue of Buckhead. A ruddy Native American man I instantly recognized as Buck himself squatted over him, cradling his head.

"Black Mayday, Black Mayday," Philip was saying into the air, approaching with his gun out, but pointed to the ground. "D-E-I asset down. Black Mayday, Black Mayday. I need a medevac at the intersection of Roswell and Peachtree, GPS coordinates-"

The crowd parted in alarm, and Philip flipped a badge out of the breast pocket of his immaculate suit. A beefy man stepped forward, nervous, holding a cell phone. "Thank God, Officer," he said, bossy yet uncertain. "This-this man came up holding this other man-"

"Thank you, sir," Philip interrupted, with a quiet voice that just radiated authority. "Remain on the scene and we'll take a statement. Right now, my associate is injured-let her lean on your shoulder." "Sure," the man said, stepping up beside me. "Ma'am?" "I'm all right," I said, but I reached out for his shoulder anyway. "Where did you find him?" Philip asked with tightly controlled rage, staring down at Buck, gun still out but carefully pointed away from anyone.

"A place you cannot go," Buck said. He wore the same breeches and loincloth he had before, with keys and a cellphone now on his belt. His human face was rugged but surprisingly young, and his black hair spilled down onto a proud, bare chest covered in only the barest excuse of a vest. "I brought him here-"

"Ruining the crime scene," Philip said. "We want to catch the guy. Right now it looks like you did this-"

Buck waved his hand over the long, raw gouges in Spleen's abdomen. "We both know what manner of beast did this," he said. "Now the question is, who?"

"I'm cold," Spleen said. His voice was so weak, and my hand tightened on the rough jacket of the man beside me. Philip jerked, then holstered his weapon, took off his thousand-dollar suit jacket and laid it over Spleen's body, patting him gently.

"Medics are on the way," Philip said. "Who did this to-" Spleen reached up and grabbed Philip behind the ear, pulling his head down towards his ratlike face and yellowed eye. Philip just let him do it, listening as Spleen whispered something. Then Philip turned to me and motioned me down.

"Dakota," he said quietly. "He wants you." The Good Samaritan helped me bend. I tried to kneel, but couldn't, so and sat awkwardly in the spreading pool of blood. A second coat-ruined.

"I'm here, Diego," I said.

"Kotie," Spleen said in a whisper. "Nobody calls me that no mores."

Suddenly his hand reached out and pulled my head close. "Kotie, Kotie, you hearing me?" he said. His breath was foul, and I had a close up look of his great, yellowed eye. I'd always thought it was a bad glass fake; now I could see it was real, and diseased. What had happened to his eye? How long had I known Spleen and had never thought to ask?

"Yeah, I hear you," I said. "Who did this to you?"

"A wolf," Spleen said, drawing a ragged breath. "Werewolf. Big fucker-"

"No!" I said. "Not Wulf-"

"Not Wulf," Spleen said, wheezing. "Don't think. Never caught up with him tonight. Wasn't supposed to pick him up for another half hour. Don't think it was Wulf-"

"You don't think,?" I said, my gut sinking. "You mean, you don't know? How could you not know?"

"How the hell could I know, Kotie?" Spleen said. "I never asked the bastard to change into a wolf for me. I just took his money."

"But-"

"Don't matter. Whole thing's got too messy. Stay clear of him. Stay clear of this. Don't let them get you too," Spleen said intensely-and then his grip slipped on the back of my neck, his left eye went as dull and expressionless as his right, and he sagged back into Lord Buckhead's arms-still breathing, but not much.

I looked up at Buck. He shook his head sadly and gently lowered Spleen to the pavement. Philip stood, holding his finger to his ear. "How far away is that evac?"

I stared down at Spleen. How long had I known Diego Spillane, and learned nothing about him other than his nickname? How many times had he been there for me and how little had I been there for him? Had I been scared of him all this time just by a little halitosis and a bad eye? Then I saw the antlers of a stag shifting in the shadows, and looked up at Buck.

It had just been a trick of the light as he stood, a moment where the shadow of his statue form overlapped the shadow of his human one. He stood there, tall, proud, and sad. "He is going. I am sorry," he said. "There's nothing more I can do here."

"No, for starters you can tell us what happened," Philip snapped. Sirens and ambulances were sounding in the distance. "You can help us find who did this-"

"I found him like this in a place he should not have been, a place where you may not go," Buckhead said, with folded arms. "I brought him here for help. That is all."

"That is not all," Philip said. "This is not a fucking joke, 'Lord Buckhead.'"

"You are not ready to learn all of the secrets of the Edgeworld," Buckhead said.

"I've seen things even you wouldn't believe," Philip shot back.

"Guys," I said. "He's… he's going."

A long, low sigh escaped Spleen's lips, and his head slowly slumped to the left.

I stared at him a long time, then looked up to find Philip, Buckhead and our Good Samaritan all standing at attention. Then Buckhead sighed. "I am going," he said. "I am sorry. Lady Dakota, I will pass along anything I learn of this crime."

Then he stepped round the statue of the Storyteller, or into it; because when Philip ran around the statue after him, he emerged from the other side alone.

"Holy fucking shit," the Good Samaritan said.

"Damnit," Philip said. "Stupid Edgeworlders. No offense."

"None taken," I said, staring down at Spleen. "I think both sides of the Edge see me as a citizen of the other."

An ambulance screeched up next to Philip's Prius.

"Oh, Phil," I said. "This looks bad for Wulf-"

"Yeah," he said, staring off into the distance. "Spleen was about to meet our werewolf friend, who told us himself he had trouble with control. That gives him means, motive and opportunity-or maybe Wulf s supposed 'enemies' want us to think that. You heard Spleen- he didn't blame Wulf. A defense lawyer would make hay with that."

"But he never saw him as a werewolf," I said. "So… it still could have been Wulf."