Liquid Fire by Anthony Francis Page A

one had bowed to us. But when the fae rose, they all bowed in our direction. I spread my hands out; Saffron and Darkrose stood, and we all bowed, quite formally.
    The green-haired elder fae stepped forward and bowed, and I noticed that, one-upping the wizards, she had dozens of magical charms and accessories woven all through her outfit, including the red wings of a dead bird slowly moving upon her elaborate hat.
    “Thank you for your presentation,” she said, eyes gleaming like amber.
    “Thank you for your attention,” I responded, nodding back.
    The little fae girl, Sidhain, did an elaborate curtsy—drawing her right foot back proper, bending gracefully, and ending with her foot daintily out, though the drawing of her skirts didn’t quite work with that long flowing shirt-dress—and then she spoke directly to Saffron.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said, ice-chip eyes all glittery behind the fragile curtain of glass that was her hair, “that we didn’t get to play.”
    Saffron returned the curtsy with equal grace, mirroring the fae girl’s skirt-drawing with a similar pull of her coat. “Perhaps another time.”
    The little fae rose, and flounced out of the room; her two companions followed, and the huge oak doors slowly closed behind them. Then, and only then, did the Warlock let out his breath. I hadn’t even noticed he had been holding it.
    “ That was a miscalculation on my part,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “I didn’t expect the fae would come at all, and if I’d known they were going to bring the Lost Child of the Ford, I would have . . . I don’t know. Perhaps called it off.”
    “That’s . . . good to know,” I said. I didn’t know who the little porcelain girl was, other than a poorly stoppered vial of extremely bad, but I was glad disaster was averted. “Who was she? The Lost Child, Sidhain, they called her? That sounds vaguely familiar—”
    “I believe she appears in some Irish ballads,” the Warlock said tightly.
    “So she’s . . . an ancient fae? But if they’ve got her, why do they want Lord Buckhead? Couldn’t she preside over the—” The Warlock spread his hands, like trying to wave off a plane from landing, and I sighed. “OK, OK. I could see that she’s a problem. But . . . Saffron.”
    Saffron drew in a breath, then sighed. “Yes, Dakota?”
    “Grow up,” I said.
    “Dakota!” Saffron said, raising her hands. “Please. I know I’ve been a petulant brat to you . . . well, since I became a vampire, and I’m sorry, but this time I didn’t do anything wrong. You couldn’t perceive it, but I was magically assaulted by that thing , right here at this table—”
    “No, I felt it,” I said, sighing. “From you, the sensation was much more powerful, so I assumed you started it. I’m sorry, that was uncharitable—”
    “Really,” the Warlock said, looking me over. “Sensing an aura is normally a vampire trait—or a wizard skill. Forgive my prying, Ms. Frost, but I didn’t see you use a wand, ring, or dowsing rod—and I didn’t think you had a magical bloodline.”
    “I don’t, but have y’all actually looked at me?” I asked, pulling up my sleeves to show my tattoos. “I’m covered in two square meters of magical circuits. Of course I can sense magic. I’d be able to sense magnetic fields too, if I was this filled with iron filings.”
    “Fascinating,” the Warlock said, peering at the tail of my Dragon as she slid up my arm. “Your clan inks really do produce quite extraordinary color, Ms. Frost. I know a professor at Stanford who’d love a closer look. He’s Carnes’s mentor, by the way—”
    “Why didn’t you tell Carnes about us?” I said sharply. “About our vampires?”
    “Carnes is not the head of the Wizarding Guild in San Francisco— I am,” the Warlock said, just as sharply, though his ire was clearly not directed at me. “He’s useful, and his faction is influential, but the details of your security