"I think so," I said. "I really think so."
She glared down at the remnants of her fries. "Fine," she said. "He hates my guts anyway, 'cuz I'm a cat. Stupid rogue wolves."
Cinnamon stayed the night-sleeping on the sofa-and after picking up some Flying Biscuits I rode her back within striking distance of the werehouse and dropped her off. When I got back to the Rogue Unicorn, I found three missed calls and two messages on my phone, all from 'Calaphase.' In the first message, Wulf cussed me out-at least I think that's what he was doing; it was hard to tell over all the snarling. In the second message, he was more… apologetic. After I got settled in the office and had Wulfs flash in front of me, I called him.
"Hey, Wulf," I said. "Sorry about last night."
"No." he said, voice rock solid and clear. "I'm sorry- about… well, everything. But it means something that you came all the way to my den. Thank you, Dakota. I won't forget it. I had given up-"
"So does that mean I'll get you in my chair today?" I said, cutting him off before we got distracted from the tattooing by another journey into touchy feelie territory.
There was a long pause. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, I will. How long will it take?"
"Two hours," I said. "I know I said I would do it on me and transfer it to you but… I'm not going to start it until you get here. I don't want a werewolf sigil on my body any longer than I absolutely have to." Come to think of it, I should call Jinx about it. I made a note to do so.
"The sun transits a bit after noon," he said. "With it right overhead, we'll have almost the whole earth between us and the moon. I should eat at transit, when the beast is weakest, and then let it settle-that usually keeps him fully at bay a few hours longer. I will come by at one-that gives us four whole hours to moonrise."
"That should be more than enough," I said. "Wulf. You'll be here, right? You know how to get here? You need directions?"
"I know where you work," Wulf said. "I will be there."
But when one o'clock rolled by, Wulf didn't show up. I turned away half a dozen potential clients while waiting for him, but he didn't show up at two, or three, or four. I started calling him at two, but he didn't respond to any of my phone calls. Finally, at five o'clock, with the sun hanging low in the sky, I said fuck it and headed over to the Vortex for another burger.
"I'm right across the street," I told Annesthesia. "He comes here, you call me."
But she didn't call. And he didn't call. And he didn't answer his phone. I went back to the Rogue, but Wulf still didn't show up. I called every number I could think of-Wulfs, Philip's, Buck's. Nothing. I even tried to get Jinx to call the Marquis, but we couldn't figure out a way that he could have helped me, even if he was so inclined.
At nine the staff started to trickle out, the Rogue closed up, and I was left pacing in my office, staring at Wulf s flash. Worried. I had given up intellectually, but somehow, I couldn't just get up and go.
It was pushing past ten when my phone buzzed, once-a text message. Finally. I slipped it out to read: «come 2 masq lone»
I didn't recognize the number. Go to the Masquerade? At this hour? And it was fucking closed! I thumbed back: «Not bloody likely.» A moment later, the phone buzzed again: «time runs out» I scowled. I did not need this shit at this hour. «Who the hell is this, Wulf?*You* need to come*here*!» «not wulf»
But who then? Maybe… I texted: «Marquis?» «fuck that prissy dog»
Well, they knew the Marquis. I texted: «WHO is this?!» There was a long pause. And then: «i owned u» "Oh, God," I said. It was Transomnia. Oh, hell. Oh, hell. I looked at the office phone and thought of calling Calaphase, but then the phone buzzed again, with a picture message. I opened it, and damn near dropped the phone in terror. The tiny screen held Cinnamon's terrified face- ^
And her bloody mouth was sewn shut with silver wire.
37. Get It off Me
I rode to the Masquerade at just under the speed limit, terrified. I didn't want to get pulled over, not now. Transomnia hadn't given me a deadline, but "time runs out" made his intent pretty damn specific.
One block away I parked my Vespa on a cross street, slipped the keys into its key well and walked, taking the long way round so he wouldn't know where I'd parked it. If I rode it straight up, Transomnia could trash my ride and leave me with no route of escape.
I walked, hugging my vest close, glad for the longsleeved turtleneck that kept out the cold. And then I rounded the corner of North Angler Street and saw City Hall East not a thousand yards away. This was pretty fucking bold. He must be sure he had me.
Well, I was here alone, in the middle of the night, limping and crippled by most definitions, with just my cane. I guess he did have reason to be bold.
I turned the corner. Normally on a Saturday night the Masquerade would be bustling, but now the marquee over the ancient, converted mill read: "THANKS HOTLANTA-17 GREAT YEARS." I scowled, grasped at my courage, tried to regain my bravado as I limped round the corner and past the ticket gate. I could do this. I would do this.
Two thugs flanked the entrance to the club, one a fat, grinning redneck with a walrus moustache and the other a hard, balding man with glinting eyes.
"Lose the cane, bitch," the balding man said crisply.
"I need it to walk," I said, truthfully, clenching my fists on the cane.
"Lose it or the kid dies," he said, drawing a gun-but not pointing it at me. Curious-he could have left it at 'drop it, bitch' punctuated by a gun barrel, but here he was skipping the direct approach and immediately resorting to leverage. He has orders not to harm me. I hoped I could chalk that up to a Transomnia's desire not to disrespect Saffron's collar. I really didn't want to entertain the possibility that Transomina had a desire to preserve the canvas for the tattoo killer, who I really hoped was up in North Carolina getting his ass kicked by Philip.
I dropped the cane and kicked it away, holding my hands up and out placatingly.
"I'll do anything you want," I said, pleading. "Just don't hurt Cinnamon."
"Cinnamon?" Walrus said. "Who's that?"
"That stray cat the fang picked up for his boss, idiot," Baldy said.
The fang's boss. Oh, hell. Transomnia was not alone.
"Now hands up," Baldy said, stepping forward, and I raised my hands.
"Hands," Walrus said. "What was that bit the fang went on about painting her tattoos to slow her down?"
"Hell if I know, didn't make any sense to me," Baldy said, eyeing my trembling hands with a mixture of contempt and appreciation. "Not that it matters, fight's gone out of this one-does have nice tattoos, though. I said hands up, girly-"
I closed my eyes and raised my hands higher, pretending to whimper. A boss, a vamp, two thugs, maybe even a driver or a backdoor man. I felt Walrus and Baldy closing in on me through a ripple in the mana of my tattoos, and cringed, flinched back, with only one thought:
If I was going to beat Trans, I needed to thin out his support mechanism.
As Walrus's paws closed on my hand, I popped out my other hand and nailed Baldy straight in the face, discharging all the mana I'd stored in the vines hidden beneath the right arm of my turtleneck in a sudden magical POP. Darren might have not let me into his classes yet, but I had taken tae kwon do in college. I knew from my time on the mat that even people who could see how tall I was never expected that I had the reach I did. Baldy toppled backward, stone cold, and I twisted my elbow round to block Walrus's punch an instant before it hit me.
"Damnit, bitch, you settle down-" he snarled, hand clamping down on my left. He was immensely strong-hey, he was a guy-but I didn't need testosterone to beat him.