embers.
For a moment, Tully and I just lay there in the dust, staring at the intricate concentric rings that were all that was left of the design. Then we looked at each other.
“Congratulations, Tully,” I said. “You get to live to run another day.”
“Thank you thank you thank you ,” Tully said, trying to give me a hug, then grimacing as the gesture squeezed a new river of blood from his chest. “Aaah—I’m so sorry—”
“Thank you, Dakota,” a voice said, and I looked up to see Calaphase staring down at me. The vamps and werekin were all standing over us, all looking down gratefully—except Gettyson, who just stood there, jaw clenched, before turning on his heel and stalking off.
Tully kept sobbing. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I had no idea this would happen.”
“There’s no way you could have known,” I said.
“I means, it was just magical graffiti—”
“Wait,” I said. “You already knew it was magical?”
“You can’t miss it,” Calaphase said quietly. “These tags, they’re always moving—”
“Wait wait ,” I said, alarmed. “They? This has happened before?”
“An attack, no, but the tags—yes,” Calaphase said, even more quietly. “We’ve seen tags like this for weeks, nothing this elaborate, usually just little ones, though they seem like they get bigger over time—or else the prick keeps coming back to flesh them out. Revy said he saw a huge one yesterday, though he never got to show me where. For all I know, this was it—”
“No,” I said. “This thing loves vamps. If he’d gotten close to it, it would have caught him—and then how would he have ended up in the cemetery?” I asked. Then I recalled the odd sensation I’d felt in the graffiti’s grip … like it was pulling me inside. The conclusion sounded outlandish, but was just too damn obvious to ignore. “Unless … that’s where this one … led?”
But before I could go any further, Tully began convulsing in my arms.
“I gots—I gots to change ,” he said, holding his bloody hands up, staring at them, at the gash in his chest. The graffiti had dug down to the bone, exposing white flashes of ribs, and I felt my stomach churn. “I can’t heal like this.”
“Come on, cub,” Fischer said, squatting down beside us, taking Tully from my arms and picking him up. “I’ll carry you out to the clearing, to the light of the moon.”
I got to my feet, groaning, covered in grime, dirt, blood and basil. More and more weres and vamps were gathering; the ones who had watched stood in awe, but the newcomers stared at me with cold, hungry eyes. Wonderful—I was covered in Tully-flavored barbecue sauce. Fortunately the curly-headed vamp guard was on crowd control, keeping both the weres and the vamps away from the tag.
“She’s Lady Saffron’s troubleshooter,” he said to a new arrival, following with a glowing account of my recent duel with the graffiti. I half smiled. I wasn’t Saffron’s ‘troubleshooter,’ and it hadn’t been that easy. I turned to correct him—and got a bucket of water in the face.
“Wash up, wash up ,” Gettyson said, splashing the rest of me with cold, stinging liquid, then attacking me with a towel. “You gots to get Tully’s blood off you, get it off you.”
I took the towel and began scrubbing gratefully. The fluid stank of ammonia and disinfectant and other things besides, and felt harsh against my hands. My eyes were watering from the initial splash, and my lips were actually tingling … surely he hadn’t just splashed wolfsbane extract in my face! But then, a thin purple haze began lifting off my top, chest and shorts—not smoke, but mana, from Tully’s moon-charged werekin blood—and the grateful magician in me won out over the worried chemist.
Gettyson handed me a dry towel for my face and looked me over roughly, checking my chest, my hands, under my arms. He daubed a more concentrated form of the stinging substance on a cloth and began
For a moment, Tully and I just lay there in the dust, staring at the intricate concentric rings that were all that was left of the design. Then we looked at each other.
“Congratulations, Tully,” I said. “You get to live to run another day.”
“Thank you thank you thank you ,” Tully said, trying to give me a hug, then grimacing as the gesture squeezed a new river of blood from his chest. “Aaah—I’m so sorry—”
“Thank you, Dakota,” a voice said, and I looked up to see Calaphase staring down at me. The vamps and werekin were all standing over us, all looking down gratefully—except Gettyson, who just stood there, jaw clenched, before turning on his heel and stalking off.
Tully kept sobbing. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I had no idea this would happen.”
“There’s no way you could have known,” I said.
“I means, it was just magical graffiti—”
“Wait,” I said. “You already knew it was magical?”
“You can’t miss it,” Calaphase said quietly. “These tags, they’re always moving—”
“Wait wait ,” I said, alarmed. “They? This has happened before?”
“An attack, no, but the tags—yes,” Calaphase said, even more quietly. “We’ve seen tags like this for weeks, nothing this elaborate, usually just little ones, though they seem like they get bigger over time—or else the prick keeps coming back to flesh them out. Revy said he saw a huge one yesterday, though he never got to show me where. For all I know, this was it—”
“No,” I said. “This thing loves vamps. If he’d gotten close to it, it would have caught him—and then how would he have ended up in the cemetery?” I asked. Then I recalled the odd sensation I’d felt in the graffiti’s grip … like it was pulling me inside. The conclusion sounded outlandish, but was just too damn obvious to ignore. “Unless … that’s where this one … led?”
But before I could go any further, Tully began convulsing in my arms.
“I gots—I gots to change ,” he said, holding his bloody hands up, staring at them, at the gash in his chest. The graffiti had dug down to the bone, exposing white flashes of ribs, and I felt my stomach churn. “I can’t heal like this.”
“Come on, cub,” Fischer said, squatting down beside us, taking Tully from my arms and picking him up. “I’ll carry you out to the clearing, to the light of the moon.”
I got to my feet, groaning, covered in grime, dirt, blood and basil. More and more weres and vamps were gathering; the ones who had watched stood in awe, but the newcomers stared at me with cold, hungry eyes. Wonderful—I was covered in Tully-flavored barbecue sauce. Fortunately the curly-headed vamp guard was on crowd control, keeping both the weres and the vamps away from the tag.
“She’s Lady Saffron’s troubleshooter,” he said to a new arrival, following with a glowing account of my recent duel with the graffiti. I half smiled. I wasn’t Saffron’s ‘troubleshooter,’ and it hadn’t been that easy. I turned to correct him—and got a bucket of water in the face.
“Wash up, wash up ,” Gettyson said, splashing the rest of me with cold, stinging liquid, then attacking me with a towel. “You gots to get Tully’s blood off you, get it off you.”
I took the towel and began scrubbing gratefully. The fluid stank of ammonia and disinfectant and other things besides, and felt harsh against my hands. My eyes were watering from the initial splash, and my lips were actually tingling … surely he hadn’t just splashed wolfsbane extract in my face! But then, a thin purple haze began lifting off my top, chest and shorts—not smoke, but mana, from Tully’s moon-charged werekin blood—and the grateful magician in me won out over the worried chemist.
Gettyson handed me a dry towel for my face and looked me over roughly, checking my chest, my hands, under my arms. He daubed a more concentrated form of the stinging substance on a cloth and began
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