Anthony Francis - Blood Rock

“Hello, Clairmont Academy,” a female voice over the phone answered.

“Hello, this is Dakota Frost,” I said. “We had an appointment for noon.”

“Oh, yes, well,” the woman said, spluttering a little. “Things are filling up.”

“I know you have a full schedule,” I said, watching Cinnamon’s eyes grow wide. “I’m sorry, but we were detained by the police-”

“Got caught speeding?” the woman said, suddenly conspiratorial. “You should give yourself more time to get places, you know. I heard this article in the AJC… ”

She nattered on a bit. I didn’t really know how to deal with that, and frankly I didn’t want to. “Look, I’m sorry, I wasn’t speeding,” I said quietly. “One of our friends just got attacked-”

“Oh,” she said. “I-I’m so sorry-are they OK?”

I stood there, swaying. “No, he’s-” My mouth grew dry. “He didn’t make it.”

The line was quiet. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” the woman said.

“Yes, well, yes,” I said. “I hate to inconvenience you, but… can you fit us in?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I-I’m so sorry. We just filled our last slot an hour ago.”

I was stunned. I had known they were squeezing us in, but-”Are you sure?”

“We had three slots left and filled five before the principal called me and told me to stop,” the woman said. “I’ve been calling the rest of the appointments and canceling-”

“I see,” I said quietly. “Thank you.” I hung up the phone, staring at it. “ Damnit.”

Cinnamon stared up at me, eyes welling up. “I’m goin’ for a walk,” she said.

“Go to her,” Rand said, taking the phone from my hand and redialing. “Hello? Clairmont Academy? Yes, this is Detective Andre Rand with the APD, badge number-”

I followed Cinnamon, who kept her back to me, snuffling. “I don’t wanna talk to you,” she said. “You wants me to go to school, but can’t even find a good one-”

“We’ll find you a school,” I said, putting my hands on her shoulders. “Look, I know what you want. I’ll find a way for you to have a real life-”

“How?” she said bitterly, turning. “I’m a total freak. Look at me. Look at me!”

I stared down at her. At her orange hair, her yellow cat eyes, her tattooed stripes, her huge ears, her twitching tail. This time of the month, fine orange fur began encroaching upon her pale olive skin at the edges of her normal hair. You couldn’t not know she was a werekin.

But none of that mattered to me. “What?” I asked. “All I see is my daughter.”

Her eyes welled up even more, and then she grabbed me and squeezed me so hard the air once again left my lungs. “You big sap,” she said, still crying. “Always gets me with the sticky-sweets. Lucky for you Rand snagged us an appointment at three.”

I looked over at Rand, smiling, but there was a glint in his eye which seemed to say there was more to his favor than just soothing Cinnamon’s broken heart… and I knew precisely what he wanted for his quid pro quo.

“Wonderful,” I said. “ More than enough time to break the news to my ex-girlfriend.”

We delayed the inevitable by getting breakfast-for-lunch at Ria’s Bluebird Cafe. And not just because it was right across the street from Oakland Cemetery: I love the place, and for more than the food. It’s always amusing to watch a server’s expression as tiny little Cinnamon plows into beef brisket, while big old me nibbles at soysage, sweet potatoes and a tofu omelet.

While Cinnamon finished up, I sipped my sweet tea, scanned the street, and found myself noticing graffiti where I’d never seen it before: a sloppy caricature sprayed on the side of an Atlanta Journal-Constitution newspaper box; something political stenciled on a sidewalk; even colorful bubbly capitals sprayed on the brick wall of the Cemetery itself. Nothing as elaborate as the tag that killed Revy, but, still, graffiti was ever present.

But then the check came, it was only twelve-thirty, and our appointment at the school wasn’t until three; and so we no longer had a good excuse not to drive the five minutes to the nearby Consulate and deliver the bad news to my childhood sweetheart.

The Vampire Consulate of Little Five Points isn’t actually in Little Five Points. It’s at another five-pointed intersection in the Sweet Auburn area downtown. There, hidden away in a quiet set of buildings made from a deconsecrated church, is the court of one of the most powerful vampires in Atlanta: the Lady Saffron, nee Savannah Winters… my very ex -girlfriend.

“Fucking fang,” Cinnamon muttered curtly, and when I glanced at her, she glared and looked away. “I-I means, I hates this place. She always smells funny.”

“She is a vampire,” I said, pulling into the tiny lot behind the converted Victorian that served as the Consulate office. I dug out our vampire district parking tag and hung it from the rear-view mirror. “She may be almost vegetarian, but she’s got to drink at least some blood-and who knows how much her girlfriend drinks. There’s bound to be a smell.”

“Hey, I likes the smell of blood, but she’s always stinking of leather… or rubber.”

“Damnit.” I put my hand over my eyes and rubbed. “I really didn’t need to know that.”

“Share the love, I says,” Cinnamon said, and I looked over to see her grinning.

“You set me up,” I said.

“And knocked you over,” she replied, flicking a hand out, catlike. “After all, she was your giiirl friend. Don’t you knows what she’s into?”

“Better than you,” I grumbled. “Fine, fine, just for that, you’re coming inside.”

“No problem,” Cinnamon said, and then: “I do too likes her. I was just messing with ya.”

We stepped through wrought iron gates and passed signs for Darkrose Security Enterprises and the Junior Van Helsing Detective Agency. The former was the security force belonging to Darkrose, Saffron’s new girlfriend; the latter was a Scooby-Doo grade paranormal detective agency which had tried and failed to take out Saffron shortly after she became a vampire. Now, through a sequence of events that had never been adequately explained to me, both rented space from the Consulate, even down to sharing a receptionist.

Through the glass doors of the porch we could see that today that receptionist was Nagli, a cute little Indian college student that was one of the better Van Helsings. She looked bored out of her mind, but after buzzing the two of us in she immediately perked up.

“Hey, Cinnamon,” she said brightly. When Nagli was perky, she was darned cute, and I couldn’t help grinning back at her. “And hey, Dakota. The Lady Saffron is in the garden.”

I led Cinnamon through the middle door behind Nagli, through the shared conference room, and out into the garden. In the church’s former preschool playground now stood trellis after trellis of honeysuckle, hydrangeas, and clematis. When first planted they were low hedges that burst with stunning color in summer and fall. Now they were a maze of high vines, winter green and oppressively dark, that opened up around a white gazebo.

Savannah Winters stood there in the sunshine in a ruffled Southern belle dress almost as red as her hair. Over the dress she wore a black leather corset with red lacing, that daring touch that I had so liked. Dark leather gloves protected her hands to the elbow, and she wore a huge red bonnet with black lace; but where Revenance had caught fire at the first direct touch of daylight, “the Lady Saffron” strolled through it unconcerned, with bomber goggles and a UV monitor as only concessions to the nuclear fire of the Sun.

Once I had thought Savannah had won her post as the Queen of the Little Five Points district through vampire nepotism-after all, her maker was Lord Delancaster, the head vampire of Georgia and one of the most famous vampires in America.