Frost Moon by Anthony Francis Page A

crosses, stars and sickles upon each knuckle. They blazed with power, resonating with the vampire’s own projected aura of hostility, and when he flinched, my right fist popped out and landed the holy symbols on his face in a twisting one-inch punch.
    All the mana stored in my tattoos and all the hate feeding back through the holy symbols released with a flash and a solid, satisfying BANG, and the vampire flew back into the mud and slid halfway down the riverbank.
    “I protect Saffron as much as she protects me,” I said, strolling over to where the vampire lay, planting my fist in my other hand to let the charms charge up against the yin-yang in my palm. “Now would you, pretty please with sugar on it, take me to see the Marquis?”
    The vampire was blinking, twitching, and I started to worry I’d hit him too hard. Then his eyes focused on me, and I felt the holy symbols on my knuckles start to tingle in a hot wave of hate. I settled back, feeling adrenaline flood me. He wasn’t supposed to get back up—what the hell was I going to do if he rushed me with vampire speed? “You’re dead,” he snarled, fangs fully exposed. “You are so dead, bitch!”
    He reached toward a bush to pull himself back up—but before he could, the bush put out a strong male hand to steady the vampire. “Enough, Trans,” said a deep voice, and the bush unfolded, branches morphing into the proud antlers of a deer’s head that flowed into the shoulders of a ruddy Native American warrior—a werestag, in half-human form.
    “Homina,” I breathed.
    “Lord Buckhead,” Transomnia stammered. “I—I didn’t see you—”
    “You were not meant to,” the werestag said. “I was watching your watching.”
    Lord Buckhead carried a staff topped with the skull and antlers of a deer, adorned with eagle’s feathers, but beyond that wore only a loincloth, buckskins, and an ornately woven chestpiece of beads bumping against his broad chest. His bare feet were almost as ruddy as the clay, but left only the slightest impressions as he effortlessly helped the smaller man up the bank and set him down beside me. I paid the vampire no mind. The werestag was almost seven feet tall— without the antlers—and despite the oddly solemn expression of his deer’s head, there was a lively, reactive intelligence behind his eyes that I never saw in any beast.
    “Luh-Lord Buckhead,” I stammered. For years I’d heard Edgeworld stories that ‘the lord of Buckhead’ was real, and not just a character cooked up by the marketing team of Atlanta’s party district, but now when he stood before me all I could think was how nice it was to stare up at a guy, even if he had a deer’s head. “The Lord of the Wild Hunt?”
    “The one and only,” he said.
    I became convinced I’d seen him before—and after a second, I realized exactly where. “That—that statue of you in downtown Buckhead… is for real?”
    “The human sculptor Fleming used me as his model,” he said, extending his hand. “I can take you to the Marquis. Trans, you will accompany us.”
    “I’m not supposed to leave my post,” he said, staring at the ground.
    “Your post is well-covered by my hunt,” Lord Buckhead said. The little vampire looked around suddenly, but nothing was visible. “It is your orders that I want to clarify.”
    “Yes, sir,” Transomnia said, hunched over.
    We wove through the weeds along a path that was little more than a crease in the grass. Lord Buckhead seemed to move without a trace, and I suspected the rest of the werehouse’s population also didn’t leave the mess left by humans or vampires.
    Lord Buckhead stopped by a weathered POSTED - NO TRESPASSING sign and lifted a heavy section of chain-link fence for us to step under. As I did so I saw a trio of magical runes and Edgeworld tags listing this as a were-lair, a no-man’s land, and a safe house. An odd combination, but it made sense. All who are not werekin are not welcome.
    The werehouse was a