Anthony Francis - Frost Moon

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "You just wants to get rid of me-"

"Not yet," I said, staring at her. "You hungry?"

"Yes," she said, grinning. "What you gots for me?"

"What is it, near midnight?" I said. "You want breakfast or dinner?"

"Moon's fat overhead. I wants meat" she said, baring her fangs. They seemed longer, somehow. "Don't care what it's called or when it's s'posed to be served."

"You got your fake ID on ya?" I said.

"Like, duh," she said, grinning. "Don't leave home withouts-"

"Then let me show you a little place called the Vortex-"

And so we went to the Vortex Bar and Grill at one in the morning, stepping through the huge skull that made its front door into the pop-culture chaos of its crowded, kitschy interior, where I introduced Cinnamon to the joys of a bacon-and-cheese bison burger with sweet potato fries. She screwed up her nose at all the smokers- the only reason a burger joint had an over-18 policy, thanks to Atlanta's new smoking ban-but chowed down heartily on rare bison while I munched on a Ragin' Greek turkey-burger-in-pita. Pure heaven.

Cinnamon leaned back again, grinning. "Cain't I stay tomorrow? I want to see you needle Wulf. He gots pretty skin."

"Two people tried to take a chunk out of me," I said, "and somebody actually got Spleen. You may be bulletproof and all-"

"No, I gots it," she said, suddenly sober. She leaned forward, looking around as if someone might listen in. "Somebody's really gots it out for him, don't they?"

"I think so," I said. "I really think so."

She glared down at the remnants of her fries. "Fine," she said. "He hates my guts anyway, 'cuz I'm a cat. Stupid rogue wolves."

Cinnamon stayed the night-sleeping on the sofa-and after picking up some Flying Biscuits I rode her back within striking distance of the werehouse and dropped her off. When I got back to the Rogue Unicorn, I found three missed calls and two messages on my phone, all from 'Calaphase.' In the first message, Wulf cussed me out-at least I think that's what he was doing; it was hard to tell over all the snarling. In the second message, he was more… apologetic. After I got settled in the office and had Wulfs flash in front of me, I called him.

"Hey, Wulf," I said. "Sorry about last night."

"No." he said, voice rock solid and clear. "I'm sorry- about… well, everything. But it means something that you came all the way to my den. Thank you, Dakota. I won't forget it. I had given up-"

"So does that mean I'll get you in my chair today?" I said, cutting him off before we got distracted from the tattooing by another journey into touchy feelie territory.

There was a long pause. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, I will. How long will it take?"

"Two hours," I said. "I know I said I would do it on me and transfer it to you but… I'm not going to start it until you get here. I don't want a werewolf sigil on my body any longer than I absolutely have to." Come to think of it, I should call Jinx about it. I made a note to do so.

"The sun transits a bit after noon," he said. "With it right overhead, we'll have almost the whole earth between us and the moon. I should eat at transit, when the beast is weakest, and then let it settle-that usually keeps him fully at bay a few hours longer. I will come by at one-that gives us four whole hours to moonrise."

"That should be more than enough," I said. "Wulf. You'll be here, right? You know how to get here? You need directions?"

"I know where you work," Wulf said. "I will be there."

But when one o'clock rolled by, Wulf didn't show up. I turned away half a dozen potential clients while waiting for him, but he didn't show up at two, or three, or four. I started calling him at two, but he didn't respond to any of my phone calls. Finally, at five o'clock, with the sun hanging low in the sky, I said fuck it and headed over to the Vortex for another burger.

"I'm right across the street," I told Annesthesia. "He comes here, you call me."

But she didn't call. And he didn't call. And he didn't answer his phone. I went back to the Rogue, but Wulf still didn't show up. I called every number I could think of-Wulfs, Philip's, Buck's. Nothing. I even tried to get Jinx to call the Marquis, but we couldn't figure out a way that he could have helped me, even if he was so inclined.

At nine the staff started to trickle out, the Rogue closed up, and I was left pacing in my office, staring at Wulf s flash. Worried. I had given up intellectually, but somehow, I couldn't just get up and go.

It was pushing past ten when my phone buzzed, once-a text message. Finally. I slipped it out to read: «come 2 masq lone»

I didn't recognize the number. Go to the Masquerade? At this hour? And it was fucking closed! I thumbed back: «Not bloody likely.» A moment later, the phone buzzed again: «time runs out» I scowled. I did not need this shit at this hour. «Who the hell is this, Wulf?*You* need to come*here*!» «not wulf»

But who then? Maybe… I texted: «Marquis?» «fuck that prissy dog»

Well, they knew the Marquis. I texted: «WHO is this?!» There was a long pause. And then: «i owned u» "Oh, God," I said. It was Transomnia. Oh, hell. Oh, hell. I looked at the office phone and thought of calling Calaphase, but then the phone buzzed again, with a picture message. I opened it, and damn near dropped the phone in terror. The tiny screen held Cinnamon's terrified face- ^

And her bloody mouth was sewn shut with silver wire.

I rode to the Masquerade at just under the speed limit, terrified. I didn't want to get pulled over, not now. Transomnia hadn't given me a deadline, but "time runs out" made his intent pretty damn specific.

One block away I parked my Vespa on a cross street, slipped the keys into its key well and walked, taking the long way round so he wouldn't know where I'd parked it. If I rode it straight up, Transomnia could trash my ride and leave me with no route of escape.

I walked, hugging my vest close, glad for the longsleeved turtleneck that kept out the cold. And then I rounded the corner of North Angler Street and saw City Hall East not a thousand yards away. This was pretty fucking bold. He must be sure he had me.

Well, I was here alone, in the middle of the night, limping and crippled by most definitions, with just my cane. I guess he did have reason to be bold.

I turned the corner. Normally on a Saturday night the Masquerade would be bustling, but now the marquee over the ancient, converted mill read: "THANKS HOTLANTA-17 GREAT YEARS." I scowled, grasped at my courage, tried to regain my bravado as I limped round the corner and past the ticket gate. I could do this. I would do this.

Two thugs flanked the entrance to the club, one a fat, grinning redneck with a walrus moustache and the other a hard, balding man with glinting eyes.

"Lose the cane, bitch," the balding man said crisply.

"I need it to walk," I said, truthfully, clenching my fists on the cane.

"Lose it or the kid dies," he said, drawing a gun-but not pointing it at me. Curious-he could have left it at 'drop it, bitch' punctuated by a gun barrel, but here he was skipping the direct approach and immediately resorting to leverage. He has orders not to harm me. I hoped I could chalk that up to a Transomnia's desire not to disrespect Saffron's collar. I really didn't want to entertain the possibility that Transomina had a desire to preserve the canvas for the tattoo killer, who I really hoped was up in North Carolina getting his ass kicked by Philip.

I dropped the cane and kicked it away, holding my hands up and out placatingly.

"I'll do anything you want," I said, pleading. "Just don't hurt Cinnamon."

"Cinnamon?" Walrus said. "Who's that?"

"That stray cat the fang picked up for his boss, idiot," Baldy said.