Anthony Francis - Blood Rock

“Them’s fightin’ words,” Saffron said, turning her laptop towards her with a vicious smirk. “I’ll email it to you. Maybe you can send me comments.”

“Sure,” I said. Then, again bringing the conversation back to Revy, “But even so… he may have been writhing, but he sure wasn’t dancing.”

Saffron paused her search. “Who cares whether he was dancing? Just because he’s not an official skindancer doesn’t mean his writhing couldn’t generate magical power-”

“Except that normal movements don’t obey skindancing rules,” I said, “so the random surges of magic they generate usually average out to a null effect.”

“Could it have been… a magical capacitor?” Saffron said, resuming her typing. “Powered up slowly over time by sapping Revenance’s life force?”

“I… don’t think so,” I said.

“Don’t think so,” Saffron snapped, “or don’t know? Did you think to check?”

“ Yes, Saffron,” I said. What was wrong with her today? The explanation about the blood wasn’t cutting it-the news about Revy had really put her on edge. “I studied capacitor designs after last year’s incident, and I looked for them while the tag was active. I didn’t see any-”

“Well, now that it isn’t, check again,” she said. My face fell, and she frowned. “What?”

“They’re not going to let me back onto the scene,” I said. “The magical investigators, the Black Hats, seemed to think that some clever defense attorney would make hay of a magician-”

“For the love,” Saffron said. “Well, hopefully they took pictureswhat? ”

“Savannah,” I said softly. “This is me. I did doublecheck. But after the firemen put… put Revy out, the tag was a burnt ruin. There’s nothing left to photograph.”

“ Damn it,” Saffron said. “Sorry. I should have known you would look.”

I shrugged. Yeah, but-”Anyway, a tag with that kind of surface area is usually a magical radiator-any mana Revenance generated would just leak away in the air. I’ve never seen such a large magical mark, except for maybe the Harris Mural at Emory.”

Saffron looked up into the air sharply, sun reflecting off her goggles, remembering. The mural was a striking slow-moving magical pageant in Emory’s Harris Hall, powered by the rays of the sun. No Harris School of Magic alum ever forgot its ever-changing abstract colors.

“You should check that out,” Saffron said slowly. “It’s only about twenty-five years old. The painter might still be alive. There can’t be too many people who could paint a magical painting big enough to kill a person-maybe the painter of the Mural could give you some names that could kick-start your investigation.”

“I’m not really investigating this,” I said, taken aback. “I mean, it’s a police matter, and they practically kicked me off the scene-”

“Dakota, you have to look into this,” Saffron said urgently. “I mean, it would be stupid for them to not ask you after all you did for them last year. Who’s more qualified?”

“Rand said as much,” I said. “He seemed to think Philip would want my help, and he definitely wanted me to talk to you on behalf of the Vampire Consulate, so here I am.”

“Well, that will make things… simpler,” Saffron said, oddly uncomfortable. “So, if you are our representative, Dakota… can you deliver a message to the police for me?”

“What? Has someone else died?” I said, flashing back to Cinnamon’s insight. “Savannah?”

“The Consulate has kept this quiet,” Savannah began, “so we won’t anger the Gentry-”

“The who?”

“Atlanta’s old-school vampires,” Savannah said, clearly irritated. “But now the police are involved, we need the opposite tack. We must show Sir Leopold and his crew of wingnuts we’re doing something,” she said, pulling off her goggles. Behind her squint, I could see that she was pleading. “We need someone who knows vampires, and magic, and has good relations with the police: you. We really need your help, Dakota.”

I swallowed. “Help with what?” My head was buzzing with questions, but I was stuck on the idea that she needed me to be her go-between. “What do you want me to tell the police?”

“Revenance isn’t the first vampire we’ve lost this week. He’s the third.”

“Thanks for handling this, Rand,” I said, slowing the Prius for the turn into the Clairmont Academy’s drive. “Savannah says to call Nagli, she’ll give you all the details.”

“Why can’t she call me directly?” Rand’s disembodied voice asked. “If vampires really are disappearing, they should have called the police right away-”

“Of course they should have,” I said. “But her high-and-mightiness ‘the Lady Saffron’ got deliberately vague, started talking about the Gentry, about keeping an arm’s length between factions. I gather vampire politics are involved.”

“Jesus. Vampire politics are always involved,” Rand said. “Thanks for passing on the message, Dakota, we’ll handle it. Good luck to you guys today.”

“Thanks.” I hung up and glanced at Cinnamon. “Are you going to be all right?”

Cinnamon nodded, swallowed, just staring.

Clairmont Academy was a modernist structure, nestled into a hillside so cunningly Frank Lloyd Wright would have been proud. The main offices were long straight jet of glass and slate erupting from a stand of magnolias. Classrooms climbed the hill behind the offices in an arc of terraced wedges: the overall effect was of a wave curling over a surfboard. Oh so chic.

I pulled into the visitor spaces angled off the dropoff lane. “Just… try to be nice?”

Cinnamon nodded again, then pulled down the vanity mirror, trying to fix her hair. Then she slipped out a tiny vial of her distinctive cinnamon oil perfume, which I now knew she used to hide her tiger musk, and dabbed it behind her ears and whiskers.

“Just relax,” I said. “You look fine. Better than I do, in fact, my little schoolgirl.”

Cinnamon hissed and swatted. “OK, DaKOta,” she said, fwapping the mirror back up. “But remember, this getup is just to impress the squares that runs the schools. I’m not gonna change on my days off, and don’t you goes all Laura Ashley on me either.”

“How do you know about Laura Ashley?” I asked. “You were, what, two years old?”

“Thrift stores are your friend,” Cinnamon said. “Not that I’d buy one-”

“Hey, don’t go dissing her. I have a Laura Ashley,” I said with a grin. “A big old floral tent feeding the moths back home in Dad’s house in Stratton, South Carolina.”

Cinnamon grinned and unbuckled her seat belt. I did so as well, resisting the urge to check myself in the mirror: she was finally relaxing, and I didn’t want to make her nervous again. Saffron had let me clean the blood off in her bathroom, after insisting that I clean the sink and flush the wipes. I looked as good as I was going to get, and that would have to be good enough.

We got out of the car and walked to the front door, a huge glass slab. In it I could see our distinctive outlines: tall, coated, and deathhawked, hand resting on short, skirted and cat-eared. The door slid smoothly aside on its own, replacing our reflections with a small, mousy brunette, in circa 1980s ecru wool crepe jacket and navy floral dress, who was staring at us in horror.

After a few awkward moments, I broke the ice.

“Dakota Frost,” I said, extending my hand.

“Catherine Fremont,” the woman replied, eyes taking me in from ankles to earrings. Then she seemed to notice my hand and took it gladly, like a lifeline-and I found her tiny hand surprisingly strong in mine. “Catherine Fremont, admissions.”