The great hall remained silent as Buckhead spoke, and I took a moment to look around. The 'man herds' and 'packs' were rough, surely, but I started to notice designer jeans, Members Only jackets, even glittering watches and cellular phones. With the exception of a few monstrosities like the Bear King and lifer weres like the Marquis and the feral girl, most of the crowd was starting to look… normal.
OK, some of them had wolf heads, yes, but otherwise… normal.
Suddenly the hidden meaning behind Calaphase's mention of 'blackmail' sank home. Most of this crowd probably weren't wild dogs, running free on the edge: they were old-school magickers, living normal lives, magic carefully hidden under the old rules and ways, coming here in secret to release the curse of their beasts safely.
'These people,' I said. 'They didn't contract with you to protect their lives… but their identities? So that no were-whatevers would be needed to guard the perimeter, where they could be seen and exposed?'
'Smart girl,' Calaphase said, 'she can color between the lines.'
'I feel like a shit now,' I said. I'd been so pissed off by the hoops I'd gone through to get through the security of the werehouse, it had never occurred to me that the security was in place for a legitimate reason. 'I didn't realize how much everyone here has to lose-'
'Why are you apologizing?' Calaphase asked. 'Transomnia had no excuse to treat you the way he did, and as for the Marquis… well, werekin can be aggressive.'
'You mean they're going to try to take a piece out of me?'
'No, I mean a lot of them are successful lawyers and businessmen,' he said, breathing in my ear, expanding his aura ever so slightly. 'Count the Rolexes. Twenty-eight days out of the month, these cats and dogs are living in the lap of luxury.'
'They have even more to lose then,' I said, dreamily. He was trying to roll me.
'But they know how to fight to keep it,' he responded. 'Fortunately… I can protect you.'
The smooth syllables of his voice poured over me like liquid. Or maybe like water over a cat. 'Oh, Cally, your warm breath feels so good. And if you could just take a take a bite out of me, right there, I'll be so grateful that I'd punch you clear into next week.'
He leaned back with a laugh. 'Can't blame me for trying.'
'Actually I can, and usually will,' I said.
'Thank you, Lord Buckhead,' the Bear King said. 'Little One. You came to us for help, not knowing our rules, and were treated unconscionably. Calaphase, you and your fangs are on your third warning. I expect that those responsible will be… punished.'
'Yes, my Lord,' he said. I heard a sudden movement behind me, but did not bother to look back to see Transomnia's reaction. 'I will make an example of him.'
'Good,' the Bear King snarled. 'See that you do. See, Little One, we do have rules. And one of those rules is that no one may ink magic upon a wolf or werekin unless they have proved that they have the skills to do it properly.'
He paused, and I realized I was expected to speak. 'I understand, and approve.'
He nodded gravely. 'Then you will accept this trial to prove your skill. If you pass, the Marquis will advise you honestly and fairly. If you fail, you will give this wolf to the Marquis… or pass upon doing the tattoo entirely. Do you agree?'
'I agree,' I said, then under my breath, 'Not like I have a choice.'
'You are correct,' the Bear King said. 'You do not have a choice.'
'Never underestimate a werekin's hearing,' Calaphase said.
'Help me out here,' I said. 'What will this trial entail?'
'I have no idea,' Calaphase said. 'I've never seen a magical tattooists' duel.'
'So, girl,' the Marquis said, 'think you can ink magic? Where's the proof?'
'My work speaks for itself,' I said, dropping my coat into Calaphase' hands, better exposing the vines, butterflies and jewels adorning my arms, shoulders and upper back.
'But does it speak loudly enough?' the Marquis cried, doffing his coat to expose an elaborately tattooed chest and arms, throwing his arms wide to the wolf boy and tiger girl.
A man and a woman leapt down on either side of the ring. Both were dressed normally, him in jeans and a rough mountaineer's shirt over a white tee, her in fleece and shorts that looked like they'd taken a hell of amount of outdoor running. They prowled up around me, him catlike, her wolflike, inspecting the lines of my tats, eyeballing the colors, lingering over the more prominent designs. He began sniffing my arm, and I scowled; laughing, he backed off.
After a moment inspecting the Marquis and his pets, the referees or judges or whatever they were returned to the center of the ring and conferred. 'Her marks are equal,' the woman cried.
'You lie,' the Marquis cried. 'Her flowers are no match for my beasts!'
'Her work is of exceptional quality,' the man said.
The Marquis' nostrils flared. 'And how could you tell from such little work? It is easy to ink one line. Only a true artist can do so consistently. Is she consistent?'
'Her lines are strong, her shading subtle-' the woman began.
'The Marquis is right,' the man interrupted, turning his attention to me, his eyes roaming over my body. 'Have you no other samples of your work?'
'I didn't bring pictures,' I snapped.
'We would not accept them,' he replied. 'Have you no other living ink to show?'
'She has no friends here, how would she-' the woman began; then stopped. Now her nostrils flared, and she glared at the man in disgust. 'You lecherous bastard,,' she said softly.
'If she has no other ink to show, the Marquis' challenge must stand,' he said, smiling.
The woman judge turned to me stiffly. 'Have you no other-'
'I get the drift,' I said, glaring at the Marquis. Thank God I was wearing a bra. I gave the woman a nod of understanding. 'I assume you will rip out his throat for me later? If I rip it out I think that might be construed as an insult.'
'Gladly,' she said, and the man laughed.
'Of course I have more ink to show,' I cried, throwing up my hands, glaring at the Marquis. I was going to kill him, him and his horny little judge, too. But maybe not the little feral girl, smirking at me; I blew her another kiss, and again she hid, this time behind the Marquis, to the delight of the catcalling crowd. Then slowly, sensually, I pulled off my top.
The wolves whistled and the stags snorted and brayed as I lifted the rim of the black cloth up and over my head, revealing my sports bra. I'd thought about this carefully and made the movements slinky without turning it into a complete striptease: I had no desire to further taunt an entire crowd full of werewolves and end up raped or eaten. But my movements had another effect: they shifted and stretched my skin, making the tattoos shimmer like fire.
Tattoos are just pigment inserted into the second layer of the skin, just below the layer of cells you slough off every time you take a shower. So, for starters, you can do with a tattoo anything you can do with regular ink-tint the skin a shade, draw a pretty picture-or draw a design. Some of the simplest 'magical' tattoos are just benevolent symbols inked with, essentially, an alchemists' version of glow-in-the-dark ink.
But real magical tattoos are filled with the compounds that dispense, control and discharge mana; and with the life force of a living being beating just beneath their surface, magical tattoos are some of the most powerful marks around.
When I dropped the shirt into Calaphase' waiting hand, the vines rippling down my arms were glowing bright and the gems actually starting to glitter. Tattoo magic worked best when exposed to the air, and I was already feeling the burn on my legs where excess mana was bleeding back into my body; so I reached down, lithely, and unzipped first one boot, then the other, making the snakes curling through the vines move and the butterflies shimmer.
There was an art to this, an actual magical skill: the magical tattoo artist I'd apprenticed to called it skindancing, and while I didn't know the details of that art, over the years I'd grown quite good at storing and dispensing mana simply by flexing and stretching my skin. Until now, I'd only done it by myself, in front of a mirror; or very occasionally, in front of Savannah.
